On July 4th 2003 at 10:07 I reached the summit of El Mulhacen, which stands at 11,432 feet and is mainland Spain’s highest point.
One sentence, a few words; yet to be able to write these words I had endured the most sustained discomfort and physical stress of my lifetime.




(above:Frank McKell & Friend at Orgiva Market. Sierra Nevada in background.)

My trek to the peak had taken over ten hours and it had been the same number of months since my previous unsuccessful attempt in September 2002; since when I had been planning and preparing for my second and possibly final attempt as I was about to reach 74 years of age.

In 2002 I had set out on horseback in company with my guide José Antonio from Trevelez, Spain's highest village. We took the southeast route and after five hours of non-stop climbing reached the beautiful plateau of Siete Lagunas that lies at the base of El Mulhacen. We slept in the open but at sunrise I could not make the stiff final ascent and we returned to Trevelez while I promised myself that I would return the following year and get to the summit.

It was essential that I lose some weight and get myself into better physical shape and these objects I at once set about achieving. Out of my diet went the ice cream and chocolate which I so enjoy and sometimes eat like a child let loose in a café. Almost every morning I went for a walk in the hills surrounding my home in Barrhead, Scotland, when I usually walked for at least two hours, often walking 4-6 miles and more. Very soon I noticed the benefits of this as my weight went down and my breathing improved so that even walking uphill was easy and enjoyable.

I returned to Spain in June 2003 and stayed in the delightful small town of Ugijar in La Alpujarra. Perhaps I had an insight of the discomfort I would suffer on the high mountain as I decided to travel by coach from London via Barcelona, a change of coach, then onwards south to Andalucia. Masochist that I was! Definitely not recommended if one likes to sleep with some comfort – that trip is for the adventureros!

Settled in my comfortable apartment [property of a Spanish friend] I started my climbing training by walking in the local hills early in the mornings before the sun became too hot. By 9 o'clock it was usually around 30 degrees C and so I was out and about at 7 am. These walks were a very pleasant part of my holiday.

I usually walked in the countryside on the outskirts of the town and started out by crossing the bed of the Nechite River that runs down from Sierra Nevada. From here I would ascend a track known as 'Cuesta del Molino' [Slope to The Mill]. This is an extremely steep track leading to a fairly flat expanse of hilltop overlooking Ugijar. From this point Yegen, Valor, Mairena, Laroles and other villages of La Alpujarra can be seen. Beyond these the snow capped peaks of Sierra Nevada and on the opposite, southern side, the high ridges of Sierra La Contraviesa running between La Alpujarra and the Mediterranean coast. From this point I could follow a variety of routes that took me through lemon, orange or olive groves at some stage. Here I would sit under a tree, eat a snack and drink some water brought along in my small rucksack. I always had my compass and whistle slung round my neck and carried a stick of some sort – even bamboo that I cut along the way was enough to dissuade any stray dogs and check doubtful ground before stepping upon it.

I set the date for reaching the summit of El Mulhacen as July 4th as that should give me enough time for training and would be an easy date to remember. As the weather was very warm, with 34 degrees C from around 10 am to 4 pm being quite usual and 250/300 into late evening, I planned my ascent to start in late afternoon – also I wanted to sleep on the summit and awake to watch the sun rise and unfold over Africa.

Endless perusing of maps and consulting the Internet for articles, photos, sketches, experiences of others, advice from the mountaineer's H.Q., the park ranger and other Multiple enquiries including the phase of the moon left me feeling that I was well prepared. Dream on Frank - I was not!

From Ugijar I could drive via Trevelez or Orgiva to reach Capileira, which is the last village on the southwestern approach to the heights of Sierra Nevada. As the third of July was a Thursday and market day in Orgiva I chose to pass through that town on my way up the mountainside. A delightful market it is with masses of clothing and local fruit and vegetables on offer while alongside foreign artists show handmade crafts and natural foods from rickety tables or cloths spread upon the ground. I bought some fruit and, from the pharmacy, some glucose tablets that promised to ward of muscle cramp and give me super, instant energy when needed.

