Oh the mountains! My ride through the Pyrenees mountain range running between France and Spain was one of the most glorious and also challenging (both physically and mentally) segments of my ride across Europe. It began on the Mediterranean coastline of southwestern France, in the town of Banyuls-sur-Mer, where I stayed a couple nights in a campground near the sea. During my stay at the Mediterranean, I ate tasty seafood, walked along the beaches, made plans for my route through the mountains, went on an adventurous trail run into the lush hills, covered in a thick morning mist, and along the craggy coastline, and had the only injury I sustained on my whole ride, when I waded into the cold Mediterranean waters at a secluded rocky beach, and came out of the water with blood running from the bottom of my feet, scraped and cut from the sharp stones along the sea-bed. On October 9th, 2024, I began riding away from the sea and towards the tantalizing Pyrenees mountains.
Craggy trail run along the Mediterranean sea-side
The beach that caused the only injury of my ride
I waved goodbye to the Mediterranean coast around 5pm, so only managed an hour and a half of riding before needing to find a spot to sleep. After the first climb, I found myself in a valley home to the minuscule town of Le Rimbau, with maybe 6 or 7 houses clustered on the hillside. The wind along the climb began to build and build, and once I reached the valley, the gusts whipped and howled through the trees, blowing up small sandstorms and dust devils. I realized that it would be almost impossible to set up my tent in such intense wind, so I began brainstorming other options. Riding up one side street, I noticed a small, dilapidated stone shed, with it’s rusting metal door ajar. Curiously, I peaked my head in and I could see the shed had not been used in years or even decades, with crumbling walls, rotting wooden beams holding up a rusting corrugated tin roof, and dirt, dust, and cobwebs covering every corner. But, as soon as I stepped inside, the wind died to a whisper. I managed to squeeze my inner tent shell into one corner, creating a dusty but cozy home for the night. It was certainly the funkiest spot I’d slept on the trip so far, but I was excited about finding shelter from the roaring winds and about embracing unexpected circumstances with an adventurous mindset.
I took a short wander up the hill from the shed, along rows of grapevines, and stopped in front of a large tree to stare a while at the stars. The wind had calmed slightly, and I felt contentedly alone on the hillside. I realized I need to cherish those moments, and nights like those, the privilege and freedom to take a while to appreciate the glittering stars and sleep in a random, derelict stone shed, mount my bike again in the morning and ride into the adventures of the new day. These were the nights that colored the story of my ride, and these lonely, serene nights meant so much as they gave me time to reflect, and sit with myself, and appreciate life’s small, unique, and irreplaceable moments. I made a promise to myself staring at the stars, the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, to remember those nights, and not to let the wisdom of the journey slip away once I was done.
I met some friendly puppy friends in the morning that curiously sniffed at my bike bags and eagerly chased and chomped on branches I threw that had fallen from the tree in the night. It turned out my first day of riding into the mountains was a false start, as I came to a padlocked gate along my route with no way around or through, and the detour took me almost all the way back to the Mediterranean Sea before turning back into the mountains and truly beginning my Trans-Pyrenees ride. I slept off a dirt turn-off up the long first climb, the only rider on the lonely dirt road, and I watched the twinkling lights of the cities on the coast behind me as I ate dinner.
Excitement at entering the mountains
My night squeezed in the hidden stone shed
Easy sleeping spots on lonely roads, and the glittering city lights below
Reaching the top of the first big climb of many, I couldn’t resist when I saw a scatter of hiking trails heading to the peak of Puig de Sant Cristau. I found a high boulder along the trail, and took a detour to climb it and joyously howl my first mountain yell into the immense sky and out towards the sprawling folded horizon of mountains. I gave many mountain yells at the summits of the peaks along my ride, perfecting my particular sonic expression of the freedom and intensity of life I felt exploring in the mountains. At the summit, there was a small ancient stone chapel, and another hiker and I admired the magnificent views of the upcoming mountains.
Riding into the golden hour of the evening, I reached a parking area underneath the Pic de Fontfrède, and set up my tent in one of the asphalt parking spots. I ate my rice and lentil dinner, gazing down at the undulating lights of the cities below, a multi-color kaleidoscope of dots, each a varying brightness and intensity, factories and houses and windmills coloring the valley with speckles of warm reds and oranges and clean whites.
It was a surprise around 9pm, as I was laying on my air mattress reading, when I saw the lights of a van pull into the parking lot next to me. I tentatively peaked my head out of the tent, asking if they were also planning to sleep there and if it was any problem with my tent. The man stepped out from the van and just smiled, speaking in French with a Spanish accent: “yes sir, we give you company.” We exchanged “Bon nuits” and I tucked back to sleep. The next morning I met my parking lot sleeping buddies, Fernando and Sara, who were both from Spain but lived for a while in Andorra and France. They had driven their van to hike the nearby peaks for the weekend, and we chatted over breakfast. Fernando generously offered me a mug of black tea and a croissant while we watched their dog Neska playfully romping about in the parking lot. Fernando didn’t speak much English, but it was a fun conversation back and forth trying to communicate with a mix of my broken French and Spanish, waving hand gestures, and smiles. Fernando and Sara were encouraging about my journey, and we all mused about the privilege and joy of big adventures when you’re young. As Fernando said: “C’est beaucoup de temp por travail plus tard” – there’s lots of time for work later on. I loved our spontaneous chatting and friendship, and once Fernando, Sara, and Neska left for their hike, I sat a while and drew a small picture of our meeting as a gift for them that I left on the windshield of their van before I pedaled on.
