10. Stairway to Heaven

The next morning we awoke, seemingly no worse for emotional wear. We laid out the requisite breakfast of bread, cheese, meat, Nutella and coffee. Avocadoes have been added to the lineup as well. Ule and Radiger came over and we all headed out for a group hike. I asked them how today’s hike compared to the one that Cerstin and I had taken two days before.

“It will be different.” Ule volunteered
“We will walk along the harbor.” Radiger countered. “The path there is very wide.”

I had taken some photos of the harbor and remembered seeing that trail. It looked like a fire road that had been made by a bulldozer. Press the Lord and pass the ammunition.

“How long a walk is it?” I asked.
“Oh, maybe 6 hours.” They said. “Maybe less.”

Hum. The other hike had taken 6 hours, but that was on a narrow, twisting trail with uneven, rocky ground.

We joined the pedestrian traffic of the other German hikers setting off for their day in the great outdoors. There were families strolling along ahead of older couples. There was young, robust couple chugging ahead of them. They were probably on their honeymoon. I saw the lesbians from the first climb: their arms pumping in mechanical rhythm as they stabbed their walking sticks into the ground, Ein, Zwei, Ein, Zwei.

Ule wore a large backpack that was designed for serious hiking. It had flaps and pockets and hooks and carabineers all over it. A special mesh pocket on the side was designed to hold a 1.5 liter bottle of water. What ever happened to canteens? I, of course, had my laptop bag. At least I had remembered to pack the bananas plus, two bars of Ritter Sport chocolate from Germany. Who’s your Daddy now!

The trail was flanked on our left by a sheer 800-meter rock face and on our right by the tranquil harbor of Valle Glen Rey. This is pleasant, I thought; So much nicer than the drudgery of two days past. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. We rounded the corner and the trail rose somewhat steeper and away from the harbor. We continued up this “fire road” for another 5 minutes and then, the picnic was over (to use a favorite quote from my father). We stepped off the nicely groomed fire road, ducked under a railing (which, for all I know, had been installed as a demarcation against eminent doom) and began to scramble up what appeared to be a dry streambed. It was littered with relatively large rocks, worn smooth by countless seasons of rain and river washing down from the top of the mountain. Radiger assumed the lead, followed by Cerstin, then me, with Ule bringing up the rear. I had waved him ahead as we started up but he insisted I go before him. Then I remembered the code of the mountain.

At least this wasn’t the tedious series of switchbacks that befell me on my first foray into hiking. Actually, “they” called it hiking. I still insist that it was mountain climbing. This part was challenging but by no means impossible. Each rock was large enough to provide a literal steppingstone. Well, almost, that is. You still had to choose each careful step and not become hypnotized by the person’s path in front of you, for that wasn’t necessarily the best track for you. The distance between rocks, their size and shape, your stride, and certainly your foot size and shoes all went into determining your every step.

Ule and Radiger, as you might imagine, were both wearing well broken in hiking boots. Cerstin had on trainers and me… I was wearing a pair of slip-on running shoes. Remember; I thought I was coming to the Canary Islands to walk on the beach, not ascend the twin peaks of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

When the dry stream veered off to the left, we went up to the right. In the middle of what looked like the remains of a landslide Radiger stopped and began looking around. He and Ule were at odds regarding which way to go. They seemed to have lost their bearings. As there was no discernable trail or well-worn path to be seen it was impossible to tell which direction to go from here: other than up. I scanned the area and had the momentary thought. “Oh well, let’s head back.” That’s when I spotted the trail marker. This one was a yellow and white striped painted vertically on a rock.

“Uh… do we want to go that way?” I sheepishly volunteered, pointing to the marker.

“Yes. That’s the way.” Ule replied. And so, on we went.

Eventually the path (and when I use the term “path” I by no means wish to convey the idea of a well-worn, foot-trodden indentation in the ground to indicate which direction to go) became so steep that we had to use our hands to pull ourselves up to the next level. We were no longer walking up hill at a steady pace. Now we were consciously stopping, looking and mentally envisioning our approach to each higher spot along our selected route.

At one point we came to a out-cropping, about six feet across, that was really a large, smooth boulder that jutted out from the mountainside. Running down the face of this perpendicular precipitously, smooth stone was an innocent rivulet of water that, although very bucolic in appearance, was actually a death trap waiting to spring. It disguised a thin sheet of algae that made even the most tentative step an exercise in sheer terror. It took three people, working together, to make the crossing. One would supply a foothold while another would grab hold of a hand or arm as you made the leap of faith and swung over. With your free hand you had to clutch at whatever tufts of vegetation that were hopefully deep-rooted into the crevices.

Another section was almost vertical. I reached up over the ledge to get a handhold and willed myself to the landing like I was doing a pull up. I came face to face with a goat carcass. So in that respect it wasn’t so much face to face as it was face to skull: with some hair on it. Oddly enough, my first reaction wasn’t one of fright; or even disgust. It was a feeling of defeat. Oh great! I thought. Goats can’t even traverse this mountain without dying.