Up the well surfaced road that twisted and rose to take me through the high villages of Pampaniera and Bubion before I passed through Capileira where a large roadside notice warns that the way is closed some kilometres ahead. The road from here is less well maintained though still metalled and now as it turns more one is soon driving through very pleasant pine forests to arrive at a picnic place called Hoya de Portillo. At this juncture there is a barrier across the road where a mountain ranger permits only authorised vehicles to pass.

I had travelled 11.3 kilometres since leaving Capileira and it was time to park my car, gather my gear and prepare for the real part of the trip, the serious part. From this point there was a microbus that would take us yet further up the trail, most welcome it was as already I was concerned about the weight of my rucksack.

I had a talk with Paco the ranger who assured me that the climb to the summit of El Mulhacen from the Mirador de Trevelez, where the microbus would leave me, took about 2 ½ to 3 hours. From his cabin at the barrier there are paths laid through the trees to the information centre; here there are fine sturdy picnic tables and benches but no visible water supply though I understand there is some available but not readily accessible. Concha, the friendly guide in the office, gave me some brochures and we looked at my route on a wall map. Again I was told that the 'final climb' was about 3 hours prompting me to remark that young climbers perhaps took that time and so I was expecting to need 5 to 7 hours.

I sat at a table under the trees and had some food and a little water, now needing to conserve my supplies. Dressed in military fatigue trousers and heavy blue denim shirt I had just put on woollen knee-length seaman's stockings and my heavy-duty climbing boots. I added a thick, wide gymnasium support belt that would help support my back and hopefully hold me together when the pressures were greatest.

I really felt very good! The weather was splendid, with a temperature of 210 as I lifted my gear and headed for the arriving microbus.

Oh! Oh! This rucksack was really much too weighty and I had the sleeping bag that must somehow be fastened on. A chill passed over my feeling of wellbeing. How I had planned and considered the question of weight, yet here I was about to launch into the high sierra on my own with an extra burden. No time now for recriminations or rectifications – on to the microbus I had to go, it was 15:20 and we were on our way up. There was only one other passenger, a local shepherd or hill dweller who was getting a lift to a point near to his home. Apart from the driver there was Paco the guide. Now Paco was a serious guide who knew his stuff and immediately started briefing me on walking in the high sierra, yet he also talked of a trip to the summit taking less than 3 hours. He said it was late in the day to be attempting to reach the summit but I replied that I planned to sleep up there. Paco told me the weather could change very swiftly, with little warning and great frequency, so I should seek cover if that happened. He also said that it was never wise to travel in the sierra alone - and in that of course he is absolutely right. I had hoped to team up with some other climber but unfortunately did not meet up with anyone. The die was cast!

The microbus stopped at the limit of its journey where a handful of day climbers were waiting to return down mountain. They looked at me with widened eyes, and I was not surprised - I looked somewhat different!

Paco came over, extended his right arm, pointed and said: 'Follow this track for about 500 yards then cut across to the right – look, you can see the start of the trail to the mountain going straight ahead. Just keep to the trail as it winds uphill, you can't miss it. The summit of El Mulhacen is hidden from here but you will be skirting around that bank of snow there on the flank of the mountain and soon after that you will see the summit. Buen viaje!'' It was ten past four and I was on my own!

With my baseball cap sporting the motif 'Boca Raton' [mouse mouth] firmly on my head, wooden staff in hand, I lugged my rucksack and sleeping bag some fifty yards up track and halted. I wanted to wait until the returning climbers had boarded the microbus before I started to get my act together and 'kit up'. The last 3 passengers for the trip down to civilization, hot baths, cooked food, warm beds and security passed me. All three gave me their scrutinizing 'eyes left' as though passing the saluting base at the end of a march past, eyes going up and down, and around like Catherine Wheels. The group was a man and two boys of about 14 years of age. Returning their 'eyes left' I almost leapt to attention but instead smiled broadly and in friendly, light-hearted tones asked if they had been up to the summit. The man, floppy cap down over his ears covering his forehead like a sheepdog's fringe, slowed his pace and, seeming to shake the fringe back as he lifted his head gave me the full eyes all over treatment. 'We were on the summit this morning.' Eyes front, increase pace and on to the bus. A revved engine, some dust and it vanished. It was as though the microbus and all the others had been a mirage. Finally, after many months anticipating, it was to be El Mulhacen and me, with much rising ground between us.

