Parc national des Pyrénées
Day Eight, Lescun to Refuge d’Arlet
Today I said goodbye to the Basque “hills” and hello to the High Pyrenees.
I was so nervous about entering the ‘big mountains,’ likely because everyone at the Maison de la Montaigne raised their eyebrows and furrowed their brows and tsk-tsked in some sort of French way of saying, “Have you lost your mind? It’s dangerous up there!”
I charged my phone to the last possible second before I was thrown out mainly because I was afraid to leave.
But let me tell you, friends, the Pyrenees are incredible! It’s a magnificent day communing with the real thing and shocking just how high I rise above the valley floor, following a ridge-line that has me floating on clouds.
The day begins with bowls of coffee. Then bread, and more bread. I wait patiently for another course which never comes. It seems a French breakfast is coffee and bread.
I’m still glad I stopped here. The small guided group is very friendly and inclusive and I sleep deeply even though my roommates hop up multiple times and take the noisy circular stairs (switching on an automatic light) down from our garret room down to the toilet.
Once I screw my courage to the sticking point and head out of town, the fog begins to lift and reveal the enormous pointy limestone peaks I missed in the rain.
Lescun is considered one of the prettiest and most authentic of the Pyrenean mountain towns. It nestles in the valley like a child’s toys, the church presiding.
It’s road and shortcuts up to Pont d’Itchaxe where the parking lot is full. It’s steep up now right into mist and forest and my nervousness gets turned up a notch.
I stop at a small waterfall to fill up somehow thinking this is it for the day. I muse on being alone without good language skills. Gawd, I need friends just now.
And around the corner comes a couple, the man wearing a New England Patriots cap.
“Hi!”
Wait, Americans?
Nope, Dutch. Dutch who watch way too much American TV.
Floris and Evelina. He has an infectious laugh and starts teasing right away. She explains they’ve been going slow to warm into the hike, but are so sick and tired of sheep shit – and cow/horse/donkey shit.
“We need limestone!”
My prayers are answered and after a bit of mud and yes, sheep shit, we fly up toward Col de Pau, finding the actual final water source at the wonderful stone Cabane de Bonaris.
It’s a shepherd’s hut with serious style and smack dab in the center of the mountains. A woman comes out to play with a Border Collie pup, soft and cute, her mama nosing in for scratches too.
The trail is obvious rising above the plateau, the scenery wondrous with mist still floating like a bed of cotton. Every zigzag is an exclamation from me of surprise and joy.
Floris asks my trail name and tells me Blissful is fitting, as if I love every stone. The guidebook – and other hikers – have said this trail has new surprises every day, things revealed around each corner.
I believe it.
My nervousness disappears completely and I remember to practice what I preach. A hike is not like flying hundreds of miles per hour when you have to make quick decisions. When you walk, you move slowly and can be deliberate when deciding.
You can also turn around (usually) if you want to. Not this Blissful Hiker. Up and up we go, the scene more thrilling with each step.
As is the wind, which threatens to take my hat. I cinch it tighter over Col de Pau, then follow the ridge across the huge amphitheater below. A shepherd’s hut, animals with bells heard all the way up here.
We pick up another Dutch hiker named Bogey and they chatter away, Floris teasing me that they are making fun of me.
Around the corner, reddish-tinged mountains appear, ancient seabeds, some like prows of ships, others uplifted so much, their layers look like sliced bread.
I love how the guide describes the day as a ‘pleasant walk.’ It’s actually his favorite phrase, perhaps to distinguish from the more terrifying sections to come?
I circle around, following the ridge with new views opening revealing absolutely massive mountains ahead. I think I get to choose some to climb if the weather’s right.
A man reclines just off the path, his pack and sticks dropped haphazardly. Julian is English and tells me he’s completely unfit and doing this twice as slow as described. The good news, he says, is that his belly is shrinking.
He mentions I have a nice slender figure and I laugh knowing without boobs, I look like a 12-year-old boy.
It’s not much further along this stupendous balcony walk. An old shepherd reclines with his dog enjoying the view as I do. I tell him it’s so lovely, I’m crying.
One more short col and I’m at the refuge next to a lake. And, boy howdy, it’s packed.
The rules are not to set in the national park until after 7, but no one enforces it, so we all claim flat spots in the grass as a herd of sheep munches its way through.
A beautiful patou wanders towards me for scratches and a border collie attempts to steal some food. A small group practices yoga with their guide and the sheep eventually move on.
It’s a good place to stop when I felt so nervous about being up here – being cold, getting lost, finding it’s too hard, getting caught in a thunder storm. I carried food, so skipped dinner but it was available as was a bed inside.
But to be honest, there are just too many people. Who would have guessed I’d need earplugs to drown out someone yammering on their phone?
