In physics, silence is defined as the complete absence of sound. But somewhere among the Pyrenean peaks of Andorra I come to understand that in human psychology, the purest form of silence can exist within the resonances of the natural world.
📍 🇦🇩 Andorra, Pyrenees | ⛰️👂 Low Vision Adventures / Sound Perception
It’s exactly 9:30 a.m. when I step out of my friend Josephine’s apartment in Andorra.
The mountain air still carries a crisp bite, just sharp enough to make my summery (and, okay, slightly amateurish) hiking outfit feel a little premature.
But I don’t want to wait. The August sun will soon intensify, and I’ve got quite a few climbing meters ahead before I reach my targeted destination: Querol Lake (Estany de Querol).
Anxious Voices
Today is a rematch.
Not against the Pyrenean mountains, but more so against myself.
Three years ago, I hiked here too – in this tiny adventure haven nestled between Spain and France – determined to reach a high-altitude lake on my own.
But I was still tangled in the aftermath of my anxiety disorder. The worried voices in my head ultimately won from my longing to explore.
It was a difficult time, although not all of my fears back then were completely unfounded.
With my limited vision, solo hiking in mountainous terrain is no small task. I often struggle to see the texture of the rocks beneath and around me, which means I’m more at risk of losing my footing.
But this time, I come better prepared.
Again with a fully charged phone,
Strong signal,
And slow and steady pace,
But this time above all –
With a calm mind.
If things start to feel unsafe or overwhelming, I trust I won’t let pride stop me from turning back.
Fading Sounds
The higher I climb above the little village and its stone houses, the more the hum of traffic fades.
Ah… what a relief.
But silence never quite settles in.
The buzz of cars quickly gives way to birdsong,
the rush of mountain streams beside the path,
and the occasional warm hola or bonjour from fellow hikers.
TThey slowly, but steadily, quiet the lingering nervous voice in my head still wondering if I will make it to the lakes this time around.
Strategically, I already walked the first part of the trail yesterday with Josephine.
For me, testing the terrain beforehand is essential.
It doesn’t just build confidence that I can navigate it solo,
it also saves me precious energy at the start of my hike,
knowing I’ll need every last Joule during the often underestimated descent.
Good preparation is key.
Not just for my eyes,
but even more so for my mind.
The Hills Are Alive
After the first stretch of climbing, I reach a forest thick with rugged, old pine trees. I pull out my phone and zoom in on a wooden sign.
The lake is still about an hour and a half away.
Which, for me, probably means closer to two.
Okay. Doable.
A little relieved, I feel myself slowly arriving in my surroundings.
As if calm itself sharpens my senses, I suddenly catch it –
the rich, grounding scent of sun-dried pine needles on the forest floor. Mmm. Another divine layer added to this earthy journey.
Gently, I run my fingers across the bark of a nearby pine.
Its ridges like ancient script,
whispering tales of growth and resilience straight into my open palm.
Weaving my way through the woods, I arrive at a high-altitude plateau, offering a breathtaking, 360-degree view of the mountain ranges surrounding me.
In the distance, I spot the jagged peaks bordering the Vall d’Incles; a popular valley trail I’m planning to explore tomorrow.
Like Maria von Trapp in The Sound of Music,
I stretch out my arms,
absorbing the purity
and simplicity
of the moment.
Splashing Water
Trees now give way to open hills, flanked by towering peaks.
Their slopes a patchwork of stones and yellow-green grass.
It can’t be much farther now.
Determined, I place one foot in front of the other. My thighs burn, nearly as hot as my sun-warmed skin.
Also the terrain beneath my shoes grows stonier, demanding every bit of focus.
Step by careful step.
Feeling every centimeter.
I climb a steep hill – panting, sweating –
unaware of what’s just beyond.
Until…
I hear it.
The soft splatter of water.
I quicken my step to reach the top of the hill.
There it is!
The high-altitude lake I’ve been longing to reach, cradled in the bowl of the hill on the other side
I spot two moving dots in the distance.
Could it be people swimming?
I approach the lake’s edge, only to find my eyes filing with tears seconds later.
They’re not people.
They’re two dogs.
And one of them –
a German Shorthaired Pointer.
Just like my own.
My best friend, who this same year got diagnosed with an incurable form of pancreatic cancer and only just recovered from a serious inflammation of her stomach lining.
The Altitude of Stillness
I sit by the lake and chat with the owners,
their dogs joyfully leaping into the water to retrieve sticks.
Thrown again and again, the canines splashing, barking, circling in delight.
I’m not someone who easily leans into superstition,
but this moment feels eerily serendipitous.
The American couple tells me there are two more lakes nearby:
one about fifteen minutes further,
the other closer to forty-five.
I don’t hesitate. Not even for a second.
We exchange social media handles.
And I set off once again.
The second lake — Estany de les Salamandres —
is smaller, quieter.
I pull out my digital pair of eyes once again, zooming in on the landscape ahead.
No third lake in sight.
I pause.
The sun now presses hard against my forehead,
a headache developing beneath my temples.
My light-sensitive eyes are starting to ache too.
No matter what sunglasses or cap I wear,
eventually I’ll have to find shade.
I scan the rim of the lake for a patch of shadow,
pull out the sandwiches from my backpack,
and decide to sit.
Entirely alone.
Roughly 2,340 meters above sea level.
In silence.
Inner Conservations
Yet, it’s not the kind of environmental silence
romanticized in mountain stories.
Because here, beside the lake,
it is anything but soundless.
I hear the hum of tiny, vibrant life
hidden in the grass.
The gentle lapping of water.
The satisfying plop of a pebble
as I toss it into the lake.
And yes – what luck –
even the call of a large brown blur,
which I take to be a bird of prey,
gliding above the peaks behind the lake.
But one sound is missing.
The most important one of all.
The voice that, three years ago,
would freeze me in place.
That looping tune in your mind
that plays without permission,
unfiltered, relentless –
showing you dangers that aren’t really there.
The voice that never lets things go quiet,
no matter how silent your surroundings may be.
That voice…
is finally on mute.
So quiet, in fact,
that I’m suddenly flooded
with an indescribable wave
of pride and joy.
Because recovering from a mental health disorder
doesn’t follow a mapped-out Komoot route.
It doesn’t come with a visible finish line.
Recovery means walking.
One foot in front of the other.
Again.
And again.
Trusting –
that someday, without warning,
you’ll realize…
you’ve made it to the other side. Or a lake, in my case.
The Sound of Silence
I crawl out from beneath a rock,
and cool my skin with a splash of fresh lake water.
I feel a deep, humbling gratitude
for these mountains.
For inspiring me to come back,
with all their visual
– and non-visual –
beauty.
For making me feel
strong
and vulnerable
at the same time.
For encouraging me to keep moving.
whilst gently reminding me to honor my limits.
It is these very lessons that push one forward, no matter the complexity of the trail.
On my way back down,
I text Josephine
and ask her to meet me at the viewpoint
above our cabin.
Then…
I open Spotify, press play on The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel,
and begin to hum along:
“But my words like silent raindrops fell…
and echoed in the wells of silence…”
Thank you for this wonderful and inspiring story, Marie Elise!