So Much Every Day—Day 21 of Bicycling in Morocco, Spain (and England)

I am afraid that if I don’t write every day, I will miss something. Something as important as meeting the couple in Gorafe yesterday, half way out of the canyon at a little “Hail Mary” cafe nestled against the cliff walls and learning that they had just completed digging out their new cave house. Eight rooms in total. They extolled the virtues of the cool climate it provides in the summer when the temperature hovers around 110 degrees or more and the absolute silence and dark found within them. They invited me to stay, but I had to press on. 

Or I might forget the wild boars that snuffle through the olive orchards here, rooting up the soil and eating the fallen fruits while they helpfully aerate the ground to allow the rain in. They are as big as sheep.

Or the illusive Iberian Ibex, which I was lucky enough to see. It watched me as I pedaled by as curious as I.

When I awoke in the bottom of the Geoparque de Granada, it was freezing. Truly freezing. Water bottle skimmed with ice freezing. My sleeping pad had a hole and I had woken every hour to blow it up again and again. I jumped up and down to warm myself while stuffing my tent and dreaming of coffee. Thankfully, Mainers Mitts had sponsored me with some warm mittens and my fingers were incredibly grateful. 
When I was all packed up, I pedaled through the sunrise, the air soft and still. I could hear little creatures huffing at me as I passed by. And you know it made it all worth it. The ascent quickly warmed me and soon I longed for a little of that frost.

Now I have climbed out of the park, over another mountain and descended into a vast desert. It is wide and dry with occasional cave homes sunk into the shade of a rise here and there. The light is sharp and the colors bright. There is no traffic and I am surrounded by nothing and everything all at once.
I hear the desert of Morocco is moving north, right up through Central Europe. You can see it here. People lament that it only rained twice last winter and this winter there is no rain in sight, but still the farmers try. What olive trees there are, are being heavily pruned to accommodate this drought and the smell of olive oil from the burning branches fills the air whenever I pass an orchard. The price of the oil has multiplied by five in two years.

Tonight I will sleep in Huescar, perched in the foothills of Sierra de la Sagre mountain range. 

These trips are like a prolonged meditation, and several times a day a feeling of giddiness washing over me. It feels a little like being in love.

Thank you for reading this blog. I love writing it because it makes it all make sense to me and keeps me from getting lost out here. Sorry I don’t respond to comments—I love them, but fear that I would be in conversation all day rather than experiencing where I am.

Lastly, I did indeed get my Jamis Sequel bike back and no offense to my good old rental “Gute Reit” that got me across Morocco, but it has made all the difference in the world.