from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, keeping as close to the frontier ridge as possible. Since its inception by Georges Véron in the late 1960s there has never been one definitive trail – indeed, long sections have no visible trail at all – and there have been numerous variations, all leading to a challenging trek of about 42 days. In 1979, for his first visit to the Pyrenees, Pete Smith and I trekked a two-week section of the Haute Route, but with variations of our own. It proved to be another memorable trip, with tough days counterbalanced by laughter; but I hadn’t considered his ability to embarrass…
Pete and I had known each other for years, but this was our first mountain trip together. We laughed a lot, challenged each other with unbelievable stories, and shared the same ironic humour. A few days ago we were struggling out of the Aspe valley on a trail that had no respect for heavy sacks and weary legs; I was in front, suffering (momentarily, you understand) in the heat, when Pete, gauging how I felt, had summoned strength and breath and stormed past me, hands in pockets, whistling.
Now we were camped beside Lac de Pombie at the foot of Pic du Midi, the massive south-facing walls of the mountain softening in the alpenglow. It was my turn to cook the meal, and I was crouched in the porch of the tent protecting the cooker from a breeze when Pete, who was outside, announced that he could see a couple of climbers beside the refuge above us studying a copy of my guidebook. ‘I’ll just go and tell them the author is down here,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they’ll want to meet you!’
I gave him a mouthful of abuse.
The next morning it was our plan to move on to the Balaïtous massif, so we collapsed the tent, ambled up the slope to the refuge, then began our descent to the Ossau valley, across which the bold granite mountains were as tempting as ever. In another four hours or so we would be there, and I looked forward to introducing them to Pete, to crossing their ridges, skirting their lakes and camping among their wild recesses once more. He’d find the Balaïtous very different from Pic du Midi and those mountains we’d traversed since leaving the Aiguilles d’Ansabère, but I was sure they’d be to his liking, rough and uncompromising as they are.
Descent to the valley is steep in places, but easy enough, and at one point there’s a trail junction with a footbridge over a stream that takes one path into woodland. That would be our path, but standing at the junction were two climbers clutching a map and a copy of my guidebook. My heart sank.
‘Are you lost?’ asked Pete.
‘Not really,’ answered one. ‘Just wondering which path to take.’
‘Don’t you have a guidebook?’ asked Pete, feigning innocence.
‘Yeah, but it doesn’t mention one of the options.’ He held the book up for Pete’s attention.
‘Blimey!’ said Pete. ‘You’re not using that, are you? I know old Reynolds. Full of bullshit, he is. As for the Pyrenees, he’s only been here a couple of times. And that was by car. He never walks anywhere, lazy sod. But he’s got a good imagination.’
With that I left the three of them to discuss the merits of guidebooks and their authors, crossed the bridge and disappeared into the woodland. I’d get my own back later.
14
DEATH OF AN IZARD
Watching wildlife at ease in an untamed landscape adds a bonus to mountain days. In the Pyrenees we’d often catch sight of large birds of prey, hear the shrill whistle of marmots and see small herds of the local chamois, known here as izard, grazing a distant hillside. Only once have I had cause to regret a close encounter with a wild creature, and that came in 1982.
After several days spent crossing a high country of rocks and scant vegetation, we came down into a green valley – green of grass, moss and lichen; green of deciduous trees; and with a river running through that had side-channels enclosing deep green pools. There was also the novelty of a path to follow. True, it was narrow and faint in places, but a path all the same – not simply an animal track – and since it was aiming more or less where we wanted to go, we took it.
Locked into our own individual worlds, Alan and I had no need for conversation, and since the way was clear enough it was possible to drift through the valley and sample all it had to offer without distraction, without concentration. The warmth of Spain encouraged an unhurried pace; we didn’t fight it.
The path squeezed between stands of birch, alder and dwarf pine, then emerged to a natural meadowland, and there, just ahead, an izard slumbered beside the trail. We stopped immediately and took a couple of photographs before the animal came alert, trembling with fear. Its head swung this way and that, nostrils flaring to catch our scent.
Then it snorted, sprang to its feet, gave a frightened leap and ran across the sloping meadow. Clearly something was wrong, though, for the creature stumbled, picked itself up and turned a full circle before stumbling again and then limping towards the river.
Alan and I shrugged the rucksacks from our shoulders and took off after the izard. I reached it first, just as it fell onto a large rock wet with spray. Another step and it would have been in the water. Clutching the animal across the shoulders I eased it onto its side, felt its heart beating wildly in its chest, then noticed that its eyes were coated with a filmy membrane.
The izard was blind.
I stroked its flank, speaking softly in an attempt to calm its fears, leaned closer to see the eyes more clearly, when suddenly it jerked its head and the short scimitar-shaped horns brushed my face. At that moment I lost my grip and the izard sensed it, took advantage and leapt away. Straight into the river.
The current was strong and swept the doomed creature downstream. It bobbed like a cork, but moments later it was dashed against a semi-submerged slab of rock. The izard scrabbled and stumbled and then managed to stand upright on the rock. For a brief moment it was safe. But the slab was an island; there was no escape, and we watched as the animal faltered, panicked, and slid back into the river.
The izard lost the fight, and the green, green valley lost its appeal.
15
AMONG THE ENCHANTED MOUNTAINS
On the Spanish slopes of the Pyrenees, south of Val d’Aran, the Parc Nacional d’Aiguestortes i Estany de Sant Maurici is a district of abrupt peaks, romantic secluded valleys and rock-girt lakes. Near the eastern end of this national park stands a prominent twin-summited peak known as Els Encantats, often mirrored in the Sant Maurici lake. In the early hours of a damp September morning in 1978 Hugh Walton and I arrived on the outskirts of Espot, which serves as the gateway to these Enchanted Mountains.
Bleary-eyed and stale of mouth I peered through the tent doorway at clouds squatting on the treetops and a steady drizzle falling. It was not the most promising of mornings, but there was Hugh, clad in waterproofs, eager for a day’s activity; sorting ropes and slings, he was undeterred by the lack of evidence that there was anything at all to climb. Where had that optimism sprung from? We’d only met two days ago as a result of Mike phoning to say he couldn’t make it to the Pyrenees after all, as he had to go to Tanzania, but he had a neighbour with a couple of weeks to spare who was looking for mountains he’d never climbed before.
Hugh had arrived in time for a meal and a few hours’ sleep, then we’d set out; two strangers wondering what the other was thinking, how the coming weeks would pan out, and what we’d achieve – if anything. With foot hard down on the accelerator, we’d drive for exactly a hundred miles, then change places for another hundred, eating as we went and stopping briefly only to fill up with petrol and to empty bladders. It was by far the quickest I’d ever travelled through France, crossing into Spain at midnight and creeping into the Espot campsite in the dead and dark early hours. Three hours’ sleep is all we’d managed, yet there he was, eager to get started. With a mixture of foreboding and excitement I anticipated a busy fortnight.
Stumbling through the village that showed little sign of life, we continued on a stony track to the Sant Maurici lake. By the time we arrived there clouds were, if anything, lower and