Pyrenean Haute Route 2004
(Section 2 - Lescun to Gavarnie)

Above: At the summit of the Pic des Moines (2349m)

Above: At the Ibon del Escalar

We had a vague idea of where we were on the map when the bus driver finally put us out of our misery and dumped us on the side of the road at the Pont de Lescun.  It was late afternoon and hot and the memory of getting out of the tent at 4.30am in the wet and windy Dublin mountains earlier that day was starting to fade.  A combination of Google, Ryanair, Cicerone guide books and a desire to experience different mountains can lead you anywhere these days.  But the moment of truth is when you eventually muster the strength to heave your far too heavy rucksack off the ground, battle it over your shoulders and tighten up that hip belt. Then, you have to start.  It felt like a long drag up to Lescun and I couldn't believe that yesterday I had actually taken about five kilograms of weight out of my rucksack.  I should have made it ten and should learn that if Ryanair are suspicious about even carrying that kind of weight on their plane, then me carrying it across the toughest section of the Pyrenean Haute Route was surely pretty daft.  I was also wondering whether my theory, that a bad back, weak knee and dodgy achilles tendon would be strengthened by a good tough walking expedition; was in fact for the birds.

Above: At the Col de Peyreget.

We weren't quite prepared for the almost deserted Lescun, a genuinely rural French village which is overlooked by an impressive ring of mountains.  The fine campsite which is on the GR10 was open but mostly the town was populated by big white woolly dogs.  During our search for petrol for the stove (or as I would later refer to it - the accursed stove) I discovered quickly that they spoke French with an incredibly strong and concentration demanding rural accent. Eventually we were rescued by a girl in a gite who of course used to work in some hostel in a remote part of the West of Ireland. 

Above: The expanse of the Parc National des Pyrenees Occidentales

We were eventually fed, leaving me to review Ton Joosten's laugh a minute guide to the Pyrenean Haute Route.  I was interested to hear that what we were embarking upon was "not a trail as such, but rather an idea". Basically the route runs from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, following the ridge of the Pyrenees and we were tackling just one eight day section that runs mostly through the Pyrenees National Park.  Ton's guidebook describes the route brilliantly and with an almost scary Dutch efficiency. To be fair I did eventually find a piece of humour in his writing. Beneath a picture of a griffin vulture, is the text "Don't give him the wrong idea: keep walking!" He must have cracked himself up with that one.

Above:  A very relaxed Pyrenean Mountain Dog at the Refuge d'Arlet.

It was a good morning for setting out and as we started to ascend to the Pont d'Itchaxe, the surroundings become less countryside and more mountainous.  They graze horses in the Pyrenees like we do cattle in Ireland and we saw plenty that morning.  Fortunately they didn't inspire a fear in me of being stampeded into the ground that a herd of burly cattle often does.  There was also sheep all over the place and at the Cabane de Bonaris we met a genuine mountain shepherd or berger as they call them.  The bergers spend the summer up in the cabanes, tending to their flock, before descending back down into the valleys in winter.  Our berger was in his mid sixties and had that hardened look, gained only from a lifetime working every day in the outdoors.  One of his tough hands looked like it had more strength than both of mine put together.  He took great interest in where we had come from and where we were going and using our map, pointed out the peaks in the surrounding area. When he located his own cabane on the map, to me it seemed that he spoke its name with great pride. Having thanked him and drank from his well, we carried on towards the Col de Pau on the French-Spanish border. The views of the expansive Spanish sierras seemed somewhat dreary after the more dramatic mountains behind us but we weren't crossing into Spain just yet.  It was another two hours to where we hoped we would find the Club Alpin Francais's Refuge d'Arlet open.

Above: A dramatic sky from the Refuge d'Arlet.

I arrived first at the Refuge and to be fair to my brother I probably became to determined to arrive first everywhere. Reviewing the photos and slides which showed us both in the distance in each other cameras, would lead my family to wonder firstly whether we were in fact on different holidays and secondly whether we inhabited different temperature zones as I always seemed to be wearing about twice as many clothes.  Anyway, I must have burst into the kitchen of the hut and started to blurt out my mentally rehearsed requests for lodging and food in a terrible hurry.  "Tranquille" the warden suggested and so I had to take it easy for a minute.  The place was empty and there was no hurry.  When I read the literature and the signs in the huts about the Parc National des Pyrenees Occidentales I noticed an unashamed romanticism that I had never found so openly expressed in a mountain region before.  We come from a more cynical place where regrettably if it can't be sued or sold, people increasingly aren't interested. So once translated, the rules of the Pyrenean National Park made for thoughtful reading.

