Parc national des Pyrénées continues
Day Eleven, Lacs d’Arrémoulit to bivouac below Col de Cambalés
Such a different night to last night.
I’m camped behind some rocks right across the border in Spain at Port de la Peyre Saint-Martin – and just beyond the sign welcoming to the national park with quite specific rules on camping.
I’m absolutely alone and glad of it since I’m exhausted from a thrilling day.
It’s hard to put one thriller to bed when the other literally looms next to me. Another monster, Col de Cambalès.
It comes in and out of mist, though now seems completely exposed, all of its rocky, eroded, steep, snow encrusted self. A marmot screams over and over as the wind picks up.
This morning was cool and clear, Lac d’Arrémoulit glistening in the dawn light. Mark is up and checks on me as I make coffee. It’s strange to be taking this challenge on alone.
Though the minute I think that, a Frenchman named John rounds the corner. He has got to be close to 70 and he’s walking the HRP – though not the route I’m planning.
There’s a shorter, more direct and less technical (translate: dangerous) variant that will take him to Refuge Wallon, which I should get to tomorrow.
He promises to wait for me if I decide to take the variant, but I’m keen to see what’s in store for me way up high on rocky terrain with snow fields and two cols, one a sort of thread-the-needle problem.
I’d hoped to walk with my Dutch friends. He tells me he saw them and her knee is very bad.
So I am on my own.
I must make a caveat right now that I was so focused all day on my safety, I didn’t take any selfies en route. I hope you can forgive my oversight. It was so big and so wow and so, you gotta be kidding me, I go there?!? I really just forgot to show myself in the place.
But you still can see what I saw. The first pass, Col du Palas, was mostly a straight up boulder hop to an obvious low point in the jagged ridges.
I see a large snowfield and two people coming down. Good heavens, from where this early? Turns out it got late, so they camped in the wind right at the col.
They slip and slide coming down and I am happy to use microspikes to push up this. What luck to see them, as if giving me a touch of confidence that people actually can and do this sort of thing.
The Frenchman John has done it before, and that’s likely why he’s skipping it, and tells me the only problem is the long descent to Refuge de Larribet. While this couple tells me to get through Port du Lavédan, I’ll need some climbing skills.
I’m at this first col in no time and a magnificent view opens up, wild, threatening, inhospitable. I need to traverse to my keyhole and am able to follow some well placed cairns and even some wispy bit of trail.
The first move is decide high or low to get around a massive block of rock. I opt for high, then come upon some very jagged rock with an intrusion of something dark and foreboding curling around on itself.
It takes me some time of looking steeply down for a hint of a better way to go before I realize that I’m meant to put my body on that foreboding, jaggedy mess.
There are plenty of handholds and it appears wide enough to climb, but the height and exposure and aloneness has me slightly freaked out.
But of course I slowly progress over and am delivered to a mass of boulders. There’s no exposure, just holes to slip into, so again, I move slowly and stealthily, seeing the rock face where my porthole lies.
There’s little wind and the sun is just beginning to peak over the rim. I begin to follow what looks like a cairn, then realize it’s totally the wrong way. My tiny hole of escape is exactly as described, straight up like a ladder.
Until…
Oh god, no.
Until a huge rock blocks the way.
I sort of see a way to climb around it, but it feels totally exposed and I’m wonky with my backpack weight.
So I put away my walking sticks, find good handholds and anything anywhere at all to smear my feet against, then hoist myself through with all my might.
That would’ve made a pretty picture.
There’s definitely no place to camp here for the night. It’s a steep, messy, slippery, eroded downhill with inviting lakes ahead I’m told I must ignore the urge to walk towards.
Instead, I have to circumnavigate this entire bowl and exit on the other side.
But that requires a snowfield. John the Frenchman assured me I’d be fine with just my microspikes, though it could be tough to arrest a fall with my walking sticks.
Do not fall.
Again, luck is with me as two men work their way up the snowfield. Not only do I watch it done, but they’ve broken fresh steps.
I put on my spikes as they come closer not daring to take my first step. They pass and I go, feeling the spikes dig and hold in the somewhat mushy snow.
