Pyrenean Misadventures

by Ivan Viehoff

Torla

Unhappy memories of hard climbs through the cold and wet were completely overwritten by the sight of the Ordesa gorge in evening sun and the taste of roast quail in the hostelry. Now bright and fresh in the morning, the village of Torla reveals all its charms. But it takes a long time to buy provisions in the small village shop when every item is fetched and wrapped in paper by arthritic fingers.

A small mongrel waits disturbingly alert by the side of the road. But she's not there to nip our ankles, she just wants to join us on our ride. It's not far to where the track to France runs off to the left away from the road Ordesa gorge. A sign tells us it is not permitted to drive over the Puerto de Bujaruelo (Porte de Gavarnie in French). We take this prohibition as an indication that it is possible to drive over, and look forward to an easy climb.

San Nicolás de Bujaruelo

The track follows the Ara river up a narrow gorge. Mostly the dog leads the way, waiting patiently when we are slowed down by steepness or stop to take a photo. The gorge broadens out, first into woods, and then to an alpine meadow. Well within the hour, we arrive at the hamlet of San Nicolás de Bujaruelo. The dog ran off and we were no longer worried that we would have a pet when we arrive in France.

The settlement appears to comprise little more than a secluded campsite, a chapel and a closed café. Before Spain joined the EEC, it would have been necessary to dodge the Guardia Civil, but today the police station is abandoned. A clear sign points over an old packhorse bridge, showing the walking route to the col. But our route was the track so well marked on both our maps.

The Track

Just after the village, a wire across the road prevented cars from going any further, and we fairly raced along on the smooth, level surface on the other side. It crosses the river and switches back to the right, then back to the left climbing steeply up the Ara valley. We have a confused discussion. The Spanish map shows the track following up the Ara for quite some way before turning back to the right, but the more detailed French map says we should not follow the Ara at all once we cross it. But there was no other broad, drivable track shown, so what else could it be? Perhaps it switches back to the right a little higher up, like the Spanish map says.

We come across a well-dressed Spanish couple out for a day's walk. They know where they are going, and it is not our way. Unfortunately we are still just off the edge of their walking map. Perhaps our track turns off right a little later, they say. The track climbs hard, in places passing along ledges blasted in rock faces. Eventually it was clear that there was no way out of the Ara valley and into the valley we wanted, so we had to turn around.

Retreat

Back at the river, we find a rough track heading in about the right direction, but it soon becomes an ill-defined footpath, and for all our scouting around it refuses to climb up the hill. It takes us wet-footed and gorse-scratched back to the village, now almost lunch-time. We ask around, but no one is local and no one knows anything about the track.

The Path

The footpath is not inviting. But the col is only a 900m climb, two and a half hours walk says the signpost. And what alternative do we have? By road it would be touch and go whether we could get to the airport in the two days left.

The Worst Bit

The first bit was the worst, as Ruth will assure you. We sweat in the midday sun, protected from any breeze by bushes whose twigs scratch our arms and legs. Loose stones slip under foot. Large rocks push pedals against ankles. Steep narrow steps through gaps in the rocks require crossword intelligence and salmon-like determination. We take frequent stops to recover our breath, and our supplies of drink are consumed at a ferocious pace. Lunch is quiet occasion, as we try to guess how many contour lines we can tick off.

Two hours later, we emerge from the bushes by an electricity pylon. Here the wires cross to the other side of the valley, where our track should be, and we can establish how depressingly little we have achieved with an accuracy that risks sapping Ruth's will to carry on. And if the track is over there, it is invisible.

The Worst Bit (Again)

The path turns to climb straight up the steep grassy hill-side, a hard push but faster, cleaner progress. It evolves into something quite civilised and I start to enjoy the climb. I even rode for about 10 yards. But almost imperceptibly the grass became stonier, and the stones turned to scree, which we could see spread out in front of us for half a mile or more. Each footstep seems like a dance with death as the stones give way underfoot. Ruth told me this bit was the worst too.

Eventually we reach a rocky outcrop below a neck in the valley. All traffic - walkers, cyclists, rivers and tracks - must pass through here. It is now clear that the track is a figment of the cartographer's fertile imagination. The outcrop is a scramble even for those less encumbered than ourselves. Some Spanish walkers stop to pity us in our folly and offer unhelpful comments about how it had taken them 45 minutes to climb down from where they have been, and they haven't been all the way to the top.

Temporary Respite

The outcrop is defeated, and a short flat walk and a tricky crossing of a stream bring us out into a high alpine meadow at 2000m, less than 300m below the col. We refill the water-bottles and ride across the grass in joy for temporary freedom of movement, then to pick our way between streamlets to find the route for the final ascent.

Marmots and Panniers

A straight, well-graded path makes for rapid progress for a while. Squeaking sounds draw my attention, and below I see a family of marmots run out of cover and across the hill-side. Above was the blue shape of Ruth's pannier rolling down towards them. In her dismay at watching her luggage fall, she did not see the marmots. In many places on this journey the pannier would have been seen no more, but here there was only a couple of hundred feet for it to fall, and it is soon retrieved.

A friendly German stops for a chat and offers encouragement. It's only half an hour's walk to the top, he says, and there are two hours of daylight left. Even with bicycles we should get there before dark. But he warns that we will have to take the bikes and the luggage separately for the final section. Sure enough the smooth path rounds a corner and becomes a stone-chute with patches of snow for added amusement.

The Worst Bit (Again Again)

Ruth will tell you that this was definitely the worst bit, but perhaps she's remembering the choughs laughing at us from their cliff-side retreats. For a while bicycle and luggage can be handled together, but eventually the loose boulders make it too dangerous. Carrying luggage alone, we sink up to our thighs in snow drifts and graze our shins slipping on loose stones. But passing several false summits I make the top in little more than ten minutes. Returning for the bicycles takes a little longer. The path has taken six and a half hours, the sun has nearly set, and Ruth's coat is discovered to have been left in the inn in Torla.

A road-sign warns those who have driven up the tarmac from France that it is illegal to take a motor-vehicle down the pass into Spain. Perhaps the imaginative cartographer put it there.

Gavarnie

In Gavarnie the tourist donkeys have already been put away for the night. The first building we find is a B&B and we look no further. We are greeted by a man wearing lederhosen and talking an incomprehensible Bavarian dialect. No, he is not the village idiot, just another face of the Germans on holiday, and the landlady can't understand him either.

Down in the village, the Hôtel des Voyageurs is normally closed in October, but tonight it has a group booking and extends the group's menu to a few straggling travellers. Soup, wild mushroom omelette, confit of duck and ice cream, all for 70F each. Now that was quite a misadventure.

Map

French IGN Série Vert (1:100,000) map 70 is adequate for the off-road section. The "track" is a planned road project, now fortunately cancelled on environmental grounds, but mistakenly shown as a track on several maps.

First published in the Rough-Stuff Journal Vol 38 (1993) page 48
Revised with corrections 6 September 1997