Cresting the Puig de Sant Cristau
Dinner above the twinkling lights and my drawing for Fernando and Sara
My first hefty climb of the mountains began from the town of Amelie-les-Bains-Palada, where I powered up with a lunch of two tasty crepes before the long, 1,000+ meter climb in one uphill push. Along the winding asphalt road that snaked up the green forested mountainsides, I concocted a mantra to take my mind off the rising fatigue in my legs and create a rhythm I could pedal along to as I inched higher and higher. It went like: “Je peux… le fait… si je… le veux…” translating from French to: “I can… do it… if I… want it…” I repeated the saying over and over in my mind until it became an unthinking, subconscious pulse and chant in my mind that slowly but surely pushed me up the mountain.
I wanted to sleep at the bivouac site of a mountain refuge at the top of my climb. The refuge de Batere was not what I expected when I arrived. A large, soviet-looking grey concrete block sat very out of the place in the idyllic mountain landscape, with broken-in windows and a rusted exterior that looked as if it had been closed for a long time. At the end of the building was a small restaurant/bar that created a nook of charm and life. A woman was sitting and watching the sunset from outside the terrace, and welcomed me as I rode up, pointing me to the spot down an adjacent grassy hill to set up my tent. There was already a tent set up in the green clearing, and I met my bivouac buddies for the night, Samuel and Lucie. I joined Samuel and Lucie inside the refuge restaurant for a hardy mountain dinner of soup, cheese casserole, and a brownie, served by the friendly woman who seemed to be the only one still working at the refuge. Samuel, Lucie, and I hit it off immediately, and chatted all throughout dinner. They were from opposite sides of France, Samuel from Annecy in the French alps and Lucie from a small french island off the northern Atlantic coast, and now were hiking together for a month through a segment of the GR10 hiking trail along the French side of the Pyrenees. It felt great to meet two other young, friendly people with adventurous spirits.
In the morning, I watched the sunrise crest over the sea of white puffy clouds that lay below us and inundated the valley. It was a beautiful feeling waking up above the clouds, and when Samuel and Lucie awoke and walked over to join me, Samuel said it was as if we were living in our own separate, mountainous world, as all the signs of civilization and other human beings were hidden under the layer of clouds. Talking with Samuel and Lucie the previous evening about their hiking adventure had inspired and motivated me, and I decided to take a spontaneous day off my bike to hike up into the nearby peaks. I packed my backpack with snacks and water, left my tent and bike sitting in the green clearing, and began the hike with Samuel and Lucie along the GR10 trail. The views were already spectacular, and it was a pleasure to listen to their stories of past adventures together. After a few kilometers, my trail split from theirs up along the spine of the mountain, and we said bye to each other, but made a plan to perhaps meet up again later down the Pyrenees.
My solo hiking experience that day was one of the best days of my whole journey, with incredible, awe-inspiring views, joyful freedom along wild mountain trails, and a bursting, intense feeling of being vividly alive! The weather was perfect, with blue skies and sunshine. After a snack lunch at the peak de Cincreus, where I sat and admired the hazy silhouetted layers of mountains stretching as far as I could see, I hiked further to the Pic de Gallinasse at 2,461 meters altitude. I had planned to finish my hike at this peak, as it was over 1,000 meters climbing from the bivouac spot, but I saw the next peak, Le Puig del Roc Negre, striking high further along the trail, and the allure of reaching the peak took hold of me. I was having such a blast that I decided I had to reach it: “Je peux, le fait, si je, le veux.” I began an exultant trail run along the magic, desolate environment of rocks and small red and green shrubs, high above the tree-line. The trail often disappeared, leaving me trail-blazing along the steep mountainside, which was tiring, but the adrenaline and freedom of the mountains energized my legs. The final climb was a delicate scramble up a big boulder field, my heart pumping and breath rasping as I clambered up each successive rock, carefully placing my hands and feet… then I made it! I reached the summit of Puig del Roc Negre at 2,714 meters high, and I felt so intensely alive. I gave my loudest “Chee-Hoo!” into the open, wild mountain air, and felt like I had reached the top of the world. I tried to soak in every sensation of life in that moment, the strong wind whooshing at my clothes, the expansive mountain vistas and the sights of the clouds that danced in the wind, taking shapes of steeds charging heroically into battle or flying serpents soaring and diving over the rocky peaks before morphing into fractal tendrils of white and evaporating into the sky, the pulse of my heart… I felt so present and grateful to live so full and free in our beautiful, magnificent world. Eventually, I began my hike back down to my tent and bike, and ate dinner under a glowing silver moon high above the clouds, the other mountain peaks like islands erupting from the puffy white sea below us. I was exhausted from the hike, but so damn happy.