I don’t know if hiking has become so popular, the place will be swarmed from here on out. I love my solitude and contemplating a sunset from my own vantage point.
Perhaps that whole wish of friends got a bit overdone?
Tomorrow I’ll walk to a ski area and stock up for the coming days, then push on to a stream or two beyond and see if there might be a whiff of solitude.
The good news? Nervousness has evaporated.
Day Nine, Refuge d’Arlet to Lac Castérau (via alternate to GR11)
The stakes are building on the HRP. It’s getting harder but also more spectacular, truly breathtaking on both accounts.
I begin in a wild wind that threatens to take apart my tent, though I still manage to make a nice cup of coffee and watch the sky turn orange.
The HRP is a kind of alt route of the main GR10 and 11 traverses of the Pyrenees.
And yet, it’s recommended to Floris who recommends to me an alternate to the alternate which takes me up to a col first thing, then steeply down out of France and back into Spain with views of high mesas, snow caught in the crotches and bright red as the sun catches them.
It’s a long, rocky descent – likely more technical than the ‘normal’ HRP, loaded with deep purple irises. A pack of Izzards, small, stocky and fast, runs across the path and bounds up the mountain in front of me.
In the valley surrounded by high cliffs, cowbells tinkle and the wearers of those bells look at me as I pass, sweet faces with pet-able snouts. It’s muddy and poopy, but flat as I follow a winding river back to the GR11.
But not before passing a bull who growls at me. I avert my gaze and move on. He’s far too interested in his harem anyway.
I work my way directly into these crazy mountains, climbing steeply to Col du Contenda de Couecq on a magical, flower-filled rocky path. I have not seen a soul until one man reaches me whistling.
We meet right at the spot it appears I will walk straight into a rock wall until a passage is revealed. He snaps my picture and I realize I’ve lost my glasses case. Bummer, that was a helpful, though not essential, bit of gear.
Above, I find soft grass amidst wildflowers and park myself in this wonderland. The aroma is fresh, slightly scented. No animals are here but one fat marmot who flies past, his fat bouncing. The clouds soar over the peaks.
I can barely bring myself to leave this magical place, the ground soft and dry. But I always underestimate the distances. I think I’m close because I catch sight of Ibon de Estanés, the lake where I’ll rejoin the main HRP.
But it’s a long, complicated rocky ridgewalk with steep downs. About 20 students lounge on a large flat rock all carrying the same massive rolled up mattress on top of their pack.
I’m exhausted when I meet the lake and the sun is cooking. It’s a long way down with hundreds of tourists and more students carrying rolled up mattresses.
Finally I reach a view of Cirque d’Aspe, an impossibly lovely collection of mountains with a few glaciers. Cadenchú is just beyond – or so I hope.
First I descend into the cirque following a group of six fast day hikers. We enter beech forest, then a wild, rocky slide ending in a tricky, but exhilarating, river crossing of rock and waterfall.
Even the trail beyond has given out and has only recently been rebuilt. I push up into the sun and finally spit out at a ski resort.
It’s road walk now on tired legs, going down which just pounds my knees. But here is a store where I’ll stock up for the next five days.
Floris and Evalina arrive, then Bogey and the four I did yoga with last night who are also walking the HRP – Stefan, Mark, Johanna and Tina.
I’m feeling tired but strong and the next days will really challenge me (as if this hasn’t been enough already!) So in good weather, I push forward to place myself further along in case things turn.
The Dutch agree we should camp a few hours ahead, and Floris suggests we eat at the next little ski town, Astún. It’s one hour up a hot road, but behind us now.
The place is called Yeti and one woman treats us rudely. They also charge €7 for two glasses of water. Ugh.
But the food fills us up and we feel strong and ready to move on, a very steep climb straight up to a lovely lake, then Col de Moines where a view is revealed of the Pic du Midi d’Ossau, the magnificent flat-topped extinct volcano.
We catch it exactly right, the mist placed just so for maximum drama and the sun angled to give it an orange glow.
We descend into the valley and are soon engulfed in a mysterious mist, cowbells loud and clanging. I find one small flat spot and set as the mist dissipates and reveals the monster mountain just beyond.
A marmot screams and cowbells ding. A wind rattles my tent ever so much and I lay here astounded that I have walked into this wonderland and the weather has stayed fine enough for me to savor every bit of it.
Day Ten, Lac Castérau to Lacs d’Arrémoulit
This is the day I did a very scary thing.
I could have completely avoided it by taking another trail to a lovely lake where I could have easily set up a bivouac.
But instead, I pushed forward and placed myself at the very scary thing.
And you know what? A guy was just hanging out there, and when I asked him if he’d go across the thin bit of ground at the edge of a cliff with only a rope to hang onto for safety, he said, bien sûr!
