As I stretch my legs out and adjust the straps of my rucksack, I peer down at the descent we are about to make. I can’t see the finish point from here due to the near-vertical cliff spurs that interlock through this meandering barranco.
I am wearing a thin t-shirt, a thin short-sleeve shirt (neck protection from the sun), shorts and hiking boots that have kindly been lent to me by my walking buddy’s boyfriend. Even at this high altitude (600m above sea level) I am perspiring, without having even taken a step. I wonder if I was a little too enthusiastic last night when, after several glasses of Rioja, I said I wouldn’t mind going for a nice walk and I claimed to be fitter than I actually am.
I like walking but usually it’s a lot more urban, winding my way through city streets to the best eateries, rather than mountainside and rugged terrain. Still, I am determined to make the most of the opportunity to explore this well-known hike down the Masca ravine.
START THE CLOCK
My friend, a fellow Welshie turned Canarian, completed the walk several weeks ago in a little over six hours with two friends less used to walking than me. She tells me it would be nice to make a time of less than three hours. I fear she’s hoping for a lot.
We start the decent from the customary and quaint village of Masca on a path prepared for luring novices like me into a false sense of security. The air up here is fragrant with scorched earth and date palms. I had been warned the previous evening that I should take as much sun protection as I should water for my ever so pallid (and British) skin. I have applied liberally but can already feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead cleansing the SPF50 from my face.
PAST THE POINT OF NO RETURN
The first 30 minutes seem easy and I wonder if the whole route is interjected with obvious manmade structures and walking aids. Thankfully, I was soon to discover a sign to reassure me I could feel sufficiently like Indiana Jones for the rest of the trek. To make a very rough (and liberal) translation, the sign said, “The point of no return”. Perhaps that’s a little to Phantom of the Opera, but you get the gist.
The paths soon turned to trails and before long we were clambering over enormous boulders, flat and smooth from the wear of countless feet. The gigantic cliffs soar high above us, their layers of igneous rock giving a wonderfully rich burnt glow. The path is not an obvious one at this point, but thanks to a steady glimpse of other wanderers ahead, we manage not to make too many diversions.
I can feel my knees beginning to ache from the strain of an hour walking downhill. As we wind back and forth, sinking deeper into the heart of the ravine, I catch momentary glimpses of our destination, the sea. Masca beach is only accessible by foot down the Masca trail or by boat from the next cove.
At points, the silence is deafening and the sheer scale of the surrounding cliffs takes my breath away, as I stare in awe, I ponder my own insignificance in a Honey I Shrunk the Kids moment. I feel as if a giant or a dragon might happen upon us from any number of crags littering the mountainsides and the whole scenario would not seem out of place on the big screen in an epic Spielberg production.
PICNIC LUNCH
It’s time for a stop to down some more of the two litres of water that has been strapped to my back. My white t-shirt I notice is nearly transparent and while my body is obviously reacting to the heat, my mind thankfully hasn’t noticed it.
At this moment, our pioneering stance turns quintessentially British as we perch on a large round flat rock and lay out a veritable feast of cheese and Branston sandwiches, ready-salted crisps and gingernut biscuits. We chat about how our lives have changed since we last saw each other and reminisce about the time we shared a flat in neighbouring Gran Canaria. Regardless of the many months spent apart, the conversation is easy and we seem to polish off the picnic in no time and are once again back on our way.
We reach the valley floor and the air gets cooler and smells fresher. We traverse a stream, the source of which must be high above even our own starting point.
The trail leads us through giant rock holes and along narrow ledges. At one point the way ahead is covered with bamboos and reeds and swathing through the fronds gives me a hint of adventure and exploration. I imagine those first brave explorers and wonder if I should be wearing a pith helmet and carrying binoculars around my neck.
BACK TO REALITY
At a particularly narrow point we catch up with a group of tourists on an organised walk, their guide explaining the rock formations and plant life. While it may be hypocritical, I can’t help but wonder how much longer this inspiring route will maintain its untouched feel with the large numbers of tourists now seeking more than the experience of the island’s pristine beaches.
Looking back up the ravine at this point, it dawns on me how far we have come and why in nearby La Gomera, whistles have been used for generations to communicate across and through these expansive barrancos.
The sun is getting hotter overhead and I estimate it must be reaching midday. Ahead is a tunnel made by a collapsed boulder and Indiana Jones pops back into my head. If I didn’t want to protect this walk so much, I would recommend it for a film location.
A JOB WELL DONE
Finally, as the rocks turn into pebbles and the incline becomes shallower, I see our finishing point. Still hidden from view until the very last moment the expanse of the stony beach is a welcome sight for my now rather weary legs. We buy two cans of pop from a man with a bucket filled with ice and hand-written sign and pick a shady spot to paddle our feet in the soothing, crystal clear water as we wait for the boat to take us to the next bay, Los Gigantes.
As we board the boat and watch as the beach disappears behind the breathtaking sea cliffs, we check our watches. Three hours and 10 minutes. The salt water splashes up against the side of the boat and we gaze out into the open water in search of dolphins (common in these waters). I feel a sense of accomplishment and my mind starts racing of adventures to come.
