Skiing Sierra Nevada in Southern Spain

Cautiously excavating the Peugeot from its overpriced underground parking unit into the early morning sun, our brief time here was over. It was time to ski the Sierra Nevada mountains looming over Granada.

Skiing Sierra Nevada

You Say There is Skiing in Sierra Nevada, Spain?

Until very recently, I didn’t know snow covered mountains existed in Spain anywhere other than the Pyrénees on the northern border with France and Andorra. These Sierra Nevada Mountains provide a unique opportunity. This is a geographical perch where you can stand in snow and see the Mediterranean Sea coast at the same time. Ski Southern Spain in the morning and lie on the beach that same afternoon.

The one particular activity that Nadine absolutely loves in life, other than listening to my jokes, is skiing. Since she was a little girl, she grew up winter skiing in Colorado. Those skiing opportunities are far and few between living in the Middle East (except Lebanon). When accessible skiing slopes presented themselves in our planning for the trip, it was a no brainer. Nadine would ski three days with the three oldest kids, and Momo and I would hang out together below the slopes.

These Aren’t The Old Men Taking In The Goings-on of Güéjar Sierra

The Hidden Gem

The small town of Güéjar Sierra served as our home base. The 3,000 person town situated at the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains is hidden from the throngs of tourists in Granada. This laid back town seemed as if everyone moves at a speed far below the speed limit. Everyday, a group of older men in gray pants, collared shirts, and possibly a twill hat, could be found seated around the main plaza observing the odd passerby and discussing life’s events.

“Did you see that Peugeot passing by trying to navigate our streets?”

“Yeah, probably a German family.”

The people carried a polite, yet reserved aura of, “thanks for coming, please don’t buy any of the our property and disrupt this tranquil life here. I suspect you’re not from these parts.”

Ramón and his sister María’s recently renovated AirBNB apartment was a very modern rendition of comfort and convenience in the heart of the village. Upon our arrival, María walked out of her pharmacy dressed in her white pharmacist coat, and patiently guided our Peugeot 100 meters up to the apartment. Maybe sensing our challenges navigating Granada’s narrow streets, she had us simply park in front of her father’s house.

Skiers Are Dropped Off, Time To Hit The Beach

Climbing the Sierra Nevada Mountains Like a Cyclist

The GPS route initially provided produced a hesitant reaction. This is the same ascent tackled by Vuelta de España cyclists. The road climbed at a 18% grade past hidden family farms and blind turns. Eventually the two lane road, cutting back and forth up the mountain side, converted into a one lane road. Ultimately, this country road spilled out onto a main highway artery joining the flow of Granada ski traffic.

My first journey up to the Sierra Nevada ski resort was a cautious one. By the third day, I flew up and down the mountain like a local.

The state of snow up after several days of heavy rain left the natural and man made snow in a condition slightly better than Mount Crescent, the bunny hill of her youth. Still didn’t matter, she shared her childhood and adulthood passion with her children. They carved up the slushy and icy Spanish slopes all the same. They were skiing southern Spain.

Just an Hour Away are the Sierra Nevada Mountains

Nerja, You Surprise Me

Travel heightens the sense. Days feel fuller, more detailed and memorable. The prospect of one-on-one time with my 3 year old Momo was welcomed. Any chance to spend time with just one child is a rare gift these days. As any parent recognizes, those years flyby. Kids grow up and change. Photos often provide a surprising perspective of these changes over time. That little girl born in the Cayman Islands is now a bundle of rambling love, hugs, and silliness. She still wants to hang out with her Dad. You don’t let this go, because is no guarantee how long it will last.

The novelty of driving out of the Sierra Nevada to the coast and back with Momo was inevitable. Nerja fit the requirements. It was a manageable driving distance (1h30) for a day trip. It’s located on the coast with nearby caves and beaches Momo may like. The Lonely Planet description sounded ideal. It was short, an indicator that it was off the beaten path.

The Güéjar Sierra to Nerja drive stunned. I never expected to drive alongside snow capped mountains down through green valleys on the way down to the southern Spanish coast. The coastal route west from Motril reminded me of the middle-classed man’s version of the Garden Route in South Africa to Cape Town. This section of Spanish coast undulated as the N-340 highway switched between bridges, offering spectacular views of plunging mountains deftly towards the sea; tunnels, burrowing under and through these mountains; and momentary road on tierra firms that revealed glimpses of well maneuvered coastal towns.

Daddy Daughter Beach Time

Momo Time

To my astonishment on this day, sandwiched between Christmas and New Years Eve, and after reading the small Lonely planet Nerja blurb, this town was packed with cars and Norwegian tourists (according to a long term resident Italian artist). After fortuitously finding a parking spot, Momo and I sat in a brightly orange plastic booth for late morning brunch. Lively discussion revolved around birds, the sea, and playgrounds. How many birds were there? Would she like to swim in the water? Could she catch a bird?

Once brunch arrived, the food she ordered didn’t look as appetizing as mine, even though it was identical. Momo promptly walked around the vinyl booth and planted her bum in my lap and began eating my food. Doesn’t matter, this is what I will miss most in ten years.

Bellies full, we strolled through, around, and with all the unexpected Norwegian, English, and even American tourists across clean, well maintained pedestrian Nerja walkways. The sheer number of tourists made me consider whether or not Nerja was a cruise ship destination, but glances towards the Mediterranean rendered no such explanations. The Spanish were clearly outnumbered here. Maybe the Spanish avoid Nerja like Texans avoid the Riverwalk, except on special occasions.

Once Momo’s three year old legs were unexpectedly rendered useless, she rode her reliable and willing shoulder chariot back to the car. My one hand held tight to her leg and the other to the bag carrying Nadine’s two bottles of Spanish red wine and Sophie’s piece of coastal art.

Picking up tired skiers in Sierra Nevada predicated the return drive north to the mountains, but not until after a quick visit to the Nerja Caves.

My one-on-one time with Momo was priceless, just like Nadine skiing Southern Spain with her three oldest. Driving back, heart full and appreciative, periodically I’d look back in the rearview mirror to appreciate two bright blue eyes peering out from the back row and bouncing blond pigtails. Anytime she saw me watching her, she gleefully yelled, “Hi Dad! I love you!”

Memories made with a heart full of love.