El Camorro Alto, El Torcal, Spain

I've been trying to kick the cream out of my coffee and go all black, cafe au naturale, if you will. But, every visit to Spain, sets me back from my dark goal. Especially this morning. It's 6:45am and I'm at the Malaga, bus depot waiting for my 7:00am bus to Antequera for an all day hiking affair. I'm holding in my hand, a rather hot but terrific, if not the best, cup of cafe con leche I've ever had. Viva la creme!

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With winter over and thanks to the so called credit crunch, my multi-day layovers continue. My normal strategy during the longer layovers is to sleep most of the first day, go for a long run and then drink the night away till jet lag ensues around 4am. I then sleep most of the second day and then meet the crew for a debriefing over dinner as to what any of us remember from the night prior. You could say that's a waste of a layover and you'd be right, but I call it a cultural experiment and believe me, I feel bad enough the next day making counseling relatively useless. Old habits die hard and I'm pretty sure I saw some of my crew returning to the hotel in still good spirits as I was leaving.

Working those last amazing drops of my coffee, I board what is probably the only thing that runs on-time in Spain, the bus. The driver is using the vacant roads to race the sun rising from the Mediterranean. We wind our way through the Axarquia hills, crossing the Guadalmedina river multiple times. Each curve brings the sun's light through the sharp valleys and gorges created by the river and road. Short tunnels pause the views but grander ones reside on the other sides. Exiting the Axarquia hills, more substantial mountains appear as we near the base of the Sierra Nevada's (the Spanish version). The forty minuet trip ends in Antequera at 7:40am, another thrilling on-time arrival in a culture seemingly frowning over time itself. The city attests to this.

The big diesel bus leaves and silence returns until broken by sparrow like birds in the hundreds flying around for breakfast in the early dawn sky. The best light of the day is right now and the multi-century buildings, streets and churches filter the rising sun in a glorious show of shadows and light. I happen upon the 700AD Moorish Alcazaba and spend some time on an outpost viewing Antequera, the many church spirals and the commanding view as far as the eye can see. Rising out of the fertile valley is Lover's Rock, that when viewed in the negative, oddly looks like a face lying down. The story goes a Moorish and Christian lover jumped from the cliff side (the chin presumably) after being chased by Moorish soldiers. The accuracy of the story is questionable in that the Moors were extremely tolerable of other religions and It wasn't until Ferdinand and the Catholics had some power issues and the culture of the Andalucia region changed forever after 1400.

From the towering Alcazaba, I was able to pinpoint my route and continue on my journey. The previous day, the hotel concierge led me to an amazing map store in Malaga, that I spent some time in. For all the ancient maps from the 1300's to diamond mine discovery journals in Portuguese, I managed to find a topographical map of the surrounding area of Antequera. This is important because my goal was to hike El Torcal Nature Park, just south of the city. This natural park is the world's largest find of limestone mountains, valleys and natural structures. It's uniqueness is stunning alone from Google Earth and as I find later, magical in it's ground level essence.

Standing on the Alcazaba tower and matching up the map to the actual land forms and roads, I couldn't help but think a Moorish soldier back in 700AD would gaze the same view. The fertile valley of waving grains leads to the towering limestone mountains of El Torcal. The sky caps the mountain peaks with whispering brushes of clouds and old Roman wagon roads cross the valley and seem to dead end when the mountains take over the valley. The soldier was more than likely looking for invaders or supporting troops, I'm looking for a way to El Torcal.

The world is indeed small when looking at it from a map or Google Earth. With no weekend bus service, the actual entrance to El Torcal would be a full days walk via the road. Off trail on a hot day in unknown terrain is a recipe for not returning back to the bus station by 7pm or not returning at all. Like stepping foot into an ocean, out here, you are stepping into someone or something else's food chain. As with most of my hiking adventures, plans change often.

At the end of the valley, there she sat, the new goal of the day. At 4,500 feet, Mount Camorro Alto, humbles the valley and all those in it. A brilliant mountain with a steep slopes and a towering peak decorated with years of Mother Nature's best carving abilities. This limestone giant shoot up directly from the valley and I can not resist climbing to the top. It just has to be done.

