 I’m in Spain, standing on a huge cairn, a pile of rocks the size of a small car. To the east, the Sierra Nevada are a crenelated horizon, with new snow from the recent storms exaggerating the topography. To the west below me, the rooftops of distant Granada fill a broad valley, in some places overflowing the basin to wash up the slopes of the surrounding hills. I’m on top of a mountain called Cerro Huenes. At least I think I am. I followed a trail to somewhere below, then broke free and climbed upward across a rocky slope when it was evident the path wouldn’t bring me here. I stopped when I couldn’t go any higher. And here I am, on a pile of rocks. The language of landscape is universal. I can read this landscape just like I do back home in California. The ridges and valleys form patterns that I see repeated over and over again, and use to orient myself. But understanding the imprint of humans on the land is different – it requires translation. I have no idea why a trail would come so close to a mountain summit, but not finish the final kilometer to the top? Not on the map, not on the ground… Are Spaniards not as goal-oriented as people in the States? Are the trails not for hikers, but for someone else altogether? When we woke up this morning, the sun was shining. First glorious day in almost a week. So I bolted for the hills, to enjoy the local terrain in the sunshine. Charlie shot out of the house too, to bike up into the mountains. Ever the “non-competitive” guy we all know, Charlie discovered that the road out of town and up to the ski area was one leg of the Vuelta de España (Spain’s version of the Tour de France) in 2013. His biking app has supplied him with all the times of the famous names in international cycling… My goals were more modest. Successful routefinding would be nice. My sights were on the closest mountain that I could get up before Coby got out of school. A small road out of town wound steeply up, up, up past cortijos and almond trees in bloom. The views opened up. An occasional farmdog ran out barking at me, but I kept it at bay by picking up a stone and threatening to throw it. I continued up past the farms. My legs burned. I was way-the-bleep up out of town – Monachil a small cluster of white and red below me. Feeling like I was finally putting some distance between me and humanity, finally in the national park and deeper into nature, I climbed up around a corner and came face to face with an ancient irrigation canal. Modernized and cement-lined, to be sure, but the oldest vestige here of past civilizations. Oh. So much for reading humanity and its extent. Ego deflated, I sat on a rock to rest my legs, pulled open my pack and searched for my water bottle. Someone brushed past me, nearly knocking me off my rock. I looked up and saw a group of people coming at me. I jumped up in surprise and stepped back. Men crowded past, carrying adzes. They wore simple skirts, nothing else. Wool, cotton? I couldn't tell. They were wiry and muscled, barefoot. Their skin was sun-bronzed. They talked with each other in a gutteral language I didn’t understand that sounded like Hebrew. It certainly wasn’t Spanish. One of the men was organizing, pointing and waving at the others to take up positions at places he was indicating. The men sorted themselves out into a long snakelike line that hugged the contour. At a word from the man, they all attacked the earth with their tools. I cringed at the thought of metal hitting the hard cement of the irrigation canal. But all I heard was the soft thud of adze-heads biting into the earth. I looked past the men. Unbroken ground stretched beyond the line. Where was the irrigation canal? I looked at the men again, took in their appearance, their clothing and their tools, and a thought cha-chunked into place. Phoenicians? Where had they come from? I looked back the way I’d come. The road I’d walked was gone, and in its place a trail wound upwards from a small, fertile farm perched on the slope. Below that was another farm. Patches of tilled and grazed farmland stretched out below me, here and there a small stone building. From this distance I could see a lacework of trails scarring the hills, emerging from the farms, converging downslope, like a spiderweb converges at the center. And the center of this web was where Monachil had been. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Monachil was definitely gone. In its place was a multi-colored splotch – tents? – along the river. I cast back to what I learned last weekend. Phoenicians lived in the area, when, around 800 BC? They extracted resources from inland Spain to feed their coastal empires, including Malacca (now called Málaga) and Sexi (now Almuñecar). They lived peacefully, even traded, with the indigenous peoples. Well thank god for that peaceful part. The men talked in low voices as they dug. Were they Phoenicians or… maybe Romans? Pathetic that I couldn’t tell the difference. The Romans occupied the same towns and valleys, plied the same trades, even built irrigation canals, but took irrigation to the extreme. They erected huge aqueducts spanning enormous valleys. The Romans were the Phoenicians on steroids. They kicked out the Phoenicians and ruled for the next 700 years, doing everything that much better. Now that I thought about it, maybe those skirts the men sported were that much more… manly? A blackbird landed next to me, searching for crumbs. Grunting and heaving sounds came from above. I looked up to see two groups of men marching down the ridge towards us, shouldering impossibly heavy-looking hewn pine trunks. The ditch diggers parted to let them through, shouting and laughing, clapping the laden men on the back, and making gestures I didn’t understand. It was fraternal, that’s all I could tell. Some picked up ceramic pitchers and offered drinks to the passing men. And as the timbermen grunted by, I could see sweat dripping off noses, elbows and hair, their backs slick with it. I smelled the resin of the pine, mixed with the sharp odor of straining men. An errant pine branch slapped me in the face. I’d had enough of ancient Phoenicia and/or Rome. But I couldn’t return the way I’d come. Monachil was gone. My only choice was to go up. I grabbed my pack and ducked through the gap in the ditch diggers. I followed the path recently used by the timbermen, up the ridge. Nervous, skeptical and full of questions, I pressured my legs to move faster, go higher. I took one last look back at the diggers, who were bent with their work again. Then, I walked over a rise and the men were out of sight. |
The blackbird had followed me, though, ever hopeful. I identified it as the European blackbird, Turdus merula, and opened a zip-loc with some crackers so I could drop crumbs. The bird swooped down. I wondered if I was still in Phoenicia or whether time had righted itself as soon as I left the men behind. The bird trilled. I marveled at the music, and thought of all the references to these melodic birds, and wondered if it could use the bird to pinpoint my “when”.
