Mount Mulhacén looms large
The flat section - well, it seems flat but is going up at around 6 per cent - towards the final ascent is where I spied a couple of cyclists making their own way to oblivion. My personal pain cave was the mountain to the left.
Their constant starting and stopping allowed me to catch them up, comically enough. Further hilarity ensued when they relayed their cycling woes. The plan had been to ride from Capileira to Trevelez on a broadly flat trail. They'd somehow missed the turning and carried on ascending, right up to 2,640m when I caught them up (I was walking, remember). Trevelez, I said, was at 1,550m. Oh, they replied with the sanguine look of men defeated.
Just a bit further on and looking directly down to the right, I showed them the error of their ways. Trevelez was 3,500 feet lower down!
My first sight of the side of Mulhacén from an altitude of 2,700m. I'd been going for 2 hours and 30 minutes and still felt strong, almost too strong. Munching on Bubión-produced jamon serrano sandwiches does wonders for your energy.
No easy route for me. The idea was to make a beeline for Mulhacén's peak, irrespective of the gradient and terrain. The stark realisation that I was probably going to do it in less than 4 hours flooded my body with much-needed adrenaline.
A brief look back at where I'd come from. I was 12km into the trek and the GPS read a satisfying 2,819m. Only 666 devilish vertical metres to go.
The adrenaline rush was quickly replaced by fear. Going up directly and circumventing the rough path would mean traversing large rocks and what seemed like impossibly-steep gradients. The GPS showed 2,955m whilst I was ravaging the last of my Jelly Babies.
The ibex is a high-altitude beast. My instincts were animalistic, too; I just wanted Mulhacén to come, and quickly. My feet were beginning to hurt. My brain was tired and my knees rarely failed to remind me that they were in need of TLC.
No shade in the lunar-esque landscape meant that rationing water was becoming vitally important. I literally crashed through the 3,000-metre barrier, almost breaking my ankle by not spotting a gap between two boulders.
Cresting another steep hill and not wavering in focus, I summoned the memory of my aerobic humiliation a year ago when I was panting walking up an 8 per cent gradient on an asphalt road.
The evils of comparative oxygen deprivation, the furious and relentless pace that I'd been on from the get-go, and the hard-to-walk terrain combined to weaken my resolve. Mulhacén, come quickly, please.
Another 250 metres higher and, yes, I could see it. It had to be Mulhacén; it just had to be. My GPS read 3,422m. Please, God, let this not be a mirage. I'd been thinking about it for months.
Almost there. Don't do anything stupid. Don't fall over...