Above: The Refuge d'Arlet (2000m).

"The National Park protects against ignorance and vandalism, the good and the beautiful things within it which are there to be shared by all.  The defenders of life are the friends of the National Park.  The friends of progress and peace are the friends of the national park.  Sports people, artists and the learned are the friends of the national park.  Here is the open space, the pure air, the silence.  The kingdom of unspoiled daybreaks and innocent animals.  Everything which you lack in the cities, is here preserved for your joy.  Free water, Free Men.  Here begins the land of freedom.  A freedom in which you can immerse yourself.  The thoughtless don't respect nature.  They believe in making things bigger, in polluting, without realising that there is a price to pay: Draw from the treasure of high places but leave it shining after you, for all others.  The weak fear great open spaces, the foolish fear silence.  Open your eyes and your ears. Turn off your radios.  No noise, no cries, no motors, no horns.  Listen to the music of the mountain.  The real wonders do not cost a cent.  Walking cleans your mind and leaves you joyful.

Above: The view from the Cabane de Gougue Sec in the Valee d'Aspe.

Bury your worries and not your tin cans.  The intelligent visitor leaves no trace of their passing.  No markings. No damage.  No disorder.  No Waste.  Litter is the visiting card of louts. Gather good memories but do not pick the flowers.  Do not uproot the plants, they keep in place the rocks.  It takes many blades of grass to weave a man.  Destroyer of the forest: bad citizen, who destroys the empty nest of the sky and leaves the ground barren. Enemy of animals: Enemy of life: Enemy of the future. Birds, marmots, stoats, izards, ibex, and all the lower classes of fur and feather - from this point on, they need your friendship to survive.  Declare peace with the timid animals.  Don't trouble them or their affairs.  In this way the springtimes of the future will still give joy to your children.  Shooting is forbidden here, apart from pictures.  Do not light fires.  Do not camp just anywhere.  Certain thoughtless actions can compromise everything.  The National Park is the great garden of the French and it is also your personal heritage.  With good heart, knowingly accept these disciplines and you yourself defend against vandalism and ignorance" (Samivel).

Above: Early morning in the Valee d'Aspe.

With words like those in your mind, the incredible views of the cloud covered valleys from the refuge the next morning were all the more potent. We were wished a "Bon Montagne" by the only other guests as we left the hut and they weren't just being polite, they really meant it.  On our way across to the Col de Lapechouaou, we remained well above the clouds which covered the valleys and forests of the beautiful sounding Lizere and the Baralet and we passed numerous busy shepherd's cabins. At the Cabane de Gougue Sec, one of the huge white, Pyrenean mountain dogs was entertaining himself with a tirade of barking which echoed fantastically all around the valley. A descent through the misty forest of the Espelunguere was followed by a steep ascent up to the Pas de L'Echelle which marked our crossing into Spain and another radical change in the landscape. It was rocky and bouldery and dry and exactly how I expected Spain to be.

Above: The enchanting forest of the Espelunguere.

It was a hot day which made the very deserted ski town of Candanchu, when we eventually reached it, feel very creepy.  The guidebook recommended us to stay in this area for the night but the mountains seemed like a much better option and we opted for a further 400 metre ascent up to the Ibon del Escalar.  The secluded lake there is at the bottom of a grassy bowl shaped valley formed by a number of small peaks. It was a perfect place to camp.

Above: At the Ibon del Escalar

Having cooled off in the lake, it was time to think about food.   We had an MSR stove with us, a piece of equipment for which I must admit I have an immense dislike.  The previous day, the fuel bottle had gone mad and started to get rid of our hard sought after fuel. We rescued most of it but it led me to dredge up the numerous occasions when I had been left down by my own stove, including while on an unplanned bivouac on the summit of a considerable alpine peak the year before.  There's too much pumping, priming, fiddling, repairing and praying required for my liking. As if to prove my point, our 'dragonfly' refused to work.  I concluded that the fault was due to poor engineering, over complication and unreliability while my brother narrowed it down to some missing rubber seal or ball, fixable only by a repair kit available only in another country.  I would have been quite happy to throw the whole unit into the bottom of the lake but instead we spent the next week involved in depraved and continuous pumping to keep the accursed sputtering thing alive.