An immense feeling of exhilaration swept over me. After so much planning and thinking, travelling and preparation, there ahead lay El Mulhacen. That the mountains in the near distance concealed it bothered me not at all; 'My Mountain' awaited this present-day Mohammed and he was eager for the encounter.
Shouldering my small rucksack I passed my sleeping bag over my head so that it sat on top of the rucksack just below my neck. I had previously secured a cord around both extremities of the sleeping bag, leaving two loops hanging loose to use as shoulder straps. I put my arms through these and passed the loops through the broad exercise belt that was round my middle. Industrial type gloves on, staff in hand, eyes up, looking ahead and I was moving towards my goal.

Unbelievably I had to pause after only 100 yards to assist my laboured breathing by dragging down some extra mountain air to refresh my already straining lungs. Onwards! And with the ground beginning to rise slightly I was soon frantically looking for a high rock or hillock where the weight of the accursed rucksack and sliding, slipping, sleep sack could be rested – nothing! The rucksack came off, sleeping bag and exercise belt, all thrown to the ground. Almost a Full Monty on the Sierra Nevada and I hadn't travelled 500 yards!
I took stock. What a pantomime this appeared to be and I was as yet not on the mountain proper, there remaining what I assessed as 1000 yards of gently rising terrain leading to the start of the steeper skirt, or apron. From there, I told myself; by carefully following the trail and not getting lost I would reach the summit of El Mulhacen. The conversation between my various selves was brisk and searching, each self having a distinct opinion. The dominant self emerged as the one that had been specially nurtured for such a moment of trial and self-doubt; the confident-self. For some months I had been making it widely known that I was expecting to gain the summit of Spain's Highest Mountain. At home around Barrhead and in Spain around La Alpujarra, the word was the same – I expected to get to the roof of Spain. "Right, Francisco, you've talked about it enough, the planning is all yours, now get the gear on and DO IT!"

A quick inventory of the goods being carried to see if any weight could be ditched came up with a negative. I reasoned that eating and drinking would soon lessen my back weight by redistribution from outside to inside my body, whilst my exertions would rapidly burn up the elements consumed.

Thus, having rationalised everything and leaving CS [confident-self] in command of the climb, as yet barely commenced, I prepared to resume. On with the gear and now I took several turns on the cords holding the sleeping bag before passing the exercise belt through them.

Walking was at once easier as the backpack now stayed in position and was more comfortable, but the weight! the weight! was there as a roaring in my head "Too much, too much by far" it yelled. Nevertheless, I was confidently convincing myself that there would be only about six hours slogging to endure before I would be in my sleeping bag atop the summit; dream on Francisco!

Onwards! My thick rubber-soled boots, though heavy, were very comfortable and handled the rough ground so effectively that I felt nothing poking through to the soles of my feet. As I climbed I was concentrating on the variety of stones that were strewn around and choosing my path. The track was some ten feet wide and the terrain around was green and flat, that is to say there were no convenient rocks or rises where I might rest my backpack. My breathing became laboured after very short distances and I constantly had to stop for a minute or two, the dreaded pack seemingly wanting to drag me backwards but I leaned forward and then moved onwards. It was clear that if the pack was taken off each time I was forced to stop then I should never get above the skirt of El Mulhacen.

As I plodded upwards with scant enjoyment my mind was racing with a mass of scenarios and permutations as to the possible or probable outcome given certain circumstances. I had to stop, I had to think things through, but more than anything in the world I had to get the dreaded rucksack from my back! In the event I rationalised saying to myself, "I really should eat and drink in case dehydration creeps in unannounced, and think of the weight transfer." The stop was made and perhaps a new world record for the removal of a backpack. I was in the state of 'La Gloria'.

Sitting on a large stone I ate and drank a little, musing more of the ounces it would take from the weight on my back than in the sustenance.
Thinking through my situation, as I looked both backwards down the mountainside and up towards the heights, I came to the conclusion that coping with the pack was the nub of everything
Oh, if only I did not need it, how I could race up this mountainside I pretended to myself. That idea was no more than an illusion, as I had known that constant walking uphill was never going to be easy for my respiration system, even without extra weight.

