Our planet’s weather is getting weirder. Storms are increasingly unpredictable, frequent and violent. Lightning has always been a greater threat than most hikers realize. Now that threat is growing.

In all our mountain-range hiking guidebooks, our opinionated advice points you toward ridges, meadows and summits where, during a storm, you could be exposed to lightning.

Even if you start under a cloudless, blue sky, you might see ominous, black thunderheads marching toward you a few hours later. Upon reaching a high, airy vantage, you might be forced by an approaching storm to decide if and when you should retreat to safer ground.

Hoping to avoid rain and lightning, which typically develops in afternoon, you can try to cross alpine passes early in the day, but that’s just not always possible.

You hike to embrace nature, the power of which can threaten your safety. If you’re a dedicated hiker, you won’t always evade lightning: it’s too common. Inevitably, the sky will darken and lightning will approach while you’re unprotected by trees or terrain.

You can, however, avoid being struck by lightning. And you can—even if you are struck—prevent it from being fatal. Here’s what you need to know:

If your hair is standing on end, there’s electricity in the air around you. A lightning strike could be imminent. Get outa there! That’s usually down the mountain, but if there’s too much open expanse to traverse, look for closer protection.

A direct lightning strike can kill you. It can cause brain damage, heart failure or third-degree burns. Ground current, from a nearby strike, can severely injure you, causing deep burns and tissue damage. Direct strikes are worse, but ground-current contact is far more common.

Avoid a direct strike by getting off exposed ridges and peaks. Even a few meters (yards) off a ridge is better than on top. Avoid isolated, tall trees. A clump of small trees or an opening in the trees is safer.

Avoid ground current by getting out of stream gullies and away from crevices, lichen patches, or wet, solid-rock surfaces. Loose rock, like talus, is safer.

Look for a low-risk area, near a highpoint at least 10 m/yd higher than you. Crouch near its base, at least 1.5 m/yd from cliffs or walls.

Once you choose a place to wait it out, your goal is to prevent brain or heart damage by stopping an electrical charge from flowing through your whole body. Squat with your boots touching one another. If you have a sleeping pad, put it beneath your boots for insulation. Keep your hands away from rocks. Fold your arms across your chest. Stay at least 10 m/yd from your companions, so if one is hit, another can give cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

Deep caves offer protection. Crouch away from the mouth, at least 1.5 m/yd from the walls. But avoid rock overhangs and shallow depressions, because ground current can jump across them. Lacking a deep cave, you’re safer in the low-risk area below a highpoint.

Soon, we’ll offer a summary of expert advice on how hikers can avoid death by thunderbolt. For now, here are some relevant facts you can use to impress and alarm your hiking companions:

• The thunder resulting from a lightning strike is audible up to about 19 kilometres. The average lightning bolt is 10 to 13 kilometres long. Lightning bolts commonly travel 40 to 64 kilometres horizontally before turning earthward. One lightning bolt in Texas traveled 177 kilometres: from Waco, over Fort Worth, to Dallas. In other words, if you see lightning, forget about counting “one-thousand one, one-thousand two…” between flash and bang.                                                     Lightning you hear can conceivably strike you.

• At any given moment, about 2,000 thunderstorms are active worldwide. Each generates an average of 100 lightning strikes per second. During a five-year study, 20,000,000 lightning strikes were recorded in Canada. In a single 24-hour period, 5,000 lightning strikes were recorded in Alberta. The Alberta foothills are among the four places in Canada where lightning is most common. Lightning is 33% more likely here than elsewhere in the country.

• The temperature of a lightning bolt is 30,538° C, which is five times hotter than the surface of the sun. That’s why lightning instantly turns water or water vapor into super hot, high-pressure steam. Even cement containing a tiny amount of moisture will explode when struck by lightning. An adult human body is 55 to 60% water.

We wish we could be truly ultralight hikers. But we’ve never managed to whittle our pack weight down sufficiently.

For the same reasons we pay to insure our car and home, we carry—even when dayhiking—enough gear to ensure we won’t succumb to hypothermia should we get lost, injured, or pinned-down by a surprise storm in the backcountry.

When we see hikers blithely skipping along with only slender hydration packs slung over their shoulders, we’re envious. But we know they’re carrying little more than water, a sandwich, and maybe a rain shell, which isn’t nearly enough to ensure their safety should something go seriously awry.

Imagine you’re hiking in the alpine zone. You’re 8 mi (12.9 km) from the nearest road. A rock shifts beneath your boot. You stumble, fall, and break your ankle. You’re shocked. You can’t believe it. You’re in pain and cannot walk.

Compounding your predicament, a thunderstorm is brewing. The sky blackens. The clouds drop. It begins raining. The rain turns to hail. The hail turns to sleet. The temperature plummets. You put on your rain shell and huddle against a boulder. But you have no rain pants, no extra insulating layers, and no emergency shelter.* You’re wet, cold, shivering. Uh oh.

Many deaths outdoors involve only minor injuries, and often no injury at all. “Exposure” is usually cited as the killer, but that’s a misleading term. It vaguely refers to conditions that contributed to the death. The actual cause is hypothermia: excessive loss of body heat. It can happen with startling speed, in surprisingly mild weather—often between 0 and 10° C (30 and 50°F). Guard against it vigilantly.

Cool temperatures, wetness (perspiration or rain), wind, or fatigue, usually a combination, sap the body of vital warmth. Hypothermia results when heat loss continues to exceed heat gain. Initial symptoms include chills and shivering. Poor coordination, slurred speech, sluggish thinking, and memory loss are next. Intense shivering then decreases while muscular rigidity increases, accompanied by irrationality, incoherence, even hallucinations. Stupor, blue skin, slowed pulse and respiration, and unconsciousness follow. The heartbeat finally becomes erratic until the victim dies.

Avoid becoming hypothermic by wearing synthetic clothing that wicks moisture away from your skin and insulates when wet. Food fuels your internal fire, so bring more than you think you’ll need, including several energy bars for emergencies only.

If you can’t stay warm and dry, you must escape the wind and rain. Turn back. Keep moving. Eat snacks. Seek shelter. Do it while you’re still mentally and physically capable. Watch others in your party for signs of hypothermia. Victims might resist help at first. Trust the symptoms, not the person. Be insistent. Act immediately.

Create the best possible shelter for the victim. Take off his wet clothes and replace them with dry ones. Insulate him from the ground. Provide warmth. A pre-warmed sleeping bag inside a tent is ideal. If necessary, add more warmth by taking off your clothes and crawling into the bag with the victim. Build a fire. Keep the victim conscious. Feed him sweets. Carbohydrates quickly convert to heat and energy. In advanced cases, victims should not drink hot liquids.

