Naranjo de Bulnes, the highest peak in the Picos de Europa. Elevation: 8,264 feet.
Hiking in Spain's Picos de Europa Mountains
In the rugged range in Northern Spain, you can hike deep gorges and towering ridges, feasting on cheese and chorizo along the way
By
ALAN WECHSLER
May 23, 2014
There's nothing difficult about drinking sidra—Spanish hard apple cider—in the Picos de Europa, a towering mountain range in Northern Spain. The trick is in the pouring.
In one hand, you hold your cup around knee level. With the other, you raise the bottle as high as possible, letting the cider cascade into your glass. Or, in my case, onto the floor.
The purpose of these alcoholic acrobatics is to "crack" the flavor of the drink through aeration. But I thought the sidra tasted fine without the plunge. Better than fine—cloudy, earthy and mildly bitter, it bears little resemblance to the drink we call hard cider in the U.S. Sidra is a quintessential taste of northern Spain, which is exactly what my girlfriend, Barbara, and I were looking for after two weeks in the well-trodden cities of Barcelona, Seville, Granada and Toledo.
The Lowdown: Picos de Europa, Spain
Getting There: The easiest way to reach the Picos de Europa is by car. If you're renting, make a reservation in advance. Plan on a six- or seven-hour drive from Madrid, and expect to get lost at some point.
Staying There: In Potes, Casa Cayo has large rooms overlooking a river, and an excellent restaurant (from about $70 a night, casacayo.com ). In Arenas de Cabrales, the modern Hotel Picos de Europa is down the street from many cheap and tasty cafes and siderías (from about $70 a night,hotelpicosdeuropa.com ).
Eating There: Casa Cayo's bustling, slightly formal restaurant looks out over the river; dishes include suckling pig, leg of lamb, sweetbreads and local peppers with goat cheese. Nearby Asador Llorente is more relaxed. In Arenas de Cabrales, restaurants tend to be cafe-style. Cerveceria La Xana offers local fare; some of the cheeses it serves are made a few hundred yards away. Sidra is available everywhere.
Hiking There: Most English-language guidebooks on Spain provide basic information on popular hikes in the Picos; trailheads are well marked, and routes easy to follow. For longer treks, local maps and guidebooks are available, but few are in English. A number of tour companies offer multiday hiking trips to the Picos, good options for the less intrepid.
The Picos de Europa ("Peaks of Europe") are relatively unknown in America—and that's a pity. The mountain range, located just a few miles from Spain's northern coast, occupies less land than New York City yet contains some of the most rugged terrain on the Iberian Peninsula. The rocky limestone peaks and tiny villages below them are as breathtaking as anything you might find in the Alps, Dolomites or Pyrenees. The grandest mountain in the Picos, Naranjo de Bulnes, is an 8,264-foot-tall monster with vertical stone walls, tempting only for experienced rock-climbers. Surrounding it is a well-marked network of less-intimidating trails; travelers can easily spend weeks trekking from one quaint hamlet to the next.
While we didn't have enough time for backpacking, we were able to do three days of day-hikes, riding the cable car at Fuente De and exploring the dramatic Cares Gorge, feasting on local cheese and sausage along the way.
There's scant public transportation to the Picos, so we rented a car in Madrid, a half-day's travel to the south. The driving proved to be more challenging than the hiking. Spanish roads are well-marked and easy to follow—until you reach a town. Then the highway turns into a city street, which splits and splits again, and goes through several roundabouts to ensure that your confusion is complete. ("Donde esta la autopista?" is what to ask should you find yourself in similar circumstances.)
The stress that came with repeatedly getting lost fell away when we first saw the pale peaks of the Picos, which rose from the dusty flatlands with ever-increasing majesty. But we soon realized that we were not, as the map seemed to indicate, an hour from the village of Potes, where we planned to spend the night. With twists, turns, tunnels and a mountain pass several thousand feet high, the drive took most of the evening. By the time we arrived, the hotel had given away our reservation.
“I eyed the 500-foot drop behind me, and wondered how much force a charging goat could generate.”
