I watch the white, tense hand of the woman in the blue hoodie as she grips the gray rock face, the other hand on the hard, steel cable. Nose to wall, her helmet repeatedly grazes the uneven surface as if she wants to be absorbed into it.
Where the solid ground mountain trail became suspended walkway had not been obvious. If it had been, we may both have turned around, avoiding the path of narrow, wooden slats and steel cables bolted into the cliff face.
I don´t have much of a head for heights but am now determined to do this walkway. I cringe as the woman in blue struggles, knowing that could be me doing the same. I had no idea it would be such a long way down. Or up.
She´s barely making progress, and voices start to murmur behind me; I have to pass. The path is just wide enough for two, so getting close to the wall isn´t an option. I step to the left, grasp the cold cable on the edge of the suspended walkway, breath and overtake, watching only my well-worn leather boots until the wall is available again. Then, hand on solid rock, I turn to look down the ravine without end.
Overhanging rock makes the path narrower again, pushing me to the edge, nearer than I´d like. As much rock is above us as below. Looking up is easier, but only just. Helmets are necessary not just from the danger of falls from above but jutting rocks that can catch you unaware. Somewhere far down below, I´d read, the Guadalhorce River trickles here in Málaga province, though I can´t hear it from this high up.
The gorge at this northern end is only about 10 meters to the other side. I look at the rock as I walk, so dark, so sheer. The air is pure, chilly even. A glass floor juts out with a queue to step on it, to see the water below, I walk on by.
I´m walking the Caminito del Rey, or the King´s Little Pathway, originally built to link the two sides of the narrow gorge, for workers to access the new hydroelectric system and for its inauguration by Spain´s King Alfonso XIII. Then, after time, it became the “world´s scariest footpath” after years of disuse.
I´d made it this far, and forward is the only way, though I don´t look very far ahead. As I walk on, leaving the woman in blue behind me, a smirk lingers, as does the hollowness of my insides. The open-mouthed appreciation of raw nature enchants me, but my gut doesn’t agree.
We go from a dizzying height, then without noticing, we’re on flat ground again in this spectacular valley. Pine trees and green vegetation thrive here. We walk through a disused water channel, then there’s a gradual climb, and we´re suspended halfway up the cliff face on the walkway again.
“Keep close to the wall!” One of the officials shouts.
“Falling rocks!” We all press against the rock face.
Silence takes over the previous chatter as we hear rocks tumble down and thud somewhere far below.
“All clear,” he shouts. Pointing across the gorge, we see three figures high above us,
suspended only by ropes.
“It´s not our side; it´s the climbers over there.” We walk on.
The route is almost 8km north to south, a lineal walk which rises and falls, always inspiring. Across the gorge a tiny opening appears in the rock face, and we see a train flash past – a brief glance. Did the passengers see us? This is the slow train track from Malaga to Seville – I´d like to be in that train, see the impressive countryside from a safe, seated position, look out at people on a little path, high up on a cliff and wonder why they want to do that.
Most of the journey must be in the darkness of tunnels. I´m in pure nature, and the only sign of human life is what I´m walking on. I´d much rather be here than on that train. I walk on, a little taller, breathing the fresh air and glorious beauty. Yes, this…this is my journey. Maybe I´ll take that train one day, today I´m crossing divides.
As the rock faces begin to pull away from each other, the Desfiladero de los Gaitanes suspension footbridge is ahead linking the two cliffs, running alongside the 100-year-old service bridge, it looks flimsy. I concentrate on my steps as we approach. Not looking, not thinking, just stepping.
A bit of a queue forms as some of the walkers need a little persuasion to cross to the other side and others feel the need to pose for a photo or to jump halfway over. The queue gets shorter.
It´s my turn. I look straight ahead, put one foot in front of the other, and try not to make the bridge bounce as I walk across. Whoever comes behind me seems to be doing the opposite, I do not dare look back. Having crossed the cable walkway, feet on firm ground, albeit high, I´m relieved, I did that, and part of me hopes there will be another glass floor that I might try.
The path, with steel bolts and wooden boardwalk, has been completely rebuilt. Some remains of the original one, finished in 1905, weathered, broken planks, rusting posts with no rails, are just a meter or so below this new path.
Many dare devils lost their lives attempting to climb between the remaining sections before both ends of it were demolished to stop access. During the rebuild they used helicopters, how did they do it the first time around I wonder?
There are lots of small, wooden steps to descend and concentrate on, and then we´re on solid ground once again, my journey accomplished. I look back and up to see small figures still crossing the bridge. I did that, I think. Not smiling, not happily, but I did it. I grin, and then I wonder how the woman in blue is doing.