Azores: Pico

In the prologue, I alluded to the weather zone that is the Azores. One doing her research will come upon warnings about allowing time--days, even--between flights in case of cancellations. That's one reason Sao Miguel was the last stop on our trip.We'd allowed a full day between landing on Faial and the last ferry from there to Pico, where we'd have an early start the next morning. If time permitted, we'd go see a couple of sights on Faial. We got there on time, but not quite enough time for a stress-free tour of the island (or even a ride to capelinhos), especially for the price. So we made it to the port--evidently just in time for a ferry we didn't even know was departing--and sailed to Pico.


Goncalo, the extraordinarily helpful owner of our hotel picked us up at the port, drove us past some stunning wine walls, pointed out the supermarket and the natural swimming hole, and showed us to our room. We figured it would be less time to buy groceries than to walk to and from the nearest veg-friendly establishment, so we stocked up and headed back. I also bought a pair of sunglasses--I'd left mine on the flight to Flores and made do with a floppy hat in the meantime. Flores was stunning, but we welcomed being back in civilization.

Kiera captured my return from the swimming hole

I popped into the swimming hole to cool off and helped Kiera make a Thai vegetable salad. They had all kinds of tofu in the local supermarket. We also brought what we thought would be sturdy bread for to make PB&J for the hike the next day. Goncalo came for us not-bright but early--it was still dark--and took us to the trailhead for Mt. Pico to meet our guide. It was chilly and damp, so about right for a strenuous hike.

We ultimately decided to go with a guide--and were glad we did--because we'd read that when fog covers the mountain, you can't see past your nose, including to the path markers. She was amazing. But she did rush us up the mountain, because weather, and it was very, very tough. The hike can be characterized by segments, as Raisa told us: "natural selection," not because it takes people out but because it weeds out the people who didn't know what they'd signed up for; "a walk in the park," which is exactly what it sounds like, followed by "widow maker," and so on, until you get to Piquinho--the tippy top, formed by the last eruption--where you drop your polls and scramble.

The climb to the top was that steep

We hiked up in cloud cover, and by the time I thought to hide my camera from the elements, it was too late (and then, it backfired). Kiera thought of military marching cadence to help her along; I resorted to the famous Dr. Seuss lines that have been keeping me going for decades: On you will go, though the weather be foul... though your feet may be sore and your sneakers may leak. I also, occasionally, led myself to an earworm from "The Producers": We can do it! Nothing to it!

Whatever our coping strategies, we did it. There were fumaroles up at the top to warm us as we had lunch with a view, including of Faial. Raisa offered us moonshine--an island staple--to further warm us.

 

We were able to see more of the mountain on the way down. Sadly, I didn't get too many pictures of it because my camera took a tumble off its shoulder strap, hit a rock, and developed a mind of its own.

There's a neat crater, which was invisible as we were going up but attractively misty on the way down.

Descending was less exhausting than ascending, but harder on the joints. I always descend cautiously, and on this terrain especially, I let the trekking poles do a lot of the work and take the brunt of the impact.

It wasn't enough; my hamstrings were sore for days. I felt the slightest decline over on Sao Jorge.




After the hike, we parted ways with the couple on our "team," and Raisa gave us a ride back to Sao Roque.

We stopped at our favorite supermarket to get some fresh herbs for dinner and put away a gynormous amount of food. The next morning, we took off for Sao Jorge, leaving Mt. Pico in the distance.