I posted above about my all time worst moment, (and ultimate salvation) when confronted by that awful climb El Calvario on the VDLP, two days into my first ever camino. I remembered posting a description of that day a long time ago, and looked back to find it. Boy, re-reading, did the memories and feeling of desperation come flooding back. I thought I might copy and paste it because I bet it will resonate with a few people. So here it is.
Look, I can't resist coming clean about my encounter with Calvario, the hill just before Almaden de la Plata.
My first day out of Seville saw me reach Castilblanco without incident, and although it was very hot, June and high 30's I'd guess, I was feeling pretty good about my progress. I remember the bliss of a cold wash at that water pump, signposted in every language imaginable.
Anyway, the second day was equally hot, but the road to the gate of El Berrocal Park was easy, and the ride through the national park beautiful. Then came the abrupt stop at the foot of the climb. The track, if you could call it that is very stony and cut by gullies. And very steep. From the bottom, you have no idea how far, or how high it goes because of the trees. Now, I'm getting on in years and there were two other things distinctly not in my favour. I have a problem with arthritic knees, and, would you believe I was wearing cheap sandals, my only footwear.
I assessed the hill; there was zero possibility of my pushing the bike plus gear up the hill, so I took off the (too heavy) panniers and carried them fifty metres or so up the hill, put them under a tree and went back for the bike. After a dispiriting struggle I managed to reunite bike and bags, and began again. After two more such trips, I was still nowhere near the top, was in a state of utter exhaustion, my knees were screaming, and I had grave doubts that my sandals would hold together much longer, not to mention real worries about water. I remember sitting there, feeling utterly miserable, in the shade of a tree, almost in tears thinking that I was mad to have ever have thought I could do this.
After several minutes, I heard a noise, and was amazed to see a caballero coming up the hill on what seemed to be a huge horse. I should mention that this was the first person I'd seen the entire day, apart from passing cars on the long road before the national park. He stopped and looked down at this picture of abject misery, and began firing off a few sentences in that machine-gun Spanish, and of course I understood not a word.. I just looked at him, speechless. However, he then said a word I did understand "Bolsos", and motioned for me to hand up my bags, which I did, and then blow me he rode off up the hill muttering.
I sat there in some state of shock. I knew I didn't have the energy to push the bike any further. (Let me tell you, in these situations you find out very quickly how heavy and unweildy a mountain bike can be). But then, after a few minutes, another apparition! A young man, (obviously very fit), dressed in singlet and shorts, came RUNNING down the hill to me. He grabbed the bike and off he went to the top where the caballero waited, with me rather shame-faced plodding behind.
How I wish I had known some Spanish beyond gracias, to express my gratitude those guys. Where the young man came from I've no idea. I just reflected on the fact that people say miracles happen on the camino.