Run or Die

by Kilian, Jornet

  We shout at the tops of our voices as we emerge from the sea of vegetation and reach the safety of the main path. In a calmer frame of mind, we reestablish the pace that will lead us to the Lizuniaga Col, Lizarreta, and Erratzu. Gradually, in the rain, we draw near to the refuge where we will spend the night. Energized by the passing miles, time flies by as we catch up on what we have done in our lives and what we are planning for the future; before we realize it, we reach the ridges above Orbaitzeta as night falls.

  We have reached the end of the first stage on this adventure, and our legs haven’t suffered too much. After nearly 87 miles and more than 16 hours, the night is pitch-black and there’s not much time for us to eat a plate of pasta or for David, the physiotherapist accompanying me on the whole of this trek, to massage my legs before I go to sleep sometime after midnight.

  DAY 2

  Night has dispatched the clouds and rain and made way for a bright day. What it couldn’t dispatch was the ache in my legs, which, instead of improving with sleep, has gotten worse. I put on a brave face, determined to hide my pain from my colleagues, who are waiting for me to have breakfast before we start back on our run. What would they think if they knew my legs were hurting after the first day? It would demoralize the whole team! Their faces show how thrilled they are to start on this project with the expectation that they will carry it through. What would they feel if we had to go home after a single day? This isn’t the time to show weakness, to suggest that the project hangs on a thread, that one stride too long, one slip and I am sure to tear a muscle. … No, now isn’t the time.

  So how should I react? Best to bury the pain. I don’t want to dim the expectations I have placed on this adventure I feel so passionate about because of twinges in my legs. I’m sure it will get better over the next few hours or days. What with the rain and losing our way, we have piled up extra miles and that is what is taking its toll now. From now on, everything will return to normal.

  As these ideas buzz around my head, I begin to run with Greg in the direction of Larrau. A track leads us gently up to the high ridges of Abodi, and the good weather and fresh air seem to bring the blood back to my legs, which start to regain their energy, allowing me to look up from the ground as we reach the ridges. The view is spectacular. The first rocky peaks of the Pyrenees tower in front of us, behind Belagua, and, farther on, the horizon extends like a rumpled blanket of myriad shades of yellow before disappearing into the sea. The view gives me the strength to reach Larrau, and I anticipate that the morning will be a smooth run through pristine passes.

  After a short stop to consume gel and isotonic drinks, we start our run toward the peaks of Mesa De los Tres Reyes and Anie. Joan and Edu now accompany us; they didn’t want to miss out on the spectacular landscapes in this corner of the Pyrenees. The miles pass by quickly, eased by our conversation and the gently undulating grassy terrain that allows us to run at a moderate pace, as if we were crossing clouds of soft cotton. The pain that my tendons and joints were feeling this morning is forgotten.

  Our conversations gradually fall away, not for lack of topics or out of shyness, but because the terrain gets steeper and steeper and we need to reserve our energy for breathing and footing. We concentrate on the 10 or 12 miles still left to go. Edu and Joan went back a while ago, and Greg and I are now facing the peaks on the Barazea. We started out almost six hours ago and have eaten nothing solid since breakfast. Feeling hungry and tired, we stop for a few moments to sit down and take a rest under one of the peaks. The track continues to climb a short distance until it reaches the peaks and then starts an immediate descent into a long valley that should take us to Belagua, where tasty rolls await us.

  You do not make good decisions on an empty stomach. We are growing increasingly hungry, and when we sit and look at our maps, we see that if we continue to press along at our present altitude below the peaks, we’ll reach the end of the ridge path and then an easy descent will bring us to the bottom of the valley, within a few minutes’ reach of the rolls that keep taking shape in our thoughts. It is a perfect plan; we can cut half an hour off our hunger if we go at a brisk pace. We are pleased with the clever way we have oriented ourselves.

  I don’t know whether the image of those rolls was so strong and powerful that it blocked our vision or erased the valleys from our map, but half an hour later we are at the end of the ridges and facing a rocky valley where there are clearly no paths. Our disappointment is plain in the glances we exchange. We are completely on the wrong track.