Along the 1,000+ meter climb into the green mountains
I couldn’t ask for a better sleeping spot
Making new friends with Samuel and Lucie on the trail
Puig del Roc Negre is calling
What a life-affirming spontaneous solo hike!
Safe, sound, and happy back at my camp
Another nighttime surprise sitting in my tent writing in my journal around 9:30pm when I heard the sound of another hiker arriving to the bivouac spot. I peered out of my tent and sure enough a woman with a headlamp was just dropping off her backpack and beginning to set up her tent. I gave my greetings and expressed my surprise at someone else finding my secluded spot so late in the evening, and she said, “well, nothing wrong with a little night hiking, right?” In conversing, we realized we were both from the USA, but both being tired from long days, we chose to let each other sleep and get to know one another in the morning. Upon waking up, we had a relaxed conversation about adventuring, and I learned her name was Ella, with a trail name of Banja that she had adopted on her previous long hiking trips. Ella was trekking along the haute route Pyrenee (HRP), an gnarly-sounding hike across the entire Pyrenees that goes over many of the highest mountains of the range. Ella shared some exciting stories of dangerous nearly free-solo climbing up snowy peaks with a backpack, and catching a glimpse of a bear. After we had our camps packed away, Ella excitedly noticed my ukulele, saying she also knew a few songs. We sat for a while passing the uke back and forth, jamming and singing along. It was my first time playing with someone else, and once I broke past my nerves it was a blast.
Mounting the bike again, I followed the road down from the high mountains into the sea of clouds that had sat below me the last days. It was as if I had been living above the forces of weather, and I immediately regretted having to return below the clouds, as it wasn’t long until I was drenched from light rain. The main road I needed to take was also a busy highway, with cars speeding past, and my mood sunk fast. I decided to stay the night in the town of Prats-de-Mollo-la-Preste, but, after I checked at every hotel in town I was discouraged when every one was closed. Finally, I checked at the last option I found, a holiday apartment resort, where there was at least a woman at the front desk. Taking pity on my situation, she generously offered me to sleep the night in one of the holiday apartments that was vacant, which was true luxury for me, fully furnished, with a kitchen and cozy bed.
I woke up early the following day to tackle the longest single climb of my ride through the Pyrenees, with 1,500+ meter elevation gain in a single uphill push. I followed the winding asphalt road under a sunny blue sky, pedaling towards the imposing high peaks ahead, bobbing my head and singing along to motivational tunes in my headphones. The road transitioned to a tight dirt forest track, where I had to narrowly squeeze past cows that slowly sauntered up the road with their calves close beside. Eventually, I reached the top of the climb, but the weather had quickly turned, and the clear sunny day had transformed to darker grey skies with whipping, violent winds. They were perhaps the strongest winds I’d experienced. Noticing a large boulder just off from the trail, I left my bike in what I thought was a secure spot leaning against a tall rock, and went to climb the boulder to enjoy the hard-earned views. Clambering up, I couldn’t even stand fully upright on top of the boulder as the wind jostled me around. The views were still fantastic, but I looked for a moment to check back on my bike and watched in alarm as the hellish winds picked my fully loaded, 60kg bike off the ground and slammed it upside-down over the rock it was leaning against, in an insane wind-induced suplex. I raced back to my bike, worried something essential must have broken, but I didn’t notice any obvious damage on quick inspection. I realized quickly that this mountain-top was not the place to play around, having crested above 2,400 meters with my bike, the highest elevation I’d reached by bike so far on the journey. The trail I was meant to follow began to dissipate after a fork, and I rode on along the grass-tufted wind-swept earth, just hoping the trail would re-materialize as I began the downhill again. After passing two park rangers on the top of the mountain indexing wild spider populations (I was impressed by their dedication to their work in such intense conditions), the trail did re-appear. It was very much a rugged, single-track mountain trail, though, and I rode down cautiously, worried if I got too close to the edge the wind would simply push me and my bike down the mountainside. About halfway down the descent, I arrived to another mountain refuge, where I decided to stay the night as the grey clouds overhead had begun to open up into a cold rain.
Inside the cabin, I met two other guests staying the night in the refuge, Sylvia from Catalonia and Alice from England. We enjoyed a tasty dinner (you can always count on mountain huts for a reviving meal after a hard day high in the peaks). The owners of the hut had a party that evening, and invited a group of their friends there to eat. One of the friends had brought his guitar and was singing various French songs, and after dinner he roped in Alice to sing one of the English songs he knew. Excited at the spontaneous music playing, I ran to grab my ukulele, and we attempted to jam and have a sing-along with everyone. Learning new songs together on the spot is not the easiest, but we managed well for the most part, and our renditions of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and Leon Bridges’ “River” had most everyone around the tables singing along. It was so much fun, and I was proud of myself at being brave enough to play in front of such a crowd. It made for a memorable night.
