Camino de los Gracioseros. Part I
One Path. Different Journeys.
Some places reveal themselves immediately.
Others wait until the journey home.
Our walk to Salinas del Río began like many others.
The evening before, we studied the map, read a few comments from other hikers and packed a little more carefully than usual.
Hiking boots.
Walking poles.
A light lunch.
Plenty of water.
Everyone seemed to agree about one thing.
The climb back would be hard.
The following morning, nothing suggested they were right.
The path descended through the Famara cliffs, with breathtaking views across El Río towards La Graciosa.
Every few minutes we stopped.
Sometimes for another photograph.
Sometimes simply because the view deserved another few seconds.
The descent wasn't easy.
The trail is little more than a ribbon of volcanic stones.
Loose stones slide beneath your boots.
Others refuse to move at all.
Some are no bigger than your hand.
Others force you to climb over them.
There is rarely a place where your foot lands exactly as you hoped.
Even going down demands your full attention.
The view is extraordinary.
Most of the time, though, you're looking at the next stone.
Eventually we reached Playa del Risco.
For us, it felt like discovering one of the island's most beautiful beaches.
Wild.
Quiet.
Difficult to reach.
Perhaps that is why, for most of the year, it remains almost empty.
Only once a year does everything change.
Hundreds of open-water swimmers gather here before the annual Travesía a Nado El Río. They are brought here by boat before swimming the 2.6-kilometre crossing to La Graciosa, watched over by safety crews throughout the event.
The rest of the year, the beach belongs almost entirely to the wind.
We stayed for a while.
Walked barefoot along the sand.
The Atlantic erased every footprint within seconds.
Only after following the beach to its far end did we notice the abandoned salt pans.
Stone walls.
Quiet pools.
The remains of Salinas del Río, among the oldest salt works in the Canary Islands.
The wind seemed louder there.
The place felt strangely peaceful.
We wandered through the ruins without knowing very much about them.
At that moment, they were simply part of a beautiful day.
After a while, we turned around.
The climb began almost immediately.
The same path.
The same stones.
The same cliffs.
Only now gravity had changed sides.
The first few minutes felt manageable.
Then the path slowly took control.
Every step had to be chosen.
The walking poles suddenly made perfect sense.
Our backpacks seemed heavier than they had a few hours earlier.
Another bend.
Another stop.
Another drink of water.
Conversation became occasional.
Breathing didn't.
Step.
Breath.
Another step.
Another breath.
At some point, almost without noticing, we stopped thinking about reaching the top.
We started thinking about the path itself.
It suddenly occurred to us that this hadn't always been a hiking trail.
Long before walking poles, hiking boots and plastic water bottles, someone had climbed this cliff for a very different reason.
Who?
Why?
How many times?
The questions arrived quietly.
One after another.
As steadily as our footsteps.
Eventually, we reached the top.
Tired.
Sweaty.
Relieved.
The path ended there.
The questions didn't.
They came home with us.
To be continued….