Although it seemed I had not travelled far from my start point I could make it out at what appeared to be a considerable distance below my resting spot. This gave me some comfort as I realised that with all my puffing, gasping, nagging and stopping, progress had been made. Just how much nearer I was to, or how far from the summit of El Mulhacen was impossible to judge. The track ahead reminded me of the bubble-gum we played with as children, always stretching the gum to unbelievable lengths and yet when an impossible stretch had been achieved one more tweak would add still more distance. Such was my path towards the bright blue sky, where lazy puffs of white with sculptured edges hovered as sentinels over the region, where my compass told me lay my goal - ''The Roof of Spain".

I had soon discovered that what appears to be 1000 yards is certain to be at least three times that distance; and so the curves ahead that provided my inspiration and hopes of seeing the summit when I rounded each curve always lead me into another - and still no sign of the summit.

As I mulled over the situation I had a flash of inspiration that was to prove decisive in my quest to reach the heights. The only serious problem was the weight of the pack – how to get relief from that? The inspiration was to use my walking staff as a periodic prop. The staff was in reality a 4 feet long piece of building wood 2 ½ inches wide and 1 inch thick. It had been procured for me by Juan del regadio, the brother of Manolo de los Fotos, after he heard me say in Ugijar that I needed to find a staff. A good neighbour! My procedure was to stop just ahead of a suitable stone set in the track and point the bottom of the staff at a forward leaning angle in the ground in front of the chosen stone. That done I would ease backwards and with my hand guide the top of the staff under the bottom of the pack to a point near the centre. With my right hand behind my back I then steadied the staff as I let my knees bend and my body sag, all the while making fine adjustments to positions. The staff would waver as it took the weight and displaced the goods inside until a fixed point was found. "La Gloria".

I could now move upwards at a regular rate with my eyes ever scanning the ground ahead for suitable stones that would mean a rest. As the terrain became more rugged it dropped steeply away to my left, which was towards the southwest, and there was now a higher bank to my right. As I rounded one of the interminable bends there appeared a large stretch of fairly flat ground to my left and in the far distance several examples of the magnificent Mountain Goat {Cabra Montes or Spanish Ibex]. I seized the opportunity and the pack was off my back in a trice – wondrous relief! I took a photograph and followed their movements through my small binoculars [they meant only weight now!] for some minutes. They were the only wild life I had seen, not a bird flew, hopped or cheeped to accompany me.
Now I could eat, drink and toilette whilst fantasising about how much less weight there would be on my back. Fantasy it proved to be as I slogged on upwards towards the snow that could now be seen lying upon a goodly stretch of the southeastern side of El Mulhacen. I knew I had to pass through that area and anticipated that each new sweep in the track would lead me into it but was constantly disappointed as my path turned me away from my destination. The sun had now gone down, the air was keen though still. I had slogged uphill for torturous hours, constantly stopping to fix the staff under the weight on my pack to give me some respite so that I could ease my laboured breathing. Optimistically I still hoped that I would yet sleep on the summit of El Mulhacen. Not tonight, Francisco!

Almost by surprise the moon appeared to my left and ahead of me; it was not yet half full but gave good light in the natural darkness of the high mountainside. Accompanied by its star, riding even higher, it moved northerly towards the peaks of the Sierra Nevada. I also zigzagged ponderously in that direction and very soon the moon was my sole light. I was confident that the snow-face was just around the next sweep and, in that case, maybe I could continue by moonlight to reach the summit, I say 'maybe' for I was very tired.
Ahead and to my left there was space and endless sky while ahead and to the right was the huge mountain face where lay the sentinel of snow that I must pass and was desperate to be through. From my position the snow was hidden by the high side of the track but I assumed that finally it was just around this next curve. Suddenly, as though by use of a giant switch, the moon disappeared and I was stumbling over the rocky ground in darkness. Forced to stop I saw that the moon had moved round behind the snowy mountain face that I was heading for and would now be fully illuminating the summit of El Mulhacen where I was desperate to have been at that moment.

I had brought a powerful halogen beamed torch [more weight!] and now shone this around me upon earth, stones, rocks, bigger rocks, more rocks, scarcely a tuft of green and not a level space in sight. Frustrated, and thinking I was so near yet so far I started to move on by the light of the torch in the belief that I would soon round the corner and once more have moonlight to light my way as I scrambled for the top. Hallucinations!

