I walked with a river for 44 km

One morning, I woke up in the small town of Broto, Spain. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, a stranger passed by with a nod, and the sunlight filtered gently through my window. The town felt like a secret kept in stone - old, quiet, complete. It had everything a village could offer: a single pharmacy, two supermarkets, three coffee shops, and four diners. And threading through it all, a river.

She cut right through the center - clear, blue, and restless. Beneath the surface, giant boulders shaped her flow, making her tumble and shout in protest. She wasn’t a calm river. She stumbled, crashed, groaned. But she was very much alive.

I remembered then why I came here. I had asked ChatGPT where I should hike next in Spain. I wanted to see if nature felt different outside of India - if the trees whispered in other tongues, if the mountains breathed differently. One of the suggestions was the Cola de Caballo hike, part of the GR11 route: a 17 km round-trip beginning at a national park and ending at a waterfall.

The trick was getting there. After searching through Airbnb and travel forums, I found that the nearest town with regular shuttle buses to the park was called Torla-Ordesa. But it was absurdly expensive, almost enough to make me cancel the trip altogether. Then I stumbled on Broto, just 4–5 km down the road. I knew nothing about it. It was close enough. I booked a room.

The B&B was perfect. Right beside the river. I could open the door, and there she was, roaring her way through the afternoon. I thought about taking a nap to prepare for the next day's hike. But I told myself, No. Sleep early tonight. Let’s go outside instead.

So I made a cup of terrible coffee, grabbed my Kindle and book, and walked to a ledge about five meters above the riverbank. There I sat, legs dangling, coffee in hand, reading between the sounds of the water and the requests from tourists asking me to take their photos.

My mind kept drifting. To my girlfriend, my job, my choices. Every time I let myself wander, the river would raise her voice again, as if saying, Why aren’t you listening to me?

That evening, I went to gather the supplies for the hike. It was going to be a long one. The initial plan was to reach the Ordesa National Park somehow and then start the hike to the waterfall and back. But my timing had other plans. To reach Ordesa, I had to take a shuttle bus from Torla. To reach Torla, I had no option but to take a cab. And I was too late to book a cab for the next early morning.

So I did some research, and apparently there was a 10km scenic trail from Broto to Ordesa that goes via Torla. I downloaded the GPX files and convinced myself that I’ll hike to Torla, then catch a shuttle bus to Ordesa and proceed with the original plan. But somewhere deep down, I knew that the shuttle bus might not be there.

The supermarket had a lot of options, I grabbed a box of chocolates, 4 energy bars, 3 protein bars, a bag of roasted peanuts, a huge baguette, a pack of frozen semi-cured cheese, a pack of cured chorizo and two bottles of 1.5L water. In the worst-case scenario that I had to walk the whole way, I needed to be prepared for 14 hours of continuous walking.

The next morning, I wake up at 6:30 and leave by 7:30 in a black merino wool full sleeve, hiking pants, a buff around my neck and a small backpack with just my water and food. I put my phone on airplane mode, briefly check the GPS route and start walking slowly.

The way from Broto started on a paved path. The river is beside me, roaring as always, as if angry. Slowly, I start going towards the forest, amidst some shade and a gentle climb. The path is now filled with water coming from the side of the mountain and often covering meters of the path. It’s not so often that you feel good about getting waterproof shoes when you live in India, but here it gave a peace of mind I truly appreciated.

Hours later, I reached Torla, a village carved from shadow and stone, its slate roofs and dark walls absorbing the morning sun like old secrets. It reminded me of how people would see their world in those medieval epic fantasy novels. My trail goes through the town, and I’m glad it does so. I catch a glimpse of the life there, a few people sitting on benches outside their homes, some just walking around, and one tending to his sheep in fresh morning sunlight. It seems only the sheep tended to notice me.

The passage ended just as quickly as it started. The village was smaller than I expected, but so full of culture that I feel I missed out on spending so little time there. I crossed a bridge flowing over the river, but came back right away to see the sheer size of the river once again. My mind had wandered off somewhere, maybe I just started daydreaming. The forest came faster than it had come in Broto. The terrain went from a gently sloped path to kilometres of rocky incline. Before my body could find a rhythm in this new terrain, I found myself deep amidst the forest, the river humming a long way below, and my lungs freshly out of breath. I realise I haven’t eaten in a while, and I devour a protein bar right away.

This trail was very interesting. It went from the rocky path to a scenic route around the mountain to a seemingly flat path covered with fallen leaves amongst huge trees, which I didn’t bother to find the peaks of. And with one wrong turn, I find myself playing around with small offspring streams of the river beside my feet. The sun has started to grow strong by this time, but I like it. It playfully reflects off the water, almost feeling like I’m interrupting a moment between them both. And I know the real river is a bit far away - I haven’t heard her speak in a while now. Was it just me projecting something on her, or has she started to ignore me now? And just then, a deer rushes past me a few meters away and crosses my path. I snap out of my delusions and see that there are people ahead of me. I had been walking completely alone this whole time.

I reached the national park trailhead, and my mind started turning a bit bittersweet. I could see people arriving here by cars and bikes, all full of energy and some hoping to walk their dog to the waterfall. And here I am, 4 hours and 10kms already into the hike, tired and sitting on a rock and massaging my feet. What was supposed to be a solitary hike turned into a procession. Languages drifted past like flags in the wind. The hush I’d carried for hours was replaced by the shuffle of boots and the jingle of dog leashes. I felt like the river again, pulled into a current I hadn’t chosen.

There were multiple ways to get to the waterfall. I had asked a guide at the National Park about the trail I was going to take. Apparently, my desired trail had seen an avalanche a few weeks before, so all hikers were left with the same trail as their only option.

