Pico de Aneto – Day 3: The Wrong Choice
PICO DE ANETO
Day 3: The Wrong Choice
August 15, 2025
PART I
The previous day, after reuniting with the rest of the gang, we had spent a couple of hours debating our best course of action.
With Kelly’s knees all KO’d, continuing the trek seemed impossible at best. We figured we would drop her off at the car park at La Besurta, where she could catch a bus back to Benasque, and then head our separate ways. We would continue along the four-day loop that would eventually take us back to Benasque, while she would return to the village immediately and enjoy a few days of luxury and comfort. I’m talking spas and massages here. Now that seemed like a good plan!
As we mulled over our options, all of us except Nick had our doubts. We were simply exhausted, and completing the four-day loop felt like unnecessary torture. After all, our main goal had been to summit Pico Aneto, and we had managed that. Maybe we could cut our trekking adventure short and join Kelly on her spa retreat instead.
With Nick reassuring us that the hardest part was over, despite my AllTrails map suggesting otherwise, we decided to leave the decision until the following morning. And now? Now it was the following morning, and we had to make a decision pronto. Despite the previous day’s hike leaving us feeling like zombies, we opted to continue our trek. Spoiler alert: wrong friggin’ choice.
One Bag Heavier
With Kelly pretty much incapacitated, Nick supported her as much as he could while I carried her bag. We would be trekking back down the same route we had taken on the first day to reach the car park at La Besurta, from where she could catch a bus to Benasque.
The trail down had me panting and heaving, walking lopsided beneath the additional weight of the extra bag. By this point, my left knee, which was already injured following my brief flirtation with running, had started to swell too. By the time we reached the car park, I had developed such a bad neck spasm that I could hardly move my head. This did not bode well for me. That said, Nick insisted that we had an easier day ahead of us. We would have to climb around 600 metres to reach the highest point, and then it would be an easy downhill walk the rest of the way. According to the route profile he had sent us a few weeks earlier, however, that did not add up at all.
Once at the car park, we said goodbye to Kelly and enviously waved her off. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have half a mind to join her, but I was all in now. In fact, I was pretty hyped to complete the loop and set my eyes on more wonderful vistas, despite the aches and exhaustion.
Little Waterfall on the Prairie
The first part of the trail was easy enough, with the path winding across granite slabs and meadows dotted with pine trees. We maintained a slow pace, owing mostly to a herd of around 400 cows that occasionally blocked our way.
After a few kilometres of walking, we could hear the distant roar of water, a low thunder echoing through the valley. We pushed on, and there, right before our eyes, was the Cascada de Aigualluts, a waterfall cascading over polished granite before disappearing into the enormous Forau d’Aiguallut sinkhole. After admiring the gorgeous waterfall and taking a few thousand photographs of it, we continued onwards as the trail opened into the legendary Plan d’Aiguallut – one of the most beautiful plains in the Pyrenees. The wide green meadow, Nick explained, sits within a perfect U-shaped glacial basin, framed by the towering silhouette of Pico Aneto.
This genuinely felt like heaven on earth. We could hear marmots whistling across the valley as we hopped over tiny streams and ogled pools reflecting the surrounding peaks like mirrors. This would have been the perfect place for my traditional apple break – that said, Nick pushed us onwards, knowing that we had a long climb ahead of us.
Stop Doing, Start Whining
Up next came the tough part. This was where the real high-mountain journey began. Leaving the meadow behind, the path steepened almost immediately, following a meandering river and climbing through clusters of pine before transitioning into a world of boulders and fractured granite.
Here, we faced the real ascent: long, unrelenting and incredibly demanding on the calves. I swear, I could feel mine tensing with every step, each one becoming more difficult than the last. Not to mention, the altitude was really starting to affect me. Every metre of incline took its toll on my poor lungs, forcing me to stop every few seconds to catch my breath.
We zigzagged up the hillside carved by ancient ice, with the views growing wider and emptier the higher we climbed. While Nick and Harry forged ahead, Carrie and I settled into a good rhythm, pausing every few metres to recover before continuing. Julie’s pace was unpredictable. She would be leading the group one moment and trailing behind everyone else the next. I kept checking my watch to count the elevation gained with every single switchback. Just 600 metres of climbing to go, and it would all be over.
Standing at around 2,800 metres above sea level, our main goal for the day was the Collado de Salenques. Roughly halfway up, we could see the Ibón de Barrancs, a high-altitude lake nestled beneath the surrounding peaks. I was so drained by that point that I could hardly spare it a second glance. It looked nice, but I couldn’t have cared less. All I could focus on was my apple break at the top of the collado. Even that began to feel like an unreachable goal as the approach became increasingly rugged. The granite blocks were so haphazardly strewn across the mountainside that we had to use our hands to maintain our balance, with the final stretch essentially becoming a full-on scramble.
