01/06/2019
The sun was wary in entering the room through the window, held back by the looming peaks surrounding the small refuge. When it finally did wake me, I was sluggish in packing up my things and getting ready to leave. My aim for the day was clear: to climb the 2921m Pic Carlit and proceed down the far side into the skiing municipality of Font Romeo.
This aim was instantly destroyed as soon as I spoke to some of the other people staying in the refuge.
“How long does it take? Quel heur? To Pic Carlit?”
“Perhaps deux – two hours. But it is very dangerous. You have spikes on your feet?”
“No.”
“And you are alone. The snow it is very dangerous. Not good to go alone with the snow.”
I nodded in agreement, realising I had come too early in the season for a climb such as Carlit to be feasible to such an inexperienced mountaineer as me. It seemed my route to Font Romeo would have to be changed.
My route from the previous day had taken me along the route of the GR10 hiking trail through the Pyrenees. This route is marked periodically by white and red lines painted onto rocks, posts and trees. This sight had become familiar to me, and I found that the most likely route to take to avoid the worst of the snow would be to follow this GR10 trail along the edge of the Lanoux reservoir and up over a mountain pass, before descending into a valley on the far side and heading east in the direction of Lac des Bouillouses.
I set off confidently, feeling fresh from a good night’s sleep in an actual bed. My surroundings consisted of many coniferous trees and rocky, jagged outcrops making the whole landscape feel broken and disfigured. There was little snow at first, just a few drifts here and there and the ever-present trickle of meltwater like windchimes in the crisp air. The first major landmark was the Barrange Lanoux, the great damn of the reservoir. I would have liked to come a little closer and see it better, however the white and red stripes took me east away from the water and I dutifully followed them, crossing several meltwater streams and winding through trees and around boulders.
As the trees began to fade away, the landscape took on a different appearance. I may not have consciously realised it, but my body was clearly screaming at me to notice how much I was climbing in altitude. With altitude came the snow, and as the zonation of firs to heather to grasses continued, it became harder and harder to spot the path. More and more now as I looked ahead of me, I saw mere expanses of snow, punctuated by the odd sticking out rock or clump of resilient heather. The overall landscape had changed from the jagged and rocky profile of before to a wider, more sweeping slope down to my left.
I now had a clear view of the reservoir and I was awestruck. A fair portion of the water was covered in ice of some form, what water was left bare presented any onlooker with the inch perfect reflection of the landscape above. So glassy was the surface of the water, undisturbed by any hint of a breeze, that it became difficult to determine where the rocks ended and the water began. I find this type of landscape plays tricks on the eyes. I spent so long gazing down at my own feet to ensure that I did not slip or tread on something unstable that when I looked up, my eyes simply failed to fully give justice to the change of scale. One moment I was looking at pebbles centimetres in diameter, and the next I was looking at those great giants of the Pyrenees Orientales that stand some 2500m above sea level.
As I continued along, parallel to the lake, the snow became increasingly slippery and the slopes became steeper and steeper. The snow made for unbearable terrain. It covered any white and red signals, meaning I felt no certainty when I stepped that I was stepping in the right direction. Furthermore, each step I did take was like the toss of a coin. While one minute the snow would act almost as hard as concrete, the next I would be plunged unceremoniously thigh deep into the freezing whiteness, frantically clawing with my hands to regain balance. I was forced to focus intensely on every single step, for if I paused on the middle of an expanse of snow, I would only have to look to my left to remind myself how steep the slope down to the lake was.
It was at this point, in the middle of the snowy expanses of the slopes of the Pyrenees, that I became most aware of my own insignificance. I realised that if one step with my left foot should slide too far and I should begin to slide across the surface of the snow, there would be nothing which I could do to stop this, and there was nobody around to help.
However, it was also at this point that I noticed some figures in the distance. It was a couple who had come directly from where I was heading, and after some explanation on the route, they showed me their map and told me to simply follow their footsteps in the snow. This was immensely helpful and boosted my motivation a great deal. I was now determined to forge on up to the mountain pass and beyond down into the valley.
On the top of the pass, I turned for one last look at the Lanoux.
As I turned again to continue my way, I saw five people walking towards me. Exchanging small talk with all, I proceeded down into the valley with high spirits. The slopes were still covered with a thick layer of slippery snow, but it did not seem so threatening now that my objective was to be at the bottom of the slopes. Soon snow gave way to meltwater rivulets, which turned into a true stream and finally a small river. For the first time in almost two hours hiking, I saw once more the white and red stripes.
From here, it was simply a case of focusing on the path, and indeed this was far easier said than done. While the snow was significantly less, the whole valley basin was covered with rivulets of meltwater flowing down from every angle. These streams made the path look insignificant, and made bare ground seem like the true route forwards. I lost track of how many times I accepted the fact that I had lost the path, for so long as I continued in roughly the right direction, I would generally find the path again.
One time when I lost the path, however, I acted purely out of instinct and decided to cross the small river. To do this, I had to ford through at a point where the icy water trickled past at around ankle height. I was instantly frustrated with my decision when my first foot hit the water, and I arrived on the far bank drenched from the knees down. I was demoralised and my feet were soaking. To make things worse, when I realised that the path was actually on the right side of the river, as I had been before, I waded through the river in bare feet and managed to cut my left foot in the arch.
Slipping my feet back into wet socks and wet boots, I gritted my teeth and carried on down the path. From here it became easier and easier to follow the white and red stripes. Elevation was dropping gradually but consistently. Finally, I brushed through some trees and saw for the first time the vast expanse of water that is Lac des Bouillouses. From here, the path became immensely busy, and I passed couples, families and individuals all out hiking around the lake. The sun was beaming down on us all, but I found it hard to enjoy, as my body was tiring, and I was struggling for breath. Pushing through the pain, I asked a group of four people how far it was to Font Romeo. They replied that it was very far to walk, and that my best bet would be to try to catch a lift with someone from the carpark at the end of the lake.
I took a break for water and the four friends continued on without me. When I had reached the end of the path and found the car park, rejoicing that I had made it out of the mountains and back to civilisation, such was my luck that in the first 10 minutes of waiting for a lift, the same four friends pulled to the side of the road and offered to take me to Font Romeo.
They had little English, but we got by slowly, using gestures and place names. It was an enjoyable journey, and they dropped me right outside a campsite which is where I plan to stay for the night.
I have seen little of Font Romeo, but tomorrow I shall spend a little while in the town exploring. It has been an immensely tiring day, by far the hardest walking I have ever done especially because of the snow. Even though I did not manage to ascend to the summit of Pic Carlit, I feel satisfied and proud of myself for making it out of the mountains and back to civilisation.
Til next time,
Stay Hydrated.
France 2019 III – Foix and the Mountains