Before I Forget—Day 20 of Bicycling through Morocco and Spain (and England)

I know you can’t read this until tomorrow because I am wild camping and there is no service, but I have to tell you about today while it is fresh. 

I have often said that I am “Late to the game,” about world knowledge, but did you know that there is a canyon in Spain that rivals the Grand Canyon? I came upon it today only because our host in Granada insisted that I not ride the boring way, but instead go to see the coloraos, whatever the heck they are. He said I simply had to, so with trepidation, I took a left off my route towards Barcelona and cycled off down said dirt road. 

This dirt road bumped and shimmied me across a long plateau for 10 miles, putting me through many waves of misgivings, and led me, unexpectedly to an immense canyon. I was gobsmacked. Who knew? The dirt road tapered to a narrow finger extending far out over the land below and dropping off with cliffs on either side. I could barely eke out the verdant valley that indicated a river winding through the bottom, the very one responsible for all this sculpting.

The walls of this chasm were rock, magnificent rock with burnt orange, iron red and alabaster white strata that had worn away over eons by the river. It was too dry and rocky for there to be any plants so it was laid out bare. The canyon opened into a desert on the far end and continued as far as I could see. No towns, no signs of civilization just barren beauty. I stood in awe. (Did you know about this?)

My hosts next directions were to bicycle down. This meant down a narrow dirt track that dropped from this precipice and wound around towers and buttresses deep into the desert below. I had no idea where it would end, what the condition of it might be or whether it was for sure the trail he said to take. There were no signs, just his words echoing in my head. “You have to do it.”

I am not sure why I listened. It is actually not my style, believe it or not, I am a bit of a scardy cat. Perhaps, I was truly spell bound, but I did and I am so glad. 

I spent the next several hours squealing my brakes and bouncing over rocks as I went lower and lower. The rocks rose up, dwarfing me. I passed below one mesa, then the next, then the next. Dust rose up and coated my bike and legs. It might have been the most beautiful bike ride of my life. The Coloraos are these colorful rock promontories, that almost seems like fins or waves. A labyrinth of stone.

Now, I am in the bottom and camping under a huge Juniper tree all alone. I met a sweet man named Fernando hiking in the bottom and he let me know where it was safe to stay and even showed me where a thermal spring bubbled up from below, so that I could wash the dust off my face and hands. He left long ago to drive back up to his home, and now it could not be more quiet. Surprisingly, I don’t feel afraid.

The stars have come out and they are incredible. I can clearly see the smear of the Milky Way. The canyons walls frame them in black curtains all around. I have some cookies to munch on, and a book to read. Tomorrow I will climb back out, on a paved road. It might take a while, and I don’t really want to think about it, but tonight is perfect