With the sun rising past the mountain range of El Torcal, things are heating up but my new day pack from North Face is keeping the back dry and the tech-terrific moisture wicking shirts and pants doing their job well. A well used dirt road winds toward the Camorro Alto, lined with colorful wild flowers singing in the light breeze and poppies providing the lead roll in their brilliant red. The farm fields waved at me with their young grain with silence broken by the occasional protective dog barking. Living in NYC, peace and quiet is a luxury even the rich can't buy in the city that never sleeps. Yet, I crank up the iPod and add to the scene of serenity with some downloaded local music from Andalucia. The intensely romantic guitar and occasional passionate vocals create an euphoria of nature and culture for the two hike to the base of the mountain and my first break.

Precariously straddling a narrow limestone rock jutting out from the cliff hugging trail, Antequera is far off on the horizon. The face of Lover's rock is more apparent and the initial climb carries me quickly up nearly 1500 feet. In my pack I have enough granola bars to last the day and 3 liters of water, half of which is home-made Gatorade. While enjoying my trail breakfast, I take in the scenery of the rocky mountain above to my left, the valley of grain in front and the Moorish Alcazaba sitting above Antequera far off to my right. Take away a few modern home constructions, the power line splitting the valley and maybe some haze, and I have what is likely the same view a my imaginary Moorish soldier would enjoy back in 700. A Catholic soldier of the 1400's would see this view as an attack journey from the hills. Nonetheless, it was quite a view regardless of use. Antequera sits in the crossroads of Andalucia providing a strategic location not missed by every invader from the dawn of time and even today stands as a possible location for southern Spain's newest airport. I'm all about my industry expanding, but maybe not here.

From this point, I'm about 1000 feet from the top of Camorro Alto. At face value, that's not a lot, but that's the secret of mountains; the last foot of elevation can prove to be the most difficult. I carefully balance my way off the my limestone perch, figuring a costly mistake here would not only hurt, but be quite stupid having not even completed my third hour of hiking. Not far up the steep path is a plateau, left leads on off-trail to El Torcal, straight leads to a herd of cattle and right leads up the mountain. Passing through a fence with a sign saying something I didn't care to translate (probably said, "You're on your own!"), my path turns into a dirt trail leading at a steep angle along the side of the mountain. The mountain Heather is showing brilliantly it's purple shades but the Heather dissipates along the trail and the various stingy meadow and thistles become more numerous. This brush, so enjoyed by mountain goats and cursed by me, sticks right through my breathable hiking pants. I long for a pair of jeans and could just see my cattle rancher of a great uncle laughing away at my high-tech foolishness. Every cattle rancher know, boots for snakes and jeans for brush. Come to think of it, even John Wayne wouldn't look so cool in GORE-TEX boots and micro-fiber hiking pants.

Thus it is to be a prickly day made only worse when navigating the rocks while free climbing and judging the thistle bushes that I swear, were moving to get in my way. Snakes were also a concern. This climate and landscape is a dead ringer for West Texas, and that means snakes, rattle snakes. I know they exist in southern Spain along with other reptiles I'm not fond of, such as scorpions. When I go hiking with my dog, I don't pay attention as his crazy paths of speed rustle the woods up enough that bears run away out of annoyance. As the sole hiker picking thorns out of my crotch, every rock edge I grab, every crevice I come upon, every sun baked ledge I land on, becomes another possible encounter with a day that could go badly wrong. I've crazed myself to a point that I'm now calling out for snakes like I would for a lost cat, fully aware snakes can't hear and frankly, cats don't care. In an effort to combat this fear, I start to look for the serpents, figuring if I'm hunting for them, I'll be oddly excited to find one. Oh, mind games begin and it's not even noon.