Ziryab, an Arabic term that translates as "blackbird", was a beloved Arabic musician. He lived in medieval Spain more than a thousand years ago, in the 800’s. He knew thousands of songs by heart, influenced the direction of music, played in the Palace of Alhambra, and designed the instrument that became the lute. The Anglo-saxon name for the blackbird was the osle, as in Shakespeare's “ouzelicock so black of hue”, scribed in A Midsummer Night's Dream in the late 1500’s. Even the Beatles drew inspiration from the bird: “Blackbird singing in the dead of night…”, in 1968. Hmmm… more than 1,200 years as a character on the stage of human drama. I wouldn’t get any help on my timeline from the blackbird.
I continued upward, through rosemary and gorse, both in bloom. The dry, rocky shrubland continued as far upwards as I could see. I heard rockfall behind me and a nasal braying. I turned. A scraggly line of kids and elderly people trudged up the trail behind me. I released a long, relieved breath as I noted they weren’t Phoenicians. They were dressed in somber grays and blacks, worn clothes, patched. Girls and old women wore skirts. The elderly men wore dark coats. Each kid was leading a mule. One mule had balked and was complaining loudly. Its feet were braced, pulling back on the boy who tried to tug it forward. Kids started throwing rocks at it. Finally the mule gave in and started walking again. The first person on the trail to reach me was an old man. His face was a spiderweb of lines and there was a hardness about his features. He looked me over suspiciously, then tread a wide circle to avoid me. The woman behind him did the same. The girl behind her started with surprise when she saw me, but gave me a cheery “Buen’ dia’!”
My face must have softened at hearing the Spanish because she continued without pause.
“?Va a ayudarno’ a plantar árbole’? (Are you going to help us plant trees?)
Vale, toma mi mula! Tengo que tirar de mi cathetine’!” (Right, take my mule! I have to pull up my socks!).
Vale, lo tengo. Por qué lleva lo’ pantalone’? (OK, now I have it. Why are you wearing pants?).
She continued to warble on in a melodious and thickly southern Spanish, swallowing her terminal “s’s”. I never thought I would welcome hearing the language so much. I stepped into line beside her and tried to follow her words. I glanced back over the line. Shawled and hatted heads were bent to climbing up the hill. I saw a boy stabilize a teetering elderly woman. Muleload after muleload, I could see hundreds of pine seedlings in burlap bags swaying to the rhythm of the mules’ steps. Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come, I mouthed silently from MacBeth.
In my own version of Spanish, I asked the girl why they were planting trees. She laughed at my accent and my words, but was happy enough to tell me they got paid to do it. She’d been doing it every day all spring. Except for Sunday, of course. All the kids did it, and most of the viejos. Because they needed the money. Brayan was the fastest planter, and got paid the most, but he split what he made with his grandfather who was really slow. Maria Jose said they should all take more care planting, otherwise the seedlings would die. She gave all her money to her husband.
“Who pays you?” I interrupted.
“Stop talking to her”, the old man turned around and growled. I put my hands up in surrender and stepped out of the line.
“The government”, the girl whispered under her breath as she trudged past. An elderly woman stopped next to me, breathing hard. She looked at me appraisingly. Her eyes were somber.
“Are you one of Franco’s spies?” she asked matter-of-factly. “Are you?”