Compared to the trail I’ve been on so far, this one felt like a highway. It was wide and expansive. The trail immediately goes into the forest, but there is a lack of vegetation. There were trees, but no shrubs to cover the ground. I could see hikers hundreds of meters before and after me. It started being challenging pretty fast. I had no trekking poles with me, and it didn’t feel great seeing a pair of grandmas zooming past me with their poles. This was not a time for me to rush things; if I exhaust myself, it can be a real issue to get back to my stay before sunset. But I was already exhausted, my calves were running on fumes already and I constantly felt like taking breaks.

The river is there alongside the forest, now even louder than ever. I can hear the roaring hum: Why aren’t you listening to me, but I don’t know what it means, I don’t know what to do. She puts on a show once in a while, in the form of waterfalls, which you can’t look away from. Water going places it has never gone before in an energy that break mountains. It was a humbling but very beautiful experience. But it also felt like I was missing something, similar to all the people I’ve talked to here in Spain. I can see them, but I can’t fully understand them. The river seemed very distant to me all of a sudden.

At a certain point, we reached an open expanse where I could finally breathe. I’d say open is an understatement. The valley was huge, surrounded by the famous limestone massifs of the Pyrenees, with two snow-covered peaks straight in front of me. The sheer size of it came to me soon when I started walking and the landscape resisted to even move. What felt like half a kilometer to the waterfall, actually turned out to be 5kms. I noticed then: what looked like a single river was augmented by a gathering of tiny streams, crossed over by different kinds of see-through bridges to appreciate their beauty. Each one seemingly insignificant, but together, they gave the river her voice, her stories, her movement.

Walking among the lush green landscape, I saw too much. The fine detail of the massifs so far far away yet so clear, an elderly couple sitting and sharing their well deserved lunch, a curious dragonfly which choose to follow me around for a short while, a silver gray limestone boulder covered with lines of rust reminiscent of some vital element in an epic fantasy novel. I went on, focusing on my shoes and the man-made rocky pathway pretending to be part of this piece of nature.

Just beyond a rocky hill, I saw the waterfall - Cola de Caballo. I had seen its photos online, but in that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to really look. I had already come to understand so much about her—the river—and this waterfall, somehow, felt like something too grand, too final. It didn’t feel like her. This was her theatre curtain, not her voice. I turned away before the applause.

I turned back.

My stomach had started to ask for attention now. I had waited too late for the moment to have my lunch, for the sake of the journey’s pinnacle, which I foolishly chose not to witness. The idea haunted me for a good while as I tried to justify my actions with my aching body. Approaching the river felt like a compulsion at this point. I found a patch of solid grass right at the bank of the river. I took off my socks and shoes and let them breathe for a while. In a moment of curiosity, I dipped my feet into the flowing river, and I immediately regretted it.

How dare you touch me.

The water wasn’t cold, it was freezing. The water bit back with a fury I hadn’t earned. Not cold, primordial. I yanked my feet out and laughed at my hubris. The river didn’t want to be touched. Not yet. With no intention of doing this stunt again, I put on my shoes, flicked away the bugs all around me and went looking for a place to eat. I found the same limestone rock again.

As I walked away after eating a mediocre and embarrassing lunch, I was haunted by the thought: We only have a few hours left together. I will leave, and you will remain. I tried to distract myself focused on my aching legs, the heat, my sunscreen, and a protein bar. Anything but thinking about this fleeting experience.

I reached back towards an expansive trail along the river. The river has been calm all this time. It was easy not to notice it flowing somewhere playfully, probably because of the mountains overpowering my sensations. Knowing it had been some time since I put on some sunscreen, I took off my glasses and hung them in my leg pocket. I didn’t want to stop and lose time, so I just continued to put on my sunscreen while walking. I walked for a good while, looking around, and tried to adjust my glasses, but they were not there. Panic set in. I realised I never put them on after the sunscreen. I retraced my steps, eyes scanning the road, trying not to feel anything. And then, someone holding them came from the other side of the trail. I didn’t know the words in Spanish. I simply pointed to my eyes, then to the glasses. He understood, thankfully. “Gracias,” I said - we had a small chat walking, and then I excused myself to find my solace.

I walked on, but now, the river's sound had returned to me. It wasn’t angry anymore. She was playful, mischievous, like a child rushing downhill with wild joy. And other times, far away and gentle, like a secret humming under the breath. That’s when I realised: all this while, I had been walking upwards, and against the flow. Everyone had.

I still don’t know the name of that river. I’ll look it up when I get home. But from that moment on, I stopped looking around. I just listened. There was a calm in my head since the timely pressure to reach the pinnacle of the hike was gone. The walk to the national park entry was as gentle as it could get. Thru-hikers who had been doing the full GR11 trail walked past me at full speed, but it was okay. I’m somewhere alone with the river, I don’t need to worry about anything else. My speed doesn’t matter. As I reached the national park again, I broke away from the crowd. I began my solo walk back. With a small shred of luck, I saw a deer again hiding behind the trees. I’m not sure if it was the same one I saw on my way before, but it would be pretty poetic if it was.

The river no longer demanded attention. No tantrums, no sermons. Just movement. Just presence. I matched her step for step, not out of duty, but out of quiet understanding. She didn’t want me to chase her origins, to see where she began. She just wanted me to be with her. To walk in step, to witness.

So I did.

And as I descended, I kept my eyes low, my ears open, and let the gentle melancholy of goodbye sit quietly beside me. I hoped I’d never see her again, not because I didn’t want to, but because I never wanted to walk against her flow again. When I reached back to Broto, I looked up her name.

Ara.

A name like a breath. I whispered it back to her, hoping she’d remember me too.