Potes, which dates back to the eighth century, is built in stone around the shallow Rio Quiviesa. Elegant arched bridges cross the river; a cobblestone footpath runs along its banks. Century-old buildings decorated with rose-filled flowerboxes overlook the water. With the fresh mountain air completing the scene, it's hard to imagine a more pleasant place to be.
Less than pleasant was the backup hotel we wound up in that first night—our cramped room overlooked a noisy bar, and the lumpy bed seemed at one with the local topography. We drowned our sorrows with a little sidra at a tavern down the street
We were up early the next morning, eager to get outdoors. Our Lonely Planet guidebook recommended several Picos hikes, including one near the hamlet of Fuente De, home to a cable car that ascends a 2,500-foot cliff in four minutes. There was no line at 9 a.m.; we paid the 10-euro fare and boarded the car, which climbed at such a steep pitch, it felt as if we were riding an elevator.
A local mountain goat Getty Images/
The village of Potes Alamy
It was mid-June, but the top of the ridge was covered with snow fields; a number of hikers carried crampons and ice axes. With the bright sunshine, we were warm enough in T-shirts and shorts. The hike back down and around to our car was an easy six miles, but it took much of the day as we lingered over the views, followed side-trails, watched alpinists ascend to the horizon. We passed tall wildflowers and herds of cattle and sheep. Eventually, the trail led through the woods and skirted the base of the mountain to return us to the bottom of the cable car.
Happily, a room at our original and much nicer hotel, Casa Cayo, had opened up. Our new quarters were large and furnished with dark wood furniture; we had a view of the river. After a dinner of chicken, pasta and sangria, we fell asleep with a breeze coming through the open window.
The following day, we drove to Arenas de Cabrales, a mountain town just a few miles from the area's most famous hike, the Cares Gorge. The gorge is a gash in the mountains several thousand feet deep. A path a few feet wide, originally built to service an old hydroelectric sluiceway, traverses its length, connecting the communities of Poncebos and Cain at each end. The route follows the contours of the canyon, at times a thousand feet above the river. There is no guard rail.
After a steep initial climb, the trail was fairly level and smooth enough, although there was no shelter from the hot afternoon sun. It's a popular route, and we passed hundreds of hikers as we headed deeper into the canyon.
Halfway through the gorge, we ran into a gang of wild mountain goats, who almost seemed to be lying in wait for us. Barbara offered them an apple core from her bag. I pointed out that such feedings were illegal and had probably habitualized the goats to humans in the first place. Then the biggest goat headed right toward me.
He was a good three feet high, tan and black and sporting a pair of sharp horns. Did he want food? Was he guarding his turf? I eyed the 500-foot drop behind me, and wondered how much force a charging goat could generate. Barbara took out her camera.
The goat raised his mouth as if to bite. Then he stopped in front of me and began to lick my sweaty arm.
"I thought you weren't supposed to feed them," Barbara said.
"Very funny."
Back in Arenas de Cabrales, we had the town seemingly to ourselves on that Sunday evening. We wandered down the main street to a sidería and sat at an outdoor table. I ordered some cider; the waitress brought us a green bottle with no label, and a squat plastic barrel over which to pour. At other tables, locals expertly filled their glasses from great heights, like Turkish waiters pouring tea.
We shared a cheese platter, which included several versions of local sheep and goat cheeses, as well as the region's famous Cabrales blue cheese. I added a plate of chorizo; Barbara saved her appetite for dessert—flan-like tocinillo de cielo ("heaven's little pig").
The third day's excursion was to Bulnes, one of the most remote villages in Spain, named for the area's highest peak. It has a mere 20 residents, and until a funicular was tunneled through the rock a few years ago, the only way to reach Bulnes was on foot or donkey. We skipped the ride in favor of hiking up a steep, foggy valley. When we arrived after a two-hour walk, the village seemed desolate. We wandered past pastures and barns, nodding to a lone farmer, and paused at a small cafe.
According to our map, it was a three-hour march uphill to Naranjo de Bulnes peak. Several other routes headed deeper into the mountains. A misty rain fell, a slight breeze crept up and the urge to explore was as thick as the air. But first, perhaps, one last bottle of sidra.
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