“from the sea to the mountains” Part Two
Day Five, Beech Forest near Cafe Pedro to Col de Tharta
It’s generally a strange and wonderful day. Short (for me) but with a few chance meetings, I get myself to an emergency shelter surrounded by sheep tinkling in the mist.
To climb or not to climb
The day is so beautiful and I feel strong, so I walk to the Col de Tharta just at the start of the big climb up Pic d’Orhy. The mist comes down, swirling in a light wind.
I have the energy and the light, but there are factors I have to weigh – like how much water to take and how far until the next stream? How hard is it to navigate and what if my phone dies? Will the mist cover my entire view?
I drop my things at the metal shelter then flag down a shepherd walking with his dog. Another man joins us coming off the mountain and we speak as best we can using google translate and my crappy French, which I pronounce well my tiny vocabulary such as it is.
They promise me the Spanish side will have no mist, but that I must carry at least four liters. Lordy, I’m not sure I’m physically capable.
One warns me of a treacherous section and not to miss a turnoff to avoid the crête. They say it’s possible to go tonight but look dubious as another group of three descends, all wearing day packs.
The mist swarms my entire valley and I decide to set camp and hope it’s clear in the morning. The shepherd shows me the water trough deep in the valley and I make plans to gather some as well as drink a lot before I leave.
It’s very, very hot in the sun. My tent is set, but the heat punctures the mist and turns it into a wood fired pizza oven.
So I find a chair inside and sit in the shade. I’m really not very good with lolling around, but there would be no view whatsoever and walking over here sidling a steep valley was spectacular.
Before mist, I could see deep into the high Pyrenees, fanciful pyramids, some cockeyed, all gray and white. My Pic also shoots up in a triangle, mostly grassy green with rock outcroppings.
If I have a perfect morning, I’ll bust up then climb high and exposed along a crest of peaks to my water source at a stream many hours ahead, like 4 or 5? Oh god, not sure I’ll sleep well tonight wondering about all these variables.
so many variables
I had variables to manage in my forest lair this morning. I chose well in a quiet place and slept late. It was a gorgeous morning over an open grassy area where rocks have been placed in a circle.
My mind is panicking over my battery running down since I check where I am every two minutes it seems, even when the way should be obvious.
I also need food. Though I’m fairly certain there’s a shop ahead. But I stop at Chalet Pedro anyway to see if they might have breakfast and a chance to charge the phone.
No one answers when I knock but two women, Rocio and Patricia, invite me over to their spot and invite me to breakfast – and to charge! A solitary boy sits with them and as we talk two more emerge, all three Patricia’s.
They’re teachers and we talk about life and Minnesota and hiking as my battery beefs up, hopefully enough until I get to a town.
I enjoy it so much, spreading huge amounts of butter on crumbling toast. Now I wonder had I kept moving, I’d be over the pass. But who would cut short such a lovely connection, Rocio inviting me to Seville…
thirst
I do finally march on and it’s steeper and further than I expect. Even after coffee and milk and water, I’m thirsty and buy a giant bottle of orange juice, plus a bit of food for the next days at the tiny store at the Iraty center.
Good lord almighty, I spend over €60! Convenient, touristy, my only option, but these snacks better be good.
All the way here, I pass views of this monster mountain with cows sitting lazily in the scene. I’m on the GR10 for some time and catch up three cute girls on the way.
But then I decide to move, move into this beauty and take advantage of this perfect day.
Until it’s less so, though suddenly now it’s clear. A Eurasian Skylark sings his complex melody of trills and buzzes and the mist lifts revealing the source of all the baaing and tinkling.
Is it bad to sometimes wait when you’re not entirely sure? My phone is dying and I count it as another worry for tonight lol. I just need it to keep power for a few more days – at least the battery to have enough.
And one more thing, can tomorrow be as stunningly beautiful as today?
Day Six, Pic d’Orhy to Refuge de Belagua
So, the day has ended with my tent set next to Kevin’s underneath the Refugio Balagua. It’s out of the rain and it’s free – and private. And I’m so dead tired I gotta have some semblance of my own space.
An odd and somewhat improvised ending (merci, Kevin!) to one of the most fantastic days of my life.
So what if my body hurts and I can’t keep my eyes open. What gloriousness.
My goal was to climb the mountain before the rain came. It was an absolute, utter whiteout last night and I could barely see the way to collect water. I found it spooky and oddly exciting, though in the middle of the night, it cleared to reveal a starry night plus Milky Way.
up and over
I wake with the sunrise and make coffee, plus drink as much water as I can manage. It’s a long way to water with the first Peak over 2,000 meters in the way.
I head up first, steeply on grass nicely terraced by sheep and past one hunter hut after another. The mist collects in the valley and the sunrise is unreal, orange and purple.
I wouldn’t say it’s easy, but it’s just breathing heavy and going up until I reach the Crête de Zazpigagn. The wind has been steady, but now it gets gusty and unimpeded, threatens to push me right off.
I climb directly on top of the rocks as suggested as the crest narrows. OK, this is stupid, and look below, there’s a trail!