Hanging out with Ella (trail name Banja) – I guess I need to come up with my trail name…
Climbing up to 2,400 meters with intense winds that flipped over my bike
Nice to meet you Sylvia and Alice
I had been messaging back and forth with Samuel and Lucie, my French friends from the bivouac spot above the clouds, and we actually managed to coordinate meeting again in the town of Sahore for a big pizza lunch together. It was amusing for both of us that we had each covered the same amount of ground over the last days, them on foot and me on a bike. It was great to see them again and catch up on their hiking adventures and share my own stories, and I wished them well on the rest of their trek. Following our re-union, I knew I had a long climb ahead of me, which already began with steep asphalt roads at the limit of incline I could climb with my heavy bike, and then turned off into even steeper muddy pasture roads, rutted and rocky. I had to push my bike often, letting out frustrated power screams heaving my loaded bike up the inclines, surprising the cattle wandering aimlessly in the pastures. It became clear that I wouldn’t make it to the top of the climb before night fell, but I stubbornly pressed on, putting on my headlamp and pushing my bike further up into the muddy darkness. I reached a grassy clearing with a lonely tree in the middle, and decided it was as good a spot as any to set up camp. Knowing I was still firmly within cow territory, I created a small seance circle with branches and twigs around my tent to try to keep away any curious visitors in the night. It was nearly a full moon, and I sat on a felled tree to play my ukulele for a while before bed, the strings illuminated only by the silver moonlight.
In the morning, I did a spontaneous solo trek up the peak next to my sleeping spot, mostly because the name of the peak enticed me: “Peak Bastard.” I reached the peak before sunrise, and watched the sun peak above the far away valleys and mountains I’d already crested in the East, painting the sky orange, before being hidden again by the low clouds. Returning from peak Bastard, I noticed as I was packing my bike that my rear rack was slightly crooked. I realized, with some dismay, that one of the weight-bearing screws of my rear rack had broken, potentially from being flipped upside-down from the wind or possibly by the strain of the many bumpy, rocky mountain trails, or a combination of the two. I was amazed at my luck, though, as the screw that had broke happened to be on the side of my bike where the rack could simply clip onto the head of my lower threw-axle bolt, and I had been riding the last days as if nothing was wrong. However, I realized quickly this was not a long-term solution, and I needed to find a way to fix my rack for the remainder of my ride to avoid a catastrophic failure down the line. This little broken rack bolt would be the cause of much of my misery over the next days, but for that moment, I simply resigned to not hit too many bumps on my way down the trail, and continued pedaling on.
I rode to the town of Font Romeu, where I searched for a solution. I found Emil and his son Diego at an unassuming bike shop, guided inside by their friendly dog that ran to greet me. I explained to Emil my problem with a mix of hand signals and my broken French, as he spoke no English, and to my surprise he seemed to understand and immediately hoisted my bike onto his repair stand. I tried to tell him that we could take some of my bags off as it would make the bike much lighter, but he shrugged me off and just began getting to work. Emil was the magical kind of mechanic that didn’t think much or make a plan, he just saw the problem and tried immediately to fix it. He not only was able to remove the broken bolt, but he also machined a new metal spacer that was necessary for the connection of the rack out of a random small aluminum tube he had lying around his shop. To my amazement, all of my bike issues were fully solved within 20 minutes, and Emil and I even had time to have a discussion of the merits of adventuring and the challenges of building up your own small business. When I extended my hand into my wallet to pay him for his great work, he waved his hand and told me: “no no, avec plaisir,” and wouldn’t accept any money for the fixes, no matter how much I insisted. I began rolling down the hill from the shop, waving a grateful goodbye to Emil and Diego for saving my ride, feeling confident and happy once again.
Or so I was, until I tried shifting into my highest gear and my chain jammed and blocked up my pedals. I inspected the issue and noticed we had put in a new bolt for my rear rack that was just a tad too long and blocked the chain from spinning in the smallest chain ring. I was not too distressed, however, as I thought I would only need to switch the bolts to the opposite sides to fix the problem, and just resolved to not use my highest gear the rest of the evening, as I pedaled into the small Spanish enclave of Llivia.
Lonely, beautiful roads in the mountains and sleeping high in grassy meadows
Climbing Peak Bastard for a morning sunrise
Realization of my broken rack and brainstorming fixes
Llivia is an interesting border anomaly within central Europe, a small island of Spanish territory that is completely surrounded by France. I entered Llivia as it was getting dark, and I was dead set to climb to the top of the hill overlooking the town, which had the remains of the medieval castle of Llivia, and sleep there on the hilltop beside the castle ruins. I rode up the steep dirt road as the light faded and streetlights and homes in the town below began illuminating the valley. Eventually, I reached the hilltop castle. The night beside Llivia castle was cold, and I ate my dinner of bread and slightly-molding cheese bundled up in all of my layers, watching the flickering lights below as the first flakes of something between rain and snow gently fluttered and fell around me.
I explored the Llivia castle ruins in the morning, which were merely the stubby remains of the stone walls and an underground aquifer left over after the fortress itself was destroyed and leveled in the French takeover of the Cerdanya region. Llivia was the ancient capital of Cerdanya, and had strategic military importance with the hilltop fortress overlooking the surrounding valleys. Even after the French conquest of Cerdanya, and signing the treaty of the Pyrenees, which seeded much of the northern Catalonia region of the mountains to France, Llivia remained Spanish territory because of its classification as a “ville” rather than a larger city, and because of its historical significance. Llivia remains part of Spain today, and it was interesting crossing into the enclave in the night, exploring in the town and hearing Spanish and seeing Spanish signs, then riding out of the town and being immediately back into France again.