Almost at once I had to stop for although the beam of light was certainly illuminating brightly the terrain where it was shone it created a narrow tunnel effect where my surroundings were blackness and I could not get a sense of direction – very dangerous in that situation. Halt! Dreaded pack on the ground by quick release action! Shone the torch around in search of a flat place for my sleeping sack, non-existent. Moved about a little, almost skipped now that my torture pack was off my back, but all of the ground was stony, inhospitable and sloping. Seeing my options I opened my sleeping sack and laid it over what appeared to be the least aggressive stones. Time to attend to the eating, drinking, toilette and weight transference ritual. On this occasion I discharged some waste and with thoughts on the wonderful workings of the human body was almost ecstatic. As we lose body mass during sleep I imagined the break of dawn when my lighter self, with a less heavy pack, would be tra-la-la-ing up the mountainside, only stopping as in 'Sound of Music' to let out a happy yodel here and there. What a dreamer!

My sleeping gear was comprised of: heavy boots, long seaman's stockings, underpants, combat trousers, long military vest, denim shirt, heavy woollen jersey, gym belt, thick woollen scarf, woollen balaclava, nylon windcheater and industrial gloves. Through the night I was cold!

Simply getting inside the sack was a task! It was dark; the zip was opened to the full extent and left a pocket at the bottom where I tried to insert my feet whilst moving my body to avoid being pierced too severely by any of the zillion unfriendly lumps underneath the sack!
Now I was inside and realised I was quite exhausted; it had been a very long day and more than seven hours of climbing. Before trying to settle down I had to call a friend in Scotland on my mobile phone.

To ensure communication in event of serious problems I had bought a Spanish system mobile into which I had put the mountain services emergency numbers and that of the Refugio de Poquiera, where I had booked to stay on my route down from El Mulhacen. They had very kindly advised me to phone them if I was in difficulties or needed directions. It was evidently quite usual for people to get lost in the high sierra. Later I learned that during the past year there had been two cases of people getting lost and dying on the mountainside.
I had arranged to call my friend in Scotland when I got to the summit or, in case of accident, if I needed help in organising my rescue. The agreement was that I was to call when I reached my goal, however late the hour. As it was now almost midnight I knew I must phone to explain the situation and let someone else have the good night's sleep I was not going to get.

On the phone I said that I was very disappointed as I thought the snow face was just around the curve and, that being so, the summit was very near. My optimism now stretched to believing I could rise very early in the morning, before the sun had appeared over the horizon, to be on the 'Roof of Spain' as the sun rolled back the blanket of night from the African continent and the Mediterranean Sea that would lie before me. My friend thought that would not be the case. The 'case' must have been in my head to suffer such delusions, as I was to find out in the morning.

There was cold air moving across the mountain and as I huddled in the sack I found that the zip had come free. Try as I might, holding my torch between my teeth, I could not get the zip engaged to enclose me within the warm fabric. Using my rucksack [yes, the same dreaded article, now a friend in need] as a support for my head I lay on my left side and pulled the edges of the sack close together. My resting place was desperately uncomfortable but I relaxed and gazed at the star-filled sky and horizons of distant mountains off to the northeast. The sky was magnificent and I could never before had such a clear view of the stars, and what appeared to be more than one Milky Way, unadulterated by earth's artificial lighting. The moon was hidden behind El Mulhacen and so with my face almost on the ground I was gazing aloft in total darkness from my solitary lair, absolutely alone in that particular world of the high sierra and sharply aware of man's insignificance in nature's grand design. There were no animal sounds but the wind was now scuffling around and my presence had surely not gone undetected. I hoped that all creatures had eaten well and thus might be totally disinterested in closing in for a nose inspection, and perhaps even a lick at my face, which would have me leaping up with all alarms blaring. I did have an anti street attack alarm at the ready that emitted a piercing, shrieking sound at the tug of a cord and should have been effective - though I was not at all interested in finding out.

As I gazed into the eternity of space above I let my mind drift over what I had done and upon what had still to be achieved before I was safe in La Alpujarra below; I was somewhat preoccupied. Pulling a large stone from under my back I tried to settle for sleep; I was listless. When I turned around the cold air rushed in to the sack. Turning back to pull the edges of the sack together stopped the rush of cold air, great! Now, suddenly, urgently I had to get out of my lair to pee! I had not yet closed my eyes!