With no trail to follow, it's up to my rudimentary mountaineering skills I learned back as a kid from my military dad. I have a decent map, but looking at elevation lines on a map and converting those to the actual mountain isn't all that easy. I've had better luck deciphering phone bills. Nature is leaving me some better hints, though. Dung. Goats, deer and maybe even bears inhabit this area and they know better than anyone how to scale what is essentially their land. Following trails of dung and corresponding trams of rocks and trampled brush (oh thank goodness for trampled brush), I'm clearly making my up in a natural zig-zag pattern. I'm trying to limit risky rock climbing but if the choice is a twenty foot fall or diving through stingy thistle and thorns, I choose to climb. Limestone is tactile but also brittle. A good grip on a small crevice can lead to a broken piece of rock and then what? Every step counts and every misstep counts more. Patience is necessary and made tolerable by views few will see.

As I climb higher, the nasty brush is turning into enchanting mountain wild flowers, daises and poppies seemingly growing out of rocks. Rounding one elevation of rocks, I spook, or they spook me perhaps, three woolly mountain goats. They take off with impressive speed and cover so much ground with ease. I've never seen wild goats so this was a real treat and I truly want to thank them for their trail droppings!

The last part of the climb indeed, proves to be the most difficult. The large rock face is tricky being so smooth with nary a crevice or proper hand hold to climb. The mountain curves out over the cliffs for an impressive view of the valley below but this isn't a time to look down. The top of Camorro Alto is calling and I drive on. Cresting the rock face (and still calling out for snakes, because that's how it happens you know) there's the top, a simple column and cross marking the 4,500 foot top. I rush to the marker and before I can take a photo, I'm swarmed by bugs, all kinds of bugs from biting to annoying. It's crazy in an epic kind of way. Faster than I could put on an oxygen mask in a massive airplane decompression, I reach in my bag and pull out my DEET bug spray, Africa strength. With the chemical stinging my eyes and skin, the bugs laugh at me and almost appear to be attracted to it. This is impossibly rude and simply incorrigible for all these bugs to be nowhere else on the climb except for right at the top. My dream of having a peaceful lunch at the top of Andalucia is ruined. This is a bit like climbing a mountain to ask the Guru a question, only to find it's a phone with a direct line to the IRS.

I brave the armada of flying exoskeletons and take my photos, bugs and all. Then I run for a lower cliff edge about 50 feet east. Of course running along a peak is never a good idea and these bugs were trying to push me off. Jumping to a lower cliff edge, I find a tolerable place to seek refuge. With the DEET setting in, the chemical starts to work enough causing the bugs to jump off me when they land and that's about all I can ask for. I set up my granola lunch and dangle my feet off a 1000 foot cliff. Wild goats are running below me and a few hawks are dancing in the lifting winds created by the cliffs. The view is endless and the time simply pauses, bugs and all.

The humbleness I spoke of just looking at Camorro Alto back in Antequera is refined up here. You realize your presence on earth is very little indeed, yet this hawk flying above is less than twice your weight and seems to own even more than the mountain. The biting bugs fear not the grandeur of a 4500 foot rock. The wild goats make the mountain seem like a sand pile in a school playground. Perhaps non of them understand the immensity of what none of us our in relation to our surrounding environment. I have this same realization when doggy Hugo gazes at the same mountain view during our hikes in Connecticut, only to discover he's sniffing the air and hunting with his nose and eyes. The view matters not and the somewhat single minded thoughts of animals behaving on instincts makes me appreciate being human. Today, up here, I feel more human than ever.

All though gravity is on your easier side going down a mountain, it's a magnetic relationship of intolerance. Your thighs work harder, your tumbles turn into falls and the next overhanging cliff ledge you jump onto is filled with all the chances in the world of startling a resting snake. Yes, this snake thing is still slithering in my mind. It's also harder to find the friendly goat trails looking down the steep incline. Feeling slightly more confident I manage a few cliff sides with luck alone and make good time to the plateau before the climb.

