The Haute Route Pyrenees is a high level 900km coast to coast trail on the waistline between France and Spain. It begins as it ends - in humid, sleepy seaside resorts, but between these two points the only constant is change. Hugging the border ridge as closely as possible, our route moves through the lush heart of the Basque country along tracks used by Hannibal and Roland, past icy lakes and through valleys of wild flowers, salamanders, snakes and frogs, carpenter bees and jersey moths. To the bleached white peaks of the central range where buzzards, eagles, kites and vultures fly patrol above marmots, deer and wild horses. The water is plentiful, mostly, and clean, nearly always. The weather is wild and changeable. There is peace and there is quiet, and there is adventure and humility.
This is a confession, a catalogue of errors. I'm not proud of my part in it, though it taught me much. My friends and I gave each other these trail names at the time.
The tale of the night begins with the day, and continues through to the end of the next. It starts wet, drying out. We had camped in a wide sided valley down from Pombie after soup and a half sleep in a thunderstorm and waking up in two inches of water on the backside of the Pic du Midi d'Ossau. Thank heavens for bivy bags when the heavens open. An ascent of the Pic is impossible - water is still crashing down the sides, and with visibility no more than twenty metres at the Col de Suzon, there is no chance and no views - what for anyway? And so we're still sluggish and waterlogged as we pull up through woodland then a mist shrouded valley towards Arremoulit. The Fish isn't coping, his gears are grinding, until I take his tent and mat, a whopping four kilos. I move ahead, lugging the dead weight, sweating and furious. This has become a familiar pattern over the last week. It may not be his fault, but he is out of his depth, despite all that was said back home. I stopped feeling bad for him a day or so ago, now I just feel bad.
Two hours later, I sit just off the col in thick cloud and wait for the others. After a little bread and cheese, I realise I don't have the map and case, normally clipped into the caribiner at my shoulder. Providence. I'm ready to snap, and its got right in the way of the walk, concentrating on pride and anger instead of the safety of an inexperienced party I find myself leading by default. I must now be ready to eat my words, bite my tongue and, most importantly, find the map. But, I am lucky. A Basque couple have seen it lying on the path and passed it to the others. Little is said as my co walkers return it; we all know what’s afoot.
We are heading for the Passage d'Orteig, a vertiginous but chained short section of the route that I have done before, but is new to my friends. We hang right at the sign for the 'delicate passage' and line up for it, the Dog at the front and me behind. I have hyped this a lot as the Fish gets vertigo, and to his credit he wants to deal with this head on and doesn't flinch when he sees the drop. The Dog will do just fine. We start in on the narrow part before the ropes and I start talking. Distraction is the better part of valour. If you fall, fall to the right. Don't forget to breathe, or you'll die. And so on.
It's fine in the end, it was all a storm in a teacup right? All smiles. There's one part I still don't like, where the rock juts out and the Basque couple, looking concerned for both us and them, tie in, but we don't carry climbing gear (only because we don't know how to use it). Up and over past a line of beautifully constructed cairns made to guide us in to one of the best refuges on the HRP. Loitering at the refuge with soup and a catnap, tarp out to dry a little. Sadly, Pierre Jean, something of a legend in these parts, is no longer the guardian, but the painted eagles on the domed ceiling of the hut make it a much favoured and romantic place.