Convincing the Crew
In February 2023, Zdravko and I finally convinced 4 people to hike and sleep with us in Aizkorri. We took advantage of the pintxopote happiness and avoided some details in the description of the excursion (people usually like surprises). Our challenge was to arrive before night at the refuge — a performance never achieved before. Aizkorri is a game field for challenges: a famous marathon crosses the mountain, and local people apparently climb the top carrying gas cylinders on their backs (otherwise they consider it a walk in the park, I guess).
As we had a lot of time, we spent some helping the Architect in his refuge renovation project. The building undoubtedly has a future if people don’t mind sleeping on bat-shit mattresses. Unfortunately, the house took ownership of the Architect as he was trying to escape from the window. We left him some Idiazabal smoked cheese and one bottle of cider and promised to visit him as much as our busy agenda would allow it.
The Cave Detour
Unfortunately, we found a cave in our way, and anyone who has read the Aizkorri Contract (probably nobody) knows that caves have priority over everything.
This hole was going quite deep from the left side of the San Adrian tunnel, so that sliding out the toboggan gallery, we realized the forest was already blue and the sky already turning into this soft orange we wanted to watch from the top.
Then, I also realized something was going wrong in the communication of our crew, as on my left, Benedikt was opening a bottle of cider and on my right, Zdravko was telling me about the rope he had in his bag just to make the alternative way smoother. That was something like a Titanic time. I already knew this alternative way. I knew why we talk about alternative way and not “path,” because path it was not. Only feathers and sheep bones in this “alternative” way.
Entering the Vulture’s Territory
We left civilization and entered the vulture’s territory, a cliff where every balcony is occupied by nests and rest spots for feathered creatures. A vulture is a chicken with a stronger stomach (despite this relationship, it’s not recommended to make tortilla with vulture eggs, except if you enjoy the smell of fermented goat organs flavored with a squeeze of urine). In the past, when we discovered this alternative way, vultures kindly decided to open their gates on one condition: to always carry them well-ripe and smelly meat (yes, vulture also like contract).
As we opened the gates of the strong stomach chickens, the leader of the colony flew to us and asked with a strong Basque accent, “Dear comrade, I’m happy to welcome you in my feather kingdom again, but I don’t see the well-ripe and smelly meat I asked as a condition to cross our territory.”
“Dear vulture,” I answered with my few A1 chicken-speaking abilities, “didn’t you see the liver of this man? This is the well-ripest meat of all Basque Country! And didn’t you smell the feet of this guy? They are the smelliest meat you can find in all northern Spain!”. And so the vulture let us pass, digesting uneasily the promised digestion they wouldn’t get.
Climbing to Aratz
Going out of the vulture kingdom, we still had to cross the vertical forest to join the land of Aratz. One step ahead, one step up. The first bottle of cider was emptying, but the bags felt heavier on our shoulders due to basic shitty physics laws. The rope was necessary to rescue the rest of our alcoholic equipment.
When we finally appeared on the land of Aratz, walking on the knees and licking lichen from the trees, the sun was throwing its last blazing darts to the ridges.
Blind Hiking
The rest of the way down and up to the refuge had to be blind hiking. Is light a friend to hike in the dark? Yes, but there is no complete darkness on earth (except after trying for the 234th time the same fancy vinegar in a random sidreria lost in the countryside of Hernani). Should we use frontal light when stars shine and moonlight? Is there any inconvenience to renouncing electric light? Not really. Mushrooms are still visible, owls are better understandable, and comrades’ faces are not anymore a grease stain on the wallpaper.
Aizkorri forest is charming. By day it’s nice, by night it’s a fairy tale. Owls hooting, wild pigs escaping, people screaming… people screaming?? Yes, people screaming! It seems they want to scare passers-by, but it is assuredly rather themselves they are trying to reassure.
Reaching the Refuge
We finally managed to join the top around 20:00. The refuge was full of Madrid citizens who kindly offered us to cook our 4 kilos of txuletas in their 5 cm² gas frying pan. After discussing and exhausting all rational arguments to use the barbecue inside the refuge, the screamer team (3 Victorian citizens) finally arrived and decided to cook their meat without asking for any permission. Following their alternative diplomatic method, we started the fire and opened a bottle of cider to celebrate the first blaze.
The smoke was asphyxiating the upper beds, and the open window was freezing the lower ones: complaints were coming from every district of Madrid. We could have offered them to grill their ass on the barbecue to warm up or to jump to the cliff to get some fresh air, but Aizkorri is a civilized place and our reputation was in.
Everything ended fine, about txuletas and txistorras. To not awaken gloomy spirits, we went outside and climbed the roof of the chapel to enjoy the stars. At some point, constellations started to move more than they should. A glance at the patxaran bottle gave us an explanation. The rest of the night would go down in history, as 2 hours were necessary to walk the 100 meters from the chapel to the refuge.
Xuban’s Struggles
Our dear Xuban, for some dark reason, decided to speak only in English and sit down on every piece of gravel of the way, enjoying this resting time to refresh the distribution of his apps on his phone. When we finally convinced him that the wall of the chapel was able to stand up without his help, we reached the door of the refuge.
Nevertheless, trying to reach his bed under the table, our chapel pillar missed a step and gave a brutal French kiss to the stony furniture, causing the first earthquakes of the region in historical times. The writer of these lines realized what happened when the frontal light shone on the bloody lips of our unfortunate friends, crossing the door in socks to piss outside. Trying to turn off his phone (probably?), crushed leaves were transforming the shelter into a damn lighthouse, spreading more light than understandable words. “My poor lips” were the last ones I heard before falling into a deep sleep.
The Morning After
In the morning, I woke up with the feeling that someone was sweeping over my head. The dog of our Madrid friends was jumping over the sleeping bag and energetically cleaning the floor with his tail (yes, we were sleeping on the ground).
What else? Nothing special: some caves, rat holes, warm cracks, cat shower in the river. A normal Sunday in Aizkorri.
And then? Xuban decided to never drink Patxaran again, and we didn’t manage to convince any Erasmus to join us for a hike in the whole semester. News travel fast, especially in German.
