Puntal de Vacares to Alcazaba

Vacares and the Ridge

Alcazaba now appeared to be accessible and in reach.  No problem, just go along the ridge, pass the Tajos del Goterón up Alcazaba and there should be water.

The ridge was at first easy.  I felt great, on top of the world.  Just needed to make sure that I did not fall and break leg, neck etc.  Much to my surprise, I met a couple coming the other way. When I described my plan, they looked each other but did not quite go as far as circling a finger at the side of their head, but I go the picture.

The next bit was OK, but then I faced a really steep peak with a set of rocks that made me stop.  It looked as though God had lost her temper and smashed up the mountain with a large hammer, leaving a jumble of broken rock the size of small cars. 

I was carrying a large pack and although my balance was good, boulder hopping was a teeth-jarring experience.  The Northern side of the ridge looked OK, but appeared to be real 'fall off and die' territory.  Over the top seemed most unwise.   So the next option was to drop down to the South closer to the valley floor and then contour along and hit the line of the Tajos de Goterón.  Half a litre of water remained.  So down I went. 

As I got closer to the valley floor (it is all relative), the smooth floor became the mother of all boulder fields.  Smallest rock was the size of a washing machine, the largest, a small bungalow.  These were all piled up and jumbled like bricks in a toy-box.  So off I went, jump, dodge, step, leap - trying not to fall in the gap between them.

The Laguna below ridge

The cliffs of the Tajos de Goterón

At the bottom of the valley, I headed for a part where the rocks were smaller - but this dropped me lower relative to the objective.  Now, I was right out of water.  It was very hot and I was heating up with the exertion of boulder walking.

I then came across a small group of very clear mountain lakes.  The water looked perfect, except for the Ibex footprints, Ibex droppings and other animal signs.  There was a choice, fall down with exhaustion or drink and possible (very likely?) get sick.  Dropping with exhaustion won the day, but I filled one bottle just-in-case.  If I got desperate, I would drink it.

At the bottom of the valley, I headed for a part where the rocks were smaller - but this dropped me lower relative to the objective.  Now, I was right out of water.  It was very hot and I was heating up with the exertion of boulder walking.

I then came across a small group of very clear mountain lakes.  The water looked perfect, except for the Ibex footprints, Ibex droppings and other animal signs.  There was a choice, fall down with exhaustion or drink and possible (very likely?) get sick.  Dropping with exhaustion won the day, but I filled one bottle just-in-case.  If I got desperate, I would drink it.

The next stage was to get back up to the ridge and then countour around the base of the cliffs of the Tajos that protect the access to Alcazaba.  (You can climb straight up Alcazaba, but that requires a degree of technical capability & kit - not in my league).

The various guide-books had said ' just go along the Tajos and at an appropriate point, go up the scree slope at access the main rout to the peak of Alcazaba. (I did unkindly wonder if any of the authors had actually been there.

These cliffs were over 250 metres high and, well, vertical.  Access along the base to 'contour' was in scree that varied in consistency from dust to small boulders, all with the one intention of rolling to the bottom of the valley floor.  In short, very hot, dusty, sweaty and just totally unpleasant.  I had the feeling of being trapped in this vast valley with only rock and sunshine for company.

Looking around, the empty valley was not really empty; eagles - well, one eagle, soared above and song birds chittered amongst the rocks.  Beetles and butterflies were in evidence as well as small plants struggling to make their existence.

High up on the cliff, just above the scree-line was a small patch of green - an indication of water.  I climbed up and there was the spring.  Very small, and beyond the green, mossy area, the water just ran into the scree and disappeared.  I filled the water bottles from the point at which the water came through the moss out of the mountain - getting rid of the dodgy water collected earlier!.  This was the sweetest water I have ever tasted.

Started back down and came to realisation: I now weighed 4 litres of water more than I did when I came up.  The rocks were wet, the scree treacherous.  I slipped.  The GPS when I finished the walk showed a moximum speed of 14 kph - the speed of rolling and sliding down the scree.

I confess, my first thought was that I hoped that no one was around to see me fall because I must have looked a right prat.  However it did make me stop and think how isolated this spot was and to take more care next time.  Having re-fuelled with water and munched my way through an energy bar I was ready to tackle the next stage and ascend Alcazaba.  However, there was the small matter of these rather awesome cliffs and scree slopes.

I sat down and studied the map: 2 choices:  5km detour around the Tajos and haul up the Southern slope or to just pop up the scree to the top of the cliff.  I searched carefully and there was a line where the scree slope went nearly all the way up, leaving a short run of rock before the top.  This matched my previously selected route and it did not appear to be too difficult.

The ascent of the scree was laborious and very hot.  My combined weight meant that I had to step quickly over the scree to avoid sliding down.  The best technique was to step on the larger stones, but not long enough for the stone to take on the attributes of a skateboard – downwards.

Over an hour later and several hundred metres up, I arrived at the section of rock.  Funny how perspective changes when you get close to something and you are a long way above the valley floor.

The section of rock comprised long gully, one face of which was almost vertical.   The gully was about 20 metres long and a second section of rock (steeper) joined from the right.   When I stepped on the rock, I felt rather vulnerable; if I slipped, I would have fallen many feet onto the scree and then slid very quickly to the bottom of the scree slope – no doubt bouncing across the patches of rock that pierced the scree.

Off I went, repeating to myself ‘always keep 3 points of contact and you will not fall’.  After about 8 metres, I reached the gully to my right and that looked shorter, so up I went.  This was even more exposed and the risk of falling was very apparent.  But, no problem as the top was in reach.  I pulled myself up to look over the top ridge of rock; in front of me was a very steep section of fine scree with another 15 metres to the actual top.  Going back was not on my agenda and getting on to the scree looked very dodgy - shifting scree in front and behind a sudden drop of about 15 metres onto rock and scree, followed by the 400 metre slide to the bottom.   These are the times when I get religion and swear that if I survive, I will not do this again.

I clambered onto the scree and used my walking poles (that had shortened and were hanging from my wrists by the straps) as pitons in order to crawl on hands and knees up the scree, not daring to look behind me.   The heavy rucksack shifted my centre of gravity, leading to a definite feeling of instability.  As I was wearing shorts, the rock shredded my knees, but it was better than trying to walk up the slope.  Eventually, I came out on the ridge, dusty, hot, puffing but in one piece and feeling very pleased with myself but a bit wobbly.