Sabrina. Ben.

We said goodbye to Villa Jarana. The vehicle could not be packed any more full. The two suitcases fit into the back, with coats and car seat travel accoutrements stuffed behind the car seat. A daypack by Fraser’s feet in the front passenger seat, Abuela Keith squished into the far-back seat with a heavy grocery bag on her lap. Me and Abuela Williamson in the middle seats with Ellie, my rolling carry-on on the floor and my legs crossed up in a lotus position. As Ben drove down the winding mountain road to the coast’s highway, he tried to take the curves easy as pretty much everyone was prone to motion sickness.

Ellie fell asleep after maybe ten minutes of scritch-scratching my waist pack, waking up just before we reached the Nerja Caves. I had been a bit tied up in knots the previous evening, just feeling unprepared for visiting the Alhambra (where would we park? What are all the different sections and which ones are worth it? Why are there so many websites that seem like they’re the official Alhambra visiting page?) but after dedicating a half hour to learning about it, I discovered that we wouldn’t be visiting the Alhambra anyway as they were booked up for basically the entire month. In retrospect, it would have been too ambitious a sightseeing project for a travel day anyway. We were all ready for the car break the Nerja Caves provided. The caves were spectacular, with much grander interiors than I expected. I’d had everyone download the cave app the night before so we listened to the English guide throughout. Fraser waited in the car. Ellie wriggled on Ben’s chest but otherwise endured this new environment peaceably.

Las cuevas were indeed grand. I believe Gaudi must have spent time inside ones like this and set out to build La Segrada in their negative. The irregular, glistening wet surfaces with their curls and nodules and tendrils and bulges made me feel like I’m inside some giant primitive creature. I wonder if the early people who came inside felt the same way, imagining themselves swallowed by an ancient behemoth. I suppose there are living things that could be extremely similar – corrals are made of the same calcium-rich material as stalagmites, but their construction is more regular. These are some of the thoughts that old and deep places give me. Ellie was silent the whole time, mostly staring around with her big blue eyes. I hope this experience was fuel for her imagination too.

I managed to get her back to sleep once we were back in the car, but much to my surprise it ended up being a short half-hour nap. With about 90 minutes left until we reached our next accommodation, the pressure was on to keep her from crying.

You were heroic, beating a paper towel holder like a drum, singing, passing her a procession of toys, for what seemed like forever. Desperate, manic even. Like a court jester whose life depends on the fickle queen’s mood. It was a huge relief when we parked and could get out of the car. We were all pretty cramped. Despite my extra leg room privilege as the driver, my back was in a very sorry shape. I hobbled around, every step pinching a nerve, muscles seized up. Normally within a minute it goes back to normal, but this time I couldn’t get it to relax. My sickness was mostly passed, except for a lingering irritation in my airway making me randomly cough.

Our accommodation was a Moorish bungalow tucked near the back of an interconnected hamlet of maybe 12 whitewashed residences. Two young boys kicked a soccer ball down our “driveway,” and scruffy desert dogs served as de facto guards at the neighbourhood entrance. There was a marked change in vibe from the Tejeda mountains. Plenty of cerros still surrounded us, but the arid climate and Mediterranean proximity felt as if we’d hopped over to Morocco.

Inside Ben and mine’s bedroom, our host had set up the promised pack n’ play crib. However, it barely fit in the room, cutting off not only closet access but also the entire right side of the bed. Since Ellie was still sleeping well in our bed we opted to break down the crib and stash it in the closet from whence it came.

The hours in the car and week of coughing had left me hobbling with back pain. That night, trying to suppress my coughs to not wake Ellie I wrenched my back from clenching too hard. I was back on the couch. The next morning I did a stronk. Something about the squatting motion and the physio exercises loosened up my back. I could walk pretty much normally again. That morning I strapped Ellie to my front for her nap and set off to explore. A delightfully craggy cerro loomed above our compound. After some dead ends in the maze of agricultural buildings, I found myself drawn up an increasingly steep and slidy hill, prickly vegetation snagging at my pants. I made it about two thirds of the way up, but wasn’t comfortable risking a tumble with my slumbering little passenger. I picked my way down to a dirt road lined with bee hives, and found a better path back to the house, and mentally bookmarking it for when I would try again for the top.