  As hunger is more powerful than disappointment or niggling thoughts about why we were so stupid as to leave the right path, I immediately vanish into a sea of granite rocks, and Greg waits up on the ridge for a sign from me before hurtling down the scree. I start to advance to my right, looking for a route that will allow us to make a safe, rapid descent and that doesn’t hide any surprises, such as a ravine or unstable rocks that might collapse on our backs. I see a route about 100 yards from the plateau where Greg is waiting for a signal from me. I shout loudly into the wind at him, telling him to come to where I am now, and without a second thought I head down the scree.

  The fine stone makes for speedy progress and is easy going. I take big jumps and glissade down over the pebbles as if this was a dune in the desert or a safe, no-risk slope of fine snow, a soft surface cushioning us from the impact of our leaps or falls. We let ourselves be swept along by our emotion and the ease with which we make our top-speed descent. We forget our legs are not German engines able to turn at more than 7,000 rpm. Two minutes and we are on the valley floor. In the end, our error hasn’t lost us as much time as we had imagined—only a few minutes. We grin and race over the mile and a half of huge rocks and streams between us and the right path, the one marked out in red and white that quickly leads us to our rolls.

  Most of the team is waiting for us in Belagua; they have thoughtfully prepared two wonderful rolls filled with tomato, ham, and goat cheese. We devour them before making more, which we also devour. Cookies and energy bars are the desserts to round out our meal and prepare us for the fact that we are only at the halfway point on this stage. It will be at least six or seven hours before we sit in a chair again.

  The rolls have an immediate impact. Our strength and energy return and urge us to put everything into our run so that we can have dinner before darkness falls. Thierry accompanies us on the first few minutes of the climb through a dense forest of oaks, across soil that reveals a thick layer of leaves that fell last autumn and have hibernated on the path under snow that is now melting under the spring sun.

  We keep climbing through a changing landscape. We leave the oaks and enter a wood of red pine then black pine that gradually disappears as we reach alpine meadows where rivers meander whimsically around the landscape’s undulating contours. As we move on, the grass begins to disappear under the blocks of granite that increasingly fill the floor of the open valley, and then in turn the stone vanishes under a thicker layer of snow beneath our feet.

  Now everything is white, to our right and to our left, over our heads and under our feet. Nature is apparently trying to homogenize the landscape by sending a thick layer of mist that blots out all sight of the terrain. The only point of reference is the slope in front of us. We keep climbing until the snow-covered slope changes direction and we assume we have reached the plateau. Fatigue is setting in, but in the mist and with no signs to indicate our route, it is no time to stop. If we stop for a few minutes on this plateau, there is a 50 percent chance we will end up going back along the path down the slope we have just climbed.

  We start to go straight down across a broad expanse of snow that takes us directly to the bottom of the valley. I look at the map. There is a large flange of terrain leading to a depression where the valley starts that we must follow if we are to join the path that will take us straight to the cabins in Ansabère. As we cannot possibly get lost and must go several hundred feet to the bottom of the cirque to find the right path, we slip down
on our backsides and make a swift descent. We proceed at top speed and in no time reach the bottom of the cirque, where all the glaciers that descend from the peaks and ridges come together. We start to run alongside the river, and I soon realize that Greg is finding it difficult to continue. He draws near at a slow trot. His face says it all: His eyes are glued to the ground, and he grits his teeth hard at each step to deal with the pain.

  “What’s wrong? Have you twisted an ankle?” I ask.

  “No, it’s my right knee. I get a stabbing pain with every step I take. I think I must have dislocated it. Can you pull on it?” he asks.

  His pain is real: A dislocated knee is incredibly painful and makes it nearly impossible to continue. He sits on the ground and clings to a rock as I pull his leg as hard as I can to see whether the knee will snap back into place.

  After a few pulls, the snap doesn’t happen. However, our worst possible option would be to stay put. The mist has lowered the temperature, and we are a long way from any refuge or road. We have a moderate climb followed by a long descent to where Olivier and Thierry, who can help Greg, will be waiting for us. We run on slowly and reach the cabins in Ansabère, where hikers have just arrived and are settling in for the night.

