The Iberian Peninsula's Highest

Although I did bring hiking boots and a camelback (the camelback is now kind of ruined from me putting one euro red wine in it), I had no intention of doing this before I came to Spain. I did it on a whim, which is how all great adventures should be done. While hiking between the villages of the Alpujarra almost a month ago (which was the first time I’ve ever actually gone “hiking”), something clicked, and I found myself really enjoying the experience and wanting to return again as soon as possible. My friend Eddie shared the same sentiment, and we started making vague plans to come back, this time with our eyes set on something bigger. With the fall weather progressing further and further, we realized that our chance to conquer the mighty Mulhacen might soon disappear, at least without picks and spiked boots and real winter coats. In fact a couple people had told us that the weather was already too dangerous, could change dramatically at any moment while we were up there, and leave us in a blinding fog, sub zero temperatures or worse. Above all, we were more than once told that we should go with a guide. But to go with a guide – someone to make sure we always took the most direct, quickest paths and never got lost, someone to be able to see the signs early on of bad weather and keep us away from any chance of injury or fatal error – no no, that simply would have ruined the entire adventure. We took as many precautions as we could by ourselves: got a decent map, brought rain gear, more than enough food, lighters, a flashlight, and of course checked to make sure the weather would be clear, or at least was predicted to be clear, and that was it. I called and booked a reservation for the refuge the day before in broken Spanish, and we were on our way.

My mountain climbing comrades......

Edward Miller (right): in ROTC at U of I and will join the ranks of the few, the proud, the Marines after graduation in May. Has run marathons and climbed Mt. Fuji, and is by far the most in-shape out of the three of us. Reads the new Dan Brown with the cover off, so that nobody knows he’s reading the new Dan Brown.

Josh Clermont (left): calm, collected, French.

As for me? I smoke, sometimes a lot. I’ve gone to the gym before – almost out of feeling of sheer obligation because I feel like if I’ve paid that much in tuition money for the school to build a new rec center, than I’d better go use the damn rec center once in a while – but I never enjoy it. Needless to say, I’m not in great shape.

The journey began with a bus ride out of Granada all the way up to the last Alpujarran town before the path to Mulhacen, Capileira. How the driver was able to guide a two ton vehicle all the way up the winding, narrow mountain roads filled with blind corners, all with a stick-shift, I’m not sure, but it was certainly impressive. Once in Capileira, Josh and I waited up for Eddie (he had missed the early morning bus by minutes and so was now on the next one, scheduled to come about two hours later). We bought a map, had a local guide outline our course in highlighter, and overall just got as familiar with the trail as we could in a two hour time span, which was not very much. The guide told us it would take us five and a half to six hours to get to the refuge, but we had higher hopes than that. As soon as Eddie’s bus pulled in, we were off. We had to make the refuge by sundown on a trail we’d never been on, and it was already almost three.

After an hour or so on the trail we came across the first and most obvious landmark along the way, the abandoned village of Cebadilla. Once a small settlement for laborers at a hydroelectric power plant, it now makes for a ominous sight and novelty for hikers. The windows on the buildings are all long since broken through, and all that’s left of the interiors is graffiti lined walls and heaps of broken glass, old appliances and other rubble on the floors. A church loomed on the left side of the road as we passed through, cross still standing erect at its crest, but no trace of any stained glass or other adornments it may have worn in the past. I pictured this as the kind of place kids in La Alpujarra dare each other to stay the night at, and I’m sure countless legends surround the mysteriously abandoned buildings.

From Cebadilla we had to walk up through the old hydroelectric power plant, back onto a trail, and then begin gaining altitude, fast. This was probably the first really rigorous part of the trail, which consisted of about a half hour long, very steep and upward winding ascent. Once the trail flattened out a bit, Mulhacen could soon be seen in the distance, still very far away. We passed little huts here and there, some looking like they might be inhabited and others long abandoned. Finally we came across definite reassurance that we were going the right way, an arrow shaped sign that read “Refugio Poqueira” that pointed the way we were going. Pretty sure this was the only actual sign during the entire ascent to the peak. Instead, markers came in the form of occasional yellow and white striped wooden posts or tiny stacks of stones that other climbers had kindly placed along the way. And actually, those worked out really well. I think we only got lost once or twice, and not for more than 15 minutes or so. Soon after the sign we took a break in the river valley below Mulhacen, cool mountain water flowing around us as we dug into chorizo, M'n'M's, manchego, apricots, rasin’s, a spainish version of goldfish, peanuts, a fine spread.

After the valley the trail got steep, and didn’t let up until we reached the refuge. This two-to-three hour stint was brutal, and at the same gorgeous. Every time I’d feel my legs burning like hell and my heart pounding out of my chest, I’d look up, lightheaded from the thinning air and see a wild landscape all around me: dark clouds forming over Mulhacen due to the dropping temperature, trees and shrubs thinning and being replaces with barren rock, a sea of valley and hills below us stretching to the horizon. The beauty of it all allows you to push yourself much, much farther than you normally would. When we finally caught sight of the refuge, although too beat to show it, we were more than pleased. Mission accomplished for day one of the excursion. We had made the hike in about five and a half hours.

At the refuge we were each given a key to our lockers, which contained two wool blankets to keep us warm in our bunks. Once again, we feasted on the groceries we had brought. Feast appears here....










We fell asleep to the sound of freezing wind whipping around the mountain bed….


Woke up around 7:00 am, paid for a five euro breakfast of cereal, coffee, toast with cheese or jam or meat paste (which was actually really good) and set off. The trail was gorgeous. We followed the "rio Mulhacen" all the way to its mouth, which lie to the west of the peak. From there the trail was at its most brutal – a zigzagging climb that seemed almost completely vertical on delolate red and brown rock that made it appear as though we were on some other planet. It seemed like we were taking breaks every five minutes to catch our breath. Small patches of snow began appearing on the path as we got close.

After three hours, we summited, and beheld all the spoils that come with it. Looking down we could see a thin layer of clouds below us and smaller mountains all around us. Granada was smaller than my thumb. Already at the summit was a duo of Polish travelers, whom we had met the night before at the refuge. Warm handshakes and congratulations were shared. Soon thereafter a Spanish couple, Miguel from Granada and Teresa from Portugal, summited from the other side of the mountain. Miguel shared with us some fruit very typical of Andalucia, called higos, that he had brought up with him. After the Poles descended, another group from Gibraltar soon came up. It was incredible. Here we were on the top of Spain, trading stories above the clouds with people from all over the world. Quite possibly the quickest hour of my life so far.