*When dayhiking, we always pack a 5-ounce, sil-nylon tarp that we can use to quickly erect a shelter big enough to cover us both. Each of us also carries a small, bum pad made of closed-cell foam, and a waterproof, breathable, SOL Escape bivvy sack that weighs only 8 ounces. These, plus a waterfproof shell and pants, insulating hat and gloves, midweight fleece tights, and an expedition-weight fleece top, comprise an effective yet reasonably light, compact, insurance policy against hypothermia. Total weight: approximately 3.5 lbs per person.

Paria River Canyon, Buckskin Gulch, Snake Gulch

PARIA RIVER CANYON

We just returned from hiking the Paria for the 7th time. It continues to astound us. We urge you to read about it in our book Hiking from Here to WOW: Utah Canyon Country (Trip 12, page 89), then begin making plans to hike there. Every devoted backpacker should witness this world-wonder canyon at least once.

You already have reservations to hike the Paria? Lucky you. Here are some important updates to the most recent edition of our book:

• Hwy 89, south of Page, is closed indefinitely. The highway was severely damaged during a “seismic event.” That means the shuttle between the White House trailhead and Lees Ferry now takes hours longer (one way) than previously. For that reason, you might not want to hike the Paria as a one-way trip. Until the highway is reopened, we recommend a round trip. Start at White House trailhead. Hike 12.2 mi (19.6 km) down-river to Big Spring. Base-camp there, then dayhike farther down-canyon. Turn around just past Judd Hollow, which is about 18 mi (29 km) from the trailhead.

• The 2011 flood did not significantly rearrange Paria Canyon, or its tributary Buckskin Gulch, nearly as much as we had been led to believe by the reports we’d received.

• The high, sandy benches near the bottom of Buckskin Gulch, just a few minutes upstream from the confluence with Paria Canyon, are still there. (On page 96 of the 2012 reprint of our book, we stated what the authorities had told us: that these benches had been washed away. That’s not true.) These confluence benches continue to offer three, excellent campsites. Each campsite has room for several tents. As for water, however, we could not find the spring that used to drip from the north wall here. So we filtered water from the relatively clear streamlet flowing along the floor of the gulch.

• If you intend to hike up-canyon, generally west, into Buckskin Gulch, within 1 mi (1.6 km) you’ll encounter the boulder jam described on page 88 of our book. A fixed rope previously made the necessary scramble here much easier. That rope is gone, but another option is now available. So, take your pick: (1) moqui steps (chiseled footholds) on a smooth, nearly vertical rockface without help from a fixed rope, or (2) a pair of sturdy logs vertically jammed among the boulders. Approaching from the confluence, you’ll immediately see the moqui steps (right). Continue left, crouching beneath the boulder, to find the vertical logs. The first moqui step is very high, and the pitch, though short, is exposed. The vertical logs are firmly in place and grant relatively safe, easy passage. (See the photos above.) Kids and tentative adults might need assistance, but most hikers will likely find they can use the vertical logs to get up and down.

• About 2 mi (3.2 km) farther down the Paria from the Buckskin/Paria confluence is a high bench on the left (NE) wall. It offers one campsite with room for up to four tents beneath a huge, beautiful cottonwood. Just downstream, on the opposite wall, is a strong, clear-water spring.

• Big Spring, at 12.2 mi (19.6 km), remains an impressively reliable source of water. The long bench opposite the spring, affords numerous tentsites.

BUCKSKIN GULCH

As of of the first week of April, Buckskin Gulch was easily hikeable. No need to wade through fetid pools. We encountered only a couple, short, muddy sections — nothing worse than knee deep. Otherwise, the floor of the gulch was solid underfoot: just moist sand.

If you can’t get a permit to backpack the Paria, consider dayhiking Buckskin. Read about it in our book Hiking from Here to WOW: Utah Canyon Country (Trip 11, page 84).

Starting at Wire Pass trailhead, you can hike a round trip: down in, then retracing your steps back out. Or, if you’re strong and can arrange a shuttle, hike all of Buckskin in a single day: 13 mi (21 km) from Wire Pass to the confluence with the Paria, then 7 mi (11.3 km) up the Paria to the White House trailhead.

The average width of Buckskin Gulch is just 12 ft. The walls average 100 ft high. The most spectacular stretch is the lower end of the gulch, closer to the confluence. If hiking down the gulch from Wire Pass, read the fifth paragraph above (under Paria River Canyon), describing the boulder jam you’ll encounter shortly before arriving at the confluence.

SNAKE GULCH

If you’re hiking Paria and/or Buckskin, here’s another, nearby dayhike we enthusiastically recommend: Snake Gulch. Plan to do it before or after Paria/Buckskin.

Hidden within Snake Gulch is a prolific concentration of native, rock art. The trailhead is a mere 31 mi (50 km)—an 80-minute drive—from Kanab, Utah. The hike is not in our WOW Utah book because it’s entirely in Arizona.

The rock art dates to 500 B.C. It was created by Archaic, Basketmaker, Ancestral Pueblo, and Fremont natives over a span of 15 centuries. It comprises petroglyphs (pecked into the rock) and pictrographs (painted on the rock). The pictographs display more colors, including yellow and green, than much of the rock art elsewhere on the Colorado Plateau.

By Vehicle

From Kanab, drive S on Hwy 89A to Fredonia. Continue left (SE) on 89A for 1 mi (1.6 km), then turn right (S) on paved FSR (4)22. This is just S of an industrial plant. Follow it 21 miles (33.8 km), until FSR 462 forks left (E) toward Jacob Lake (9 mi / 14.5 km distant). Reset your trip odometer to 0 here and proceed right (W). Continue S on unpaved FSR (4)22. At 1.6 (2.6 km) turn right onto FSR 423, signed for Kanab Creek Wilderness (5 mi / 8 km distant). Continue N another 2 miles (3.2 km). Descend through a canyon. At the Y junction, veer right (N) on unpaved FSR 642. The road ends at the signed, Snake Gulch trailhead. The elevation here is 5800 ft (1768 m).

On Foot

Follow the obvious trail N. The remains of a homesteader’s stone house is visible across the drainage. The trail curves left (W) into Snake Gulch.

Departing the trailhead, hike briskly. There’s little to see initially other than the gulch itself. It’s pleasing but not impressive.

Most of the art in the gulch is on the right (N) wall, facing left (S). If you’re observant, however, you’ll also see panels on the left (S) wall. There are many more panels than we’ll mention here. It’s easy to spend an entire day admiring the rock art in this world-class, outdoor gallery.

Within 50 minutes, fast hikers will see a rock-art panel on the right (N) wall. At 1.5 hours (2.5 mi / 4 km) again look on the right (N) wall, under an overhang, for more, small pictographs. Just 0.6 mi (1 km) farther, you’ll find more pictographs on the right (N) wall.

About 2.5 hours from the trailhead, cross Toothpick Canyon—a narrow, usually dry, tributary gash entering Snake Gulch from the right (N). About eight minutes beyond Toothpick, the distinctive peninsula called Table Rock is visible jutting into the gulch from the left (S).