Above: Aidan, determined not to be beaten by the accursed stove.

We were quickly back in more mountainous territory the next morning and our first col of the day was the Col des Moines.  These long distance routes involve an astounding number of cols and passes intermingled by sometimes torturous ascents and descents.  If your not into cols - stay away. For a change, there was a Pic or two on the map and a curious eagle kept an eye on us while we ran up the Pic des Moines (2349m). There were three more peaks connected to the one we were on, which for some reason I was itching to climb. We had no information about what traversing them would involve and we surely didn't have the right equipment - so most of the ingredients for an epic were there.

Above: Descending from the Pic des Moines with the Pic du Midi d'Ossau in the background.

We sensibly decided that one peak was enough and veered away down towards the Lac Bersau but there was no doubt that I had desperately wanted to climb those other peaks for probably inexplicable reasons. The unknown is always attractive and perhaps there is also always a small part of us that relishes the challenge when the mist comes down, the map blows away, you lose a crampon down a gully, you're off route, your pack is too heavy and you have all the wrong bits of gear.  It even wouldn't be the same if the stove always worked.  I was contemplating all of this while re-ascending 300 metres back up to a col where I hoped I had dropped my watch while changing my shirt. The Royal Eagle which startled me out of my determined ascent was the most magnificent creature I had ever seen in the mountains.  It was huge, its wings spanned at least twelve feet and it was like seeing something from a completely different age.

Above: The Lac and Refuge de Pombie.

The Pic du Midi d'Ossau is the most famous mountain in this part of the Pryenees and it deserves its celebrity.  Its rocky mass, towers over the surrounding area and it has an incredible south face overlooking the Refuge de Pombie which was our destination for the night.  The path down to it wove through a number of small lakes and when I finally arrived I took a dip in the lake beneath the refuge, drank litres of the icy spring water, read, dozed and admired the mountain.  Aidan of course discovered soon after that there was actually a shower in the hut but by then I couldn't have felt more refreshed.

Above: Izards at the Col de Lapechouaou.

There was a small friendly and unfortunately equally hungry group with us for dinner while outside the valleys beneath us were covered in cloud but you could hear the ringing of probably thousands of sheep, cow and horse bells coming from every direction. These mountains seemed to harbour more life than I had ever experienced before. The eagles were special, the livestock more ordinary but there was also the marmots the izards and the lizards.  I have a running joke with my father which involves him asking me did I see any wildlife when I return from the mountains.  I was going to have a very long list this time, although we didn't manage to run into any of the last two or three Pyrenean mountain bears.

Above: The Pic du Midi d'Ossau at sunrise from the Refuge de Pombie.

The next morning started with a 700 metre descent down to the unappealing sounding D934 road and we eventually dropped into the clouds that we had been admiring from above as the sun had risen.  The tough col crossing every day had converted me into an enthusiastic trekking pole user for the first time in my life.  I had always sworn that they weren't for me, was reluctant to be photographed with them, but was glad that I had them along.  On any long distance haute type route, no good murderous 700 metre descent would be the same without being followed by an unrelenting 1300 metre ascent. To spice things up, an added feature of the Pyrenean Haute Route is deciphering your chosen path from the not inconsiderable array of different markings for the GR10 and GR11 long distance routes and also for the different huts which have an assortment of varying paint splashes leading to them from some of the trails.

Above: Descending into the clouds in the Valle d'Aspe.

Our ascent however took us through an entertaining array of mountain terrain: grassy meadows, scree ascending zig zag tracks, lake sides, stream edges, the engaging scrambling at the Passage d'Orteig, boulder jumping to the Col du Palas before passing through the high mountain gap at the Port du Lavedan.  We followed the course of a river down through the granite wilderness of the Larribet valley and by the time we found a campsite near the Refuge, we were back on a meadow again.  It was a long tough day but we had seen so many different sides of the Pyrenees in those hours, that it could have been a week since we left the Refuge de Pombie.

Above: Crossing from the Col du Palas.

