Day Thirty, L’Hospitalet-près-l’Andorre to Etang des Fourats
I’m looking out my tent door across a tiny lake at a giant heap of rock, Pic Carlit, which I’ll climb over tomorrow.
The heap itself is not uniquely impressive. What’s impressive is, well, remember how I’ve mentioned playing the game “Where’s the Col?” since most trails are hidden until you’re on them?
Well, the trail to the summit of Carlit is in full view – and it’s a doozy. It looks like someone drew a zigzag on the side of the mountain.
But also visible are where people slid in the scree, a kind of dust trail, as if a person had descended only moments ago and there was no time for the dust to settle.
I’m all alone because Floris and Evelein (plus English Tom now) are all nervous about predicted thunderstorms.
It’s less a prediction and more a pattern this time of year of building cumulus clouds with a 30% chance of developing convection. Nothing happening now, just happy puffy clouds sailing by.
It’s a bit of a wonder I got here, exactly my plan, at the start of the climb so I can accomplish it in the cool of the morning.
I had a hacking runners cough from too much heavy breathing plus my right foot has a bit of tendonitis.
Last night, the Dutch and I ate at the hotel – and it was terrible. The owner didn’t seem to have a good sense of how to treat customers and it all started to feel like a turnoff – including the sad little town (minus my fantastic meal at the Gîte and the exceptional bakery)
sidebar here: I don’t think I mentioned the tiny store with long shelves and only a few odds and ends placed on them to purchase. The owner was very nice, setting me up with ice for my foot, but had I needed to resupply fully here, I’d be screwed.
As it goes now until the end, I’ll have villages with stores, restaurants and refuges, and so should be able to manage without carrying days of supplies.
But back to the hotel.
It really was necessary to have my own space as I was hacking up mucus, and my little room was ideal. I rested, iced, ate, washed clothes and me caught up on communication, and read all the news – yay, Minnesota Governor Walz! – and I just couldn’t do another day of the same.
So I resolved to saunter and inch my way to the Mediterranean. If I control my breathing, the bronchia can heal. And if I saunter, my foot will be happier.
Besides, with all those villages and roads ahead, if I have to stop, I’ll have many options.
So I hit up the bakery, pack my backpack and head into the final section of the HRP.
I see the Gîte owner as I leave town and thank her again for the lovely meal, then join a trail sidling the mountain with a few switchbacks, and rising above the town and all its traffic noise, buried now in a layer of fog.
It’s slowly uphill to Refuge des Bésines, where I break for a tiny, concentrated cup of coffee. Many people are coming my way, including an Aussie who’s curious about my accent, and a family with a darling little girl carrying her own pack (and teddy bear) so excited to have been at the refuge.
After all the busyness of L’Hospitalet, it’s a relief to enter this valley with its lovely lake and pines, reminding me of the Sierra. A man fishes, and a group of kids set a tent.
After my break, the trail meets Col de Coume d’Agnet, following flower-lined cascades, and a bit of rock scrambling.
I’m moving like a Kabuki dancer – slow, measured, precise, never allowing my breathing to get heavy. My legs feel leaden at times, but it seems to work, keeping me from coughing or causing more damage to my lungs.
I come to the top and meet many people with small packs, running or walking from refuge to refuge.
Over here is a different world. It’s bigger and more open, dryer too. There are big peaks in the distance, but I feel as if on the Tibetan Plateau.
I do descend quite a ways to giant dammed Étang de Lanoux. On the way are a few cascades, plus a small lake and stream, and shade!
I park myself in this splendid shade under a pine with a breeze coming off the lake and have a lunch consisting of cream of asparagus soup and a can of sardines. I realize it sounds a bit gross, but so much goodness in those choices.
It’s a short climb to a cabane near a field filled with sheep, then following one side of the lake as giant cumulus fill the sky.
They give the scene character as well as interesting shadows, but I keep a careful eye if any are turning into thunderheads – not that I can see.
It’s here the Dutch express reluctance to continue ascending, but within a half hour, mostly on easy trail, I reach the tiny lake and set up my tent right away, in case I misread the clouds.
Mist licks at the summit as fish jump. It’s quiet and peaceful, and I am so happy I kept moving so I could come here today.
What a curious real-life experiment to have to saunter today and see how far it would take me. True, it wasn’t a terribly difficult hike, but I did have some climbing. And yet, any time difference was negligible. I still got my body where I wanted it to go.
And all along, just changing my pace and my approach removed anxiety. I didn’t need to race up the hill full tilt, I could glide. And it was, for the record, way more fun.
Day Thirty-one, Etang des Fourats to beyond Eyre
Well, leave it to an American to be the biggest jerk on trail.
It almost seems inevitable that an older white American man wouls crashed our happy picnic table in Bolquere saying, “English? English?”
Can’t even be bothered to learn a polite way to demand everyone speak his language.
When I said I was also American and was he hiking, he proudly stated he was on the HRP.
Only a few days thus far coming from the Mediterranean, but it appears he believes he’s an expert, because when Floris said we’ve been hiking it since the Atlantic Ocean, he looked right at me and said, “Even you?!? You don’t see many old people on trail.”
Ummmmm, mister gray hair, have you looked in a mirror lately?
Unfortunately, I was speechless as he continued to act like the entitled ass so many people think Americans are, calling a hotel and handing the phone to Floris, “Speak!” expecting he’ll arrange a room for him.
