The race of the snowmen

From long ago, high in the Mountains of the Sierra Nevada (Spain). Unfortunately the original images are lost in the abyss of jaded slide film, but these are from another epic on the same mountain.

There was hardly any snow in the ski resort it’s self, just a scattering of artificial stuff at the bottom of the main piste. Spring had come early to Spain’s Sierra Nevada, which was to make our task even more improbable than I already figured it would be. 

What was that task? To fill our rucksacks with snow, then race down hill from the resort to the city of Granada before it melted. That may sound like a pretty bizarre thing to do, and kinda pointless, but you know what it’s like when you get something in your head, no matter how silly it may be you just have to do it. That said, our reasoning for this sortie was a little more inspired and quantifiable; Sierra Nevada is at the top of Europe’s highest road pass, some 2500 meters high in the sky, meanwhile Granada is 33 kilometres down hill and at around 900 meters altitude. This adds up to make this probably the longest descent in the whole of Europe. As for the snow bit, in the days before fridges were invented the locals used to travel with mules up to the snow line, fill panniers with snow, all wrapped in hay, then return to Granada, from where it would be packed in to cellars and used as ice for food storage. These guys were known as Los Nieverros, or the snow men to us. Our plan was to become modern day nieverros by packing our own sacks of snow, then following the exact same route as they did 100 years ago down hill to Granada, which was all off road. 

Sweating bikers and warm temperatures certainly didn’t inspire confidence in our chances of success. Even so it seemed like it could be fun, although thoughts of hurtling down hill with a dripping arse and wet chamois didn’t quite cut it for me. My cameras were the perfect cop out and keep dry excuse. Meanwhile my sparring partner Mark, from Ciclo Montana holidays, had assembled a dubiously unsuspecting bunch of his clients together to act as the mules for our historical re-enactment.  

It wasn’t long before a bemused crowd of skiers gathered to watch our Lycra clad bunch of bikers frolicking in the snow and filling their rucksacks full of the already near melting white stuff. They must have thought we were insane as we then made off with the snow, and to be honest I figured pretty much the same thing.

Neither Mark or myself had ridden any of the route before, so what exactly to expect or where to find it was a closely guarded secret amongst us, after all should things go horribly wrong we may find ourselves fleeing from a bunch of snow drenched mutinous bikers, which we didn’t much fancy.

Five minutes in to our great descent and we were climbing, which we hadn’t bargained on. Not only were we climbing, we were totally exposed to the sun, and in for ten minutes of sweating and grunting. More importantly that meant ten minutes of hot backed snow melting. Panic set in and the pace went up in an effort to get in to cooler air before our chances literally melted away. 

Before long the trail turned down, and we had a whole 4 miles of full on smooth and ultra fast descending ahead. This was our chance to get back on track, and maybe even wind chill the melting snow enough to buy us some more time.  The bottom of this section was about 13 kilometres in to the ride, and we were just 45 minutes in to things. A quick pit stop to compact the ice lifted spirits even more; there was very little melt at this point, so if we could keep up this speed we stood a good chance of doing what was previously looking impossible. This point was also where everything became race like serious. Jane, the female member of the cast, hurriedly ushered the mule boys beneath the trees and in to the shade as Mark and myself plotted the next section, which seemed to go along the side of a valley then descend sharply to the valley floor. On the face of it this section seemed super fast, so we hit the trail once more.

Sure enough it was fast and seriously technical too. The valley we dropped in to was truly amazing, and floored with a great little stream. The valley sides were steep and craggy, and way behind us was the awesome, and well distanced sight of the great Pico Valeta, the snow capped high mountain we’d left behind an hour ago. 

From this pretty valley floor it became demoralizingly obvious that there was only one way out of here, and that was up. Up, that was about to prove an under statement. That up was going to be almost an hour of granny ring bashing and ice melting. Cursedly we climbed higher and higher out of the valley. As the effort level went up so did body temperatures, slowly as the kilometres crunched beneath us gloves, hats and clothes were stripped off. Each one of us was forced to de-robe from winter to summer kit, and water was running low too. An air of resignation wafted between us, and the expression “ bitten off more than we could chew “ pounded around in my head. 

Even so this was turning in to one spectacular ride, just not quite what we’d expected. On and on the dirt track climbed through meadows and secluded valleys. The whole snow biz had drifted from our minds by now, and it was simply becoming a case of surviving the ride in one piece.   

The crew were suffering now from a combination of dehydration and under estimation. The legend of the nieverros was being brought in to question too. After all it must have taken these guys at least a full day, maybe even 2, to get down from here. If we couldn’t do it with the aid of modern technology then how could they have done it all those years back?

We crested a plateau, then skirted along a ledge high above the valley leading from Granada to Sierra Nevada. The sense of urgency had gone by now, there seemed no point. Suddenly the track reared up again, along a deep rutted rocky track. Gears crunched and the breathing fastened again. 

Topping the final climb of the day was a rewarding sensation. The incredible late afternoon vista of the city of Granada was something else. The whole city was spread out bellow us, with not another possible climb in sight. Only what was set to be a near five-mile long descent lay ahead us.

Everyone reached for their cameras at this point. This was also the first snow check since we reached the first valley floor, over an hour ago. And guess what? The snow had compacted, and turned it’s self in to crystallized ice, and hardly a drop of melt down had occurred. A huge Mexican wave like grin wafted across our mushes. Maybe we could still pull it off after all. 

Cameras couldn’t be stashed away fast enough. The race was back on! Not only was it back on, it was all downhill too. The first couple of miles were a technical nightmare; loose, rocky and rutted to hell. The local moto crossers use this hilly suburb as a training ground. The adrenaline was gushing and wrists were pumping. Every second counted now, and it became one mass downhill race. We’d got three hours beneath us already, and concentration was wavering. One by one three of us hit the deck, but with the lure and smell of a cold beer, chilled by our very own ice, the pain didn't seem to matter.

As Granada’s rooftops loomed ever closer so the track soothed out some more, and the pace went up a notch. Finally, with the sun setting behind us, we hit the outskirts of Granada. A quick sprint through the back streets and we arrived at the bar. 

We’d done it, against all of our pre-conceived odds we’d got the snow to Granada in one piece. Needless to say drinks were ordered by the crate load and the first snow ball fight seen in Granada for a century ensued !