I attempted to switch the necessary bolts on my rear rack in the morning, which I thought would be an easy job. However, when trying to thread the bolt into the opposite side, even with being very careful and trying to ensure it was aligned properly, somehow I managed to over-torque the bolt and snapped it again. This broken bolt put me basically back to square one again, with a broken rack and no way to solve it, and I let out a deluge of expletives before just crumpling on the hilltop next to the castle ruins and sobbing for a while. It was so deflating as it should’ve been a small adjustment to make, and yet I somehow managed to break it again, giving myself another problem I had to find a solution to on my own, when I though I had already solved it. After letting out some necessary tears and a big sigh, I picked myself back up, arranged my rack in some way that would keep me on until I found another bike shop, and pedaled out from Llivia to find a campground for the night.
The campground just beyond Llivia was tiny, and mostly catered to RVs and camper vans, with only one small grass parking space meant for tents. Begrudgingly, I set up my camp. Just before dark, another hiker with her tent arrived, and we decided to share the tent space. The hiker’s name was Bianka, and we had a wonderful evening chatting and sharing stories. She was nearing the finish of the HRP trek through the Pyrenees, the finale to a year and a half long period of solo adventure traveling. Bianka had also had a challenging hike that day, and we consoled one another empathizing in the challenges of the road when you’re on your own, but also the resilience and self-sufficiency that such a journey builds. Bianka had also completed the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) hike some years before, and she shared one of the mantras along the trail: “The Trail Provides,” which was a fitting encapsulation of the tribulations we had each faced during the day, but also our spontaneous meeting and connection.
Sleeping cold next to the hilltop Llivia castle
Short explorations in the town of Llivia, and serendipitous meeting with Bianka
Then at long last, after basically 2 and a half months in France, enjoying an incredible break off the bike for the Olympics and Paralympics, and riding through the full length of the country, through grassy farmland, ancient villages and castles, and majestic mountains, I made my true exit from France into Andorra. France was the country I got to know best along my ride, and it left me with some of the most impactful memories and experiences from the journey, and I met so many fantastic people along my ride through France. I arrived into Andorra at the top of a long road climb, waved nonchalantly at the bored-looking man at the border post, and wheeled excitedly into a new country, my eighth of the trip.
My impression of Andorra is mixed. Neither part of the European Union (EU) nor the Schengen countries, Andorra had obvious elements of a tax-haven country, with many cars brandishing French, Spanish, and German license plates entering the country to stock up on cheaper alcohol or cigarettes before driving straight home again. The enormous storefronts plastered with ads were eye-sores in the otherwise gorgeous mountain landscapes. Ski tourism was the other main attraction in Andorra, with the expansive “Grandvalira” ski resort seeming to take up nearly half the territory of the country. There was a single highway that ran straight through the length of Andorra, lined with identical, expensive ski-chalet hotels and tourist-trap restaurants.
However, off the main commercialized highway of Andorra, there was another more authentic side of the country, which gave me one of the most beautiful nights of my journey. Cresting the pass from France, I rolled into Andorra, but became annoyed quickly riding on the busy highway, so I found a detour along a dirt and gravel track that took me into the trails that would become ski runs in the winter. One of the runs was heinously steep, and I had to jump off my bike and push it down as my brakes couldn’t keep me under control on the skidding, rutted gravel. In the evening, I found another road off-shooting from the main highway that entered the Val d’Incles, a high alpine valley. I passed multiple signs warning of no camping in the area, but feeling stubborn and rebellious, I pushed on to try to find a hidden camp spot. The valley was picturesque, and dotted with wooden cottages and homes that people seemed to actually live in, rather than simply stayed for expensive holiday getaways. The road petered out, with a fence at the end that led onto a hiking trail towards the peaks. The only obstacle on the trail was the mob of portly cows that stood like a wall just past the fence. Eventually, though, I managed to squeeze myself and my bike past one particularly stubborn cow, brushing against her backside as I squelched my way up the muddy, washed-out trail. The trail split higher up at a clearing with a small stone table and fire-pit, and it was enough away from the houses to be an ideal camp spot. I set up my tent in the clearing, high up at 2,000 meters elevation, surrounded by towering peaks. Cooking my dinner, I switched off my headlamp and just gazed with wonder at the twinkling blanket of stars above. It was a night where I felt so at peace with myself and the world, camping alone high in the Pyrenees mountains in a new country, just myself and all my belongings strapped to my bike, and it felt as if the stars that night shined just for me. It was a beautiful night, only interrupted by the surprise “moo-ing” of a cow just outside my tent at 2:30am, having to shoo her along to the rest of the herd.
The following day, I nearly flew across the entire country along the main highway, easily cruising downhill on the smooth tarmac all the way to Andorra la Vella, the capital of Andorra. There, I found another bike shop who were able to come up with a good enough solution to my rear rack problems. I stayed two nights at a cheap hostel, where I met many other guests from Argentina who were looking for seasonal work in Andorra at the ski resorts. I left Andorra after a long climb up to the Port de Cabús, and waved goodbye to the interesting small country.