Our sixth day would take us from the deserted Refuge de Larribet to the still very busy Refuge Wallon.  That day again, the mountains were peaceful and to be honest most days we never passed more than a handful of people.  The camping intermingled with staying in the huts which were open but quiet made for a good combination and the warm and dry weather was also a relief after the scaremongering of the dubious internet forecasts. There's no doubt that all 1143 metres of the ascent to the dramatic Col de Cambales wouldn't have been much fun in mist or rain. As it was, it was perfect and the view back from our high point of the trip again summed up perfectly the absorbing movement of landscape you experience as you climb from the lower valleys and lakes to the high mountain passes of the Pyrenees.  The Refuge Wallon was still far below us and after an initial plunge down a track into a bowl of scree and boulders, we encountered our first and last snowfield before being rewarded with a more gradual descent around lakes and over streams. After a day like that, the beds at Wallon were almost a bit too big and comfortable - it was a night to have camped.

Above: At the Col de Cambales.

The Refuge de Baysellance is the highest staffed mountain hut in the Pyrenees and we weren't completely sure if it was going to be open or not.  The initially pleasant climb up from the Refuge Wallon, eventually deteriorated into a bit of a damp and misty affair.  There was nobody else around and the emptiness of the valley beneath the north face of the Vignemale was striking. The piles of rocks in the bivouac area allowed you to imagine the nervous preparations of hardy groups of climbers preparing for classic winter ascents of the face.  We continued on up and as we approached the refuge, the dials on the wind and rain seemed to have been turned up.  We had the gear to camp but in contrast to the previous night, shutting the door behind us and entering the warm and friendly hut was a very welcome moment. 

Above: Borderstone 312 at the Col du Palas.

The warden sat me down in her kitchen while she took our details - would we have pancakes and coffee (for Aidan) - of course.  There was a fair crowd in the hut and they had the unmistakable air of people who hadn't stirred outside for the day.  We had been stirring outside ourselves for long enough, after which an afternoon with nothing on the agenda but a few hundred pages of a good novel is always quite acceptable.  The hut filled up thanks to the weather and staff reinforcements had to be called for from down in the valley.  The energy of the warden as she rushed around the hut was impressive and the dinner was delicious and unique.  Unique because there was so much food put on the table - thick soup, mountains of rice and a delicious stewed meat.  It actually couldn't be finished and for the first time ever that I had experienced, bowls of food in a hut were sent back unempty.

Above: Descending to Gavarnie from the Refuge de Baysallance.

Our last mountain day would bring us to the town of Gavarnie.  On the first stage we passed the three impressive rock shelters carved out of the cliff by celebrated alpinist, Henry Russell.  Apparently, one was for himself, one was for his guide and one was for a lady should she come along.  There was a lot of height to lose that day but there was no hurry.  I lost Aidan lower down the valley but with a flock of Griffin vultures keeping an eye on me after the Barrage d'Ossoue, I was free to wander around on the wrong tracks.  Finally, I reached Gavarnie and with its busy roads carrying coach loads of visitors from Lourdes, its yapping souvenir toys and bright yellow Ferraris, it was a bit of a shock to the senses, especially after the relative remoteness we had experienced since we had left Lescun.  The powerful feature of the Cirque de Gavarnie which surrounds the town does however compensate for the wearisome town centre.  It is a massive amphitheatre of steep mountain faces and is capped by a number of impressive peaks.  What would a traverse be like I wondered?

Above: The Cirque de Gavarnie

After a slight difference of opinion on what constitutes a campsite, I eventually found Aidan and it was back to thoughts of food and travel and returning home.  It was a pity not to have been thinking about preparing for the next section of the route which would have taken us to Salardu.  We had completed just one short section of the Pyrenean Haute Route but the ever changing and often stunning mountain landscapes we had passed through, the multitude of animals, birds, plants and flowers; the challenging ascents and descents and the peace; had made it a great expedition. It was the kind of trip that could move you to think, even move you to quietness. When you immerse yourself in the cool waters of a tranquil mountain lake, you are not an employee or in your opposite life as a mountaineer, you are not a tourist or a consumer.  There is nobody who you must speak to right now and there are no problems that you must sort out. There is no hurry. There is just you and where you are and you are never more alive.

Above: At the Ibon del Escalar.

References: (1) The Pyrenean Haute Route - a Cicerone Guide by Ton Joosten, 2004.
(2) Walks and Climbs in the Pyrenees - a Cicerone Guide by Kev Reynolds, 2002.
(3) Institut Geographique National, 1:25,000 Cartes de Randonee, Numbers: 1647, 1747 and 1547.
(4) Check out www.ryanair.com for flights from London Stansted to Pau Pyrenees.

Written by Colm Ennis. Photos by Colm Ennis and Aidan Ennis.
Copyright © De La Salle Scout Group 2004-2008. All Rights Reserved.
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