Soon, the deep arroyo that has so far split the gulch disappears. The floor of the gulch flattens, and you’re able to angle left, crossing the gulch toward Table Rock.

Shortly before reaching Table Rock, look up (left) on the S wall. Here, at 4.7 mi (7.5 km), 5215 ft (1590 m), you’ll see the most impressive rock-art panel in Snake Gulch. An ascending trail allows you to easily ascend to a ledge where you can walk the entire length of the panel. Most dayhikers will recognize this as the ideal, climactic, turn-around point. Simply retrace your steps, up the gulch to the trailhead.

Mexican Food

For a post-hike meal celebrating your Paria, Buckskin, and/or Snake Gulch experience, we recommend the muy delicioso Mexican food at Escobar’s, in Kanab. We’ve been stopping there for years: whenever we pass through town. Escobar’s is located on the north side of Hwy 89, two minutes east of the traffic lights at the Hwy 89/89A junction. Their phone number is (435) 644-3739. Every time we’ve been there, Rosa (who owns and runs the restaurant with her husband, Leo) has served us with grace and humour.

(1) We could hike forever. We didn’t want to stop. We would gladly have continued, even if that meant living in our rented campervan that afforded less than 100 sq ft of space for the two of us and our gear. But creating books involves more than hiking, so we had no choice but to return to a life in which we spend twice as much time pounding our computer keyboards as we do pounding trails. People say, “If you make your passion your work, you’ll lose the passion.” That’s a myth parroted by passionless people who know nothing of passion. Our passion for hiking continues to intensify. Making it our work was what lit us on fire. And constantly reminding ourselves that life is a finite experience keeps us stoking that fire.

(2) Our needs are few and simple. Health, each other, nourishing food, deep sleep, agreeable weather, and wildlands to hike. That’s it. The swarm of concerns, the pile of possessions, the restricting obligations, and the frenetic busyness that seem to consume most people’s lives have, for us, fallen away. We’re completely comfortable—absolutely at home—alone in nature. Noise, crowds and urban bustle have become increasingly agitating. There’s a simplicity and focus to the hiking life—the way of the walker—that’s immensely fulfilling. Wanting so little feels liberating.

(3) We understand more by paying attention to less. Instant communication has created a world awash in trivia. Trying to keep up with it makes us shallow. But devoting ourselves to a passion is a way of piercing the surface, of learning more about one sliver of life by exploring it deeply from a committed, precise trajectory. It’s as if we’re sharpening ourselves, becoming more pointed. The finer the arrowhead, the farther and more accurately it flies, and the deeper it penetrates the target. Surely this applies to other passions, but we know it’s true of ours.

(4) Shared adventure fuels friendship. In the last few months of our journey, we met three couples with whom we hiked multiple times. The hiking itself was as much a form of communication between us as was conversation. Establishing a common goal, working as a group through physical and mental challenges en route, and accomplishing the goal together, we learned about each other instantly. And what we learned was not superficial. It was not merely each others’ stories. The essence of each of us became readily apparent to the others. And, because we all liked what we saw, we rapidly grew close. The result was a lasting bond we’re confident will endure. Thank you Paul and May, Viv and Phil, Marjan and Jan!

(5) Being is as important as learning. Our culture prizes learning. But being—that elusive state of presence in which we flood our full awareness into the here and now—is equally vital. Much of our journey was less about learning and more about allowing ourselves the freedom to just be. We’re walkers. By walking most days for eight months—flooding our attention into the rock underfoot, the sky overhead, the peak beyond, the cliff below, the vegetation all around—we achieved nearly absolute contentment. It’s different than the gratification that comes from learning. And we value it just as much.

Thanks for following us.

Els Ports, Costa Dorada, Spain

From Mont Blanc, through the Alps, to and along the Med, we’ve been hiking since mid-June, 2012. This has been our Endless Summer. The classic film of that title follows surfers on their quest for primo waves rolling toward exotic beaches. Our quest has been for fascinating trails probing sensational mountains. We’re still finding them.

It’s now January, 2013. We’re in Spain. A cloudless sky allowed the sun to be our masseuse. It was 19°C while we hiked in T-shirts and shorts, above the Costa Dorada, in Els Ports.

Few have heard of this compact mountain range near Tortosa. Spain declared Els Ports a nature reserve in 2001. There was no English-language hiking guidebook on it until late 2010. Yet the range is laced with hiking routes, many of historic origin: some discernible only to experienced, determined route-finders, others revived and maintained.

We’ve been hiking here every day for three weeks, and we’re still rapt by the plummeting canyons, bristling pinnacles, complex escarpments, and improbable routes. Mostly we’ve followed distinct, cairned and blazed trails. We’ve encountered perhaps a dozen hikers, all locals. We’ve seen more ibex than people.

Could Els Ports be the northern hemisphere’s premier, winter-hiking destination? That’s what we’ve been thinking. It certainly deserves to be a serious possibility for any keen hiker contemplating a December, January or February vacation.

We urge you to buy the Cicerone guidebook: Mountain Walking in Southern Cataluynya, by Vivien and Philip Freakley (http://www.cicerone.co.uk/product/detail.cfm/book/582/title/mountain-walking-in-southern-catalunya). They’ve explored El Ports passionately, and it shows. Their detailed advice and directions, plus the topo maps they recommend you buy once you’re in the area, will enable you to approach this otherwise mysterious range with confidence. The Freakleys are also diligent about posting updates to their guidebook on the Cicerone website.

From many Els Ports viewpoints, the Mediterranean Sea is visible. The drive from beach to barrancs (canyons) takes only about 45 minutes if you’re familiar with the route. And the seaside, mid-winter climate is so mild, it’s possible to camp or rent a campground bungalow. If that appeals to you, we recommend Camping Estanyet, at Les Cases d’Alcanar (www.estanyet.com). The management is five-star friendly. The grounds are manicured. The facilities are comfortable and clean. You can sleep within a frisbee-toss of the shore, so the lapping waves are audible. And the winter prices are a bargain. We stayed there in our campervan for 15 Euros per night. Only about ten other campsites were occupied while we were there, so we enjoyed luxurious privacy.

The drawback to Camping Estanyet is the time you’ll spend driving to and from Els Ports each morning and evening. So here’s the ideal accommodation: Finca Margarita (http://www.ownersdirect.co.uk/spain/S3029.htm). It’s a renovated farmhouse in the hills near the village of Bitem. Though Margarita is a mere eight-minute drive from Tortosa, and grants easy access to all the hiking in the area, it’s tucked away in a beautiful, secluded, quiet vale. Perched just above the orange and tangerine groves lining the Ebre River, Margarita affords a sweeping, inspiring view of Els Ports. Steph and Ian, the finca’s British owners, live nearby. They’re exemplary hosts: relaxed, warm, fun. They love the life they’ve created here, and they enjoy having mountain-minded guests who genuinely appreciate the local geography.

