Offroad at the Raging River

Perhaps the Tour de France or the Vuelta de España will be passing through soon. Here’s a travel tip: at least in France, the bike race tracks are always smooth with new asphalt laid, making them great for riding.

The hero discovers an alternative spot by the reservoir, although we have to detour thirty kilometers around the water due to the aforementioned construction site.

A quiet little spot on a peninsula overlooking the Embalse, surrounded by the ringing of cowbells and the friendly snorting and whinnying of the lead mare from the semi-wild horse herd living here. Perfect for a relaxing siesta.

However, we won’t be staying here for the night. From our stay a few years ago at that same kitesurfing beach, we know that we’re in a Natura 2000 area where overnight stays are not looked upon favorably.

And after Señor Guardia Civil ruined our lunch break in the Bardenas Reales with his exceptionally bad mood just because we were standing at the dusty track edge, we don't want to test how observant the watchful eye of the law is here in the offseason.

The path goes steep and rocky down, and even during the descent, we both realize that the Kangoo Château Mistral will only manage to pull itself back up the hill with great effort, as it reaches gradients of over fifteen percent on a stretch of about two hundred meters. That alone wouldn’t be the problem.

Yes, that’s already obvious on the way there, but having arrived at this point, it's only downhill from here. Turning back is impossible even in the boldest dreams of a caravan driver.

Even the most beautiful siesta must come to an end, and the time has come to head back up the hill.

The hero takes off with a bounce and even with a roar, revving the engine and racing up the steep track in first gear with some wild revs.

Stones fly, cows stare, and the fisherman's rod slips from his hand. The first hurdle is taken, but the second ascent is tougher, and Zappa keeps his foot firmly on the gas pedal.

I grit my teeth and would like to close my eyes to what’s coming.

With full throttle, the Kangoo shoots up towards the rise.

The pebbles splatter to the side, half the hill gained. Then the drive runs out of power.

I involuntarily slide forward in my seat to give our rig some momentum. But of course, it does no good. We are losing speed, the tires spin on the flying gravel, the engine howls, the red anti-slip indicator flickers wildly, orange flames flare from the exhaust. Now, not giving up, stopping, standing still, or braking!

I finally close my eyes.

No, no, no! We will never make it up this rise; the caravan will mercilessly drag us back down, we will land in the field of horses, and not even the figs from the little tree by the side of the road will be left for our survival. No, no, no!

But suddenly, the Kangoo finds its final push with one last heave and reaches the summit with a roaring and deep huff.

We exhale synchronously with a relieved sigh.

Phew! Just made it.

Happily, we reach the next village, where on an abandoned property stands that fig tree full of ripe, plump fruits, smiling at me and begging to be harvested.

But just now Señor Vecino is checking on things, and I don't want to be accused of theft. So I rummage out our trash bag to properly dispose of it in the nearby containers, thereby buying myself some time.

The attentive neighbor is circling around the fruit tree in the yard. I have a strong suspicion that he has his eyes on the bright pears. He throws us furtive glances and then meanders away, hands in pockets, whistling a cheerful Spanish tune into his home.

Now the coast is clear! I need these figs! I must at least grab two or three of the delights! I won't be able to travel another kilometer unless I can eat at least one single sweet, sticky, soft fig!

On tiptoes, I sneak up to the bush.

Just before us, someone must have disposed of their entire household waste because all the fallen fruits are totally squished on the ground beneath car tires.

There’s no helping it; I need to reach these objects of my boundless desire.

I stretch and reach, standing on my toes and extending my arm as long as I can. As my fingers encircle the first ripe fig, a dog barks.

That doesn't sound nice.

I grab the second fruit, and the barking gets louder.

I quickly snatch two more as a gruff, loud growl approaches ever closer.

Now I take my legs in hand, in addition to the fine yellow figs, and hurry as fast as I can to the car. Breathless, I can barely slam the door shut just as el Perro reaches it, snarling, drooling, and barking viciously, baring its teeth. I stick my tongue out at it, and the hero guns it with squealing tires and speeds away!

Phew! Just made it.

For the night, Zappa spots a spot near the dam and circulates our travel rig onto the path leading there.

It is again a very narrow path, but this time well-paved. A deep ditch borders the track on both sides, and I am very relieved that we don’t have any oncoming traffic. Two vehicles could never squeeze past each other here.

Upon arrival at the destination, the way ends. Unfortunately, however, there’s barely enough space for a maneuver from the Kangoo and the caravan. No amount of finesse will help; we need to uncouple. Fortunately, that works. And luckily, Château Mistral is a lightweight that we can easily move together.

Everything works out, and we have a restful night by the banks of the rushing Ebro.

Why are we taking a detour into the deep Cantabria in northern Spain on our way to Andalusia?

Tomorrow, that was enough adventure for today.