Lucky Pilgrim

Sometimes when you're traveling alone you get on what seems to be an improbable lucky streak; mine began the moment I stepped off the plane in Asturias. In the span of 36 hours, I had found a roommate and a room in Gijon, arrived at Semana Negra in time to see the miner's chorus, and headed off on a whirlwind tour of Cadavedo, led by the homely but homey Roxana (with whom I did not have sexual relations).

My next stop was the Picos de Europa, a range of green, rock-studded peaks only twenty kilometers inland from the Cantabrian Sea. Hoping my luck would continue, I caught the bus in Gijon and headed toward Cangas de Onís, the main Asturian corridor into the national park (which is shared between the provinces of Asturias, Cantabria, and Castilla y León). I tried to sleep during the bus ride, but the oversized glass window made a lousy pillow.

By afternoon I arrived in Cangas de Onís, a sleepy, tourist town whose main attraction is a stately bridge known as the Puente Romano, which marks an important battle between the Asturian kings and the invading Moors. Most of the inns and pensions were out of my price range, so I decided to try my luck in Covadonga, twelve kilometers up the road at the entrance to the national park. With typical Asturian hospitality, the tourist agent let me leave my cumbersome pack in the office until the next bus left for Covadonga. Starving, I hunkered down at a park bench and devoured three-quarters of a baguette, a tin of octopus tentacles, and some Valladolid cheese, which I purchased at the supermarket across the plaza. Then I called and made a reservation at the only inn in Covadanga, which miraculously had a room available for a 25.25 € per night. Nailing down a place to stay is one of the most gratifying moments of traveling alone on a flexible itinerary; not only does it provide relief from that paralyzing uncertainty of not knowing where you'll be spending the night, it brings with it a certain sense of accomplishment -- a boost to the traveler's aspirant ego.

The bus driver dropped me and two Brits off at the Hospedería del Peregrino (Pilgrim's Inn), where we were greeted promptly by the innkeeper, a helpful middle-aged man who maintained the elegance of an English butler. He escorted me to my room, which sported a double bed (mysteriously too short), an armchair, half a desk, and a sink (the shared bathroom was down the hall). Despite the meager accommodations, the place felt like an oasis, and the open windows over the bed added a feeling of closeness to nature. I laid down and rested a bit, and then set out to explore Covadonga, which turned out to be less of a town and more of a sanctuary.

Straddling the fault-lines of religion, history, and nature, Covadonga is the spiritual heart of Asturias. Here King Pelayo and his troops held off the attacking Moors in what is generally considered to be the first victory of the 800 year Reconquista. Conveniently for the cause, a Virgin appeared to the embattled troops in a nearby cave, which rallied their spirits and led them to victory. Today Covadonga is a destination for pilgrims to this holy site, the "Santa Cueva," (among them the late Pope Juan Paul II), which houses a rugged, outdoor chapel and the remains of good king Pelayo. I entered the cave and sat down in the pews, pondering the idol of the Virgin and Baby Jesus in their elaborate gold crowns. The doll struck me as an odd thing to be holy, so resembling a young girl's plaything, yet comprehensible in its historical context of convincing an illiterate population to believe.

Below the cave a mountain spring pours into a reflective pool, which serves as the headwater of the Rio Covadonga and promises to grant wishes to those who drink from it. Further downriver, I found an old peseta, thrown in years ago by some lonely supplicant. I debated whether removing this peseta would somehow cast an ominous shadow on the life of that innocent soul, but in the end decided to ignore my spiritual qualms. With a tinge of guilt I stuffed it in the front pocket of my bag with all those pennies, dimes, pence, and euro cents.

Just a stone's throw from the Santa Cueva, a haughty red-stone basilica reaches toward the Picos, floating like a bold attempt to reach the heavens. Here is where the next morning I caught the bus to go up to the national park and begin my pilgrimage to nature. The British couple from the inn joined me at the bus stop; we chatted while waiting for the bus, which came an hour later than scheduled.