It’s a good long ways around and all I do is keep my head down focused on my steps. There’s no sightseeing, no picture taking, no thinking really about anything but taking each step properly.
To be honest, snow is way easier to walk on than rocks which are uneven and often move underfoot. I walk like this until one more tiny snowfield.
Aw, it’s so tiny and look at those nice steps. I weigh out whether to stop and put on my spikes for the 50 feet or so of snow.
Looking down, I can’t see where this snow ends, somewhere very far below, 1,000 feet? …to rocks.
Thirty seconds to put on my spikes vs. a busted up body or not going home at all.
OK, this one’s for you Richard and on they go. The minute my foot touches the snow, I know I made the right choice as I walk on this dangerous spot as if a sidewalk.
John is right and it’s a long way down to the Refuge. It’s beautiful up here and the sky is clear, warm and fresh. I couldn’t have picked a better day. But the trail is rocky and I need to pay attention so I don’t step wrong.
I feel so strong and amazing for what I’ve done then watch whole families head up to do the same. One woman even mentions that this is the top hike of the Pyrenees. Well, ok!
I reach the lovely stone refuge with a funky metal roof and take a rest with a healthy lunch made by one of the women proprietors. A little child runs around the picnic table, stopping by me each lap and setting her tiny fingers on my knee.
Sheep are driven off the mountain in front of us and several find themselves negotiating a rock face. Sheep are not the brightest it would seem as they haven’t the sense to turn around and find a better way.
One tumbles off and bounces, then stand right back up and keeps moving. Perhaps his wool saved him.
My plan is to camp near the next hard thing, but the timings in my book are about an hour or more off. It’s stunning walking down (though long) following cascades that meet a plateau and create a verdant hanging valley.
I meet the mist below and find luscious plump bilberries before I climb up again steeply onto Le Labassa, a long plateau full of cows and thr sparkling Gave d’Arrens. Sadly, I see nothing in the mist.
Nor on my dozen+ long switchbacks that are supposed to reveal beautiful lakes and peaks. The only saving grace is the cool air. Three men follow me and I expect to see them at my bivouac, but I lose them in the mist.
For a moment I panic that I haven’t enough water. A French family (always surprised to just see people out here on my ‘hard trail’) offers me some and explains a torrent is just ahead.
Indeed it is! I gather water, wash my toes and make soup here then walk five more minutes to my glorious and odd hidden spot directly under tomorrow’s challenge.
And look here, the mist has lifted at last!
Day Twelve, Col de Cambalès to Refuge des Oulettes de Gaube
I am lying in the alicoop looking directly at a glacier. Its clear icy meltwater surrounds me in two branches, pouring from the thick blue ice plastered against the highest mountain in the French Pyrenees, Vignemale.
Ah, look at that, a small avalanche.
It was quite the day to get here – magnificent, awe-inspiring, tremendous, there really are not enough words in the English language to describe it.
Less wildly nerve-wracking as yesterday, but all things were on such a massive scale, my pictures can hardly describe what I saw.
Then add the sounds of rushing water, a screaming marmot, rocks under my step, as well as the fresh smell of pine trees and the feel of that icy water on my tired feet and you get the picture of paradise.
I sleep wonderfully. I suppose I should mention that I am using all Sea-to-Summit sleeping gear: EtherLight XT blow up mattress made for women’s curves, the Flame 25-degree bag and the Aeros pillow. It’s brilliant especially now that I put a polycro sheet under my tent which completely barricades moisture.
I know you’re here to read about the HRP, but suffice-to-say, sleep matters and I’m a new person after yesterday’s tough work.
I’m going up immediately since I quite literally camped next to the cutoff for the Col de Cambalès. I’m told there’s no danger but I plan an alternate route just in case the pass is snow covered.
I work up on rocky but relatively easy trail, well marked just tiring. When I round the bend, I see what the problem could be – it’s an extremely steep bowl which is tackled in steep zigzags. With snow, it would be a tough, straight-up slog I’d not touch without an ice ax to self-belay/arrest.
I have a couple of short bits to traverse and I slip on my microspikes. They’re just rubber to fit over my sneaker with chunky metal spikes, not unduly sharp.
