Hiking Volcanic: Lanzarote
Jamie Dakota
High above the vistas to the sea I feel again the familiar mountain winds, but unlike those from home these have blown over the ocean from the continent. Having spent the last week in unrelenting sun the cold night zephyrs were unexpected.
It’s seem moments ago I’d woken, warm in the villa a few miles away where my children still sleep in a room beside their mother. I’d elected to make this rare desert walk alone amidst a family holiday, so I was up before dawn to grab the pack I’d laid by the door and spun the car half way up this volcanic range to strike out at the highest point on Lanzarote before the sun had jumped the horizon.
This wind though, now I’m here in it, does pull the last week of sun from the skin. I’m glad I thought to bring a jacket, a bandana wrapped about my neck and my trusty 16 year old cap are enough to keep the airs of the Atlantic at bay. I check the map, Femes is unconscious as I make my way past the chapel to a dark peak behind a goat farm.
After a short start with stretched calves and kicked rocks in bubbled pumice I make my way, following a pool of light from the torch clipped to my chest to the first summit. I see now the extent of night on this island at sea: Lanzarote, land of broken lava fields and sunshine, dreams under a full moon and starlight, a Ghibli world of timeless ferries and distant towns flooded with electric luminance that doesn’t reach me here above it all.
I pause in the lea of this peak, having dropped off the far side I find myself stood in a world of night, no sounds and alone, just as I’d hoped. I breathe, shutter the camera a few times over a long exposure and note the sun will rise soon.
The trail lies along the contour I follow around, past cacti and plants I’m a stranger to, I politely pass in peregrination to the Pico Redondo peak. Over broken stone I wind my own pathless way to the summit as I decide late to take in the peak on my way to Hacha Grande, my goal for the morning.
There’s another goat farm up here, in the saddle between the two peaks, just a fence and simple structures to house, feed and water I believe. It’s hard to see in the dark. I wonder how long it stood, seeing cold nights and blistering days whirl around. Who comes here and how often? Are these people happy with living on the mountainside with goats to care for and ever changing ocean to see? I don’t get answers today. Today the dusty trail calls, and to my left the eastern horizon warms, black turns to whitened blues as the growing sun washes out the sky, dawn calls as the track bends skywards. My heart quickens, the pace of my gait slows and I take steps over loose stones up and up and up.
I match the sun in ascent and we rise together, by the time I reach the false summit 100m higher than the goat farm saddled at the head of the Barrando de los Dises, I’m swimming in morning light. The vistas below are no longer black but a thousand shades of desert life, the arterial roads flow with headlights as the island wakes up to daily life, and I find myself profoundly lucky to be here alone on the mountainside facing another hundred metres to climb. Against the plummeting view down past the ridge I palm a rock as I climb to steady myself and draw blood. As welcome as I feel in this landscape I’m reminded the mountains are inert, tolerant in stillness, their hardness a contrast to me, soft, and the relationship we share viewing the oceans ahead.
I pass those hardy goats as I make my last few paces to the peak to Hacha Grande, 592m above the saltwater seas. They’re agile and well mannered watching me sweat along to the top.
The peak of Hacha Grande is small, and gives me a real sense of reaching ‘the top’ as I drop the rucksack and enjoy my breakfast here. With my back to the sun I turn to view below the great plain that stretches over to Montana Roja and the lighthouse there, behind that volcanic bowl my family wakes together and sits with orange juice and pastries to start their day. Their father thinks of them, speaking with a mountain about the tests of parenthood, the fulfilment of of raising children, and the hope that they find adventure in their lives. I pull focus from that daydream distance to that which brings Montana Roja into clear relief; there on it’s volcanic rim a younger man than I asked a young woman to marry him and there now in that landscape is an inseparable union of Place and Sentiment.
In moving through the world making memories and tying ourselves to the land, we enrich our relationships with nature. We’re not ghosts passing over the landscape unaffected, we are intrinsically woven with the paths we take to the places we’ve been. We’re not strangers in a strange land, but kin to the world, born part of nature and living within an atmosphere we’re made for. A younger man than I found that, there on the rim of a long quiet volcano adrift in the Atlantic.
The mountain I sit on is a silent audience to this rambling, having weathered the wild storms and brimstone I doubt my waxing lyrical is quite so affecting.
I’ve made good time to this high seat, and it seems a shame to waste the opportunity as I can see for miles and the terrain looks a good challenge for my dusty feet. I fire a text to Sarah, my partner, to tell her of the change of plan and I set off east, dropping steeply at first to a jutting cactus covered outcrop down towards the valley floor. These are the badlands where there are no roads, between the high ridge that I covered in the dark and ocean blue under the morning sun I walk over red earth to follow rain carved tracks into the desert.
