Pics de Vallhiverna (Picos de Ballibierna)

“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware.”  Martin Burber

This clip dies not do justice to the bleakness of the landscape that surrounded me; nor the oppressiveness of the wind howling around me. (Nor my bible reading skills). Nor does it show the self- chastisement eddying about my thoughts or the desolation and barrenness closing in with every inch of altitude.  No trees, no grass, no lichen, no, no, no, life! (only me) Earlier on the trail a group of young Spaniards had briefed me on the path around the peaks ahead.  They made it sound so straight forward, so pedestrian, so doable that my head was duped into a false expectation that was never going to appear real. Meanwhile, as I staggered up towards the thin grey line that etched itself across the front of this glaciated slag-heap, I could see another couple of Spaniards struggling up ahead.  They were a couple who had passed me while I was filling my water bottle at a stream below.  I sensed then that all was not  right between them, and wondered if it was the bad karma from this aesthetically challenged charcoal hump that had soured their day out. 

The path was about ten inches wide and gave way with each footstep.  The grey shale that was this mountain refused to be compacted, refused to aid the climber, refused comfort.  The discomfort increased with the gradient until relief came only as the terrain shifted to solid mountain, this relief was nothing to light a cigar for though, as now, tired, dry, and buffeted by the odd wandering vortex of lost wind I was climbing straight up a sixty degree face. 

At the col as usual, the child was born, pain forgotten and panoramas, views and vistas cherished. A broad swathe of ridge-top horned round from me to my right. Straight ahead a valley stretched around to the left.

The couple were sitting apart, either side of the path eating their fruit and sandwiches.  They didn't offer any conversation, and not wanting to intrude I walked through them and stopped at the next projecting buttress on this unfriendly mound. I left my rucksack and carried on round towards the peaks.  

An unscheduled detour (lost?) - Pics de Vallhivernos

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Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness.  ~Ray Bradbury

Standing ................................................here.. and looking down to the first lake, where I took the picture of the moraine in the last entry,  it doesn't look as bad as the Una y demi horas, sangre, sudor y lagrimas would like to testify to!  Reaching the grass track was no small comfort.  
The picture above is looking back over my shoulder, but it could have been in any direction.  On the map and in reality there were lakes everywhere.  Add to this the fork in the path caused by a branch line in the GR11 and  where you're standing,  is not where you should be standing.  Signs were sent to me! Alas I ignored them.  My subconscious nagged and prodded and poked my seeming self: "that lake is too long"; "that cabana is not on the map" but the most irrational sign was the sudden appearance of nettles everywhere.  Their acrid perfume rose up and soiled the sweet air, the nettle avoidance tic entered my gait, the area took on the look of waste land between an allotment and a railway siding in Stockport.  "Vuelta capullo!!" it screamed. [(gracias Eñaut!!)]

I had a map and, with the appearance of a 15 acre reservoir on my left where a deserted farmhouse should have been, I decided it was time to look more closely at it.

This photo is borrowed from danirando-wifeo.com. (Google-images) The battery on my phone was getting low and I had dopped my cam-corder in the toilet at Refugi de Colomers! (luckily it wa..) I had stopped at that brand new refugio for coffee etc (I know, I digress) and sat outside in 45 degrees of heat eating a sandwich and looking with amazement on runners of the Carros de Foc stopping to have their arrival ticked off as they completed a run between nine refugios.  The record was nine hours and something!!
http://www.carrosdefoc.com/esp/la-travesia.html This link shows the route with approximate times - 24 hours! Billy Wizz lives.

View of the old Refugio de Colomers taken from the heli-pad of the new one.

Where was I? Studying the map, weighing up whether to return and pick up the original trail or be adventurous and take the - unknown to me at the time- 'north face of the Eiger route'.  Ok, I exaggerate, but please remember as you read on, your blogger is no experienced climber, is the wrong side of 50, alone, and on his back, lest ye have forgot, sits a 13kilo rucksack shaped albatross.

Refugio d'Anglos.