The snow is mushy and I follow tracks, so again, maybe I’d be fine without them, but why risk it?
Once I hit rock, I clip the spikes to my chest belt because I know they’ll come out again.
Up and up I go, finally poking out at the top for another steep bowl of rock and snow. On go the spikes for a downhill bit until things get really steep and I join rock.
I meet one more bit of traverse that’s steep and traversing. And wouldn’t you know, a guy is coming up. I’m always amazed when people seem to pop into the story just as I need them.
He walks in boots with an ice axe while I do the opposite. I wait for him to come and tell him what’s ahead and he offers to wait until I cross safely. What a gentleman!
From here, it’s very easy down. Rocky, yes, but clear and direct and not too steep. I pass glorious lakes and green meadows, falls tumbling everywhere. Eventually I come to the old pine trees which remind me of the Sierra.
Along the way I run into an English couple, Luke and Charlotte. They’re quite concerned about the two gnarly cols.
There must have been a time when this route had no navigation whatsoever and the guide does make it sound scarier than it is. I assure them there are cairns, but it’s exhausting and a high wire act.
They didn’t bring spikes and I tell them the snow is pretty squishy. This reassures them and we snap each other’s pictures before I head down.
It’s an eden down to Refuge Wallon where the Gaves des Batans and d’Arratille meet. I find a spot in the shade for lunch of Basque cheese and tortilla when the Aussies show up!
They both got sick on something, not filtering water could have been the culprit, so they ended up behind me. In fact, they watched me walk by from their sick bay.
Timothy and Tabatha (both French) are hiking with them and we all plan to walk to “the best bivouac of the Pyrenees.”
It requires some climbing, first through this Eden of pine and falls and flowers and meadows, then to rock, up and up to at last huge Lake d’Arratille in a treeless bowl surrounded by snowy peaks.
I meet Marta and Tom, a Polish couple carrying massive packs filled with photography gear. She tells me she was horrified by the dead horse being picked clean by vultures. It’s enough to get her off trail even when I assure her it’s nature’s way.
I’m much lighter so lose them heading up to the pass. Again, it’s a workout, but nothing technical. There are a few snowy traverses, but even I walk over in sneakers. I forgot to mention that Tom and Marta did everything I did with massive weight on their backs and no spikes.
The wind is howling when I get my first full look at huge, brooding Vignemale. I see all of him because of the plunging Valle de Ara in front of me.
It’s a traverse now on Pic Alphonse Meillon all the way around the valley until one more col. Along the way, I meet a family of Isards. Completely calm probably because completely protected, they check me checking them out. There’s even a sweet baby cuddle in.
It’s again easy, just up and over Col des Mulets, again wildly windy and wildly steep. I’m happy to have my spikes because I move fast down the steep snowfields deep into Vallé de Gaube, where the water snakes in braids on sand and grass.
And twenty or so tents are already set up.
I choose a spot furthest up the valley with no one in my view and use a big rock’s shade to make dinner. It’s magic here, stupendous, spectacular – again, no words can describe it.
And here I am having walked with everything I need on my back.
Day Thirteen, Refuge des Oulettes de Gaube to Gavarnie (plus Petit Vignemale)
Ending this section is extremely long with lots of down (which is becoming increasingly more difficult on old knees!) and to top it off, very hot.
But this view! The sunrise lighting up the massif! My two braided streams surrounding me like a hug!
I make coffee in it, the most mundane of activities, and decide I can take in a small peak on the loop way. It’s all downhill, it should be easy, right?
I ask a neighbor if he’ll take my picture and I immediately have a new buddy in François who speaks excellent English and decides we’ll walk to Gavarnie together.
I’m not sure he understands I am very slow and getting tired now, desperate for a day off.
He’s walking the GR10 and was planning to pass right by the peak, so I do him some good by suggesting he walk it.
First, we have to pass the refuge and climb a good distance to Horquette d’Ossoue. The trail is absolutely packed with hikers. Some carry everything, like us, to camp out. Others have small packs with just overnight things.
It’s a party atmosphere working up to the pass with views straight into the bright azure iciness of the glacier.