First, open the edges of the sack; now put the alarm, torch and spectacles carefully to one side for safety; next extract my feet with the thick heavy boots from the small pocket at the bottom, as I am on sloping ground this causes me to tilt backwards, I get on my elbows and work my backside out on to the cold, dew dampened ground. Then, pushing up from my elbows I sit up on the damp ground; turn over onto my knees and get to my feet. It is very dark, the downward slope precipitates me forward, stones and rocks under my feet, I am disorientated, stumble and stop. From the horizon I get a sense of direction, I pee, sweet relief. Bending I feel for the sack, find the torch and light my way back in. First I get my backside onto the base; swing my legs around, fiddle the thick boots inside the small pocket, lie back; put the spectacles, torch and alarm in place, squirm inside the fabric and pull the edges of the sack as close together as possible. The sack has moved downhill and the rucksack is no longer there as a support; reach back and drag the rucksack under my head. My new position has a seriously rough stone gouging into my hip; open the edges of the sack; worry the stone loose and lob it into the void. Close the edges of the sack and work my hip into the indent where the lobbed stone had rested; a reasonable measure of comfort. I seem to be getting a cramp in my leg; change positions; move my toes and leg muscles; have taken my glucose tablets and – presto! I don't get a cramp.

I might have dozed and open my eyes to see the stars, which are now not so interesting to me, I just want this night to pass. The thermometer on my second compass [weight] informs me that the temperature is 2 degrees centigrade, I am cold and there is a gap at the front of the sack because the fabric has shifted position. Taking my weight on my left elbow I reach around outside to the back of the sack and find it is saturated, really wet! How can this be? As I had been told there was no water on this route and I had seen no evidence of any I try to imagine where the rivulet of water has come from to run downhill behind me. I am puzzling on this when the thought strikes me that perhaps, in my disorientated state; I had peed over my sleeping sack earlier. Disgusting possibility and now, urgently – I must pee again! !*/?>!
First open the edges of the sack; now put the spectacles, alarm and torch carefully to one side for safety; next extract my feet with the thick heavy boots from the small pocket at the bottom, as I am on sloping ground this causes me to tilt backwards, get on my elbows and work my backside out on to the cold, dew dampened ground; push up from my elbows and sit up on the damp ground; turn over onto my knees and get to my feet… And so forth, just as on the first occasion except that now I get to my feet with the torch beam alight. First I pee, and yes, it was needed – must be the cold weather, then to my great relief an examination of the ground and the sack shows that there had been neither rivulet nor misdirected pee; the night dew, or rocio, was what was saturating the sack. Fortunately it was a water resistant fabric and so the inside was unaffected. Same routine to re-enter the sack, which by now had slid yet further downhill.

Two more times I had to get out of my lair to pee! On the final rising I resolved not to get back inside as grey light below the mountains to the east advised that dawn could not be too far distant. I had slept for almost no time at all and passed the most dreadfully uncomfortable night of my life, and that included sleeping in the gun turret of a naval ship whilst it was firing shells! I was shattered! All thoughts of reaching the 'Roof of Spain' before sunrise evaporated as I saw the grey light become whiter while I peed towards the east.
It was still cold and I longed for the sun to get above the Sierra de Gador beyond which lay the city and port of Almeria. A shaking and shuddering of my body, waggling of arms and legs and I turned to extract some food and water from the rucksack. A steaming cup of café or tea would have been a tremendous stimulant but in the event my drink was cold water while dry Muesli for my food proved to be an excellent choice.

The sun began to spread its warmth and make everything seem brighter including the outcome of my final 'surge' for the summit. And now I had an idea that thrilled me! Why should I carry this sleeping sack with a zip that had been useless? Another voice told me that having used the sack but one time before this there was surely an easy solution to the problem of the zip. "The sack had been inexpensive, I seldom used a sleeping sack, I had a better sack at home", these were my inter-self arguments. However the thought of jettisoning some weight filled me with a malevolent glee, I was chuckling as I carefully laid the sack and its carrying bag in a prominent position by the side of the track. In that spot I felt sure it would be seen and picked up by a less burdened climber and so the natural ambience would be preserved.