Entering the mountainous yet touristic Andorra
A serene, meaningful night camping high in the mountain valley
Headed out from Andorra and into Spain
My first days in Spain, my 9th country of the trip, came with some high mountain passes, and hairy weather. Climbing up to Val Fosca, I pedaled up into a grey eerie myst, riding along a dirt road cutting high across the mountains, with ghostly cows and not much of a view. I rode past the small town of Bonansa as it was getting dark, and I found a small uphill dirt side road that took me to an industrial reservoir at the top of the pass. It seemed like an ideal place to camp, high up with a view back into the valley and the possibility of a nice outlook for sunrise. I was attentive to the weather forecast, which had predicted strong rain that night and the next day, but I had dealt with hard rain before, so I simply tried to find a spot I felt would drain well enough, and took to setting up my tent. When I arrived to the 1,400 meter reservoir, the clouds were beginning to build, but there was still a clear view down to the cities below; but it wasn’t long after I set up my tent that the clouds completely enveloped the mountain top, and the visibility went to near zero. I had leaned my bike against a fence just a few meters from the site of my tent, but when I turned around, I couldn’t even pick out the shape of my bike from the dense fog and myst. Still, I was upbeat, confident my tent and myself could handle some rain overnight, and I didn’t really need to see much at that point in the night anyway.
But then I heard it. The first deep rumble that seemed to reverberate through the thick clouds surrounding me. It immediately perked my ears, but I wasn’t confident it was thunder, so I tentatively continued setting up, unpacking my stove to make dinner. But then within seconds another boom, this time louder and clearer and definitely moving closer. My heart winced with fear, as I realized instantly that I was in perhaps the worst spot possible for a thunderstorm: high on an exposed mountain summit, next to an industrial reservoir with a metal fence and high metal tower, with no shelter but my tent, and I could barely see a meter or two in front of me inside the clouds. I leapt into action and began packing a “go-bag” into my backpack with all my essentials: sleeping bag, mat, journal, and some chargers. I had seen there was a nearby mountain refuge higher up the trail, and I made the on-the-spot plan to run to the refuge for cover from the impending lightning storm, confident that the trail would be too difficult to ride at night with no visibility. The booms were intensifying rapidly, and I started to see the sky crackle into bright flashes of light not far in the distance. Frantically, I began running, not sure if I was making the best decision, but knowing I needed to make a decision immediately to get myself to safety. It was a genuinely harrowing experience, sprinting through the dark forest, up the steep mountain trail, shrouded in nearly impenetrable fog, only able to see the next step in front of me, the thundering roars growing louder and the whole myst-shrouded sky igniting in flashing blazes of white. I was at the limits of my physical exhaustion, forcing my body to keep sprinting, astonished how quickly the seemingly safe situation I’d just been in had shifted into a mad dash for safety.
The lightning was nearly on top of me when I made it to the refuge, a tiny cottage nestled into the mountainside, and my heart dropped when I pulled on the door and it wouldn’t budge. I pulled again harder, refusing to accept that the refuge could be locked, but the door stood firm. Panicked as another lightning struck closer, I finally pushed and the door swung open. I was so relieved to have a shelter, and I collapsed in a heap into the refuge. The Refugio de Pegà was an open cottage, a true minimal refuge for mountaineers who needed cover from the elements, equipped with a scruffy mattress, a few candles, and an impressive tapestry of graffiti all across the inside walls. Seconds after I pushed desperately into the refuge, the rain began to pour down outside and onto the thin metal roof. But it was a roof, and it was shelter, and I was safe, and I let out a sigh of relief. Some true angel had left a single can of lentil stew in the refuge, and, as I hadn’t had time to pack any food into my bag, I gratefully slurped it down for my dinner. It was one of those experiences from my journey that will stick with me, and encapsulated much of the deep conflicted emotions my mind ping-ponged between: naïve self-confidence, fear, terror, relief, laughter, joy, mental and physical exhaustion, lonely serenity, and feeling in real-time the ways in which the journey was changing me. It was an experience where my heart beat fast, my lungs breathed deep, and life felt very intense, in the best and worst ways. After my mind calmed and the rain and lightning outside eventually eased, I laid out my sleeping bag onto the mattress, blew out the candles, and settled in to sleep, crossing my fingers that my bike and tent would still be in the spot I left them unharmed in the morning.
Thankfully when I returned to my bike and tent in the morning, the weather still foggy but with no rain, they sat in the same spots I’d left them, drenched from the hard night’s rain, but undamaged. I packed up my soggy tent onto my soggy bike, and still shaking my head from the wildness of the last night, I rolled down from the pass in the misty morning. The weather did not stay merely misty for long, and the day turned to a relentless deluge of rain. The sky had no mercy for me that day, and every single one of my strategies to waterproof my gear eventually failed with the ever-creeping dampness and moisture. The one highlight was riding through the impressive tunnels of Obarra, cut into towering rock spires along a long, twisting valley road, with an ancient monastery carved into the rocky cliffs.