  “Excuse me. Are we going in the right direction to get to the top of the Lac de la Chourique?” I ask while Greg stretches his leg against some rocks.

  “Sure, follow the valley on the left to the lake and then it’s straight on up to the plateau. Are you all right?” they ask, clearly taken aback by our exhausted appearance, Greg’s peculiar exercises, and our apparent lack of orientation, which cannot seem like the best state in which to climb those mountain peaks. It is just as well these are the last hurdles we have to deal with today, I think to myself.

  The climb goes better, Greg’s pain diminishes a little bit, and we are able to set a fast pace, running the whole way up to the col and the peak, where a spectacular ridge brings us straight down over the lake in Ansabère. It is a steep descent, and here his pain gets sharper, though we are moving very slowly. A path along the right shore of the lake gently slopes down to the Las Foyas ravine, where we find Olivier and Thierry, who stay with Greg. We weren’t aware that time had caught up with us, that we only had three hours of daylight left. We are still 18 miles from Somport and 30 from Sallent de Gállego, where we are supposed to sleep the night. We agree with Thierry that it would be better to spend the night in Somport and resume our run tomorrow. That 30-mile stretch would be too much for us now.

  I still have some of the energy that the rolls provided and start briskly on the climb to the peak of Rincón. The path disappears, and I start to climb slopes covered in grass and slate that take me straight to the top. The cold but pure air, the energy that comes from being alone on a ridge, and the strong smell of wet earth motivate me to start running, leaping, and singing as I zigzag on the path along the edge of the ridge. The mist teases me, playing fast and loose, and the wind appears and disappears as I imagine I am hang gliding over the ridge.

  I think you can experience no greater sense of freedom than what you feel when you run on a ridge that seems to hang in the air. It’s like running along the edge of the blade of a sword, taking care not to fall over one side as you accelerate with every step to leave the blade and the danger behind, though at the same time you don’t want it to ever end. There is danger, but you can think only of flying, of giving your legs the freedom to go faster and faster, letting your body dance as it keeps its balance. It doesn’t matter when or where—you could be descending the ridge on the Bosses of Mont Blanc, the ridges on the Olla de Núria or Carlit—that feeling of freedom never changes. However, like everything in life, nothing is eternal; the ridge finally gives way to a descent that takes me to the Lapassia refuge, where a short but demanding climb at this stage in the day, after some 55 miles, takes me to the Arlet Col.

  My phone rings. “Where are you, Kilian? I’m climbing up from Somport looking for you with a headlamp. Don’t leave the path and then take the trail, understand?” says Joan. He is clearly worried by the darkness that is beginning to descend over the valley floors.

  I still feel strong and launch myself at speed along the small path to Espelunguere. I reach the cabin in five minutes and start running on the trail. The path is quick and direct; however, it goes into the woods, and the darkness under the trees won’t let me run without risk of stumbling over a root, rock, or fallen tree. Although I can’t see where it’s going, the track is broad, so I take big, high strides to avoid stumbling.

  I have been going downhill for a good half an hour when the telephone rings again.

  “Hey! Where are you? Have you passed the cabin yet?”

  “Wow, I must have passed it almost 40 minutes ago. Where are you?”

  “I’m coming up the trail, on the right of the river. Can you hear the river?”

  “Hmm … ” I listen hard to my surroundings but can hear nothing. “I think it must be farther down, because I haven’t passed anything, though the floor of the valley is beneath me, on my left … ”

  “All right, continue on down. I’m in a clearing that you’ll see as soon as you leave the woods,” Joan tells me.

  Darkness has fallen, and I can now only imagine the silhouettes of the peaks. The forest is pitch-black, and running turns into an exercise in awareness. The trail zigzags violently down the slope, but the valley bottom always remains to my left. I must cross it at some point! I think. A quarter of an hour later, I’m on the bottom of the valley, by the river. I look in every direction, but see no sign of any clearing or anyone with a headlamp waiting for me. Only a wooden sign pointing to a path that goes up into the woods, where it says, “Somport, 50 mins. Cabañas de Arlet, 2h,” and in the other direction, from where I have come, “Cabañas de Arlet, 2h 30 min.”