We greeted our new environs slowly; on one hand it felt like the start of a brand new trip and we were reinvigorated, on the other the travel day had sapped us. So the next morning we took it easy, enjoying the sunshine in our back courtyard while clothes hung to dry and mom picked lemons from the tree behind the house (at my cross admonishments for using the rickety patio chair as a step ladder, she said “you’re not the boss of me!” May Ellie grow to be less disobedient). But soon the trail was calling us and we headed out to hike a six kilometre stretch of the coast from nearby Las Negras to the Batería de San Ramón.

It was time to enter our precarious cliffside era, horrifying Abuela W. With seabirds bobbing in the surf below and loose rocks skittering from under our shoes, the abuelas dutifully followed us as we picked our way along, always choosing the most spectacular but precarious path, umbrella poised daintily to shade Ellie, who mostly just snoozed in perfect trust. Mostly. The little empress does not like sun in her eyes or gusts of wind, things that a desert on the ocean tends to have plenty of. Our little umbrella had to work miracles, maintaining constant protective shield without getting flipped inside out. We rotated. Me with Ellie on my back, enduring my bony shoulder blades. Sabrina with Ellie facing forward, enjoying a cushy back support.

We stretched our walk out by trying to get to the cuevas, working our way down the soft white stone to where the sea had undercut the cliffs and formed some interesting wafers that cantilevered out to form, not caves exactly, but something to clamber around on, certainly. Sabrina had Ellie, so she stayed above with the abuelas while I had a quick scamper, then it was onward. Once we went up from the narrow paths to the main tourist track we made much faster time the rest of the way to the Batería. A squat little stone fort that apparently served as an anti-smuggling garrison in relatively recent times, we peeked and pried around and enjoyed a snack at the locked up main gate. Ellie decided that this was a very fun place. She kicked her legs and laughed at the abuelas and refreshed everyone’s nerves after a hot hike. While Ellie was fed and changed, I jogged to a big kiosk sign (in Spanish, alas) and admired the bright pink cactus blooms, and then it was time for the return journey. We stuck to the high road and got back to the car in what felt like no time. This region was a little scrappy, a little strange, but if it suited Ellie, it suited us all.

Back to the trusty Lonely Planet’s guide to Spain’s best day hikes (we truly squeezed as much value out of that $20.99 as possible). The roadless stretch spanning Agua Amarga and Las Negras was listed as a standout hike, but we knew we wouldn’t be able to do the entire 16km one-way route and then return the way we came in one day. We could either do half one day and half the next, or in a more efficient use of our remaining days, split ourselves into two groups of two and start at opposing sides (there was also secret door #3: have someone take a taxi back home from Agua Amarga, but that was quickly eliminated). We decided that Ben, Ellie and I would drop the abuelas off at Las Negras, then drive the 45 minutes to Agua Amarga to start the route from there. We’d meet somewhere in the middle, pass off the car keys, and reunite at Casa El Limonero. At least, that was the plan. There was some concern—perhaps unfounded, perhaps not—that the abuelas would take a wrong turn and wander cackling into the ocean. Adding to the danger: roughly halfway along the trail we would hit San Pedro cove, an isolated hippie community known for its repurposed ruins and labyrinthine layout. If a technological glitch didn’t lead the abuelas astray, we feared a marijuana-suffused tent would lure them off-trail (“omg you believe in fairies too??” Cue more cackling.) At the very least, I reasoned, they’d be together as they started their new life. Eventually you just have to accept that you can’t protect them anymore, y’know? So after careful instruction on how to use the Komoot trail app, we left them by the Las Negras beach, clacking their hiking poles along the paved pedway, eyes glued to the moving icon on mom’s phone screen.