All of this occurred within the first hour. The physical exertion and raw terror were punctuated by moments of sweeping grandeur as we would crest a ridge to discover a lush green valley laid out below us. In the distance, ancient terraced stonewalls nestled serenely into the crook of the mountain forming tiers of level farmland; like the rice paddies that clung to the hillsides in China. We eventually made our way to, through and over them. They appeared to have been long abandoned. I can only guess that they were used for the potatoes.

Far below, a river wound its way through the valley floor, looking like a thin rivulet of water leaking out of a garden hose after you shut it off. It would disappear and reappear as it passed through a canopy of bamboo and banana.

We forded shallow ponds and tributaries and climbed beside waterfall.

Eventually we reached the top, coming to the ruins of another building similar to the collapsed stone works of our first climb. Instead of goats, however, there were chickens and roosters strutting about. That’s when I saw the house. It was a relatively new home. Rather plain. It did have electricity and I assume water running to it. There was also an asphalt driveway. My mind took the next logical leap. If there’s a driveway then there must also be a road. Ergo – we could have driven here!!

There was no sign of life, except for the poultry, so we sat down among the ruins of the crumbled house and snacked on bananas and the German chocolate. We had been walking for over three hours and yet there would be no long-term rest for the weary here. We gathered ourselves up and pressed on. Gone was the hand-over-hand ascent. Gone was the nerve wrecking find-a-foothold, step-by-step procession. Gone were torturous climbs, scrambles and scrapes that accompanied us on our way to this pinnacle. I wasn’t breathing a sigh of relief yet I knew all too well that we were faced with a nasty downhill trek. For the moment however we progressed single file along the relatively flat, earthen path of the ridgeline that has been worn into the vegetation that was now abundant around us. We were now walking among trees and bushes and tall grasses. We passed wild fig and almonds trees.
Ule pointed up ahead to a small building perched precariously on an outcropping of stone.

“That’s the church of the lonely… what’s English for ‘prostitute’?”
“Uh… ‘Whore’?”
“Ja. The church of the lonely whore. We go there.”

Judging by its inaccessibility it’s no wonder she was lonely. Probably not a lot of business opportunities for a quickie on the top of a mountain. I’m just speculating here. It looked like the church was quite some distance away but miraculously (probably an apt adjective in this case) we crossed to ridge to it in less than 15 minutes.

As we made our way over the last, small rise I could now plainly see the church. The closer we got, the smaller it became. Finally, standing in front of the tiny tabernacle I was able to take it all in. The church was probably 8’ x 10’ in total area and would have easily fit inside a two-car garage. It had a bell set into an open arch above a set of double doors. A tiny flagstone piazza surrounded the church, though I don’t rightly know what dimensions qualify a space as a proper piazza. Around all of this, on three sides, ran a low wall made from the ubiquitous lava rocks carved into blocks. Cerstin stretched out on one of these while Ule and Radiger shared some water. I took pictures of the vista and yet somehow forgot to take a picture of the church. I was probably distracted as I turned to shoot the scene to the right of the church and ended up framing a long, ribbon of newly laid asphalt which ran from a parking lot set slightly below the church all the way to the valley floor almost 5000 feet below.

Much to my chagrin we didn’t wait for a tour bus to come and take us down to civilization. Instead, we pushed on, continuing along the ridge, though now on a decidedly downhill slope and eventually came to a junction where we stepped off our relatively groomed trail and began our descent. This part of the hike lived up to my preconceived notions; even managing to surpass them in some instances. Radiger and I took the lead while Ule lagged behind to help Cerstin who was suddenly having a tough go at it. She and I had both lost our footing several times; landing on our respective butts at least once each. We now had to traverse the same type of terrain that we had struggled with on our way up. I think the distance between secure foot placements was just a little too wide or steep for Cerstin to waltz down; unlike the switchbacks on our first climb.

Somehow we made it down safely to the bottom, or at least to a small village that was tucked into the shadow of the mountain. We discovered a restaurant and went in for a well-deserved snack and some drinks. Radiger and I stuck with beer while Cerstin and Ule had wine. The guys figured that we still had at least another hour of hiking ahead of us before we were back in Vueltas so we didn’t go overboard with the food or drink. We split a big plate of potatoes, which tasted incredibly good. We toasted a successful climb and I silently gave thanks to the lonely whore for watching over me during the descent.

After we had refueled, the rest of the hike was anti-climatic. We walked down the paved streets of this village for a few miles before we cut across the valley floor and a wide crushed gravel road that ran along a stand of wild bamboo. I came across an old Mercedes Benz (what a surprise) that had been abandoned deep in the middle of the leafy reeds.

Finally we made it back to Vueltas and our own special brand of civilization. This little enclave had never looked so good to me. Ule wanted to stop at the music shop to pick up some CDs that he asked the proprietor to hold for him. He had “discovered” some local musicians and other music that captured the feel of island. Cerstin went with him to check it out and maybe buy some for herself. We had agreed to meet for dinner after everyone had cleaned up so Radiger and I went back to our apartments to get a head start on washing off the grit and the grime.

Just then it hit me…. Mary Magdalene!