  I take out my phone.

  “Joan! Can you see a signpost? How long does it say it is to Somport and the Cabañas de Arlet?”

  “Wait a minute, I’ll take a look.” The line goes silent. “Yes! There is a sign. It says, ‘Somport half an hour and Cabañas an hour and forty minutes.’”

  “Is there another sign pointing downhill to the cabins?” I ask, wanting to confirm that I am where I think I am.

  “Yes. Two hours forty minutes,” he says, sounding surprised. “Where are you?” he asks.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes! See you soon!”

  It is much easier making a descent with a headlamp; being able to see where you are putting your feet has a charm all its own. As I am running on legs that still seem fresh and am looking forward to a good night’s sleep, the last miles on this stage to Somport zip by easily enough.

  DAY 3

  The alarm rings at 5:50 a.m.

  What on earth am I doing here? Why didn’t I go for a “normal” run rather than torturing my body like this?

  As these thoughts go around my head, I try to get out of bed. I’m still fine. I don’t feel any pain, I think, but the moment I start pressing on my knee to get out of bed, I feel a stab of pain under a ligament. It’s nothing to worry about.

  I get up, but when I stand up straight, my thigh muscles don’t respond. I quickly sit back down on the side of the bed so that I don’t fall. I look at the clock: 5:55 a.m. I have no time to lose. I get dressed slowly and carefully, trying not to move my legs. It’s like dressing a dummy, a stone statue, even though I am the statue being dressed.

  It’s 6 a.m. I can’t spend any more time feeling sorry for myself. I force myself to stand up. If I keep my legs straight and don’t bend my knees, I can walk without my thigh muscles giving out. I feel as though I could fall to the ground at any moment, but I leave the bedroom. Joan, Thierry, and Sònia are waiting outside. I manage a smile to hide my distress. My mouth looks calm and confident, but when I look at my colleagues’ faces, I know my dark, sunken eyes must show my pain and tiredness.

  It’s cold outside. When I open the door, the river of thick mist flowing between the
valleys rushes into the shelter. I’m not sure if it’s the rain that fell during the night or the early morning frost or the drizzly mist, but the fields have turned into marshland, and given the state of my feet, it isn’t a good idea to spend 15 or 16 hours with them underwater.

  The first steps I take are terrible. I shut my eyes at each step and monitor my breathing with every movement I make. I take small, slow steps and advance almost imperceptibly, like an injured bird that is unable to fly yet refuses to come to a halt and drags itself along, stubbornly trying to continue on its journey. I cover very little distance in a minute, and each step sends a violent pain through my body. When I put my foot on the ground, I feel the liquid in the blisters on my toes stinging and I grit my teeth. Small stabbing pains spread from my knees to my hamstrings and even as far as my hip.

  I stop gritting my teeth and close my eyes, relaxing my face muscles in an attempt to fly to a world where pain doesn’t exist. My thoughts carry me to distant beaches, hot, seaside days when all I have to do is sleep under a palm tree and listen to the waves that gently lap over my feet. The water is warm and cures my blisters. …

  It’s hopeless. The sound of the waves becomes rougher, colder, and gloomier. Everything goes dark, and when I open my eyes, the wind is still blowing mist between my legs. I am climbing. The path that was earth and grass is now mud and water and fading quickly into the mist, as if to emphasize the fact that our steps are ephemeral, that they will be imprinted on the mud for a few seconds and then erased by the mist forever. These thoughts nearly make me forget the cold, the blisters, and the pain in my legs.

  When I reach the point where Edu is waiting for me, we don’t need to say anything; the way I stare at the ground makes it obvious I am in another world, trying to make the miles speed by while my mind is elsewhere.

  The descent brings me sharply back to reality. The first steps jolt me out of my dreams. Aches in my joints triggered by the climb turn into painful cramps in my legs and stomach. I don’t have the reserves of strength to withstand the throbbing, and my mind molds my surroundings, sculpting the pain even onto the landscape. The earth has changed into hard, vertical rocks. The mist no longer seems a gentle haze but a sharp thorn slowly piercing my skin. It has gathered speed and strength and spits out rain that drives against my body.