Our outfit was packed on ponies, and being joined by three of the chamois-hunters, we set out, following the course of the river Cares. This gorge of the Cares, along with its sister-valley the Desfiladero de la Deva, form two of the most magnificent canyons in all the Asturias, and perhaps have few equals in the wider world outside. The bridle-track led along rock-shelves on the hanging mountain-side, presently falling again till we rode close by the torrent of the Cares, here swirling in foaming rapids with alternations of deep pools of such crystalline water that trout could be discerned swimming twenty feet below the surface. The water varied between a diamond-white and an emerald-green, according as the stream flowed over the white limestone or rocks of darker shade.
Approaching Bulnes, the track became absolutely appalling, zigzagging to right and left up an almost perpendicular mountain. Riding was here out of the question. It was giddy work enough on foot, rounding corners where the outer rim overhung a sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the torrent below, and with no protection to save horse or man in the event of a slip or false step. Not without mental tremors we surmounted it and reached Bulnes, a dozen stone, windowless houses clustered on an escarpment. This is facetiously called the “Upper Town,” and we presumed that another group of hovels hidden somewhere beneath our sight formed Lower Bulnes.
We entered the best looking of these stone-age abodes, and discovered that it formed the presbytery of the Cura of Bulnes, a strange mixture of alpine hut with Gothic hermitage. Slabs of rough stone projecting from unhewn walls served as tables, while rudely carved oak-chests did double duty as seats or wardrobes in turn. The Cura’s bed occupied one corner, and from the walls hung gun and rifle, together with accoutrements of the chase—satchels, belts, and pouches, all made of chamois-skin. At first sight indeed the whole presbytery reeked rather of hunting than of holiness—it is scarce too strong to say it smelt of game. An inner apartment, windowless and lit by the feeble flicker of a mariposa, that recalled the reed-lights of mediaeval history (and to which, by the way, access was only gained past other cells which appeared to be the abode of cows and of the cook respectively), was assigned to us.
The Padre himself was away on the cliffs above cutting hay, for he combines agriculture with the care of souls, owns many cows, and makes the celebrated cheese known as “Cabrales.” Presently he joined us in his stone chamber, and at once showed himself to be, by his frank and genuine manner, what later experience proved him, a true sportsman and a most unselfish companion. His Reverence at once set about the details of organising our hunt, sent his nephew to round-up the mountain lads, some being sent off at once to spend that night, how, we know not, in crags of the Peña Vieja, while others were instructed to join us there in the morning.
While we dined on smoked chamois and rough red wine he busied himself arranging weapons, ammunition, and mocassins for a few days’ work on the crags. Our arrival having been prearranged, we were soon on our upward way, by sinous tracks which lead to the summits of the Picos de Europa, some altitudes of which are as follows: Peña Vieja, 10,046 feet; Picos de Hierro, 9610 feet; Pico de San Benigno, 9329 feet. All heavy baggage was left below; there only remained the tent, rugs, guns, and cartridges, and these were got up, heaven knows how, to about half the required height on the backs of two donkeys. For provisions we relied on the milk and bread of the cheese-makers who live up there, much in the style of the Norwegian peasants at their saeters, or summer sheilings on the fjeld. Hard by the cabaña, or cabin, of these honest folks, our tent was pitched—altitude, 5800 feet.
With the first of the daylight, after a drink of milk, we started upwards, our host, the Cura, Bertie, and ourselves.
With us were ten goat-herds who had to flank the drive; the others would already be occupying allotted positions, we knew not where. Three hours’ climbing—the usual struggle, only worse—took us to the first line of “passes,” far above the last signs of vegetation and amidst what little snow remains here in summer. This “drive” had been reckoned a certainty, and four animals were reported seen in the mist, but no chamois came in to the guns, and yet another two-hours’ climb had to be faced ere the second set of posts was reached.
This bit, however, definitely stopped for the moment my career as a chamois-hunter, such was the slippery, perpendicular, and utterly dangerous nature of the rocks. A fortnight before I had climbed the Plaza de Almanzór in the Sierra de Grédos, but these pinnacles of the Picos proved beyond my powers. The admission, beyond any words of mine, bespeaks the character of these Cantabrian peaks. Here on a dizzy ledge at 8000 feet I remained behind, while the rest of the party, filing up a rock-stair, were lost to sight within fifteen yards.
Before me stretched away peak beyond peak in emulating altitudes the whole vast cordillera of Cantabria—a glory of mountain-forms.
...the things which tower, which shine,
Whose smile makes glad, whose frown is terrible.