Believe-it-or-not the below trail is worse because I get the brunt of the wind, but at least I’m not looking at a 1,000 foot drop should I slip.
It’s steep still and I remember the hiker last night telling me to drop down below the ridge to avoid the most dangerous bit. I commit all this to memory, but without mist, the way is obvious.
Though not so easy.
It requires a steep zigzag on eroding ballbearing-like scree. Each step I take with care before heading straight up again to a fence. A fence?!? I guess it keeps the sheep from plunging off the side.
Just when you think you’re a badass, you discover sheep graze up here on a regular basis.
There’s a wee stile and then it’s just a grind and a fight with wind to the top. Absolutely incredible! Mind-boggling view and thank the goddess I had the sense to wait to do it until this morning.
Kevin is right behind me and snaps my picture as I plop my body down against a wind fierce enough to launch me into this view.
The hike down is equally spectacular along the ridge. I can hardly believe I got up that without mist or rain and with a to-die-for sunrise.
At the road, an Englishwoman catches us up. She’s tall and built like a colt with long brown hair and charmingly crooked teeth. Helen is her name and I like her right away.
The three of us launch on intending to get our bodies to a Refugio on the Spanish side now and halfway into the next day’s plan. It lines us up for Lescun where they’ll meet their beaus and we’ll all take a rest, wash clothes and buy food before the ‘real’ High Pyrenees begin.
The walk is on huge, rolling green hills, often exposing sedimentary rock layers tipped up at extreme angles much like the mountain we just submitted.
It’s easier walking as views open up to Pic d’Orhy. We walk at our own pace or sometimes together, talking about life and family and favorite hikes.
Ahead, a flock of sheep are lining up to move from one side of the mountain to the next. From here, they look like some form of code written in white on green. When I finally meet them, they can’t be bothered with me as they scramble over the tight squeeze of a pass, dinging and baaing.
At the other side, tuckered out from such an emotional moment, they lay down and lazily chew their cud.
The Haute Route is not a fully separate trail. The intention is to stay as close to the border as possible, sometimes literally straddling it as we use stone border markers to guide us.
But much of the time we walk on existing paths, the GR 10, 11 and now 12. These are marked with a red and white stripe atop each other. Though I should point out that simply relying on these markers can send you right off course as multiple variations exist.
Still, the walking is glorious on these well-used paths in huge countryside under a perfect sky, blue with puffy clouds.
One last steep, yet short, climb through an array of wildflowers pops me over a col to one of the most magnificent views of the High Pyrenees.
I spotted their fanciful pointy shapes a few days back, but now they feel so close, I can touch them. It’s a karst landscape of crumbling limestone and a massive flower-strewn descent where I live with this view all the way to a road which takes me to the refugio.
The intense sun, the relentless wind and hard walking have caught up with me, so I find a wee bit of shade under a pine tree to lay down my body and promptly fall asleep.
Eventually I come down to the refugio and meet my friends. I order a giant plate of cheesy, tomatoey spaghetti and dispatch it in minutes.
Kevin helps me call around to find a gîte for tomorrow in Lescun. Shoot, it’s the weekend and I may have to camp. I should mention Europeans camp in style and I’ll have shower, wifi, food…
Still I’ll need to walk there and hoping I get some nice weather. It thunders and rains a little, the sun exposing a rainbow. Mist swirls in and temperature drops 20+ degrees.
The Spaniards talk and talk and sing, but it’s like a lullaby to this tired blissful hiker.
Day Seven, Refugio de Belagua to Lescun
I’m too tired to write, but highlights are below.
Awakened by the loudest cat ever known to womankind.
A hike in rain and mud and seeing my first salamanders.
Entering a karst or limestone wonderland as the sun comes out for one minute to create a rainbow.
Millions of wildflowers including a deep purple columbine.
A long climb up, then down to La Source de Marmitou, a magical place of grass, stunted pines, twin streams and peaks disappearing in the mist, snow stuck in their folds.
Terraces of sheep, then cows and finally mules eating and pooping and baaing, mooing, braying in a spectacular wonderland.
More rain and mist and down, down, down to Cascade de Sanchèse, another magical spot of falls crashinv down from towering triangular limestone cliffs to a meadow where now horses graze.
I forgot to mention the switchbacks built through the mountains look ancient, like cobblestones – oh, and the two big patous (Great Pyrenees Sheep Dogs) barking at me then wagging their tales.
I meet a road and it’s down and down in mist and this dead tired Blissful finds the refuge where Kevin organized my stay and eats with a French group and wishes she had studied harder.
And that, my friends, is the end of section one of the HRP, the Pyrenean Haute Route. I’m worn out, but so pleased I got the mountain in the sunshine and survived two very wet and cold days.
It’s much warmer than I expected and harder! Even road walking was steep and tiring. I look forward to what awaits me, but feel nervous I won’t be able to handle it.
As I attempt to take my own advice – take one day at a time and just put a foot in front of the other, and off you go.
Bonne nuit! A bientôt!