“Definitely not”. I shook my head. But now I had my pin in the timeline. Franco? Somewhere between 1939, the end of the civil war when Franco took power and 1975, when Franco died. Whew. At least I was getting within spitting distance of my own era.
“No one talks, but we all know who kills who,” the woman nodded sagely. “My son died last year.”
I gulped. “I’m so sorry,” I said lamely.
“I’ve been to Granada three times in my life, you know. Granada three times, but never to Madrid. But you have, haven’t you? Look at you. A woman in pants.” She spat on the ground. “You can tell Franco in Madrid that I know who killed my son.”
A shiver crept up my spine. I felt my nape hairs rise. “I don’t work for Franco,” I said again. And pulled myself away from the woman. From the whole line, in fact. I turned and ran away across a slope, pounding upwards, always upwards, aiming for the summit.
The young girl waved. I didn’t wave back.
Heaving with effort, I pulled myself behind a rock, sat down and covered my face with my hands. I shivered again. That girl could still be alive, I thought. In Monachil. She’d be in her 70’s or 80’s. What had happened here? What had Franco done to these people? Turned brother against brother, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor. Will the people ever forgive each other? The chasm of Los Cohorros is nothing compared to what Franco had done to this place.
I waited for my heart to stop racing. I heard a familiar chirrup. I peeked out from behind my rock. The blackbird was hopping among the branches of a low rosemary, cocking its head sideways, looking for insects. I looked beyond it to where the line of tree-planters and their mules had been. They were gone. I breathed. And scattered crumbs for the bird.
When was I?
I stood up and brushed myself off. I headed for a trail above me, snaking through a forest of pine, a plantation that must be at least 50 years old. The trail was wooded. Here was a sign saying Cerro Huenes was 1.2 km further. I tugged out my map, but the trail didn’t go to the summit. I could see the peak above me. So, I left the trail, and struck out upward and out of the forest, toward the bare knoll way above me. Maybe I wasn't following a trail, but dozens of trails criss-crossed the hill sideways – goats, sheep maybe. Some looked more used than others. Perhaps humans used them as well, but certainly not to reach the summit. I nearly tripped over a pile of firewood, sawed neatly and stacked carefully. I heard a chainsaw whining somewhere nearby, then watched a small pine below me topple. A man in wellies saw me watching him and doffed his cap. I waved enthusiastically. I’d never been happier to see a chainsaw.
I huffed myself up onto the summit plateau and saw the pile of rocks that marked the highest point. The blackbird has gotten there before me and is perched on the highest stone. I step onto the pile and look around. The bird flies off and away toward the east, where the Sierra Nevada are a crenelated horizon, with new snow from the recent storms exaggerating the topography. To the west below me, the rooftops of distant Granada fill a broad valley, in some places overflowing the basin to wash up the slopes of the surrounding hills. Monachil is there below me. And somewhere among those small-town buildings, the school. And that’s where I’ll meet Coby, who will be finishing his last class in just a little over an hour. I hope.
Ziryab, an Arabic term that translates as "blackbird", was a beloved Arabic musician. He lived in medieval Spain more than a thousand years ago, in the 800’s. He knew thousands of songs by heart, influenced the direction of music, played in the Palace of Alhambra, and designed the instrument that became the lute. The Anglo-saxon name for the blackbird was the osle, as in Shakespeare's “ouzelicock so black of hue”, scribed in A Midsummer Night's Dream in the late 1500’s. Even the Beatles drew inspiration from the bird: “Blackbird singing in the dead of night…”, in 1968. Hmmm… more than 1,200 years as a character on the stage of human drama. I wouldn’t get any help on my timeline from the blackbird.
I continued upward, through rosemary and gorse, both in bloom. The dry, rocky shrubland continued as far upwards as I could see. I heard rockfall behind me and a nasal braying. I turned. A scraggly line of kids and elderly people trudged up the trail behind me. I released a long, relieved breath as I noted they weren’t Phoenicians. They were dressed in somber grays and blacks, worn clothes, patched. Girls and old women wore skirts. The elderly men wore dark coats. Each kid was leading a mule. One mule had balked and was complaining loudly. Its feet were braced, pulling back on the boy who tried to tug it forward. Kids started throwing rocks at it. Finally the mule gave in and started walking again. The first person on the trail to reach me was an old man. His face was a spiderweb of lines and there was a hardness about his features. He looked me over suspiciously, then tread a wide circle to avoid me. The woman behind him did the same. The girl behind her started with surprise when she saw me, but gave me a cheery “Buen’ dia’!”
My face must have softened at hearing the Spanish because she continued without pause.