Staying at Margarita, you’ll no doubt be grocery shopping in Tortosa and cooking for yourself most of the time. You’ll also be dining on the finca terrace while gazing at the mountains you’re here to hike. But vigourous hiking kindles big appetites, so plan on detouring to the Amposta Wok Buffet Restaurant. It’s a Chinese-run, all-you-can-eat affair offering an astonishing selection of seafood and Spanish-influenced Asian cuisine at a bargain price. Amposta is a 20-minute, seaward drive from Tortosa. The restaurant address is 19 Avenida Catalunya. The phone number is 977 70 84 58.

While there’s no need to look beyond the Freakleys’ guidebook for Els Ports hiking suggestions, if you’re here for several weeks, and you scrutinize the topo maps, you’ll recognize other intriguing possibilities. We hiked the following trails not in the book and enjoyed them immensely. Bear in mind, our blog-post descriptions are much less detailed than those we provide in our guidebooks.

Font de Pallerols to Plan de Valldebous

The hike

From what we’ve learned of Els Ports, this hike is unique, because it allows you to maintain elevation while cruising a long ridgecrest. The trail is excellent: well defined throughout, posing no routefinding quandaries. Views are nearly constant. Distant scenery includes the Mediterranean and la Montsia (a seaside massif described in the Freakley’s guidebook), but you’ll mostly be gazing into the deep barrancs on both sides of the ridge.

Round trip: 18 km. Elevation gain: 281 m. Hiking time: 4.5 to 5 hours. Map: El Port SUD, Mapa Excursionista 1:30.000, published by Piolet.

By vehicle

From Tortosa, drive TV-3421 generally SW to la Senia. This scenic road winds through olive groves beneath Els Ports. Just before entering la Senia, look right (NNE) to glimpse the road ascending steeply to the trailhead.

Enter la Senia on Barcelona Street. Pass a plaza (left) and the tourist office (left). Proceed straight (NW) on Tarragona Street, signed for Embassament d’Ulldecona (a reservoir).

The 5th cross street is Passeig de la Clotada. If you want to buy topo maps, turn right (NE) here. The Els Ports office is 2.5 blocks farther NE. It’s the large, colourful building (left). Office hours were restricted to Friday mornings and Saturdays the winter we were there.

Continuing to the trailhead, proceed NW on Tarragona Street. Fork right (NNW) on Argentina Street following signs for Font Pallerols.

Bear right (NE), passing a cement wall (left). Arrive at a junction of four roads (left is unpaved, the others are paved). Take the left, paved road signed for Font Pallerols. Begin ascending and enjoy rapidly improving views.

Stay on this paved road, following signs for Font Pallerols. Just shy of the trailhead, the road steepens, narrows, and the pavement is deteriorating. Reach a spacious, level parking lot at road’s end. The elevation here is 780 m.

On foot

Go ENE toward the shrine and font. Continue NE on a gravel track that narrows to trail.

To summarize, this trail leads generally NNE to the ridgecrest. From there, the trail leads NW along the ridgecrest. The trail then follows the ridgecrest N. The trail gently descends before rising slightly to a signed junction (the first you’ll encounter) at 9 km, 1010 m. This is where we turned around and where we believe most hikers will want to do the same, though it’s certainly possible to hike farther.

At this signed junction, left (NNW) leads to Raco Tabaco and Barranc Fou. Straight (ENE) crosses Plans de Valldebous and leads Pouets dels Plans.

Between the trailhead and the signed junction where we suggest turning around, these are prominent waypoints:

• Crest the ridge at 905 m, near the ruins of Casa Bernarda, about 0h30 after leaving the trailhead. The huge barranc NE of the ridge is now visible below.

• About 0h7 after first cresting the ridge, the trail leads beneath the E-side cliffs of 1024-m la Gotellera.

• At 0h50, 1050 m, ascend hewn-rock steps labeled l’Escaleta on the map.

• At 1h5, 1070 m, enter forest. At a clearing, encounter a short, chest-high band of rock. It’s blazed (yellow and white) and topped with a cairn. Pass a sign: Reserva National de Caca. Here the trail is intentionally blocked with brush. You’re shunted left onto a newer, higher, traversing trail. Within a couple minutes, the two trails rejoin.

• At 1h25 the trail bends right (N) at a mud hole. Soon follow cairns where the trail is briefly obscured by profuse pine needles. Just beyond, the view is again expansive.

• The trail is again on a narrow (50-m wide) crest, with barrancs visible below both sides. Pass left (W) of Punta de l’Avenc (a short peninsula jutting into the barranc) at 1090 m. If you prefer to forego the 15-minute, 150-m descent ahead, turn around here. Ahead the trails drops NNE between the upper reaches of two barrancs.

• At 3h0, 940 m, knee-high, white posts indicate the way forward through open terrain.

• After dipping into a ravine, the trail rises to our suggested turn-around junction (described above) at 9 km, 1010 m.

Ballestar

The hike

A short, easy, out-and-back jaunt through an impressively steep-walled canyon to the small, charming village of Ballestar. After a brief descent on a paved road, you’ll wind through the canyon on an old, unpaved, little-used road. You’ll then ascend out of the canyon on an ancient trail leading to Ballestar.

Round trip: 10 km. Elevation gain: 351 m. Hiking time: 2.5 to 3 hours. Map: El Port SUD, Mapa Excursionista 1:30.000, published by Piolet.

By vehicle

From Tortosa, drive W to La Senia. Continue NW on CV 3102 through La Senia, following signs for Embassament d’Ulldecona (a reservoir). Near the Moli l’Abad campground and restaurant, reset your trip odometer to 0 when crossing the bridge over Senia River. Pass the dam at 2.5 km. Pass a picnic area (left / S side of the road, above the lake’s W arm) at 3.8 km. Park in the small, unpaved pullout on the right at 4.6 km. This pullout is opposite a paved, descending, left fork signed for Vivers Forestals Forn del Vidre (a forestry nursery) and closed to public traffic. The elevation here is 520 m.

On foot

Descend the paved, left fork. In a couple minutes reach the forestry buildings. Cross the bed of the Senia River (probably dry in winter). Elevation: 480 m. Bear left through metal gates. Turn right (W) past the ruins of a large mill. Cross the riverbed again and pass a wild-animal rehabilitation center (right). We saw vultures in cages here. We later saw many vultures soaring above the canyon cliffs. Their 3-m wingspans give them the appearance of small aircraft. Their ability to glide is astonishing.

At 0h15 cross the riverbed yet again, this time to the true right bank. At 0h37 pass Font Canaleta (a spring where water is retrained in a cement trough). The canyon walls rise steeply on both sides. Just ahead, the old road passes beneath orange-grey cliffs. We encountered ibex here.