I took about a hundred pictures of the car’s parking spot, environs, and location on the Komoot map to show the abuelas at the meeting point. Then it was up a steep rocky hill. Knee-high scrub brush blanketed the ridgetop, but our views were otherwise unobstructed. It was a breezy day, clouds scudding overhead and choppy waves on our left hand as we marched on. Sabrina and I ambled easily along, like we’ve done so many times since our first hike together in Sudbury, confident and comfortable. Ellie, again, was a perfect little companion. She let us know when she needed a change or a feed, but was otherwise happy to snooze or just look around.

We were making good time, and approaching the final rise before descending into San Pedro. Each twist in the trail promised that here, here, ok surely here is where we would see our beloved, adventurous mothers walking toward us, silhouetted against the sun. With its maze of internal trails, we didn’t want to encounter them in San Pedro. Not only because it would be less likely to run into each other, but also because it would suggest they weren’t on pace to finish in a reasonable time, based on packed rations. But as we rounded a large hump in the landscape, I saw my mom’s smiling face pop above the swaying grasses. My heart leapt from my chest and we started wildly swinging our poles in the air. It felt like the biggest, happiest coincidence that in all the coast walks in all the world, we’d run into each other here. It felt like finding treasure on the trail. It felt like relief that we didn’t have to return the way we’d come and start the search party. One giant, long hug, then down to business: “okay we CAN NOT forget to give you guys the car keys.” Into the Chosen Pocket they went. Triple checked. Detailed instructions given on where we’d parked the car. Diaper change for Ellie. Sandwiches eaten. Warnings about the loose descent to come. And then we were on our way, and they were on theirs.

San Pedro below us. A couple dozen makeshift shelters. Half a castle. Tarp tied down for a roof with a few fronds as thatch. A couple solar panels. Stereo playing music. Signs in English imploring the use of an outhouse. Flags. Kitsch for sale. White men baked to a cracked leather. We pick our way through the sand and the hovels and start climbing up the other side of the valley. We are off the public path and, even here, in this tiny community that seems to reject society’s rules, I feel self conscious for intruding. Two women speaking Spanish glance at us as we pass by some handmade crafts displayed on clothes lines. I try not to make eye contact. A large man lumbers out of a dark doorway just as we approach it. I try not to make eye contact. He squats over some fallen laundry and we walk by. Later Sabrina demands I tell about the man who had no pants. I remember him having maybe swim trunks on but I don’t know for sure. Though I was the one fully clothed, he was the uninhibited one. I think my embarrassment comes from not knowing the language. Like that automatically puts me out of place, and then any mild trespassing on top of that puts me out of my comfort zone.

From there, it was a warm and uneventful scoot to the trail’s terminus. As we neared the town, the landscape shifting from wild track to wider dirt road, Ben remarked that Las Negras was approaching too quickly and he didn’t want the day to end. Alas, a slightly precipitous final scramble downward took us to a slim section of rocky beach and then straight into town. We took a foot break, fed Ellie, and then continued right on down the road to tick off the final three kilometres to home. We wanted to have dinner ready for the abuelas’ return after they had so kindly handled the majority of the trip’s cooking. We whipped up some chicken, baked potatoes and salad and the mother’s got home pretty much right as it was ready. We’d all had a terrific day.

The next day was a “rest day” that saw us visit the beach we’d spied from the Batería de San Ramón. Ellie fell asleep in the carrier so I walked the sands while she napped and the abuelas laid out on thin towels beneath the sun. Ben was the only one brave enough to plunge into the ocean. After Ellie awoke and was bare-bummed from a diaper change, abuela Arlene took her to dip her lil baby toes into the ocean. Ellie did NOT like. She wailed at the cold water, and I felt a fierce protectiveness descend over me. I wished to spirit Ellie away to a cozy den—just her and I—where I could warm her, shield her, take her back into my body. I am not often so protective against environmental elements, but this time I was. Perhaps I hadn’t slept well the night before and was projecting my weakened resilience onto my baby. Regardless, we soon decamped to check out the abandoned gold mines in Rodalquilar. They were neat to wander around, nothing roped off despite much crumbling infrastructure. Dinner that night was an absolutely delicious Mediterranean-inspired concoction of lentil burgers, cucumbers tomatoes and olives, and from-scratch flatbreads that mom whipped up from the giant recipe book in her brain.

