Sabrina. Ben.

From behind me, a screech. I turn and see Jen straddling the aquaduct, hand shoved into the prickly foliage growing along the steep hillside to our right. She has just reached a dicier section of the trail—though trail is perhaps a generous term for the narrow strip of flattened grass and crumbling concrete we’re travelling. Above and below us, olive trees somehow cling to the precipitous slant. I extend my hand to her and she cries no no no protect the baby. I assure her I am perfectly balanced and feel secure. Together we pass the sketchy section.

The hike we’re on was billed as an excellent starting walk that would give us an overview of the area, passing above the towns of Competa, Archez, and Canillas de Albeida. But confusing instructions in the guidebook, a similar enough route in Komoot, and fierce sun had us going off course.

I spent a truly unhinged amount of effort arguing with myself and anyone who looked like they had an opinion about the directions. At first I was having a grand time following along in a walking book as it took us from the bus stop to the big church square to a hermitage, and out onto a track. And then I was betrayed. The directions were contradictory and because I could not fathom how an author could say very nearly the opposition of what he meant, I led us past our obvious turning purely out of spite (I now understand). In a huff, I put the book away (though reserving my right to continue litigating the matter if someone said something) and declared that Sabrina was now navigating. When you do a thing like that, you are committing to supporting the navigator’s choices. It turns out I was also committing to following her through smoke and flame.

Oh did you not remember the smoke and flame part of our wedding vows?

Regardless, we’d finally turned off the slice of a path that had put Abuela Williamson through her paces (psychologically at least) and begun to ascend the hill. To our delight and trepidation, small burning piles littered the olive grove. The smoke was thick enough that Ben ushered me to get Ellie out of there as quickly as possible, and I huffed up at a pace that I’d feel in my quads the next morning.

We’d seen little trails of smoke rising from the groves around our villa. Now we took a tour of the action. The farmer was parked about halfway up the slope, tending a dozen little burn piles. I’m always uncomfortable when I realize we’re tramping through private land, but he seemed unbothered.

Soon we were above the grove, walking on rural roads contouring near ridge tops, no smoke detectable, air clear to the sea. From up here we can see how the land ruffles and pleats, carved deep by teeny rivers. This is a thing about Europe. There are tall trees, but they do not coat every square metre like the Boreal Forest does where I live. You can see forever here, as if the whole continent is in the alpine.

That night in bed, I felt funny. Just a little – “funny”- you know? Was my throat like a 0.5/10 sore or was it just some good exercise and catching up on sleep? Stomach also felt a bit off but we had been warned about the ultra-soft aquifer water here and I had chugged a lot. It was so borderline. As I lay there, assessing, it occurred to me that they all probably already think I’m a hypochondriac and I’d feel silly if I overreacted. Little Ellie swung her arm in her sleep, feeling for a comforting body. I gently held her hand and decided nothing is worth the risk however small. I moved Sabrina’s arm over to take the place of mine and slipped out of the bedroom. The couch wasn’t quite long enough to stretch out and I tossed and turned in those repetitive semi-lucid dreams that come with fever. I knew it was the right call. That morning I wore a mask and everyone was nice about it even though there were no external signs of my illness. I was glad of the rest day, however. My skin felt sore and the low level fever continued. The sore throat got just a little worse.

This was one of the big things I was afraid of. It’s good it happened to me. The abuelas are super helpful with meals and cleaning, and I can only blame myself for not masking on the plane. Sabrina made sure we had them handy and everything. That night, I tried the couch again for a long time before I thought to bring in a lounger cushion and stretch out on the floor. It’s good I did because the sleep certainly helped the next day.

El Saltillo had been one of the hikes I’d come across when researching the best and most worthy hidden gems in this mountain range. North of us by only about twenty kilometres as the crow flies, the drive to get there nevertheless took about an hour thanks to the narrow, twisting roads. Luckily Ellie spent almost the entire time napping. She had mostly transitioned to Spain’s time zone by this time in the week. The first two or three nights had gone mostly okay, except for a screamy couple hours between midnight and 2am when she was dismayed to find that her “nap” was not concluding with playtime but instead a persistently dark room. We finally decided to just entertain her quietly if she didn’t settle quickly, and that mostly did the trick. Within a couple days she was going to sleep reliably by 11pm, then 10:30pm, then shortly after 10pm.