 “When we get out of the glass bottle of our ego and when we escape like the squirrels in the cage of our personality and get into the forest again, we shall shiver with cold and fright. But things will happen to us so that we don’t know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in.” – D. H. Lawrence

The birch trees were like old friends: shading me from the sun; easing my knees with a carpet of russet leaves,  I nodded at them obligingly and breathed in the oxygen rich air amidst the sun dappled bark.  This walk just got better and better.
My euphoria was dampened a little by the ground steepening and before long I was out of the wood.  Not before harvesting a thicket of raspberry canes though, where I noticed the white pith of recently picked berries, Martin and Barbora probably.  The trees thinned out to almost nothing as the path wound up the side of the mountain.  It cut across boulders and up onto the raised basin that held Lake Gran.  Behind the lake was the refuge.  I couldn't see M & B and headed for the wooden hut.  It was empty which was a nice surprise.
Inside was a table, two benches, some candles and half a bottle of vodka.  The back third of it  was a raised section for four or five sleeping bags.  I sat on the step while my water tried to boil and heard laughter and splashing.  After a swim they came up and we put together a loose plan for tomorrows assault on Aneto.

Lake Gran with the refugio a speck centre left, and below.

Martin and Barbora wanted to sleep outside under the stars, so I had the hut to myself. I slept like a log until the petulant winds nudged the door open.  I wondered how the lovers were fairing outside and went back to sleep.
In the morning the muffled jangle of sheep bells entered my consciousness, and I sprang out of bag to see a blanket of blue sky spreading out over the new hills.  Down to the lake for a freshen up I dived into the clear, cold water and felt my lungs contract.  It was bracing but bearable and it felt good for my bag-weary shoulder and back muscles.  By the time I got back to the hut  M & B where packing up, I wished them luck and said I'd see them by the lake under Aneto.  They took off about an hour before me an hour to quietly meditate, drink tea and tidy up the cabana.  There was an acre of recessional moraine to test my ankle supportless walking boots on, just around the corner.

The only way out of one of three valleys like this was straight up the middle!

Up, up, up to that refugio.

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” – Henry Miller

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Not this refugio, this cabana was 2 metres from the main road cutting past the reservoir from the tunnel.  To get here I walked.  Martin and Barbora hitched and were lucky quickly, but I liked the control, and certainty of Shanks' pony. This cabana de l'Hospitalet was at about 1600 m and it was about 3.30pm refugio d'Anglo was at 2300m.  It took me about 3 hours, all the climb was steep but it was through birch forest with a fast flowing stream cutting through it. With mini waterfalls and cool pools it was too tempting.  I lost twenty minutes bathing, and cooling my leg muscles.

 It was beautiful to be amongst trees again too.  For the past three days I'd hardly seen one...

Czech 'twitcher' - perfect sandwich.

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“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain(and Frank, MCMA, Moston)

I passed this rock and perhaps it was the altitude, or the wild mushrooms, but I saw a Zen garden here.  It was late in the afternoon and I thought to camp here,  with the mist falling there wasn't much to see, but I was so fresh and it was only 5.30  (I guessed) so the garden drifted quickly into the mist and we pushed on (me and my feet) until getting lost no longer looked like an option.

That mist was so thick they must have shipped it over from Ire..er..Belgium!  I camped on a mass of deep spongy grass just off the path and next to a big altar of a stone I could burn my stove on,  Conversation was thin on the ground over the beef and fried potatoes so I looked around to see if anyone was in a mood.  I wasn't.  Everything was going so well, it was the cloud that had descended over me that created an eerie atmosphere.  Cleaning up and turning in  I started thinking about when I could come back here -  for good?.  Later  the katabatic wind paid an unwelcome visit and disturbed my sleep again.  

Aneto - not.

In the morning feeling fine the mist had gone and the marmots shrieked the day awake.    After Port de Ruis I could see Aneto far off with a neckerchief of glacier under its chin.  I knew it was there because some one I passed pointed it out to me.  He was wrong I found out later, but it didn't matter, Aneto was there somewhere and I was getting closer. 

Port de Ruis was at 2320 metres the refugio was at 1700m about 3 kilometres away.  So more knee and heart breaking descent. This section of the path was busy with a big increase in the number of French walkers.  Below in the valley was the start of the Tunel de Vielha, an artery from France and there was parking below.

It was about one o'clock, (looking at the sun!) and very hot. The path was steep and dusty. The shade under the occasional pine tree was cool and irresistible. The people were friendly. 

The map said the refugio was out of my way above the tunnel's entrance, and it was too hot to make the detour.  As I walked through a yard by some buildings a sign saying 'Bar' showed me 'someone' had made a mistake.  Cartographer, walker, it didn't matter.  The wooden bar area seemed full with only me in it.  I ordered a coffee and a sandwich off the manageress, who was at the same time brusque and friendly, then sat down to see how much nearer I could get to Aneto.