Suddenly, only a week remained until we were due to check out and begin journeying back to our respective airports. How strange to feel like the trip had simultaneously gone so fast and so leisurely. But a week is still a week, we reminded ourselves. Hell, for some people that’s their entire vacation time. It was time to tick off more of the coast’s beautiful pathways.

This time, we set our sights on the southern stretch between San Jose (the Cabo de Gata’s largest town) and Cala Carbón. Splitting into two groups to cover more ground had worked so well that we decided to do it again with different pairings. Ben and Jen would hike north-east, while me, mom and Ellie would go south-west.

We park on a rise above the beach and the world has a greenish cast. I ask my mom if she sees it like that. “I guess.” The rocks were actually fairly green, and that made the beach seem to have this filter or haze of a hue I’m not used to. But also it was like the air was greenish as the air at sunset in the alpine glows pink. Our walk connected a string of little beaches – coves, I guess – supported by crumbly ridges maybe 100m high. Each beach was unique in some way. After Radioactive Cove there was Sand Dune Cove, then Big Rock Tied Island Cove, then Black and White Stone Cove, then Sleeping German Man (I sensed his nationality), then The Cove With The Incredibly Vibrant Algae and so on. It kept us interested.

My mom and I have spent a lot of time hiking together. From blitz overnighter trips in New York’s Adirondack mountains to roadside A-to-Bs between Grecian towns, we’ve always bonded when on the trail. As we passed sandy beaches, panoramic lookouts and volcanic formations, conversation flowed. We paused for lunch on a high ridge and remarked on how this dream trip truly couldn’t have gone better. We paused for a break at the crest of a giant, rocky dune and mom held Ellie while she did her scrunch-face laugh and I peed. We paused to have our photo taken — three generations, hiking together! In Spain! — between two giant boulders of black pebbly igneous rock.

Mother is a determined hiker. These are not comfortable trails. They get steep and the sand slides under foot and it is hard to focus on placing your feet when the world is open wide in your peripheral, sea birds wheeling in the vast expanse beside and below you. But mother keeps going, step after step, hill after hill, hike after hike. I don’t fully understand why anyone goes hiking, or does anything unecessarily hard, but I think part of it is defiance. There is a groove down which life flows, worn smooth by the passage of a billion civilized bodies and unless we struggle and strive against the stream, we will be indistinguishable from a corpse. By learning new things and experiencing new places and choosing to leave the default channel, we assert that we are still alive even if we know every braid of the river leads to the sea eventually. That impulse is strong in both of our mothers.

We passed Sabrina, Ellie, and Arlene nearly at the halfway point, and found the van at the estimated time. Before leaving, mother was powerfully attracted to a traditional windmill restored for tourists to photograph. I was feeling impatient to reunite with Ellie, but this was the very first thing mother had expressed a strong desire for. For every other outing, she simply said she was up for anything. So we walked to the windmill and we took pictures of the windmill with another vanfull of tourists and it only took ten minutes. One month for what I wanted to do, ten minutes for what she wanted to do. I could have gone along with a better grace.

Our pick-up found us in the dusty parking lot, me and Ellie hiding the shade of a rock fence and mom luxuriating in the sunshine. It’s good she enjoyed it, because after three full weeks of sunny, temperate days, the next hike the skies finally cracked.

Your next hike. We took a rest day after that harder excursion, and I took care of some unfinished business. I followed the track past the beehives and started up to the ridge I had scouted a few days ago. It was a better route, but still tricky in places. Anywhere the grade was low enough that the soil didn’t slide, the ground was thick with prickly bushes. I was able to zig zag my way up, but some crumbly cliffs guarded the final ridge. Traversing below them, I found a way to clamber up, and then I was cruising to the summit. A plaque was screwed to a boulder at the top. “El hombre es la medida de todos las cosas.” How provincial. Down the other side of the cerro I could see Las Negras and the sea. Another mental note: this is a “shortcut” to town from our place.