Climbing up to the pass of Val Fosca, into the ghostly clouds
A wild, scary night making a mad dash to the Refugio de Pegà for shelter from the powerful lightning storm
The impressive cliffs and tunnels of Obarra
After the nerve-racking night running and hiding from lightning, and the hard day of rain, I decided to stay one night in a cozy rural hostel in the small village of Usana. I stayed with If and Emma at their family-owned cottage, and gratefully enjoyed the company and easy breakfast together. I stayed the following night in the even smaller village of Oncins, with just 8 houses that sat in the shadow of the immense Peña Montañesa, a rocky mountain with grey, white, and orange tinted limestone cliffs jutting sheer up to its plateau peak. In Oncins, I stayed at the home of Yoli, a Warmshowers host. However, Yoli herself was not there, but so graciously allowed me to stay in her home for the night. It was one of the most radical acts of trust in human goodness and hospitality I’d experienced throughout my ride. In fact, there was another guest also staying at Yoli’s home, Julián, a Brazilian bikepacker who had been staying there in Oncins almost a month. Me and Julián went on a short hike along the base of Peña Montañesa, chatted about our stories and our love for traveling rugged by bike, and enjoyed a pizza dinner together, which I’d strapped to the back of my bike and rode up from the supermarket 10km back down in the valley. After a final night in a bed under a roof for a while, me and Julián waved farewell and I began one of the most magnificent stretches of my whole journey.
Leaving Oncins, I entered into the Monte Perdido y Ordesa national park. Monte Perdido is the third highest mountain in the pyrenees at 3,355 meters elevation. I was now truly embedded near some of the highest mountains of the range, and the riding was steep and challenging, and this day ended up as my single largest day of climbing of my ride across Europe, with over 2,200 meters of elevation gain. Upon first entering Monte Perdido y Ordesa, I was introduced to the Valle Añisclo, a glorious river valley rimmed by the high rock cliffs of the striking Sestrales on one side, and the almost sci-fi movie-esque stair step green cliffs of the Mondoto on the other. I sat a while at the lookout eating lunch, playing ukulele, and admiring the breathtaking mountains. I aimed to reach a lookout over the Ordesa valley that day, but climbing along the long sweeping gravel road ate up most of my day. The views were marvelous, though, with new glimpses of snow-capped peaks around each bend. I rolled into the lookout after dusk had descended on the mountains. It was quiet, with only the sound of rushing rivers below breaking the calm mountain air. But in the darkness I didn’t have quite the view I expected. I decided to turn back and make my camp a few kilometers back down the trail near a small locked hut in a clearing with an impressive view onto the high snowy peaks. It was the highest I slept on my whole journey, above 2,000 meters, and the night was cold, but I was deeply appreciative of my fortune to be sleeping high alone nestled in the Pyrenees mountains under a blanket of stars.
I decided to take the following day as a hike + bike exploration day, as I wanted to make the most of my limited time in this beautiful region of the mountains. I awoke to eat breakfast watching the sun crest over the serrated horizon of knife-edge peaks, then hiked my way to the summit of the Mondoto, the curved, green, stair step mountain with a view onto the Sestrales and into the Valle Añisclo. The weather was perfect, a blue sky dotted with tufted white clouds, and I jauntily bounced and clambered around in the mountains. I came back to my bike, and rode the same section of gravel road back to the look-out from the night before, but this time with sunshine and a clear view. And wow, what a view it was! Honestly, the Ordesa valley may be the most incredible geological feature I’ve ever seen. It was jaw-dropping to experience such epic natural beauty! The sheer, enormous rocky cliffs, cutting over 1,000 meters high from the valley below, the colorful forests of trees in varying shades of autumn colors at the base of the cliffs, the flowing river, its turquoise cold water tumbling down from the summits to the valley like a fluid snake, the snow-capped peaks, rising, almost impossibly, from the tops of the rock cliffs into the heavens, and the huge vultures that soared and circled above the canyon, their vast wings outstretched, majestically hovering over the wondrous scene. It just blew me away, and I was struck by what a gift it is to experience our miraculous natural world, and how important it is to protect it. After a very long time admiring the views of the Ordesa valley, and taking a moment to snap a picture of myself waving my bike high above my head in triumph and awe at my ride through the mountains, I finally descended. It had been a perfect day.
I slept my second night in Monte Perdido y Ordesa in the bivouac spot of a refuge in the valley de Bujaruelo, another beautiful, cliff-walled mountain valley. I soaked up the glittering stars and glow of the moon, and slept well despite the multiple curious cows that munched on grass just inches from my tent in the night (the bivouac spot was also the cow grazing pasture). In the morning, I rode to the end of the valley de Bujaruelo, for some final magnificent views, then cruised my way back down the valley and out of the park. My time in Monte Perdido y Ordesa had some of the most spectacular and memorable moments of my ride, had gifted me with the most beautiful natural landscapes I’d ever seen, and I made a resolute promise to myself that I would return again someday for more adventures in that magical place.