If I hadn’t walked this far on this extremely hard route (only hitching on wee bits of tarmac) I’d have thought maybe the guy had a point that old, unattractive, unsexy, past our prime crones like me couldn’t even dream of doing what I’ve done.
I realize attractiveness and sexiness have nothing to do with strength, but I’d like to state for the record this asshat’s dismissive behavior stems from a strongly held belief that women my age have no value. We’re invisible and deserve derision.
I guess I wish I’d said something pithy, maybe, “Best of luck on the HRP, old man. I’ll bet my IRA you skip the hard parts.”
Let’s just say meeting this creep was not the best way to end my day. Better was getting a hitch on the long bit of road to Eyne, where I hiked up into tomorrow’s stage and am set in the forest next to a rushing river, a few birds singing to me.
I had been thinking about getting here since tomorrow is a long day on a ridge, and I really had no desire to camp in the last village, possibly with the American since there are no rooms available.
But let’s erase that for now and start with waking alone at the wee lake looking up at Pic Carlit. The sun is hidden as I ascend on steep scree. A true blessing since it’s hard work to stay on trail, pulling myself with my poles and trying to always lean forward so the weight of my pack won’t pull me off.
I laugh a bit at this wild steepness, yet marvel that not too much moves, and I have not launched a single rock.
Up and up, only glancing back briefly at my lake getting smaller and smaller, the mountainside turning over on itself.
I am all alone, so just me doing the cheerleading and keeping my pace controlled so I don’t cough. Two people appear at the top, early trail runners coming from the other side. One takes my picture at the summit cross, then they disappear.
It’s hazy looking back, also forward to the many lakes below in the Désert du Carlit. My friends are behind me pushing up the pass and I catch their picture before tackling the long descent, my weakest skill.
It’s slippery scree, rocks requiring handholds and general non-stop focus on the feet. But now, literally hundreds of people are coming up. So I politely wait as they come by, or try to slip past without wiping out if there’s room.
I don’t believe I have said, “Bonjour!” so many times in my life.
But it goes on and on and the sun is very hot and the descent is very long. I never lose my patience, but the sheer numbers of humans is staggering.
Some seem prepared for the mountain with a pack, a hat, sticks. Others wear low cut blouses and carry nothing. Where will all of these people congregate at the top, I wonder, grateful for my private moments.
The lakes go from alpine to subalpine, nestled in granite bowls surrounded by pines. It reminds me both of the Sierra and Northern Minnesota.
I take my time to smell the pine and enjoy the many lakes as I pass older people now (haha, even they are hiking!) and small children. There’s nothing so sweet as a bonjour from a little kid.
It’s too early, but any of these lakes would be gorgeous camp-spots, though I imagine crowded now.
I meet Tom and the Dutch at a restaurant and have a sandwich (which I end of throwing up completely later in the day, maybe food poisoning?)
We continue on towards Bolquère to buy food supplies for the coming days. Tom wisely takes a shortcut, while we stay on the HRP to pass a beautiful series of lakes on boulder-filled trail, packed with tourists.
It’s lovely, I admit, but feels time to pass through to the next bit, which requires many miles on a rocky forest road. It’s long and boring, but Tom walks with me and our conversation makes the time fly by.
I get my supplies, get my insulting man and get sick, hurling up everything that I put in my body this afternoon, fortunately in the forest near where I set my tent.
I’m cozy now and hope whatever was tainted is one with the forest now.
I promise not to linger too long on that dumb man. Luckily he’s headed west, so I’ll never see him again.
People come in all shapes and sizes, and for some, being mean makes them feel important and alive.
My job is to make as much space as humanly possible from such creeps, and recall the kindnesses of so many others, like Tamir who told me I hike like a 30-year-old and scale mountains as if I’m a butterfly.
Day Thirty-two, near Eyne to Refugi d’Ulideter
This stage of the HRP is all on exposed ridge – and walked on a stunningly beautiful day.
But I probably should have skipped it.
Everything came out of me last night – from both ends. It was sudden, acute and violent. The idea that my body would just quickly reset is a pipe dream. I’m so weak, I can barely pack let alone climb.
Done in by a quiche.
Or not. I’m so stubborn, I refuse to walk back to town and instead forge ahead, thinking a few sips of water and some candies will get me through the day.
Let’s just say this much: it’s a stunningly beautiful place and I walk it, urging my hurting body forward up long climbs and down rocky slopes.
I smile for pictures and try to stay positive as I realize I will have to get off trail to let my body heal.
I land at a refuge which is near a road and a family grabs my pack, stuffs me in their car, and finds a place for me to land – before I take the bus to Barcelona, and mu high school friend Jana’s apartment, where I can crash and be babied until well enough to return.
Is there a lesson in this? “Listen to your body?” Sure, of course. I was at my limit with a cough and sore foot, but still moving. Food poisoning was the last straw and no one can keep up that kind of pace without being able to hold food down.
I’d say the real lesson is that part of the challenge of an adventure like this is navigating the obstacles – all of the obstacles – including tainted quiches.
Measuring success and character doesn’t come from how many peaks are summited or perfectly executed days, but in how situations that quite literally stop me in my tracks are managed.
So I sit now in Barcelona, not a tourist but laying on a couch letting my body reset and figuring out how I might finish the trail, if at all.
And just like walking a trail or route end-to-end, my healing journey requires a mind that’s present in the here and now, letting what will be to be, and walking it step by step.