Hooray! Now I was off on the last stretch although uncertain of how long or far it might be. I was assuming a climb of less than two hours but very soon found that the first curve did not lead me on to the snow face and, furthermore, the ground was rising ever more steeply. This was a severe set back to my moral and as it was now almost 16 hours since I had alighted from the bus so far below I could imagine myself as the 'Flying Dutchman' of the mountains – condemned to wander up here for eternity.

The pack! The pack! Therein was the cause of all my miseries!
Bull fights: The piercing of the shoulder muscles with a lance precedes the killing of a noble bull in Spanish bullrings. Thus weakened the animal is then attacked with steel tipped barbs and usually receives the sword of the matador with perhaps six 'banderillas' [barbs] swinging from its back.

In my mind the pack had been my lance and I was now receiving the last of the 'banderillas'. Pauses in the climb to support the weight on my back were now being made every 30 yards or so. If I did not take action the sword of failure would soon bring me scrambling down, shattered, to the lowlands.
A sudden halt! The pack came off and was placed prominently high on the trackside.
Ha-lle-lu-ja! Ha-lle-lu-ja! Ha-lle-lu-ja! I had been freed!

There my mute torturer would remain to be picked up on the return from the summit! How clever, I reasoned, while drinking some water. I should have no need of sustenance between now and my return from the top, there was no other human in sight and I would surely be back before anybody reached that point. Further, surely no climber at these altitudes would steal another's lifeline or, if tempted, imagine it could be done without being discovered.
Now with lightened heart and step I made better progress upwards and quite soon was approaching the snow face, more extensive than it appeared from a distance. It was not easy going for me and there were still pauses to help with my breathing. Of course there was now no need to juggle with my staff and the load so the pauses were much briefer. There was a narrow section about 15 metres wide in the snow face where I crossed. Underfoot it was icy with just a little snow to crunch before my thick-soled boots grappled with the surface and with some slithering I was soon safely through that much awaited area.
A long sweep round to my right and at last I could see El Mulhacen up ahead although the summit was guarded by a high rising face close to my position. Onwards to the left and swinging right I saw the peak, the summit of my goal, The 'Roof of Spain', directly ahead. Wondrous! I was going to make it to the top! About 1000 yards of fairly flat terrain comprised of large slabs of rock that gave the impression of having been strewn from the heavens and left to lie where they had fallen. I sat contemplating for a few minutes on one of these rocks while giving thanks to whomsoever or whatever that I had got thus far without accident or mishap.

Travelling carefully over this last stretch I was thrilled to see far below me and on my right the plateau of Siete Lagunas where my attempt had ended the year before. There I could see the laguna that fed 'Dog's Arse River' and it was clear from whence the name came as the mass of water lay in the form of a dog and the river supply came from the tail end!
Close to the summit ahead I now saw a young couple moving briskly forward and in no time they were up there. Oh boy! I was envious of their ability to move so swiftly as I plodded towards my goal. They had come up from the area where the Refugio de Poquiera was located and on their way back came over and spoke with me. In response to my enquiry they said that the route down was steep and quite rugged and would need a good deal of care. He was from Holland and the lady from USA – three people at the top of Spain and three nationalities.

I set off on the last short stretch of what had been an interminable journey that had tested all of my capabilities to the utmost. From this moment, for the rest of my lifetime, I had my benchmark against which all other problems, possibilities or difficulties would be compared. I had unwittingly set myself a most demanding, almost impossible goal to achieve and I had won through. I was immensely self-satisfied and humbled at the same time and any reader can draw from that what they will.

Now I climbed the last few yards through jumbled rocks that were more in the form of slabs rather than being rounded.
Thus I reached The 'Roof of Spain'.
In the centre of El Mulhacen a concrete structure about 4 feet square and 10 feet tall has been constructed. A tiny 'Ermita' [chapel] was inside the base with religious pictures and other offerings on view through iron railings.
I walked to the Ermita, put both hands on the concrete face, closed my eyes. In a clear voice I spoke aloud my offering..
I was alone, afar, yet I would never be nearer.

The time was 10:07 and the day was Friday, July 4 2003.

Francisco M.

El Mulhacen, 11,432 feet – 'The Roof of Spain'.

10:07 Friday, July 4 2003

Related Articles by Frank McKell:

1) Introduction to Gerald Brenan
2) To the Roof of Spain, 'With No Pain'
3) Map of Alpujarra