Our first rainy day of the trip had thunderstorms forecasted, and we set our sights on a 15km loop that we could embark on straight from our front door. From the small hamlet of Las Hortichuelas, we climbed steadily along ATV-style tracks in the direction of Cerro del Cinto, with plans to hit the Ermita Cortijo del Fraile before turning back.

Spirits were high, despite the grey weather. The change in circumstance refreshed us rather than dampened our mood, and we made decent time. When we reached a high point, I saw Ben’s eyes flick between the staid trail laid out before us, and the slope that climbed steeply to our left.

Just a quick detour to bag un pocco cerro. “I’ll catch up to you probably in 20 minutes.”

It ended up taking quite a bit longer.

It took 20 minutes just to hoof it up to the top, and another 20 to make it back down to the trail. From there, I jogged along the presumed route. Ten minutes later I still couldn’t see them ahead and was beginning to get concerned.

I too was growing concerned. Shortly after parting from Ben we’d encountered a block in the road, with a sign indicating that the way ahead was private land and not for walkers. But this was the fastest, most straightforward way to the Cerro, not to mention the key to meeting back up with Ben. We decided to pass through the barricade and step quick. I fretted that Ben would encounter the barricade and go a different way, or disapprove of our trespassing. We soon rejoined with a trail that was clearly signed for tourists and started climbing once again. As we ascended higher and higher, I kept looking back at the peak Ben had disappeared onto, hoping to see a speck of red that hinted Ellie wasn’t yet fatherless. “Don’t you worry about him??” Jen asked for maybe the eighth time. Generally, no. We trust each other’s sure-footedness and risk assessments. But as we went further and further with still no sign of him, I admit I urged my eyes into heat-seeking, x-ray, raptor vision mode.

I had the backpack with the water and food for some reason – weight training, we’ll call it – and I wasn’t completely sure which way they were going. And then a blue umbrella came bobbing around a corner. Sabrina had spotted me and was hiking back. Las madres were continuing on. We continued at a fast clip, and after turning onto a steep climb up a hillside, it was Sabrina’s turn to fret that we weren’t seeing the mothers. Had they gotten off route somehow? The wind and the rain was picking up and we had to work hard to keep Ellie protected. I ran ahead, catching up to the mothers who had taken this opportunity to put on a burst of speed. Sabrina caught us soon after. It was a fun little accent to what was otherwise a fairly tame walk through some open country.

The ridge walk along the Cerro was prettier than expected, but as conditions worsened we started looking for shelter. As if on cue, a dilapidated building appeared and we raced toward it. The walls were crumbling and the windows and doors were open to the air but it was a cozy spot to change our layers, scarf a snack and regain our wits. After that we booked it toward the Ermita as Ellie was starting to get restless. We knew she probably needed a diaper change, but I assumed we’d be able to do it inside, under the judgy statue eyes of God and Mary both. Alas. We arrived to barbed wire fencing, security cameras and multiple angry signs screaming that if we dared to step foot inside we’d be fined to within an inch of our lives and probably shot. By this time it was raining steadily, the wind was winding, and Ellie definitely needed to be changed. We talked through the choreography like army generals planning a siege. Laid down the change mat in a narrow rain gutter-ditch that provided some bluster protection for Ellie. Ben held the umbrella above us while I cleaned and swapped the diaper as quickly as possible. The abuelas watched on and took pictures, for which I remain grateful. Every adventurous diaper change felt like a shiny new Scout’s Badge. Like, Congratulations! You’ve unlocked Parenting Level 12!

Her baby butt has seen many surprising places.

The rain increased as we plodded along beside fields of lettuce. No trees or walls of any kind to shelter us. An hour before we finished the loop, it let up and the views opened onto a wild panorama punctuated by a couple recreational vehicles that had tumbled off the cliff. We switched a restless Ellie into forward facing mode, and click-clacked across the highway, past the barking dogs, right to our door. It was time for her baby butt to rest before seeing a final few surprising places.