“?Va a ayudarno’ a plantar árbole’? (Are you going to help us plant trees?)
Vale, toma mi mula! Tengo que tirar de mi cathetine’!” (Right, take my mule! I have to pull up my socks!).
Vale, lo tengo. Por qué lleva lo’ pantalone’? (OK, now I have it. Why are you wearing pants?).
She continued to warble on in a melodious and thickly southern Spanish, swallowing her terminal “s’s”. I never thought I would welcome hearing the language so much. I stepped into line beside her and tried to follow her words. I glanced back over the line. Shawled and hatted heads were bent to climbing up the hill. I saw a boy stabilize a teetering elderly woman. Muleload after muleload, I could see hundreds of pine seedlings in burlap bags swaying to the rhythm of the mules’ steps. Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come, I mouthed silently from MacBeth.
In my own version of Spanish, I asked the girl why they were planting trees. She laughed at my accent and my words, but was happy enough to tell me they got paid to do it. She’d been doing it every day all spring. Except for Sunday, of course. All the kids did it, and most of the viejos. Because they needed the money. Brayan was the fastest planter, and got paid the most, but he split what he made with his grandfather who was really slow. Maria Jose said they should all take more care planting, otherwise the seedlings would die. She gave all her money to her husband.
“Who pays you?” I interrupted.
“Stop talking to her”, the old man turned around and growled. I put my hands up in surrender and stepped out of the line.
“The government”, the girl whispered under her breath as she trudged past. An elderly woman stopped next to me, breathing hard. She looked at me appraisingly. Her eyes were somber.
“Are you one of Franco’s spies?” she asked matter-of-factly. “Are you?”
“Definitely not”. I shook my head. But now I had my pin in the timeline. Franco? Somewhere between 1939, the end of the civil war when Franco took power and 1975, when Franco died. Whew. At least I was getting within spitting distance of my own era.
“No one talks, but we all know who kills who,” the woman nodded sagely. “My son died last year.”
I gulped. “I’m so sorry,” I said lamely.
“I’ve been to Granada three times in my life, you know. Granada three times, but never to Madrid. But you have, haven’t you? Look at you. A woman in pants.” She spat on the ground. “You can tell Franco in Madrid that I know who killed my son.”
A shiver crept up my spine. I felt my nape hairs rise. “I don’t work for Franco,” I said again. And pulled myself away from the woman. From the whole line, in fact. I turned and ran away across a slope, pounding upwards, always upwards, aiming for the summit.
The young girl waved. I didn’t wave back.
Heaving with effort, I pulled myself behind a rock, sat down and covered my face with my hands. I shivered again. That girl could still be alive, I thought. In Monachil. She’d be in her 70’s or 80’s. What had happened here? What had Franco done to these people? Turned brother against brother, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor. Will the people ever forgive each other? The chasm of Los Cohorros is nothing compared to what Franco had done to this place.
I waited for my heart to stop racing. I heard a familiar chirrup. I peeked out from behind my rock. The blackbird was hopping among the branches of a low rosemary, cocking its head sideways, looking for insects. I looked beyond it to where the line of tree-planters and their mules had been. They were gone. I breathed. And scattered crumbs for the bird.
When was I?
I stood up and brushed myself off. I headed for a trail above me, snaking through a forest of pine, a plantation that must be at least 50 years old. The trail was wooded. Here was a sign saying Cerro Huenes was 1.2 km further. I tugged out my map, but the trail didn’t go to the summit. I could see the peak above me. So, I left the trail, and struck out upward and out of the forest, toward the bare knoll way above me. Maybe I wasn't following a trail, but dozens of trails criss-crossed the hill sideways – goats, sheep maybe. Some looked more used than others. Perhaps humans used them as well, but certainly not to reach the summit. I nearly tripped over a pile of firewood, sawed neatly and stacked carefully. I heard a chainsaw whining somewhere nearby, then watched a small pine below me topple. A man in wellies saw me watching him and doffed his cap. I waved enthusiastically. I’d never been happier to see a chainsaw.
I huffed myself up onto the summit plateau and saw the pile of rocks that marked the highest point. The blackbird has gotten there before me and is perched on the highest stone. I step onto the pile and look around. The bird flies off and away toward the east, where the Sierra Nevada are a crenelated horizon, with new snow from the recent storms exaggerating the topography. To the west below me, the rooftops of distant Granada fill a broad valley, in some places overflowing the basin to wash up the slopes of the surrounding hills. Monachil is there below me. And somewhere among those small-town buildings, the school. And that’s where I’ll meet Coby, who will be finishing his last class in just a little over an hour. I hope.