At 0h47, 550 m, again cross the riverbed. On the far bank, ascend left (SSW), following yellow-and-white blazes. Ignore the narrow, overgrown trail ascending right (N).

At 0h57 reach a fork. Both options are marked with yellow-and-white blazes. Left (W) descends among trees to the canyon floor and continues SW, reaching Pobla de Benifassa in about one hour. Go right, ascending NW beneath the canyon wall. Note the ancient cobbles underfoot. Imagine the effort required to place the huge stones forming the outside (downslope) edge of the trail.

At 0h61 bear right on the main path. Ascend among terraces and beside a stout wall. Ballestar, crowning a knoll, is soon visible ahead (NNW). Proceed up the grassy path between walls to reach the village at 5 km, 711 m.

Many of Ballestar’s buildings are made of golden-hued stone, which make it visually appealing. Note the variety of artistic door hardware in the village. The restaurant Mason Ballestar was open the December day we were there, so you might find it’s possible to partake of their menu del dia (1:30 to 4 p.m.) before retracing your steps down-canyon to your vehicle.

We’re now hiking in Spain, where the people we’ve met have been as warm as the weather, and the weather’s been beautiful. Just inland from the Costa Dorada is a compact mountain range near Tortosa called Els Ports, where we hoped to find good hiking but instead found a wealth of sensational hiking. We’ll tell you about it in our upcoming post next week. (To enlarge a photo, click on it once. To enlarge fully, click on it again.)

How Hikers Should Do Europe

For the past six months we’ve been hiking in Europe: primarily the French Alps, but also the Italian and Swiss Alps, and now the mountains along Spain’s Costa Brava and Costa Dorada. All our hikes on this sojourn have been dayhikes. We’ve camped every night in our campervan.

We’ve now travelled in Europe (always with a focus on hiking) by nearly every means possible. We’ve backpacked hut-to-hut. We’ve backpacked carrying a tent, stove, food, etc. and wild camped (free camped). Between backpack trips, we’ve travelled via trains and buses. We’ve hitchhiked extensively. Even on our current trip, hitchhiking has enabled us to complete long, one-way dayhikes. We’ve also rented cars in Europe and, between dayhikes, pitched our tent in village and city campgrounds, or stealth camped free of charge in all kinds of settings. Other times, we’ve rented apartments for several weeks, used rental cars to access mountain trailheads, and returned each night to our village base. Occasionally we’ve stayed in hotels, but largely avoiding hotels has helped us afford longer journeys.

So, which approach do we prefer and recommend?

It’s a question we’ve often pondered and discussed. Now that a couple readers have asked for our advice on the matter, it’s time we commit to an answer.

We’ve enjoyed it all. Each approach has distinct pros and cons, of course. Which one will best suit you depends on your budget and personal preferences. But during all our previous European hiking journeys, we envied the hikers and climbers we saw camping in vans at trailheads. Now that we’ve done it, we can say with certainty that—for us—traveling and living in a campervan is the optimal way to hike Europe.

First, a clarification. What we call a “campervan” in North America goes by different names in Europe. The British call what we’re now driving and living in a “motorhome.” The French call it a “camping car.” The Spanish call it an “auto caravana.” In North America, our vehicle would be considered either a small motorhome or a large campervan. In this blog post, we’ll continue calling it a “campervan,” because (1) it’s possible to travel and live here nearly as comfortably as we have in a slightly smaller vehicle that’s definitely a campervan, not a motorhome, and (2) because many motorhomes in Europe are notably larger than our vehicle and would certainly be considered motorhomes, not campervans, in North America.

We prefer the campervan for many reasons. We’ll elaborate on them presently. Topping our list, however, is a personal bias unrelated to campervans that makes a campervan viable for us: In Europe, we prefer dayhiking to backpacking (either hut-to-hut or self-supported).

That’s heresy, we know. The European mountain hut system is a venerable one. Long distance, hut-to-hut hiking is a life-list dream for many North American hikers. And many European hikers are hut-to-hut devotees. Slashing your burden by eliminating a tent, sleeping bag, and cooking equipment, and carrying little food, enables truly ultralight hiking: relaxed and comfortable. Having delicious meals cooked for you and served to you is a luxurious indulgence. Still, we’d rather dayhike.

Staying at huts costs about 20 to 30 Euros per person. Eating at huts costs about 15 Euros per person just for dinner. At those prices, we couldn’t afford to hike in Europe for long.

Huts are crowded and noisy. Often you’ll have a stranger sleeping within nudging distance of you, perhaps two strangers: one on each side. Often you’ll sleep (or lie awake) with perhaps 20 to 60 other hikers in one room. Some will snore or cough. Some will retire late or rise early. Some will be noisy because they’re either clumsy, unable to sleep (tossing and turning), or just inconsiderate. Some will get up to pee in the middle of the night. Your sleep will almost always be compromised at a hut.

Huts can drain the energy you need for athletic hiking. Having to socialize with strangers at the dinner table every night, particularly people whose language you struggle to speak, can be stimulating and rewarding but also severely draining. Forgoing all but the barest stitch of privacy can prevent you from fully relaxing. And if you’re also not enjoying deep, uninterrupted sleep, your strength and endurance will wane, preventing you from fully enjoying each day on the trail.

Huts can also compromise your nutrition, further sapping your energy. Though eating meals at huts can be a marvelous luxury, it requires that you relinquish control over what and how much you eat. Some huts serve delicious, generous meals, others don’t. Europeans’ concept of breakfast is less hearty than that of most North Americans, so you’ll leave some huts in the morning with less than a full tank. No hut we’ve heard of includes a PowerBar, or any kind of sports-nutrition supplement, in the packed lunches they provide for hikers. If you have special dietary requirements, such as a need to avoid gluten, hut fare will not suit you.

We’re becoming increasingly aware that what we eat before, during, and after a hike profoundly affects our physical capability, our attitudes, and ultimately our level of fulfillment. We know precisely what we need to eat and how much. For example, we consume huge servings—literally platefuls—of fresh vegetables before and after hiking. Huts cannot be expected to serve the quantity of fresh veggies we think is a healthy-hiker requirement. While on the trail, we favour dried fruit (apricots, figs, goji berries, Turkish mulberries) and nuts (almonds, walnuts, pecans), but we also rely on sports nutrition (especially PowerBars, PowerBar Energy Blasts, Honey Singer Protein Bars, Isostar Cereal Bars, and Isostar Sport Drink). Huts cannot be expected to cater to hikers who fuel themselves as if they were competitive athletes.

Yet another disadvantage of hut-to-hut hiking is that huts require reservations, typically well in advance. That means you relinquish flexibility and spontaneity. When you finally begin hiking to the first hut you booked, you could be heading into a week of rain. We much prefer to choose each day’s hiking destination according to the latest weather forecast.

