Still thoroughly dysfunctional, I grabbed onto A’s ice-axe loop and he pulled me up the remarkable Chemin de la Mâture (usually translated “way of the masts,” though I think “mast path” or “mast road” is more idiomatic). This is a trail essentially blown and carved out of a cliff face so the 18th century French navy could roll masts for King Louis' navy down from high forests. That’s the Chemin, about a fifth of the way down from the top of the photo. Hardly looks like something you could walk across, does it? The chasm off to the right is known as les Gorges d’Enfer, (gorge or gorges of Hell).
It’s not quite so bad once you’re on it.
But, partly due to my whimpering and whining, we got a late start, and hit the cliff in full, direct sun. Dragging and moaning, I steamed my way slowly up. I don’t remember ever feeling so awful in the hills.
We were, in fact, about 90 percent of the way along the Chemin proper. Afterward, things got cooler and easier as we carried on to complete a loop back to the road.
This is a view of the ridge A had walked over the day before.
The Chemin de la Mâture is a famous and interesting walk and we enjoyed it—A thoroughly and I provisionally. As usual, and despite my turtle’s pace up, we were much faster than the books and signs suggested, so we were sitting in the local cafe when our chauffeur drove by on her way to collect us at the trailhead, and we waved her in for a beer. It was good.
The cold that had begun to take hold of my breathing apparatus during the walk up to the Col de Pétragème really knocked me for a loop, and I spent most of the next day dozing, blowing my nose, and moaning loudly for sympathy. The sleek and healthy A headed over the ridge on the GR10 and had a great and eventful solo walk to Borce. We all drove over late in the day to pick him up “near the bridge” to Estaut, across the N134 and the Gave d'Aspe. In Borce, we parked and I staggered dopily around looking for same. I finally came upon a local and asked where the bridge was. He directed me back to the one at the turn-off from the main road.
This didn't seem right to me. The map clearly showed a bridge from roughly the center of the the village. “C’estlà peut-êtreun autre pont?”
“Non,” he declared, holding up his right thumb. “Un.” Thumb wave. “Seulement.”
Well, at least he’d understood what I was trying to say. And he seemed pretty sure. But I wasn’t convinced. Maybe it was just a pedestrian bridge?
“Pour marcher àEtsaut....”
“Non, non.” Shaking the thumb at me. “Un. Seulement.”
“Pas un autre?” Moving two fingers to indicate walking. “Peut être....”
“NON, NON, NON.” Fed up with this cloddish, mouth-breathing American and his execrable French. “UN.” Thumb thrust in my face. “SEULEMENT.”
We moved haltingly to a plan B, eventually found A strolling toward the café in Estaut for a well-deserved beer, and discovered, naturally, that there is, indeed, a second bridge across road and river.
This was an odd one, in a way. We had planned to walk to the Cabane d’Ansabère, then head south and east past the Lac d’Ansabère, and up and over the ridge into Spain. Then we’d head down to the lake of Ibón de Acherito for lunch. But we’d gotten a ride from one of our party to the trailhead (a good thing—I’m not complaining!) and I had miscalculated the time I told the driver when to return for us. “Miscalculated” is an understatement. I had somehow applied my arithmetical genius so precisely that the car would have been waiting two hours for us to return. This had partly sunk in when I made this first video, so I talk about just getting to the ridge. But I still thought we’d at least be heading toward the Ibón de Acherito.
Which, in the event, we didn’t.
At this stage, I was still thinking east. But no matter your ultimate destination, it is a lovely walk.
By the time we reached the Cabane, I’d not only decided that we should head toward the Col de Pétragème to the west, but that we should probably not shoot for anything beyond the col and the Spanish border.
I, in fact, wasn’t sure I’d even get that far. I’d developed a bear of a cold (this must have cause the problem with my arithmetic, don’t you think? Why not!?). I wasn’t moving especially well and we agreed A, young and very fit ...
... should move on ahead, as I staggered along behind, trying to keep him in sight.
But I did make it. This is the col, with the trail continuing down to Spain’s Hecho Valley.
In celebration, I savored an elegant meal. As all hillwalkers know, nothing beats a profoundly melted Nestle’s Crunch bar.
We eased our way back down to the Cabane, now confident that we had a little time in hand.
We even had a few minutes to cool off in a pool of the stream back at the Pont Massousa. I was fried.
.
According to the New York Times, a study has just demonstrated the obvious ... that the “talk test” is not for people who are training, as opposed to out-of-shape people looking for basic fitness (like me). The talk test is fine for warming up, cooling down, or a long, slow recovery run after a tough race, but it’s not going to get anyone into good shape or keep anyone there. This is a concept known to every runner. To get better and stay good, you have to work up against your lactate threshold, which happens to be pretty much the same thing as Arthur Lydiard’s aerobic threshold. Very old news. Why does the Times treat it as a surprise, a turning over of established beliefs?
Of course, these days, I do try to shuffle along with the talk test in mind because I want to complete my tours of the cemetery without actually requiring space there. But I run alone, so I wind up gasping my little mantra over and over: “Jeez. How did you. Ever. Get so fat and. Slow.”
It was probably because I stopped running at my lactate threshold.
Counting the little Belvédère ramble, I had five walks in mind when I arrived in Lescun, thanks to my readings in Andy Howell’s blog and Kev Reynolds’ Cicerone guidebook. None of them looked like a terrible slog. All looked like attractive and moderately challenging day walks. Reynolds calls this one “quite strenuous, but ... an entertaining day out.”
And away we go...!
The weather still hadn’t cleared up on this Sunday morning, but we were confronted by a misty moodiness we found quite attractive.
I always fuss and fiddle with my gear for a while after a start. You’d think I’d remember those little comfort and efficiency factors, but I never do, even day to day. Here, I’m deciding whether to buckle the pack’s waist belt above or beneath the reversed bumbag I’m wearing (bellybag?). (Below, of course.) I think I’m also considering trying the tube of the water bladder under my arm instead of over my shoulder. (Wrong, wrong, wrong.) P, meanwhile, just gets on with it.
Soon after the start, we got this great view back into the pastures near Lescun. Hobbiton? What are the right words? Pastoral? Verdant? Something along those lines. A gentle and homely beauty.
Gaining some altitude, we came to this notable feature. It’s a bit of a transitional area between forest walking and more open and mountainous terrain.
A little farther along, on rougher ground. You may be able to see my red shorts doddering toward the camera. (A took most of these photos.)
Along this stretch, I shot this video. I did a lot of this (you’ll see more), entirely with my iPhone, and I’m pretty happy with the results.
The path toward the notch. (Col, I suppose, would be more correct, but I do most of my walking in New Hampshire. So notch.) This stretch is quite attractive, with green, green grass and shrubs in contrast with rough gray rock.
Odd rough gray rock.
And finally we arrive. Unfortunately underwhelming. Two of us have walked together in California’s Sierra, where mountain lakes invariably are are swimmingly freezingly gorgeous. Lac de Lhurs? Not so much.
But P did make a new friend.
We descended and finished happy, nonetheless. Portrait of triathloner and two chubs.