The day is warming, the sun kissed rocks start to glow orange, red, and black as I’m sure they’ve done since they were thrown from the earth just a few hundred years ago.
A kestrel calls in whorls of flight over the valley, and allows me to watch in distraction as I make my way to a track that I plan to follow around to the other-side of the valley ready to head up onto the little ridge. As my eyes drop from the bird to the track I see there on the valley side opposite a couple of dark pools, like eyes looking back at me from the rock. They seem huge, big enough to climb inside, perhaps caves into the magma bubbles that occur on the island, perhaps ones big enough to form a Manrique style labyrinth. You see where my imagination and quest for adventure can sometimes lead my two-hour strolls into day long explorations!
I note that the dark spots are about 30 meters below the ridge of the valley-side, almost directly below a low point with a cluster of cacti growing and I make this my marker to navigate to once I’ve hiked up the valley.
I climb out of the valley bottom to the cross roads in the trail on the hill, and strike out to the low point and the cactus, and descend a loose and rocky slope looking for my caves. I slip and cut my leg and hand again, this time enough to require a stop to apply plasters and clean out the grit. I make it to the dark cave spots, ready to sit in the shade and treat my cuts, only to find these dark entrances go back less than a metre. A mirage of the sun being exactly where it needed in the sky to create a dark shadow on a well lit valley side. If I’d seen them just 15 minutes later from where I’d been watching the Kestrel I wouldn’t have noticed a thing. No caves, and feeling somewhat defeated, I treat my wounds: A burst from the Liberty filter washes out the grit and a plaster sorts my hand, a quick boiled sweet sorts the wound to my spirit.
I take a moment to reflect on that last rush of excitement, had I fallen and hurt myself more seriously what could have been done? How long would rescue take? The sun was rising hot, would I have made it here alone for hours until help? I decide to take it more slowly from here, in this heat the horizon dances like static.
As I return to the cross road in the path I can drop into another valley or take the path back to the goat farm and return to the car. I see a Refuge as it’s labelled on the map stood on the other side of this second valley, the map also shows it with a small water source and decide that’s worth a look, it’s not too much of a detour and I may get a refill on the water bottle!
Descending now into the small valley I reach a deeply cut dry stream-bed, there’s no sign of water at all as I’m reminded of my limited supply. I’d planned to be out for a couple of hours but my exploration of this volcanic playground is pushing that to four or five hours likely before I return to my car, and the sun is growing hot. I reach the refuge at 260m, an L-shaped high wall beautifully made in natural rock with a seat to view the valley, but the water source is dry. It appears to be a ruined basement to a small house, which perhaps collects water at other times of year but is bone and dust for me this morning.
I assess my situation, in the shade of the wall I stop, think and observe: An hour to the car, maybe an hour and a half. The sun is now very hot as air temperature reaches 30C. Navigation is easy, and there’s a good flat section of the trail into Barranco de la Higuera before a steep ascent of 120m leading to a large residence, my car is then just 5 minutes away. In my pack as I look I have a couple of boiled sweets, I have 300ml of water in my bottle, and I have forgotten the sun-cream. It’s now 10.30am, full sunshine and I’m expected back lunchtime. I have phone signal and good battery on my phone. So, I make a plan. I drink my water, it’s no good in the bottle and it lightens my pack. I’ll save the sweets for a sugar hit as I make that final ascent. I send another message to Sarah.
I’m wearing a long sleeved shirt so the sleeves come down and I pop the collar, my exposed legs as I’m wearing shorts are feeling the sun most but a quick hack with a couple of bandanas and I’m covered there too. I set off with a clear goal now, a contrast to the last two hours of wandering around exploring each whim.
This last valley, Barranco de la Higuera, is stunning. Grand and wide, with a torrent of coloured rock my photography fails to capture. The time passes quickly, I wish I had more time to explore but that’s nothing new. There’s yet to be a hike that I had not wanted to extend in one direction or another. The last ascent out of the valley head is winding and steep, I take it slow and steady and reach the top in good time as I walk out of this desert-wild into the village. It’s alive now with tourists and locals, the few that notice me seem bemused by the red-dusted Englishman sitting outside the shop pouring Sprite by the can full down his throat while flicking through photos on his camera. The red-dusted me feels the heat of the desert in his veins.
I hope you enjoyed this tale from the desert, it was originally published in 2019 in The Bushcraft Journal.
Take Care
JD