The main attraction of the Asturian Picos consists of two breathtaking mountain lakes, Enol and Ercina, where in peak season bus loads of Spanish tourists go to enjoy the crisp air and gawk at the docile, brown cows that make Asturias famous. Disembarking at the top, I shuffled past a group and headed to the main park office to learn more about the trails for day hiking. Oddly, the park service does not give out detailed maps of the area surrounding the lakes, yet they recommend you don't leave without one. Ready to hit the trail and still basking in the glow of my lucky streak, I decided to forgo the map and set off for a place called Vega de Ario (Aryan Valley, it turns out).

The trail hugged one of the mountain lakes at first, then climbed a gradual hill to reveal high, jagged peaks in the distance. These were surrounded on all sides by rolling green pastures, themselves dotted with gray rocklets. Along the trail, the rocks were marble-smooth, worn down by generations of hikers and livestock, but everywhere else they seem to stick up like stone spears. The park rangers had warned me about the desvios, places where the cows had broken off the main trail and blazed their own paths, which can lead hikers astray. I concentrated on following the trail markers, and avoiding the cows, whose bells chimed together in a one clanging symphony.

At around 3 pm I arrived at a large flat area, which overlooked the gorge and central massif of the Picos. In the distance was a small, stone hut -- the Refugio -- and as I approached, I saw it was surrounded by a crowd of about fifty Spanish teens sprawled on their sleeping pads, shielding their faces from the intense sunlight. I asked the hut staff how to get to Vega de Ario and they told me I was standing right on it, but suggested I climb one of the two surrounding peaks for a panoramic view.

I headed toward the summit and on the way ran into my British friends resting near the ruins of an old shepherd's house. We talked a bit more, pored over each other's guidebooks, and took photos of each other. Finally I took my leave, and scurried up the side of the mountain in search of the ideal vista. I struggled to find a viable path, but soon realized that with all the cows roaming around, the Spanish didn't seemed particularly concerned with staying on the trail. I made my way across a string of tiny peaks, and at the third summit found the view for which I'd been searching. Finally, I could see the central gorge, the Garganta del Cares, and could make out the faint outline of a road or trail on the opposite side. Using the summit cairn as a tripod, I took some magnificent pictures and then headed back to the lakes, hoping to catch the last bus down to Covadonga.

On the way back to the parking lot, I again encountered my British friends, and I greeted them, arms flailing, by shouting: "You guys waited for me!" They both laughed, and later, in Covadonga, I invited them to join me for drinks at the Merendero Covadonga, a snack shack where the previous night I had made a friend in the owner, a rotund, white-haired gent named Mariano. I had promised Mariano I would return with friends, and around 8:15 that night I fulfilled my promise, the three of us set on sharing some Asturian hard cider.

When I approached the counter and greeted Mariano, he jokingly commented, "Te cambiaste de color," referring to my reddened face. I told him I had forgotten to wear sunscreen, and looked sheepishly at myself in the mirror behind the bar -- my face, neck, and arms were thoroughly burned. We got Mariano to pour the first round of cider, and then retired to a table where we discussed the merits of vegetarianism and traveling alone.

I told them how different my experience had been since I'd left my brother behind in Málaga, and how lucky I had been so far. When you travel on your own, I explained, your victories are sweeter and your defeats/failures less bitter, since in the latter case there's no one else to blame you. We all had a turn pouring the cider, only a small part of which actually landed in the glasses, and shared some appetizers before Simon and Hannah headed off to dine at the Peregrino.

I migrated to the bar, chatting with Mariano and his wife, a bubbly woman with crooked teeth, who joined him tonight at the snack shack. I told them that so far, Asturians were the most hospitable people I had met in Spain; they wished me well on my trip to Santander the following morning. To send me on my way, the Señora made me a sandwich of my choice, and refused to accept any payment in return.

"To remember this place," she said. I walked home smiling, soaking in my last, lucky night in Asturias.