Whole herds of chamois stared in astonishment at the strange intruders in their paradise. For the rest, they showed little inclination to run away. The mountain fastness became progressively more barren and wild in its aspect. An infinitely dismal mood seemed to brood o’er the scene. Yet the magnificence of these mountains augmented from minute to minute. Grotesque stone giants—cast in burning ore by the furnace of high heaven—stood guarding this great grave of nature.
Woe to the wanderer whose ignorant footsteps err here! Death lies in ambush in the deep crevices and chasms.
At last we halted in front of the monarch of the magnificent mountain empire. His throne stands high in everlasting snow; a golden crown is on his head. His picture is known to all from the most distant mountain valley to the shores of the restless ocean. All admire his beauty, all know his name: Naranjo de Balnes.
This huge rock colossus rises 600 metres over its surroundings. Its perpendicular walls show hardly a crevice. And it seems incredible that nevertheless that bold mountaineer the Marqués de Villaviciosa de Asturia climbed to its summit.
On our wanderings round this mighty and stubborn rock tower we seemed to be lightened of all earthly burdens high up there in the solitude above the depths of humanity.
We climbed up to the Ceredo tower. The rocks were as sharp as knives. Again the ghostly mist rose from the valleys and whirled spectrally around us.
It was 5 o’clock and the Cares valley with Cain to where our steps were directed were not yet in sight.—I asked my companion: “How far yet?” “A few hours more” was the not very consoling reply.—The mist, that enemy of mountaineers was getting thicker. And ere long we could not see twenty paces ahead. The feeling of insecurity grew apace. And the sensation of climbing with mist-bound eyes was terrible. Again I questioned my guide. “Severo, is there no hut or shelter on the way?”—“I don’t think so.” Once more long minutes of silent groping. At last we were, at any rate for a while, rid of the stony region. Here and there a rocky projection, but it was quite impossible to tell if we were not suspended on it hundreds of meters over a yawning abyss. It was impossible to see anything through that fog. And at a quarter past six it was pitch dark.
Suddenly we came across a few low rough huts of unhewn stone huts sheltered by a rock-wall. There at last we could spend the night. But my guide wanted to go on. “Stop!” I cried. “Can we get to Cain to night?”—“I don’t know.” “Well then we’ll stay here!” Suiting the action to the word, we crept into one of the huts, crouched down, and slept fitfully through ten endless hours of night. But even they passed. The morning meant a dangerous and nasty descent. We waded knee-deep in wet grass, clambered over ledges with fog all around us. Woe to us had we slipped! Then we got lost and had to stop and climb back with the greatest care. Then we slid down a stony gully in which nearly every step set rocks thundering to the depths below.
At last the moist grey mist began to lift. A rift showed the bed of the valley far beneath us, and, as we thought, houses. But no, we were mistaken. They were huge boulders, the wreckage of some avalanche that filled the upper hollow. Down and down we scrambled till finally we broke through the foggy screen. Our goal was at our feet. Cain, strangely walled in by precipitous rocky cliffs rising sheer 1500 metres high. We were there! And we could rest. Some bread and butter was all we could find in the whole village to appease our hunger. We would gladly have rested there a day, but the place was too inhospitable. We had therefore to shoulder our rucksacks again. The distance we had climbed down the day before, we had to climb up again on the opposite rocks of the Peña santa. Hours and hours of strenuous efforts passed till we reached the ridge. We re-descended valleywards in a drizzling rain. Lake Enol was the last spot of beauty to be hidden from our view. It was there we struck the main road, and then marched another 10 kilometres down to Covadonga which we reached as tired as dogs.
Night had already cast her shadow over the valley, and the stars were beginning to shine forth. Welcoming lights were seen burning in Covadonga. But it seemed as though we should never reach them. However the prospect of a bed lent us strength, and at half past eight we stumbled painfully over the threshold of a clean hospitable house. I went to bed exhausted, and my restless dreams were haunted with the beautiful and terrible wanderings in the Picos de Europa ([266]-[274]).