Crossing to Núria Valley

A tribute to a quiet act of courage shared in the Pyrenees, in memory of Beatriz

1. Invitation and Unknowing

I once hiked here with my friend Beatriz, who is no longer with us.

She had asked several times to visit these mountains, and eventually, we set a date. She joined me on a familiar route to Coma de Vaca, a mountain hut tucked into the Pyrenees near Núria—a place I knew well, a path I trusted.

Beatriz later passed away from cancer in Switzerland, and even now, I can’t fully accept that she’s gone.

We didn’t know, that day, that we were writing one of our final shared chapters.
But something about the mountains seemed to already understand.

2. The Arrival

When we arrived at Coma de Vaca, a thick fog had begun to gather—soft and silent, settling across the valley like a blanket.
Rain hovered at the edges of the sky, and we arrived just as the first drops began to fall.

Inside the hut, warmth and life greeted us: hikers playing cards, laughter echoing softly, boots drying near the fire.
We opened a bottle of red wine and sat quietly near the window, watching the mountains disappear and reappear behind the mist.

There wasn’t much conversation.
Only stillness.
Only presence.

3. The Ascent

The next morning, we set out again.

Beatriz wore thin-soled shoes—completely unfit for the rugged terrain ahead. Still, she walked.
Steady. Quiet.
Carrying something I couldn’t quite name.

We scrambled over rocks, clung to steel cables for support, and climbed slowly through narrowing switchbacks. Higher up, a stretch of snow clung to the trail—slippery, sloped, and exposed.

Then she stopped.

I was a few meters behind and saw her frozen—breath shallow, body rigid.

That’s when I realized: she was afraid of heights.

Her eyes met mine—wide and searching—and time slowed around us.
I felt nervous. I felt responsible.
What if she slips? What if I brought her too far?

Another hiker passed quietly, giving a subtle nod. And after a long pause, Beatriz breathed in, looked ahead, and stepped—carefully, intentionally—onto the snow.

I walked beside her in silence, my breath tight in my chest.

And we made it.

We reached Núria, tired and relieved.
There, we shared a simple pleasure—warm sandwiches and soft smiles—marking the end of a silent, sacred crossing.

🪨 Reflection

There was no dramatic triumph. No celebration.
Just two friends moving through fear—one step at a time.

Beatriz taught me that courage doesn’t always roar.
Sometimes it’s a shaky breath… a pause… and the decision to keep going anyway.

I still see her on that trail—hesitant, vulnerable, and deeply brave.

I carry that moment with me like a quiet torch:
A reminder that we are stronger than we think, and gentler than we often show.

This place remains a sanctuary to me.
When I feel lost, unsure, or restless—this is where I return in my heart.
It’s the place where I feel most connected. Most myself.