we’d been aiming for, by which time day had fully formed. Gazing north we could now see far-off villages, but way beyond these, where mountains fell to the plains, a filter of haze blurred our vision. Lost in that haze Marrakech was no more than a memory and a name on a ticket home. Elsewhere, all was part of the vertical arena through which we’d travelled these past two weeks – a journey and a land we’d never forget. Strangers had become friends as we’d shared fresh experiences and daily excitements. And today would bring more.
On the other side of the ridge it was possible to traverse round the head of a hanging valley walled by north-facing crags, where we overlooked a wild inner sanctum of buttresses and pinnacles. Beneath our boots screes plunged into a gorge whose bed we could not see. It was the harshest of environments; a land without compromise; a take-it-or-leave-it land. We took it at face value and launched ourselves down the screes into the unknown, filling our boots with grit and leaving in our wake clouds of dust.
At the foot of the screes a new valley system opened up, the couloirs that sliced its massive grey walls clogged still with last winter’s snow, while we fought our way through a levelling of boulders and waist-high patches of thistle. Cascades poured over a bluff as the valley enticed us forward, dropping from one level to the next, growing more colourful the deeper it led.
Now we had a stream for company, its water eager to reach the plains, surging forward towards the north, tumbling over projections as it went, swirling along pebble corridors – the perfect companion on such a day. Where it dashed against rocks, tiny rainbows appeared in the spray; then it was drawn into the narrows of a gorge and the rainbows were lost in shadow. Descent here was difficult at first, but the way soon eased, so we could walk rather than scramble and pause to inspect and admire cushion plants clinging to the gorge walls, where they’d been dampened by a waterfall spilling over the topmost cliffs. As we gazed up at the spray individual droplets became diamonds suspended in sunlight. At the base of the falls, a deep green pool had formed. Resisting the temptation to bathe, we satisfied ourselves with dunking heads and letting the water run down our sweat- and dust-stained bodies.
Half an hour later a mule was seen drinking from the stream, and in the shade of an overhanging boulder nearby a fresh-faced Berber was tending a fire. The smell of juniper rose in the smoke to mingle with that of mint and mule dung.
The man was not alone, for a woman appeared from the other side of the boulder clutching a handful of freshly picked mint, a round-faced infant tucked under one arm. Dressed in a symphony of reds and greens, she washed the leaves, shook them over the stream, then pushed them into a pot with delicate fingers. And a shy smile spread across her face when her husband asked if we wanted tea. So we sat with them in the shade, drank mint tea with the muleteer and watched as swifts dashed to and fro in a feeding frenzy, their nests plastered to the great walls soaring above us.
Sipping my third glass of the hot sweet liquid, I was reminded that days in the mountains are more than just mountains, and the Atlas experience has many dimensions. And that is just how it should be. Not just in the Atlas, but everywhere.
Pyrenees
A SPIRITUAL HOME
Entering Spain on the way to Morocco in 1965, our truck crossed the Basque country as daybreak stole from the sky, with the Pyrenees depicted in that soft light as little more than low misted hills. Weeks later, with Atlas dust grimed into our clothes, we returned via the eastern end of the range, with heavy rain obscuring any view of mountains. The High Pyrenees would have to wait. And then when I did get to see them at last, it was only as a distant outline from the swift-nested ramparts of Carcasonne – a ragged horizon turning purple when the sun dropped. Having run out of money I turned to hitch my way home.
But the Pyrenees were worth waiting for. A first visit revealed snow-capped 3000m peaks, modest glaciers, fragrant valleys and canyons, hundreds of sparkling lakes and the richest mountain flora in all Europe. I’d have to return. So I did. Again and again, year after year, until the Pyrenees became my spiritual home.
To help pay for mountain holidays, I was writing magazine features about the Pyrenees at a time when no-one else was doing so. One day I received a call from Walt Unsworth, editor at the time of Climber and Rambler, one of only two or three outdoors magazines on the market in the UK. He’d started a small guidebook-publishing business. Would I be interested in writing a guide to the Pyrenees? Having never looked at a guidebook before, let alone used one, I did some basic research to find out what sort of information was required for such a book. It seemed straightforward enough, and the prospect of becoming a published author did wonders for my ego. So I signed the contract and set to.
First published in 1978, Walks and Climbs in the Pyrenees is still in print, providing an endless set of excuses to revisit those enchanted mountains to walk, trek and climb as I gather material for new editions and updated reprints. And every visit is cause for celebration.
4
OUT OF THE SHADOWS INTO THE LIGHT
Previous visits had given a hint that the Pyrenees needed further examination, and I was eager to explore. Money was in short supply, and time had to be carefully balanced; my work as a youth hostel warden precluded any leave in the prime climbing season, so we went when we could and hoped for the best. At home in the early summer of 1973 wild flowers patterned the meadows, but in the Pyrenees winter had not yet run its course.
It had been a long and heavy winter in the mountains, and the beginning of June was too early to be there. Snow still lay deep at low altitudes, while avalanches peeled from slopes exposed to the sun. Keith Sweeting and I were both nervous, but tried to hide those nerves as we ploughed our way up long tongues of stone-pocked snow. Burdened by over-heavy rucksacks, every few paces one or other would break through the crust to wallow in the soft underlay or find boots submerged in a hidden stream. As a consequence our feet were soaked, our legs cold, our lungs raw from exertion. We were not fit.
It was late afternoon before we found the hut. Half-buried by avalanche debris, it took almost an hour to dig our way to the door and force entry. It was like an igloo inside. Snow had come down the chimney and spread across the stone floor, and although it only took four paces to cross the room, each step was deadly. Our shelter was an ice rink. One and a half candles, a damp box of matches, an empty wine bottle and a half packet of rice lay on a shelf beside the chimney breast; there were no mattresses on the bare boards of the two sleeping platforms, but it would be our home for the night.
We cooked and ate outside, sitting on the roof gazing up at the frontier ridge, at scars in the snow where rocks and other debris had scraped evil-looking runnels, wondering how safe it would be to cross that final slope in the morning. It looked prime avalanche terrain, but if we set out early it should be okay. Less than an hour, surely, and we would be on safe ground. ‘Easy,’ said Keith. ‘It’ll be a doddle.’
In the night came a muffled ‘whoompf’ and the door shook. I turned over and went back to sleep, but in the morning we had to climb out of the window as another avalanche (a small one, thankfully) had targeted the hut and blocked the door.
If we could, we would have tiptoed up and across the final snow slope that led to the Port de Venasque, but when you’re wearing big boots and have everything you’ll need for two weeks in the mountains on your back – two weeks’ worth of food, fuel for the cooker, climbing gear and tent – tiptoeing is not an option. But we trod as lightly as we could and kept a decent space between us, hearts racing, ears alert for the slightest hint that the slope was about to go. Despite the chill, sweat formed on my brow. My toes and fingers were frozen, but my palms were moist. Keith was uncharacteristically silent.
Deep in shadow I aimed for a narrow V of light that gave the only hint of where the pass should be. I’d read about that slim breach in the rocks, a classic crossing place from France to Spain where the winds howl and neither father waits for son nor son for father. Now we were about to cross it ourselves – if the slope would allow, that is. Each step gave a heartening crunch, but my boots barely dented the surface. Overhead rocks were glazed with ice. It could have been January instead of June, but my confidence grew.
Then the pass was