Occasionally, while hiking trail A, we’ll see an intriguing peak or col that requires us to hike trail D, which we hadn’t planned on doing. Or, while hiking trail J, we’ll overlook the area probed by trail M, which was on our agenda, but now we can see it’s much less compelling than we’d imagined. Dayhikers can always, easily adjust their plans. Hut-to-hutsters are locked in.

Hut-to-hut hiking is almost never the continuous, blissful, peaky-horizon-always-in-view, alpine cruise that most hikers imagine it will be. Most days on most hut-to-hut routes entail long, grinding ascents, and long, pounding descents. Usually there’s a col, and sometimes a couple cols, between huts. Often there are long stretches between huts where the trail remains in forest. This is where dayhiking offers a significant advantage, because mountain trailheads in Europe are located at much higher elevations than are mountain trailheads in North America. Many are well above treeline, yet accessible via paved roads. So dayhikers who study their topo maps and choose their trails carefully are likely to spend more of each day striding above treeline than are hut-to-hut backpackers. Which is to say, dayhiking can be both easier and more scenic.

Hut-to-hut hiking is a revered tradition and immensely popular. It tends to keep you immersed in a crowd. Not only when you’re at the huts, but also while you’re on the trail. This past summer, we dayhiked several stages of established, hut-to-hut routes. Those were always the days we encountered the most hikers. On the stages we hiked of the Tour de Mont Blanc, for example, other hikers were constantly in view. On most of our dayhikes, we did not follow established hut-to-hut routes, and we were often alone.

Most stages of the popular hut-to-hut routes sacrifice interest for efficiency. So in addition to denying you optimal scenery, the trails themselves are sometimes boring. Following the easiest, most direct routes, long stretches of many hut-to-hut trails are broad, eroded pathways. They don’t engage you. You simply plod them. But many European trails are more compelling than North American trails because they forge more daring lines. Dayhikers who opt for these surprising, challenging routes will find them thrilling. With the exception of some of the high-level variants on some hut-to-hut routes, hut-to-hutsters often find themselves in a mundane, heavily-trod rut.

Dayhiking in the Alps, by the way, isn’t necessarily the round-trip, out-and-back, same-scenery-twice experience it tends to be in North America. There are far more trails in the Alps than you’ll find in any North American mountain range. Imagine a spiderweb dropped over the mountains. Each thread linked to the others. That’s the Alps: a web of trails, ensuring loop hikes are often possible. Constantly forging into new terrain makes dayhiking much more appealing.

Finally, hiking hut-to-hut—depending on your beliefs regarding safe mountain travel—might not be the carefree, ultralight saunter you’ve imagined. Should you really set off on a multi-day hike through mountains you’ve no experience in, without carrying a shelter, sleeping gear, extra clothing, and food that might enable you to survive an emergency bivouac? What if the weather suddenly turns violent and visibility plummets while you’re between huts? What if you make a navigational error that, come nightfall, leaves you well shy of the hut you’d intended to reach? What if an incapacitating injury befalls you or a companion? What if all of the above happen? That’s why, when hiking hut-to-hut, our packs have been far from weightless. We were always prepared to survive a night out if our plans unspooled into drama.

In summary, we’ve enjoyed hut-to-hut hiking, but for all the reasons explained above, we much prefer dayhiking. Dayhiking makes a campervan viable for hiking-focused European travel. And a campervan is… ooh la la… the way to travel, for the following reasons:

• Renting a campervan is, admittedly, not the cheapest way to go. But if you add up the cost of staying in huts, eating in huts, plus the cost of accommodation (probably hotels) and transportation (even public transportation) when travelling between trails, you’ll realize that travelling via campervan is surprisingly cost-competitive.

• It’s possible to camp free-of-charge every night in a campervan. Free-camping in a campervan is especially easy in France, where campervans are—by and large—welcomed or at least accepted. And free camping in France is by no means a hardship. It’s an advantage. This past summer, we camped 140 nights free of charge in our campervan, and all but a few times our “campsites” were excellent. We tucked into forests. We pulled off atop alpine passes. We overlooked picturesque villages. Often we were next to or within earshot of a stream. Many times we had superb views of the surrounding mountains. Almost always we enjoyed more tranquillity and privacy than we would have had we paid to stay in a campground, where incessantly chatting campers, screaming kids, and barking dogs are a frequent annoyance. While free camping, we never trespassed, violated regulations, or—to the best of our knowledge—annoyed anyone. Finding a place to comfortably camp free in a campervan sometimes requires a little creativity, courage or determination. But it also makes the journey more interesting and fun. And free-camping is what makes renting a campervan affordable, because the rental fee covers both transportation and accommodation.

• Throughout France, you’ll find “aire de services” specifically for campervans. At an aire de service you can, usually free-of-charge, responsibly empty your grey- and black-water tanks. You can also refill your fresh-water tank. Many aire de services allow campervans to stay overnight—free of charge. Aire de services are so common in France that, clearly, the nation has made a concerted effort to accommodate campervan travellers. As a result, campervan life is relatively easy in France, and campervan travellers feel welcome.

• A European hiking journey via campervan allows for very efficient travel. At trailheads where you have several hiking options, you can simply stay, camping free each evening after you return from dayhiking. No need to repeatedly drive back and forth between down-valley accommodation and high-elevation trailheads. Camping free at trailheads saves time, gas money, and allows for more relaxation.

• You can stock a campervan with enough groceries to last a week. That allows you to shop less frequently, at larger supermarkets offering lower prices and more choices. That means you save time and money, and eat what you want, as much as you want, whenever you want. That ensures that each day you set out on a dayhike, you can pack the precise trail foods you prefer. And it ensures that every morning before you hike, and every evening when you return from a hike, your breakfasts and dinners are ample, nutritious and delicious. There’s a particular brand and flavour of tea that you love? You can carry a dozen boxes of it in your campervan. You find a boulangerie that makes the best bread you’ve ever tasted? Buy a couple loaves—one for today, one for tomorrow. And, of course, campervans have refrigerators, so you can stock up on your favourite fresh foods and always enjoy an ice-cold, post-hike beer.

• Speaking of refrigerators, campervan fridges have freezers, which provide a key benefit specific to dayhiking: therapeutic ice packs. Each time we returned to our campervan from a long, demanding dayhike, we would apply ice packs to our knees and ankles to help reduce inflammation. This, plus occasional massage, helped keep us on the trail six days a week. Hut guardians are, to say the least, unaccustomed to having trekkers show up and ask for ice packs.