I guess I should clarify that this wasn’t just some long bit of flat bit with death staring you in the face from your left side. This bit of rock had a couple of tricky ups and downs where feet had to be very carefully placed.
I also had the giant backpack – pretty light, to be sure, but bulky and threatening to throw off my balance.
The lovely young man offered to take it, but honestly, I had no idea once I’d committed how I’d take it off without it flying off the edge, perhaps pulling me with it.
I shudder as I write this, but clearly I was just fine in the end.
It all happened at the end of a long day. Floris and Evalina thought it would be a good idea for us to get ourselves situated at Refuge d’Arrémoulit. It’s closed now, but is right at the choice point for a tricky set of cols or an easier variant.
I guess the idea is we’d get good information on snow conditions then make up our minds when we get there.
It requires a steep up with some boulder hopping, way down to a road, then more up and the aforementioned very scary thing.
Moonlight wakes me shining on Pic du Midi, some stars still bright. The trouble is I do wake up early and like to get the day started. As much as I’d like to hike with my Dutch pals, it’s not really my speed.
So I make coffee at this stunning lake, then head off. Oh yeah, down first, then up steeply right next to Pic du Midi. The wind is wild, but the air is perfect and, for a while, I remember why I like early mornings – because the sun is not yet burning.
It’s a clear and easy path and I rise fast, the views opening below, then the beast herself. I soon begin to see many people hiking and backpacking. My fear often stems from a feeling of being absolutely alone, but even when I hit the short span of boulders very well marked, I’m nearly run down by descending French teens.
Over the top reveals a wall of high mountains far in the distance. The first of the refuges, Pombie, is just below. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a kind of cable to string to the other side of this massive valley?
I get some water and eat on soft grass with my delicious view. Glad I do because Pombie is packed with hikers. One snaps my picture riding a stationary bike.
The warden is pretty much useless. When I ask what are the snow conditions, he replies “Yes!” I try to make myself clearer to know how bad they are, deep, extensive, melting, and he simply repeats “Yes!”
Apparently the condition is that there is snow. Some help.
I get better information on the weather that a storm will hit at 5:30. My Dutch friends arrive and we speak just a few minutes before I decide to try and make it to d’Arrémoulit before the storm.
They seem to want to do the same after a break, but I head on, my long downhill through cows with pretty faces and a wildflower lined brook making one stairstep waterfall after another.
A man stops me to ask the way to Pombie and tells me he was just at d’Arrémoulit and it should take just three hours. He makes no mention of the very scary thing.
I switch gears to go up now and almost right away meet a man walking very slowly. His partner sits down to tape her knees which already have extensive amounts of tape on them.
He tells me he will go over the pass and I mention the storm on its way, then pass him, powering up through this narrow valley and becoming ever more nervous about the blackening sky and the very scary thing that awaits me.
Many people come down the pass, one telling me his young son went over, no problem. I come to a Cabane des Bergers built into a rock, then up and over into a hanging valley with lovely soft grass and possible campsites.
It rains briefly but then stops and the wind builds. At the pass, a horse poses with the view and I walk right past my escape route to a lake. Now game is on as the chasm is revealed and I’m very much on an edge.
Not the edge, which is occupied by four very slow walkers. It does offer me the chance to meet the lovely young Frenchman who accompanies me.
Please understand, it is a 10 minute max cross of terror and truly is not hard, just wildly vertiginous.
Do I dare feel proud of myself for doing it or am I the consummate wimp for latching on to the nearest available support person?
In the end, I carried my own pack and walked it without aid except where I might put my foot. The lovely young Frenchman even held back until after the truly dangerous part to let me know we’d passed it.
Merci beaucoup!
He heads back and I continue, walking on lovely, clingy rock slabs down to more lakes nestled in where the Refuge is fenced in and materials and tools lay exposed.
I see some people camped below and make out one possible closer to tomorrow’s start. It turns out to be two. Two lovely Frenchman (it’s beginning to sound like a somg…) this time welcoming me to a wee sweet (flat!) spot within the rocks and staring directly at the snow-capped beauty.
They offer help then invite me to cook in a more wind protected area, sharing couscous and cheese, some tea and a few laughs. It rains briefly and I dive in the alicoop. When it stops, they tell me the nature is waiting for me.
Just as we begin to quiet down, taking photos and saying good nights, the two people I passed below come around the corner. They tell us they will keep walking to Larribet.
What?!
This is my plan for tomorrow and it’s a difficult three hours on loose stones and possibly snow.
They are determined and so we just watch them go, hoping they’re safe as dark descends in two hours.
I never see my Dutch friends, but they can’t be too far behind. I’ll maybe not start too early in the morning.
But in any case, I will take my time and only go if the sky is clear, as it is right now, the rocks and snow bright and fresh.