At the top, I see the men – French, Spanish, Australian – the men I met and spoke to, with whom I’m sharing this trail. There’s not another hiker in the mountain range wearing a Town Shirt hoodie of Virginia bluebells. No one looks like me here.
And yet, when I say hello they look away as if they don’t know me. That’s weird. Am I invading their manly assault of the mountains?
I ignore them and leave my pack (taking my passport) in a rock wind protector then begin my womanly assault of Petit Vignemale, one of the bumps on the Massif. It’s just over 3,000 meters high and easily climbed as opposed to Daddy Vignemale which requires a long ascent on snow.
Still, it’s a workout and the rock crumbles and moves underfoot. François runs up and I move like a steam engine, fast enough and steady.
And wow, is it worth it! The views are fantastic and missed from below of high mountains in all directions. People look like ants at the pass and I realize I have come a long way up here.
There’s a very narrow passage to a little island for good pictures and someone has used a Sharpie to mark the summit. (Who carries a Sharpie on trail?!?)
Then it’s steeply down with a Rocky Mountain High to my pack and towards a refuge. I mention to François the men ignoring me and he says he saw it happen and thought it was unkind.
I’m surprised and for a moment feel buoyed that I’m not imagining things.
But when we get to the refuge to have a piece of pie, François pushes ahead of me and orders first. Then the smug, unpleasant person selling pie offers me a slice half as big.
Maybe it’s the heat, the exertion, the exhaustion, I don’t know. But it burns me up. When I smile at someone I saw on the summit and say hello only to be laughed at, I lose it.
I finish my pie, throw on my pack and say au revoir.
What is the deal?!? I realize this is a different culture and I’m a visitor, but why are people so unfriendly.
François catches me in no time, but barrels on ahead. I guess he didn’t really want to walk to Gavarnie together after all.
It just seems petty and stupid, but the trail is very hard and I’m alone. A few kind words would help me continue and feel good.
The tough part is that the trail is incredibly hard now. Not in navigation or danger, but hugely down and often on worn and slippery rock, wispy ledges with ghastly consequential falls and destroyed snowfields.
It’s beautiful in a gigantic, awesome kind of way, nearly impossible to take in the sheer distance from top to bottom.
And the waterfalls are everywhere, crashing, misting, bubbling, boiling. Essentially I’m walking in a disintegrating mountain.
I spend much of it crying.
I’m so damn lucky to be alive. I’m so damn lucky to get to be here now without restrictions. And yet I feel lonely and lost.
I just need to get that out of my mind now and watch my step. I tend to trust way too easily and I don’t know the first thing about François, for instance. He could be a lunatic who pushed me off the mountain.
Well, he’s far ahead now bouncing down this slope I touch gingerly with each step. It helps to take pictures and take my time as I’m passed by trail runners and laugh with a couple of young women trying to figure out how to cross where a snow bridge has collapsed.
Eventually I reach a long valley, then climb into a kind of middle ground between mountain ranges of meadows, mostly sidling the hillside.
It’s so hot, I begin to fear for my safety and drink as much water as I can at the streams I encounter. When I reach a shepherd’s stone cabane, I see four guys with their feet in the water.
Oh great, more manly he-men of the mountains.
But no! One from Paris strikes up a conversation telling me he walked the HRP last year. He carries an ultralight American pack and wears trail runners and a hoodie – and is just so normal and friendly.
I take a picture of the four off on day one of their ten-day loop a d one asks if I can airdrop it to him. Avec plaisir!
Now when I continue I feel better – still hot and tired and worn down – but like a hiker who’s done some serious hiking should feel like, proud of what they’ve accomplished and humbled by the grandeur of this magnificent place.
It’s still a long way, finally steeply down shortcutting giant switchbacks in the road, then along a short trail straight into Gavarnie.
The town is situated in a Cirque that can only be described as awesome. Falls seem to pour directly out of massive walls 3,000 feet above the valley floor. When clouds pass over the rock, it creates an eerily beautiful glow.
My husband Richard arranged a stay for me in a hotel and when I get to my tiny room, I see the window opens directly to a view.
Tired and famished but satisfied, I take care of business, then fall asleep only to be awaked by the nearly full moon rising over the falls like a spell.