• A campervan can be a mobile gear closet. No need to severely limit your hiking gear. Campervans have enough storage space that you can bring a variety of clothing and gear, which you can choose from depending on the terrain and weather you anticipate encountering on each dayhike. That means you don’t always have to pack your heavier, Gore-Tex Pro Shell. If it’s a shatterproof, sunny day, you can keep your pack weight minimal by instead carrying your ultralight Gore-Tex PacLite shell. Most hikers travelling in Europe have just one pair of hiking boots. With a campervan, you can carry heavier boots for rougher terrain, a lighter pair of boots for easier trails, a pair of walking shoes for urban hiking, a pair of sandals for kicking back at the campsite, plus a pair of down booties for inside the campervan at night. Most hikers travelling in Europe have to wash their few items of clothes frequently. With a campervan, you can carry enough changes of hiking clothes that finding a laundromat becomes necessary only about once every couple weeks. This past summer, we always had precisely the gear we needed. This allowed us to keep our pack weight minimal and hike as comfortably as possible. It also ensured we never had to do laundry on a day when the weather was optimal for hiking. We could choose to do laundry only on those days when the weather was poor or we wanted or needed a rest.

• A campervan is a reasonably comfortable home in foul weather. Unlike a tent, a campervan has a heater, plus enough room that you can stand up, move around, lounge, do yoga. Unlike in a tent, you can hang your damp hiking clothes in a campervan, so they’re dry by morning even if it rains all night. And because a campervan has abundant storage, it can be a mobile library, containing all the guidebooks and maps you need. When you elect not to hike on a rainy day, you can make optimal use of your time by spreading out your maps, perusing several books at a time, and planning your hikes.

• Your bed in a campervan is your bed. A different bed in a different hotel every night (unless you’re staying at expensive hotels) leaves you vulnerable to a poor night’s rest: an uncomfortable mattress, a room that’s too hot, too cold, too stuffy, a room in a noisy location, etc. With a campervan, you’re almost always in control of the physical and audio atmosphere in which you sleep. That makes it the most consistently homey accommodation possible for a traveller.

There are, however, some drawbacks to European campervan travel you should be aware of:

• Many roads in Europe are narrow. Much narrower than North American drivers are accustomed to. This makes it a challenge to pilot a campervan. You must be a skilled, confident driver. You must always be vigilantly alert behind the wheel. You must drive slower than you might prefer. And you need a co-pilot always on duty as shotgun (a second pair of eyes attentive for potential trouble), navigator (constantly glancing up at directional signage and down at a road map), and ground crew (exiting the van to direct the pilot, and perhaps coordinate traffic, whenever it’s necessary to back up the rig).

• The only access to a few European trailheads is via one-lane roads. Even if you’re driving a small car, some of these roads pose difficulties should you encounter another car traveling in the opposite direction. In a campervan? Fuhgedaboutit. That’s when we’ve parked our campervan and hitchhiked. Compared to North Americans, Europeans are less fearful, more at ease about picking up hitchhikers. Europeans who are themselves hikers will reflexively stop for anyone geared-up to hike and obviously en route to a trailhead. Our hitchhiking attempts never failed, even when several rides were necessary. And hitching always enhanced our day. A lively, cultural exchange ensued every time we climbed into someone’s car.

• With all your hiking gear and valuables (laptops, portable hard drives, passports, etc.) in your campervan, you have more at risk when you leave the van parked at a trailhead than you would if you’d left all your gear and valuables locked in a hotel room and parked a relatively empty car at the same trailhead. We don’t know anyone who’s parked more vehicles at more trailheads in both Europe and North America than we have, however, and we’ve never been broken into on either continent. Our sense is that trailhead theft is less common in Europe than it is in North America, perhaps because trailheads in Europe tend to be busier: too public for easy thievery. Still, we remain vigilant. We always go out of our way to leave our campervan parked where it will be in view of people coming and going. And we always take the extra time necessary to disguise and hide our valuables within the campervan. Campervans have excellent hidey holes that would be difficult for a thief to find.

• In most of Switzerland, free-camping in a campervan is verboten. In Spain and Italy, it’s possible to camp free, but it’s less safe to leave an unattended campervan parked at trailheads. Outside France, we’re less enthusiastic about hiking-focused travel via campervan. Bear in mind, we have not travelled via campervan beyond France, Switzerland, Spain and Italy. If hiking is the focus of your journey, however, you’ll find much of the world’s best hiking in the Alps. And the French Alps, as we can attest, are ideal for campervan travel and free camping.

So, how to come by a campervan in France? Don’t try to buy one. (We explain why not in our post titled “U-Turn,” July 12, 2012). Rent one from the same people we did: France Motorhome Hire (www.francemotorhomehire.com). They’re located in Montargis, just south of Paris. Their email address is <francemotorhomehire@gmail.com>. Their international phone number is +33 238 97 00 33. They are Hannah and Phill Spurge. Starting with their response to our initial email enquiry, continuing through what is now our sixth month on the road with one of their rentals, they have been unfailingly honest, fair, creative, flexible, helpful, responsive and enjoyable. We emphatically recommend them.

Our campervan journey through the French Alps has enriched us beyond measure. If you’re a hiker, you’ll likely feel the same. Start planning now.

Someone recently wrote us asking what ten hikes we would rank as the world’s best. Here’s what we said:

(1) Parc National des Calanques, France. On the edge of Marseille, this is the country’s newest national park (www.calanques-parcnational.fr). It’s an astonishing, fascinating massif comprising huge, fissured, white, limestone cliffs rising abruptly from the Mediterranean. Numerous, sea-to-cliff-top trails thread through the park between the town of Cassis and the sprawling city of Marseille. Vast panoramas are frequent. Several days of unique, world-class dayhiking are possible here. Ideal times: spring and fall, but winter can also be pleasant. Base yourself in Cassis. If camping, stay at Camping Cigales (http://www.campingcassis.com/). This is where we are now, having finally been pushed out of the French Alps by cold temps, rain, then snow. After touching our trekking poles in the sea near Nice, we spent a couple rewarding weeks hiking in the Pre Alps, primarily in the Haute Var. But rain and cold temps again pushed us south to the coast. From Parc National des Calanques, we’ll nip back up into Provence for a final week of hill-hiking in France, then we’ll drop into Spain. There, we’ll begin writing our Alps book and, we hope, continue hiking several days a week in the mountains along the Costa Blanca. We’ll keep blogging, of course.

(2) Berg Lake, Mt. Robson Provincial Park, B.C., Canada. You’ll find complete details about backpacking to Berg Lake in our book, Don’t Waste Your Time in the Canadian Rockies, The Opinionated Hiking Guide.

(3) Lake O’Hara Alpine Circuit, Yoho National Park, B.C. Canada. You’ll find complete details about backpacking to Berg Lake in our book, Don’t Waste Your Time in the Canadian Rockies, The Opinionated Hiking Guide. We also blogged about it: http://www.hikingcamping.com/blog/2010/07/lake-ohara/

(4) Torres del Paine, Patagonia, Chile. Seven-day, loop backpack trip.

(5) Hermit and Boucher trails, Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona, USA. We’ve blogged about this three-day backpack trip: http://www.hikingcamping.com/blog/2011/04/grand-and-deep/

(6) Paria Canyon, near Kanab, Utah, USA. Four day, one-way backpack trip through the canyon, into Arizona.