We began El Saltillo with a scramble up a steep drainage that turned out to be a very worthwhile shortcut, spitting us out at least a kilometre along the trail. Soon enough we were cruising on more aqueduct/single track combo trail, a hallmark of this region it seems. The vistas opened as we climbed gradually to a junction, where a rough and winding stone staircase plunged down into the gorge. The reason we chose this hike was the suspension bridge at the bottom of the stairs: fifty feet long and a hundred above the gorge bottom. After the bridge the trail continued 20 more interesting kilometres back to Competa, too much for our group, so we climbed back up the stairs.

Next up was a metal pathway with grated bottom, attached to the side of the cliff. Ellie had woken from her carrier nap and was starting to get squirmy, so we pulled off into a shady corner of rock and fed her. In a cheerier mood but still a bit tired of the black carrier, we switched her to the woven sling we’d packed as an emergency alternate in the backpack. On our way again, we approached the end of our trail. Suddenly, I heard Ellie let loose a big poo. Resolving to change her as soon as a convenient spot appeared, I continued to support her back with my left arm. That is, until I started to feel wetness against my hand. Initially mistaking it for dew from the surrounding brush we’d passed (why did I think this?? The day literally couldn’t have been dryer) I soon realized it was spreading. It was a blowout. Ben and I quickly pulled over and set the baby on a bench-sized ledge of rock to change her. Luckily we’d remembered to bring an extra onesie in addition to the diaper go-bag. Moving on, patting each other on the back for teamwork well executed, we reached the waterfalls that marked our turnaround point. Presumably inspired by their peaceful flow, Ellie took the opportunity to poo again.

While the others sunned themselves, I clambered up the little cascades from pool to pool. The drops got progressively taller and the climbing more involved. I was going to turn around when I saw a red climbing rope to get up to the next one. I couldn’t resist. The rope held and “in a trice” I was on top. I decided not to take a picture of, or mention to the others, the thing that I saw and the trip back to the car was uneventful. After the thrills of the catwalks and suspension bridge, the next day promised to be more relaxing.

The Ruta de los Molinos circuited around a few kilometres of the Rio Turvilla. On the drive over I started to get nauseous so we grabbed the first parking spot on the edge of Canillas de Albeida that we saw. The decision brought instant relief to me, and later grief to the abuelas. It meant maximum descent down to the river (no huge trial, especially as it took us past a bevy of fallen oranges that the abuelas scavenged from the ground) and maximum ascent at the end of the day (now this one hurt). The path passed an abandoned olive oil factory, a Roman bridge, and many fruit groves. We tried to add an extra little loop to the route but our steep climb out of the river valley turned out to be for nought other than bonus exercise after a British fellow popped his head over his balcony to tell us the way ahead might be blocked.

The road to the river goes through gated orchards. I volunteered to jog down to see if the gates were open and the way to the river clear. I did find the path open, but I also met the farmer, sitting under a tree peeling an orange. La rio? I tried. Si, si, replied the farmer, gesturing vaguely through his orchard. Gracias. I turned and fled back up the steep dirt road and reported my findings. I said I was uncomfortable going right through while he was there. I wasn’t sure if we had permission or if it was disrespectful. Disappointed, but humouring me, Sabrina agreed that we could just retrace our steps. The unrewarded extra climb made the hot return trip to the car feel extra gruelling and we were all surprisingly pooped after our supposedly easy day. Looking back, it was a lovely trip along a shady river with many little delights such as a waterwheel and avocado grove.

Back at the car, Sabrina and abuela Keith went for more groceries. Abuela Williamson was holding Ellie when an odd piece of rope caught my eye. It almost looked like it was moving. It was moving, very slowly. I looked again, confused for a minute about what I was seeing. 34 fuzzy brown caterpillars were inchy-squinching along the sidewalk, tip to tail in one long unbroken chain. As I stooped to take a look, a car stopped hard right beside me.

“No toques las orugas!”

I gaped.

“Don’t touch! You get hurt. The caterpillars have hairs that give you a bad blister. We cut down our pine trees because too many caterpillars when we had kids.”

I remember the note at the start of the walking guide to beware the pine processionary caterpillars. I remember seeing the white masses of what I called spider webs in the needles of pine trees. For the rest of our trip, we kept our eyes peeled, and whenever we saw one, we’d point and say “píllar” in a heavy Spanish accent.

We returned back to our villa, which felt so extravagant that I still almost couldn’t quite believe they let us stay, and to an orange sunset that we were happy to share across three generations of travellers.