My solo HRP attempt (I quit)

What have I told you? Have I told you about all the poop? The magic mushrooms (alleged, unconfirmed) that came from it? About how I dug a cat hole somewhere between several giant cow pies because it was the only place I could find to crouch? How did I recognize the absurdity, but not laugh, vomit, or cry? The stench of cattle was insidious in Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne (HRP) and I walked through it, camping right above it. I pitched my tent on multiple piles of shit in temperatures up to 90 degrees (F), and then lay down and slept there. Many times it wasn’t a choice: if there was a flat area, there was poop. And there were animals, of course: grazing a couple of meters from my head in the early hours of the morning; large and motionless in the middle of my only trail option; chasing me like a many-horned herd when all I wanted to do was stop and camp before the sun set (Did they think I had food? Were they legion?).

Have I told you about the conversation with an elderly Frenchman who was out for his evening walk, in what I thought was the middle of nowhere? We do what we want to do, it’s your vacation, it’s your life. That last-minute room at an artist’s riverside guesthouse? The healing alpine current on my blistered feet, my wobbly legs and my wobbly soul. Magic here, magic there. During breakfast, a therapist from Pamplona wondered about the burdens of the pilgrims she passed while driving on a road parallel to the Camino de Santiago: “Sometimes you can let things go,” she advised. The artist argued in his (our?) place: “But they believe they should carry the cross.” I looked at my backpack leaning against the wall. Whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t that. Was it?

It all started with the first night’s snoring, late-night arrivals, mice, mosquitoes, creaky bunk beds, imaginary bed bugs, and a perfectly placed spotlight outside the dorm tent—reminders of why I prefer camping outdoors. In turn, I became the disruptive roommate when the sun came up. I fumbled around in the camp kitchen and found myself embarrassingly unable to apologize in French for ruining the coffee. I took a bus to Hendaye beach, where the HRP officially begins. The Atlantic coast was beautiful and surfers roamed its arms. I turned my back and headed toward the Mediterranean, 500 miles away.

Hendaye beach

I wasn’t sure which mapping app to use, so I searched through my Gaia loaded with GPX, CalTopo, and printed instruction pages from Paul Atkinson. The first stretch seemed to be mostly on the road, so I ignored my directions and simply followed the red and white blazes of the GR10. Unfortunately, this strategy ended up adding unnecessary miles and elevation to my day. Also, the GR10 was full of hikers. As I stopped to catch my breath on a climb, another hiker passed by. “Greatness,” I thought he said as a greeting, since we could see the ocean in the distance. But from the look on his face, I realized later that he must have said «Grand Dur.» As in, A great duress. As in This sucks. «Ouai,» I nodded, anyway.

After half an hour listening to Ameri explanations from a hiker behind me, I decided to leave the popular trail (GR10). I didn’t love having to constantly decide between routes, but there was a fun scavenger hunt aspect to the hike when I was guided by words like: Ascend NE boundary ridge to c2440m, turn R(E) at a weak FP, climbing gently across grassy slopes for c500m to gain the ridge. Follow FP along the S flank of the ridge, c1km, to Puerto de Bielsa, 2421m. FP climbs gently SE across outcrops to gain a ridge in about 500m, turns N and climbs more steeply to the ridge. Every hour or so I had to retrace my steps to get a little closer to one of the route lines on my phone. Sometimes it was because my legs had been broken in the ferns of a gradually disappearing trail, for example, and other times it was because I had fallen off a rock while struggling with a backpack and a broken toe.

As I passed a small clump of clovers, I thought: If I see a four-leaf clover on the road to this town, it’s a sign that I can finish this journey alone. Without stopping, or even barely looking, there it was. Damn, I said. And he chose it.

Look, there are other articles on HRP and GR 10 and 11, and if you are looking for a good follow-up report, I recommend them. My tracking report is a mess. It was cool, it was silly, it was beautiful, it was crowded, it was gorgeous, and it was terribly lonely. I’ve already forgotten most of it. But I can’t really tell you about the hike: I didn’t get very far. My experience, as you may have gathered, was full of dramatic ups and downs, comings and goings: ascending, descending. France, Spain. Joy, despair. Boredom, disgust, amazement, delight. Loneliness, solitude, deep human connection, intolerance towards people. It was too wild; There were too many roads. One day I ate what is undoubtedly the most delicious in the world. ham sandwichthe next a can of tuna with potato chips (which, honestly, was also delicious). I had planned to be there for two months. I was there less than two weeks.

Speaking of food, next time you are in the Basque Country (NOT Trader Joe’s), try these fruits, they are the best.

I have spent a lot of time building and securing my independence. I love going on solo adventures. I love making my own decisions about the agenda and the route, and not worrying about what someone else wants to eat or when they want to stop or how they feel. I talked a lot to myself and I really liked my company. “Okay” or “great,” he would say when it was difficult (it usually was difficult). “Cool cool,” he said to the passes (the columns). He sang for me, often songs Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarrón. I practiced speaking out loud in French and Spanish. I laughed at my own jokes. He doubled over to a burst of «More like Sweat, pray, cry!”

cloud reversal one morning after deciding to quit smoking for the hundredth time in three days

I guess what I was looking for was something I already knew: I’m strong, self-sufficient, and adventurous. What I found was unexpected, due to its paradox and vulnerability. But it was presented clearly and true: I didn’t want to be alone. Hard stop. It was loneliness, sure, but more than that, it was a specific desire to share the experience. I didn’t think about Alexander Supertramp until I got home: Chris McCandless, the guy the book talks about. into the wild–and his last diary entry before dying alone: ​​“Happiness is only real when it is shared.” It was like that.

So I left it. I took a bus back to San Sebastian and spent a day with the ocean. I took another bus to Madrid, where I spent a day with art. Then I flew home and started planning my next hike. JMT 2026?

The warm Atlantic in San Sebastián

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