About halfway down, I rest on a cliff side before making my next move and hear bells. No I haven't fallen to my death and Heaven is ringing for me (hardly), but off in the distance too far for even the camera to zoom in on properly, is a heard of goats being led up the ravine to El Torcal from the plateau I'm heading to. A loan shepherd and three dogs take the 100 or so goats up the narrowing path towards towering cliffs marking the beginnings of El Torcal. The multitude of bells banging away and echoing up Camorro Alto is indeed, heavenly. The constant but random bell sounds are accented with goat cries and dog yelps, all creating a symphony only found in a region and with a trade largely left alone for hundreds of years.

Reaching the plateau, I judge my time, my water and follow the goats with three hours to get back to the plateau marker. That will give me enough time to descend to the valley and make the 7pm bus, the last one to Malaga. Not wanting to bother the shepherd or upset the guarding dogs, I attempt to pass them via the limestone terrain on the south side of the heard. The natural stone carvings are real treats to the eyes. Here, the stone has been pushed upwards over the centuries and weathered away by time and weather. The limestone seem stacked by unnatural forces and carved away by master craftsmen of a trade incapable of being reproduced in today's replicated world. Here I am, jumping from one rock to the other, hoping the next jump is a steady one or I'm heading down a three foot wide crevice and not stopping until I hit bottom twenty feed below. Evil thistle awaits my fall and possibly a broken leg. This demonstration of child like stepping stones with adult consequences is thrilling and in no time I leap my way to the front of the goat heard and make way to the heart of El Torcal, off trail, in the heat of the day, like I said I wouldn't do.

Goat trails are splendid. Following this narrow valley floor, the goats have trampled or ate most of the nasty plant life, leaving a well marked trial of dirt and dung, which is far more preferable to thistle, sting weed and thorny bushes. 4000 foot cliffs are to my right and an easy dale is to my left. The trail is manageable and with only a small incline. I can see by the map this area remains fairly flat for a while but the numerous peaks have me lost as to where exactly I am in on the trail. The sound of the goat bells are evident, almost providing a light house of sound to guide me back to my plateau marker. Hawks soar above the cliffs to my right and the sun beats down hard. My shoulders, despite 50 proof sun block, are fried. Gore-tex can only do so much in the heat and my feet are wet and beginning to feel the six hours of hard climbing just accomplished. I'm soaked with sweat, but goodness knows, I'd not miss this view for anything.

After an hour and a half, I've reached as far as I can go and need to turn back. The peaks still have me confused as to how far I've made it into El Torcal, but believe me, I've seen enough. The formations are breathtaking, the vegetation ranges from absurd to dessert tulips. I take a seat, pop off the soaking boots, socks, shirts and pants, and bask in the beauty that is El Torcal. From this near in-the-buff perch, I can gaze into the valley of Antequera and prominently see Lover's Rock in the haze. The cliffs grazed by hawks do nothing to block the sun behind me and Camorro Alto waves at me to my left. I finish 1/2 a bottle of water, leaving the last half for the trek back. It is so dry out here and with a random cooling breeze, my clothes, all of them, are bone dry after only fifteen minutes. Maybe that wicking stuff really works!

With a decline going back the way I came, I'm becoming more refreshed with the dry clothes, the lighter pack and an encouraging breeze coming up the narrow valley floor. I run into my goats but no shepherd or dogs in sight. I manage my way through the closely packed heard and break free to the trail leading back to Antequera. With an increasing wind, the fields of grain truly spark up an ocean of waves and from a distance is simply brilliant to see.

Antequera arrives just in time. I'm nine hours into a hot hike and out of water. Just down from the bus station and across from the city bull ring, I find an outdoor cafe, delightfully covered by the world's reddest awning. Perhaps it pays homage to the bulls but I think the color would just upset them! With possible desperation in my voice, I say, "Uno grande et muyi frio curvesa, por favor." See how that's spelt, that's probably how it came out. Regardless, I end up with a covered view of the bull ring and passersby, feet free from the boots and elevated on the table, a frosted mug (absolutely unheard of in Europe) and a local beer I've never had.

Now, that's worth the hike. Cheers!