The high limestone cliffs of Peña Montañesa above the tiny village of Oncins
Valle Añisclo, rimmed by the rock ridge of Sestrales on the right and curved green stairs of Mondoto on the left
Sleeping high above 2,000 meters alongside snow-capped mountains
Peering back into Valle Añisclo from the peak of Mondoto
The awe-inspiring Ordesa valley… no words or pictures can capture what it felt like to witness such natural beauty
Oh the joys of reaching such a magnificent place by bicycle
The valley de Bujaruelo: more stunning cliffs, autumn forests, and mountain rivers
Leaving from Monte Perdido y Ordesa, I began to gradually leave from the high mountain passes of the Spanish Pyrenees. I rode to the town of Jaca, where I stayed a night with a Warmshowers host Alicia, and her daughter Lua, and we had a wonderful evening cooking dinner together. Lua lent me her Roald Dahl book “Fantastic Mr. Fox,” and I ended up reading through the full book laying in the comfy sofa bed that night. The following morning was Halloween, and it was an exciting morning as Lua put on her skeleton face paint to evoke the Mexican “Dia de Los Muertos” as a costume. Jaca itself was an interesting city, with an old military castle near the center of the city in the shape of a five-pointed star, and which had a herd of wild deer that lived within the now grassy moat surrounding the castle.
From Jaca, I rode to the abandoned town of Tiermas next to the large man-made lake of Yesa. I set up my camp beside the crumbling buildings as the sun dipped behind the rippling waters of the lake. Alicia had told me about the Foz de Lumbier, a steep cliff-walled canyon cut by a rushing river, which was a fantastic spot to watch soaring vultures sweep back and forth between the rocky cliffs. The final day of my Trans-Pyrenees saga began with a short hike to the last nearby mountain top. I had hoped to hike the summit to watch a glorious sunrise, but unfortunately that day the peak was shrouded in a dense white cloud, and the wind was relentless and howling. I had brought my breakfast of yogurt with granola to the peak, but it turned out to be quite an impractical eating experience, as the wind was so strong I needed to shield my food in case the wind blew the granola off my yogurt. I returned to my bike a bit disappointed at the hike, but glad I’d made the effort.
My planned route then took me through brutal, sloshy muddy roads between cow pastures, where it felt as if I had to open and close gates that separated the pastures every few minutes. Later, I somehow found myself on an absurd rock-strewn hiking trail that was steep with jumbled slippery boulders scattered everywhere on the trail, which would have been challenging on foot, let alone pushing a 60kg loaded bike. A group of hikers materialized out from higher on the foggy trail, and were astonished at the crazy guy frustratedly and stubbornly pushing a bike with a bunch of bags up this hidden trail. After many power screams and a fair few profanities, I made it to the top, and almost immediately it transformed to a beautiful, smooth gravel road, traversing rocky and mossy hillsides with lazy, picturesque horses chilling along the road. I noted how quickly my mood shifted based on the conditions I was riding and my expectations, from pure frustration at an unexpected ridiculous hike-a-bike, to contented happiness cruising alongside similarly unexpected scenic hillsides. My wheels spun through the park of Urbasa, with colorful autumn trees lining the trails. Finally, I rode along the old railway line through Navarro that had been turned into a smooth gravel cycle path into the town of Vitoria-Gasteiz to finish my Trans-Pyrenees adventure.
Meeting Alicia and Lua, and some castle deer in the city of Jaca
Camping in the abandoned town of Tiermas by the lake Yesa
The cliff-walled Foz de Lumbier canyon, soaring vultures, and rugged living
An adventurous final day, a cloudy windy sunrise hike, frustrating hike-a-bike, and cruising through mossy hillsides and autumnal forests
Then finally, I arrived to Vitoria-Gasteiz, finishing my Trans-Pyrenees epic
My ride through the Pyrenees mountain range taught me so much, and pushed me to my limits. The intense physical struggle of long, steep climbs in the mountains with an over-loaded bike was hard work, but I loved it, and the incredible views at the tops of the mountain passes, the endless rippling horizons of more mountains to explore and admire, kept motivating me when my legs were pulsing and aching. I met many kind and interesting new friends, all of whom had their own stories of adventure within the mountains, and I was grateful for all of their company, hospitality, and conversations. But, much of my Trans-Pyrenees ride was solitary and simple, just me and my bike immersed in the beauty and challenge of the mountains. There were many moments through the Pyrenees where I felt so deeply, vibrantly alive, sometimes joyously cheering atop mountain peaks feeling like I had reached the top of the world, and sometimes breaking down and crying on hilltops or sprinting terrified in a dark forest as lightning flashes around me. I felt as if I was experiencing a fuller spectrum of life’s highs and lows through the trials and thrills of the mountains. And I knew my ride through the Pyrenees had impacted me, all of the solo experiences and over-coming the challenges had catalyzed my self-growth and resilience. I had made it through the mountains with an endless well of stories and experiences, and came out the other side a little stronger, and nothing could take those lessons away from me.
In my time in Vitoria-Gasteiz, I met with the fiery disability rights group Eginaren Eginez (check out my write-up about our meeting here). And be sure to support my fundraiser for the European Network on Independent Living (ENIL) to support the right of all people with disabilities to live full independent lives as equal citizens across Europe: https://gofund.me/7d7230b1. Look-out for the continuation of the story of my ride soon, through northern Spain, with another set of mountains, and many new friends, challenges, and lessons.
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