Coma Pedrosa, Andorra, the most exciting trek

There are experiences that remain impressed and will remain so forever. Which ones are they? Undoubtedly, those in which strong emotions are involved. One of the most significant experiences that can happen is certainly the one in which one comes to question the possibility of seeing a new dawn. What happened in Andorra was just that. It must be taken into account that I obviously like the idea of adventure but, at the same time, I am not an adrenaline addict, one of those who purposely seek out the most complicated possible situations.

Me and Loretta, my partner who also has a marked openness to adventure, are in Andorra. We park the car where the Coma Pedrosa hiking trail begins. We both like walking and we both love to immerse ourselves in nature (in this article I'll tell you how we ended up naked, on the snow of this mountain!). However, we are not exactly those who would define themselves as “particularly shrewd” and this means that we do not worry about having adequate equipment, apart from our trekking outfits. Let's say that, more than anything else, we have taken some things for granted... At the beginning of the journey, we meet a couple who, from what they bring with them, give us the clear impression that they are much better prepared than we are. Both wear the most suitable clothing and hold trekking poles in both hands which they sink into the ground at every step to find greater stability. We brand it superficially as "fanaticism" and continue in the opposite direction to theirs.

The path is immediately steep but, at least in its very first part, very simple. The landscape offers crazy glimpses of the peaks that overlook us and of the distant ones, of streams and small waterfalls, of expanses of trees and the snow of the highest points. An hour and a half after the start of the trek, we meet again the equipped couple from the beginning. They are returning to the starting point after the end of a small loop. It seems that, in the end, however organized they were, theirs was nothing more than a short walk. We, on the other hand, go ahead, take pictures and look around with the excitement of the children in front of their favorite playground. But, as in any self-respecting amusement park, there is that attraction, that carousel that you look at and wonder how you will take its movements. For us, the entrance to that ride is a small bridge that crosses a stream which, a couple of meters away, forms a beautiful waterfall. Already, at this point, at the entrance, there are signs that predict what awaits us ahead. Access to both ends of the bridge is made difficult by the presence of a high pile of snow which forces us to jump down to access it and up the staircase to exit and proceed. Here we could probably stop and think for a moment more but, looking a little further on, it doesn't seem that there is who knows what to fear. On the other hand, the symbols that indicate the trekking route placed on the trees and rocks are still clearly visible and the idea of respecting the route reassures us. At the same time, on the floor which, by now, was only snow, the footprints of someone who had trodden the path before us could be identified.

Actually, it doesn't take long before the snow under our feet (which, remember, are covered by simple shoes with simple soles) becomes more compact, more ice-like, harder and, therefore, more slippery and difficult to penetrate with our footsteps. But, again, we perceive nothing to fear other than the possibility of ending up on our ass, which, by the way, doesn't happen. Our path, although it becomes increasingly steep and unstable due to the hard snow, is, however, made safer by the trees which, on the ridge next to us, give us the tranquility of "if I slide down, I should have no difficulty in finding a foothold". But this certainty, at one point, fails. For a distance of about three meters, with the steep path (laterally), narrow and slippery, the ridge of the mountain (by now, we are at an important altitude) does not have any foothold, any tree, any root or blade of grass but only and exclusively the steep snowy descent that leads to the crash. Loretta points out to me that it is appropriate to put the camera and GoPro in the backpack, to be more comfortable and because the situation would not allow me to play Francis Ford Coppola anyway. But why are we going on? Perhaps we are fooled by the thought that three meters of attention and caution cannot compromise the success of a long trek and, further on, the trees return to reassure the journey. We plant our hands and feet, as deep as possible, in the snow and overcome the adrenaline stretch.

The only thing we get is a precedent. The same situation, worsened in length, altitude, steepness, snow instability and lack of grips, occurs again and again. Why do we continue, again? There are many reasons, some stupid and some more sensible (but still stupid). Among the stupidest is, surely, pride, that nasty thought of giving up that you want to chase away, that shadow of failure that scares your ego as much as the impervious mountain hasn't yet scared you. Then, again, that annoyance of having left something unfinished. In our lives, dictated by rhythms that only partially depend on us, we find ourselves forced to put aside dreams, ambitions and desires, leaving the paths to their search unfinished. The action of a day, like our trek, therefore, becomes that small but important something to be carried out, perhaps to maintain that illusion of having that power to close a circle, to see one's own determination superior to any adversity. The most sensible reason that pushes us to continue, however, is probably the fear of facing again, going downhill (much more fearsome), what we have faced so far, combined with the hope of a journey that will become easier.

Hope may be the last to die but, in the end, it dies. Our hope dies when after a last, very risky, traverse without holds in which I even find the time to look down and imagine myself falling for too long so as not to crash after shitting myself, we find ourselves faced with an abrupt change of route. If, until now, we have suffered from the inclination of the mountain in a mainly lateral direction, due to a path made up of hairpin bends, now the path climbs straight up, without hairpin bends, steeper than ever. Down, nothing to block our eventual fall. Under our feet and hands, the snow is harder than ever. We even think about it, again, for the same reasons mentioned above but, at a certain point, reason takes over. Loretta tells of a missed heartbeat, a voice in her conscience which, after giving her adrenaline until then, whispers "stop, this is the moment". She looks at me and says "let's go back". I feel relieved because I know I don't have to face the path I see before my eyes. I feel relieved because those words, that "let's go back", didn't come out of my foolish mouth. The very idea that, in such a situation, I'm thinking about pride annoys me because I can't help but admit to myself that, even if not literally, I'm really shitting myself anyway. Indeed, in addition to being relieved, I am extremely concerned. That hope of a more comfortable route ceases definitively and is replaced by the tremendous certainty that we will face what we had already faced, with the aggravating circumstance of the descent. But that's where I became my fingertips, that's where I became my knee, my heel, and sometimes my ass. Looking for the minimum of stability that would allow us to descend, we penetrate the snow with our bare hands, we put weight on one knee or on our heel to impress the slightest dimple. I realize that I "am not", I realize that my survival instinct has taken the lead and that my body moves automatically as a system that goes into self-protection. My consciousness, my energy, is concentrated exclusively on the contact points with the snow. The cold between my fingers is a detail I barely notice.

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