Echoes from the Canyon

Scrambling down the steep slope, our heavy packs force us to choose our footing with care. At the bottom, river mud is baked and cracked. Our first steps break through the fragile surface and we sink to our knees.

Leaving behind some essential snacks with our team on the river, I shoulder my pack, departing on foot to our planned rendezvous. Ahead lies the stunning Congost de Montrebei National Park. As I hike uphill, I can hear the whistling of air being pumped into paddle boards. Dancing around the team is Eko, a massive branch clutched in his jaws, as he pleads for someone to play with him.

At the edge of the canyon I hear shouts of joy coming from high above. A hundred meters away on the Aragonese side of the canyon, ribbons of green and orange flicker in the sunlight. Climbers, hidden in the various folds and curves of the wall. High above the water below, these walls are a refuge for nesting vultures and eagles.

Bellies full, hydrated, and water bottles topped up, the team deposit me on the bank once more to continue my hike.

As the sun wanes, I’m outside the national park, waiting for the team at the river’s edge, but something has changed. This morning the river was placid, slow moving, shifting in colour from clear to green to light blue. Now it’s grey and brown, and small rapids start to form on the surface. Far upstream, one of the power companies operating here has opened its sluices, releasing a large amount of water carrying mud, stones and small bits of debris.

The call comes over the radio. The team has had to beach their SUPs far downstream, unable to paddle against the increasing current.

Between the team and I now lie kilometres of soft mudflats. Post-holing and crawling through hip-deep mud, while dragging behind a twenty kilo SUP is exhausting work. What should have been an easy paddle now becomes something much more complicated. Adventure it seems, begins when things go wrong.

For now my job is to check in with them at regular intervals to make sure they’re safe, and have food and water ready for when they arrive.

Hours later, they eventually round the corner on the opposite side of the river to where I am stood. We’re no more than thirty metres apart, but to reach me they’ll have to ferry glide across a much faster current.

Faces and hands streaked with dried mud, the team make it. They pull their paddle boards up the last few metres and crumple to the ground. Chests heaving, but with mile-wide grins, the flip over onto their backs, elated.

Tonight we feast on slow cooked Catalan stew, and sleep under moonlight, ready for whatever tomorrow brings.