Catmaggedon

I am traveling with more stuff than is typical for me. I am something of a minimalist, and have no hesitation in wearing the same clothes until they fail the smell test, washing clothes in sinks, and so on. But on this trip, the weather was going to range from cool and rainy above the Arctic Circle in northern Norway to 90+ humid degrees on Spain’s Mediterranean coast. So it with a roller bag in tow and a pack strapped to my back that I planed, trained, trained a second time and then walked enroute from Bergen, Norway to El Chorro, Spain, an arrival in a sweat-soaked shirt as I hauled bags up and down El Chorro's hilly terrain, because my version of how to get to the AirBnB required a lot of second-guessing and going up and down the same hills and steps. 

Arriving in Spain, the usual “first time” anxieties of being in a new place kicked in right away. First time buying a train ticket at a kiosk in Spain. First time figuring out how to sit in a train in Spain (rhyme unintentional). And sure enough, I sat in a train incorrectly. Some, but not all, train tickets come with assigned seats, it turns out. I, the tourist, had not taken the time to learn this, and if the person whose seat I initially sat in could have punched me on behalf of all Spaniards’ fatigue with tourist incompetency and gotten away with it, she would have. I could see it in her eyes. But I didn’t need to see it in her eyes because her words made it clear. I’m not fluent, but I know enough Spanish to put the pieces together from the phone conversation she started shortly after glaring her way into my mistaken seat. 

The second train pulled into the wild west feeling town of El Chorro, a small dusty village about 40 miles inland from Spain’s southern coast and surrounded my olive and orange groves. Or are they orchards?  I was told by an El Chorro resident that all orchards are groves, but not all groves are orchards, which clarified exactly nothing for me. con He gave me this guidance in a sort of cheapened version of Confucius; I wasn't sure what to make of it, and we were reaching vocab limits of my Spanish anyway.

And El Chorro’s big sheer rocky cliffs, mountains and trails! My motivation for an El Chorro visit all along was its proximity to trails, and I figured its reputation among the global rock-climbing community would mean I’d also find some favorable traveler amenities in the town, and opportunities to interact with other nature people. One of my dumbest jokes is “How can you tell if someone is a rock climber? Because they tell you.” In El Chorro, I wouldn’t plan to use that joke. They would be my friends.

rock climbers at dusk

Except in September, it’s still hot and many climbers come to El Chorro later in the season, although there are ones who multi-pitch climbs at night by headlamp, their little twinkling paths making their way up the cliff. It was pretty cool to watch. Really cool, in fact.. I’ll stop telling that dumb rock-climber joke as a result of how cool it looked.

So instead of rock climbers in September, the place is amok with cats. They are everywhere. 

One night in the AirBnB I awoke to some noise coming from downstairs. I laid silently, heard some noise again, and it sounded aggressive. Then more aggressive, with noise falling on the floor. This was INSIDE the AirBnB, for sure. My heart rate grew, I considered my options. In these moments, my mind usually goes to a somewhat naïve-feeling place of “someone made a mistake,” not to a place of assuming the worst. As insensible as it was, I assumed someone had meant to trash SOMEONE ELSE’S place, not mine, and we just needed to clarify that. Down the stairs I crept shouting “hola” and “espera” (stop). But the intruders would not yield and the noises of ransacking continued. 

They were cats. It was catmageddon. 

Three of the little criminals slipped into the apartment though an upstairs window, crept downstairs, stupidly forgot how they entered to begin with, and were literally throwing themselves at the downstairs windows and door trying to get out. It was straight up chaos, and my appearance from upstairs ramped it up a notch further. Now they had something to fear!

There was no order, no plan, no sensibility to their movement. Act with chaos, and hope for the best seemed to be the strategy. They dodged me. I dodged them. Across counters and tables they sped. No one had the upper hand. I told myself “don’t get rabies” as a dramatic way of telling myself not to get bit. El Chorro had exactly zero medical facilities. 

One cat hauled high speed upstairs, and the others followed. I assumed their frenzy would make their way to the room from which they came, but unbelievably, it didn’t. If just one of them would take a moment – JUST A SINGLE G**DMAN MOMENT – to take stock of the setting, they would find their way out. Instead the chaos now moved back and forth, in and out, between the hallway and one bedroom while I watched the circus from the stairwell. The second bedroom, the home to the open window and a pleasant escape, remained unused.   

With the cats’ insanity sticking to the upstairs for the time being, I hurried downstairs, opened the front door to its widest point and propped it open with a rock, if I could get the the cat tornado to make its way down. I grabbed a broom for a silly form of protection and masculinity, and boldly marched up those stairs to sweep/whoosh/bat the cats downstairs where they would presumably see the open door and the nonsense would end. 

I retreated on my first, second, third, and fourth tries. This was a trio of Tansmanian devils, and I was no Bugs Bunny. But on the next try, knowing only an act of bravery would put an end to the episode, head down and broom swinging, I went down that hallway taking no prisoners, and in the fear my stature can impose on all creatures the size of a cat or smaller, they bolted downstairs, one after another, and out the door. Mission accomplished. 

As I’m writing this, there are elements that now remind me of a similar maneuver Clark Griswold pulled in Christmas Vacation to get a squirrel out of the house. And for that, I am proud. 

My time in El Chorro was highlighted by more than cats. Trailheads were located less than two minutes’ walk from the front door. And some of the BEST trails for running. Soft even tread, big views, and a million different options to create a loop of varying distances. Trails that criss-crossed groves and orchards. Trails that scrambled up peaks for big views of a diverse landscape of agriculture, forests, hills and canyons. There are moments in trail running when I especially love trail running. When my body feels good, the tread is soft, the pace is even, the views are great, and I feel like I’m in alignment, that I’m immersed in a moment that represents so much of what’s important to me: nature, health, introspection. When it’s all clicking, it’s really clicking, but it happens infrequently. That’s just how it goes with a lot of outdoor nature activities, I think. 

I ran trails nearly every day of my 10 days in El Chorro because I felt it clicking nearly every time. Despite its insane cats, I’m grateful for my time there and the spring in my step I felt on the trails and in my mind.

I joined and interacted with a cohort of new friends in a multi-day movement retreat hosted in El Chorro, which typically consisted of a morning and evening session and optional in-between outdoor activities, including rock climbing. It was a last minute option that I found when googling what to do in El Chorro. It's such a ridiculously high privilege to be able to put yourself in a "let's try something new" setting with nothing to lose, and I hope I never lose sight of that truth. It's among the lessons that have stayed with me now a few weeks later, that openness to new experiences is valuable, and some new experiences require a certain amount of privilege to access them. 

Another lesson: there were people from UK, Austrailia, Denmark, our leader was a UK transplant from Poland, and I think in that environment, it seemed like most people felt at ease to be themselves, which isn't always easy when we're all strangers to each other. When we take the "risk" to be entireyl/mostly ourselves, and when we create environments where people feel comfortable taking those risks, it really makes life feel easy and is a nice dosage of fulfillment as well. 

Also, I sort of learned to juggle.  Movement retreats cover a lot of ground. 

September 2024