I was simply miserable. With nothing but stone, sky and wind around us, and no vegetation or wild animals to keep us entertained, it was just us against the mountain. I guess this was where I replaced my mantra of “stop whining, start doing” with “when the going gets tough, the tough get whiny”. I swear, Carrie and I spent as much energy complaining as we did climbing the damned wall towards the collado. I started wondering how I would have fared had I decided to do something like this on my own. With no one there to complain to, I probably would have sucked it up and continued. With Carrie being as vociferous about her struggles as I was, however, we seemed to create a positive, or rather negative, feedback loop, steadily augmenting each other’s stress levels.
While I was hanging on by a thread, Catrrie became overwhelmed and began to panic when she felt that the climb was too much for her. At one point, Nick had to make his way back down to help her. I have to admit, parts of the route felt pretty unsafe. Some sections were exposed to steep drops, while the rocks we were clinging to for dear life seemed about as stable as a tower of champagne glasses. Seeing Nick visibly alarmed at having brought us there did not help either. This was a different route from the one he had taken the previous year, and as he apologised over and over again, I could only wish that I had boarded the bus with Kelly.
After what felt like hours, we finally reached the Collado de Salenques. Standing on the mountain pass felt like being on the roof of the world, with sharp ridges stretching out on either side and the valleys below appearing impossibly deep. This had been the hardest climb of the day, and possibly of my entire life, but the views were also the most rewarding.
PART II
The Climb Goes On
Rewarding though those views might have been, we had little time to enjoy them. Even though the next section would supposedly be mostly downhill, we still had a long way to go.
According to my watch, we had already climbed more than 800 metres, meaning we had overshot our alleged target by around 200 metres. Most frightening of all was the fact that our route profile predicted a further 500 metres of climbing. It wasn’t so much the incline itself that worried me. It was the topography and terrain. A gradual incline along a smooth, well-maintained path was one thing. Having to scramble and climb the entire way would be another thing entirely. So far, we had already done plenty of that.
Fortunately, the next section began with a steady and steep descent, although we still had to thread our way through more boulder fields and loose scree, which slowed our progress significantly. After that came a series of climbs and descents, with every corner promising our first glimpse of the lakes Nick had said we would encounter as we approached the next refuge. With each hill we climbed, my energy and motivation drained further.
I was this close to giving up, although that wasn’t really an option. My knee was visibly swollen, my calves felt as solid as bricks and the spasm in my neck had become unbearable. I wanted out so badly. Seriously, this was definitely the hardest trek I had ever completed, and I wasn’t enjoying any of it by that point.
Lakes, Lies and Low Morale
With the sun close to setting, our morale was pretty low. If darkness caught us before we reached the refuge, we would be stuck in the middle of nowhere in freezing conditions. Even worse, we might miss dinner, something we couldn’t even conceive of by that point.
We walked and walked and walked. Up and down, up and down, up and down, with the distance marker on the map seemingly mocking us. Eventually, however, we caught sight of the first lake. When we laid eyes on the Estany de Cap de la Vall, a pristine, cold-blue lake cradled by smooth granite walls, it suddenly felt as though there might be some hope left. As we approached the lake, the atmosphere grew calmer. The glassy water, the silence and the occasional ripple across its surface seemed to reinvigorate us.
There, we encountered some fellow hikers who assured us that we were incredibly close to the refuge. Friggin’ liars. Leaving Cap de la Vall behind, the path climbed yet again, although more gradually this time, curving around the upper valley. The terrain became darker and more ochre as we approached the next landmark, Ibón Negro, or Estany Negre – the Black Lake. True to its name, the water appeared deep and shadowed, reflecting the dark cliffs looming above it. From Ibón Negro, the path curved towards the Llauset basin, gradually losing elevation as the harsh granite landscape began to soften.
Here, we could finally see the wide bowl of the Embalse de Llauset, a surreal contrast of electric-blue water and the massive stone dam containing it. A well-worn path led us around the reservoir’s upper edge before switching back for one final short climb.
The Mountain Spaceship
Perched on a rocky rise sat the Refugio de Cap de Llauset, a modern, angular refuge that looked like a mountain spaceship standing guard over the valley.
While Nick went ahead to check us in, the rest of us collapsed onto a bench outside the refuge, unable to move or speak. Although I could hardly believe that we had made it, I didn’t feel like celebrating either. My watch had recorded well over ten hours of walking, covering around 17 kilometres with a total elevation gain of approximately 1,300 metres.
I had completed longer and steeper days than that, particularly while trekking through Patagonia, but not a single trek had ever felt this difficult. This had felt closer to mountaineering than hiking, despite not requiring any technical equipment. I had done plenty of trekking before, but nothing had come close to this. I guess it was the combination of exhaustion, altitude, injuries and technical terrain that had made the day so difficult. Regardless, I felt more defeated than victorious, despite having completed the trek. Although Nick and Harry were also battered and drained, they seemed to have handled it much better than I had. Their physiques and stamina were on another level. Carrie, Julie and I, on the other hand, were simply shattered.
Having arrived just after sunset, we found that most of the other guests had already retreated to the comfort of their rooms. We rushed to settle in, practically devoured the pizza we were served and then headed to bed, finally calling it a day.