(7) Tour du Vanoise, Parc National de la Vanoise, France. Four-day loop near glaciers in the French Alps, above the villages of Termignon and Pralognon.

(8) Gioberney, Vallée Valgaudemar, Parc National des Ecrins, France. The supreme dayhike in the French Alps.

(9) Col du Gran St. Bernard, Switzerland. We’ve blogged about this dayhike on the Italian/Swiss border, between Aosta and Verbier:  http://www.hikingcamping.com/blog/2012/10/14-premier-dayhikes-in-the-swiss-alps/

(10) Gertrude Saddle, Fiordland, South Island, New Zealand. We described it here: http://www.hikingcamping.com/free-hiking-nz.php

We’ve been hiking in the Alps since mid-June. We’ve remained injury free, rainy spells have been brief, and we’re disciplined about keeping down-time (shopping, driving, resting, etc.) to a minimum. So we’ve actually hiked most of that four-and-a-half months. In summer, we hiked six days a week. Fall weather and shorter days have recently reduced our average to four or five days a week. Of the 135 days we’ve now been here, we’ve spent approximately 108 days on the trail.

This has been our Endless Summer. The classic film of that title follows surfers on their quest for primo waves rolling toward exotic beaches. Our quest has been for fascinating trails probing sensational mountains. We’re fulfilling a dream. We’re not at home, living a relatively normal, work-constantly, hike-when-possible life. We’re traveling, living a highly unusual, hike-constantly, work-when-possible life.

We have and will continue to blog about our sojourn. Our chief goal—certainly in our books, but even in our blog—is to inspire others to hike and guide them on especially rewarding trails. But  during this endless summer of hiking we’re also exploring metaphysical terrain. The terrain to which we turned our attention when we wrote the book titled Heading Outdoors Eventually Leads Within. It’s this terrain we’re compelled to write about now.

Hiking constantly—far and fast—limits human contact. In summer, on some trails, yes, we crossed paths with many hikers. But even then, we were alone most of the time. Now it’s fall, and we’re inching southward, toward the Med, away from the big, famous peaks. We’re encountering few hikers. When we do meet others—on the trail, or in towns—they’re French. We speak little of their language, they little of ours, so discourse is usually simplistic and fleeting. We don’t have a cell phone. We get internet access rarely—perhaps once a week—in places where we can’t or don’t want to linger long. So communication with friends, family or business affiliates is minimal. Plus, the way we’re traveling—driving a campervan, free-camping in the loneliest, quietest spots we can find, usually at or near trailheads—also limits human contact.

This near-constant state of solitude is conducive to frequent, penetrating introspection.

During a recent spate of rain, for example, when we’d declined to hike for a couple days, we were holed-up in our van, writing. A quiet backroad allowed us to tuck into the forest beside a stream. The trails had been ours alone on our previous two dayhikes. Nobody drove or walked by our van that day in the rain. It was quiet, save for the water music. Fat clouds waddled slowly among the treetops. Fog slithered through the forest. I became aware of how isolated we were were at that moment, how we’ve always isolated ourselves even at home in North America, and how this summer—despite being in heavily populated Europe—we’ve been especially isolated.

I said to Kath, “I feel like we’re in a very small sailboat, far out at sea, on a trans-ocean voyage.”

“I know,” she said. “I feel the same.”

A long discussion ensued, punctuated by several realizations:

• It’s not the hiking that’s difficult for us. Ever. It’s when we’re off the trail, between trailheads—that’s when our life doesn’t always flow smoothly. During those lulls, we’re in a kind of limbo. Like those couple days we were hunkered in the forest, sitting out the rain. That’s when we get antsy. That’s when our minds sometimes become infested with conventional thought: “Should we be doing this? What are we doing? It’s been four and a half months, isn’t that enough? Maybe we should end the trip, go home. Wouldn’t it be better if we had some friends with us? I wish I could be with my family right now. Maybe instead of hiking, gathering info for a future book that might not be profitable, we should be at our desks, marketing our current books.” And on, and on, and on.

• When hiking, we’re immune to all that monkey-mind stuff. On the trail, we’re almost always relaxed and content. We feel very present, fully alive, completely engaged. We never question why were doing it. It feels absolutely right. When hiking, we feel we’re being our true selves. Just as some people have a meditation practice, or a yoga practice, we have a hiking practice. Doing yoga frees the body from tension. Meditating frees the mind from aimless wandering. Hiking frees us from uncertainty and anxiety.

• We’re now engaged in our hiking practice with the same level of devotion as are those for whom meditation or yoga is central to their lives. When getting ready for a hike, we don’t think about the getting ready. We don’t question if we should go hiking or not, if we’ll enjoy it or not, if the trail we chose is the optimal one for that day, if the weather will cooperate… and so on. Mindfully, but without mental static, we simply prepare, then set out. Pre-hike, it’s as if we’re propelled not consciously, but subconsciously. We’ve come to believe that the adventure ahead is more apt go smoothly if, before setting out, we’re calmly focused rather than frantic and anxious.

All that monkey-mind stuff? The uncertainties and anxieties that bubble up when we’re between trailheads? That’s our conscious minds seeking distraction. Distraction from whatever is: the sound of rain dappling on the roof of our van, the difficulty or tedium of writing, the realization that we are utterly alone, etc. Often, whatever is, just doesn’t seem to be enough for the conscious mind. We think we want, need or deserve… something different than what is. Precisely what that difference actually is, we’re not sure, but our conscious minds insist that whatever is just isn’t satisfactory.

• Observing our conscious minds seeking distraction is a new insight for us. We’re now able to recognize the seeking of distraction for what it is, which allows us to let go of it, and settle back into contentment. This glimmer of understanding is one of many that have arisen during our endless summer in the Alps. They’re the result of our new level of dedication to our practice.

• We’ve also seen, with distilled clarity, how little we want. Health, each other, good food, deep sleep, agreeable weather, and wildlands to hike. That’s it. The swarm of concerns, the pile of possessions, the restricting obligations, and the frenetic busyness that seem to consume most people’s lives have, for us, fallen away. We’re completely comfortable—absolutely at home—alone in nature. Noise, crowds and urban bustle have become increasingly agitating. There’s a simplicity and focus to our present existence that’s immensely fulfilling. Wanting so little feels liberating.

• But questions now loom on our horizon: What happens when our endless summer ends? Will we be able to adjust to a life in which we cannot be as dedicated to our hiking practice as we are now? What would it take to indefinitely continue our present level of dedication to our hiking practice?

Meanwhile, our endless summer continues into fall. And each time we look back over our shoulders—at normal life, in which routine elbows exploration aside, society orders nature off the premises, and sedentary work pins physical fitness to the floor—we’re grateful we’re still putting distance between us and it.

Thanks for following us.