The door opened and a young couple walked in: a tall blond man and his girlfriend.  They dismantled their gear and ordered sandwiches. Company.  After short introductions I ordered 3 beers and we were soon comparing conquests, planning peaks, and talking turkey, well vultures.  Martin was an ornithologist, Barbora an architect. After an hour we were old friends.  Martin had two more of these half baguette bocadillos, they were very tasty and complimented the beer so well there was a risk of the day stopping there.  I think if anyone else had of joined us a would be writing a different story.

Starter + main course

Wild Camp to Refugio d'Anglos

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I covered about 11 miles to get to this lake and the cabana below, not bad when the average gradient is 50 degrees.  After a windy night, a quick breakfast, and a look at the map I was off up valleys that looked like Clint Eastwood would be at home in them.  Then as a pattern emerged in this new life I felt the comfort from understanding it.  The morning marmot's call; the bells on cows, sheep and goats; the night wind, the walking; meeting people; pitching camp; This was what I did now.  The beautiful views seemed to permeate your being and make you feel good.  I was looking forward to coming back and doing the whole East to West route, without the time pressure I was under now.
I thanked my instinct for checking me when I accidently started to go down the H.R.P (High Route Pyr.).  Then stopped by a lake and had a breather.  Next to me was a projecting rock about 30 metres high whose fancy  patterned rock face made it look like a city designed by Escher. (my battery was flat)

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This was the view down to the lake on which stood Refuge dera Restanca an earlier refuge which hugged the side of this reservoir with menace.  It looked not unlike a place of containment during a certain war and from which men escaped only temporarily.

In fact I had met a lovely German father and his son who gave it a bad review earlier, when I finally saw it I was aware of the irony.  

I wasn't tempted to take a bed here, even though I met up with quite a number of walkers that I recognised from the long days trekking.  An Englishman called Alex, who'd been at the garage with me and the 3 Poles, was there and I chatted to him for a while.  His eyes flickered about as though something was restless inside him (Oh had I been there!). I left him and the happy Spanish couples and crossed the dam to pick up the GR11.

A girl was making notes sitting on a wall overlooking the water and getting away from the throng getting ready to chow down at the refuge.  I'd managed to get a shower there and felt champion.  Some dip in the mountains awaited my tent.

Wild camp -

“A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”

John Steinbeck

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This picture comes as close as any that I took to actually capturing the view from inside my eyes!
I never, nor would ever, get sick of looking at the beautiful mountain tarns [estanys in the Catalan].  They kept me company when the grasshoppers deserted me and the butterflies found pretty flowers to distract them, the lakes were not so fickle.
I walked up into the sun with the sound of planes passing over and marmots calling, looking back I was surprised by how quickly the site of my wild-camp got smaller and smaller. I was gaining height quicker I told myself.  Looking down constantly to place your feet without breaking an ankle could mean you missed choice views and I had to pull my self out of rock-crunch reveries often to take in a new vista.

At the top of the coll 'Port de Ratera' such a panorama of lakes opened up and I shared their beauty with other people who were up and about and had stayed at the nearby Refugio d'Amitges.  They smelled sweetly of soap and deodorant that my feral nostrils hoovered up in passing.  'Holas' all round with the odd 'bueno' thrown in.  By the next lake two men came into view as I was taking this panoramic picture:

They were two Frenchmen from  Bagneres du Luchon coming to catch some trout, or try to!  One of them told me there weren't many left and we had an amusing 5 minutes getting cormorants and eagles mixed up and feeling our way to the French word for trout as I tweaked my vowel sound until his stone face finally lit into recognition.  This sort of exchange would invariably engage my tear ducts, the poor fish! (joke!)
My tent up; the stove on; home in an instant, spag bol, a cup of tea and a biscuit, turn in to write some notes, but being on a stair thingy at the gym for 10 hours is not going to hold back sleep from my body once it's prone! The wind, though is a different matter.

wild camp - wild camp

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My own father, though I always called him dad, told me once that I was spoilt.  My father was always right, so my mother once told me, yes me mum.  I heard him, as the old Hebrew adage has it, but I wasn't listening. I had dreamt up this little challenge to raise money for The Children's Adventure Farm Trust, (the link up there) and thinking about that end kept me going through climbing hundreds of metres a day,  often over such difficult terrain and at  an altitude  I was ill accustomed to, that I would put that simple thought in my head "just do it," and maybe, I thought, the suffering will offset that spoilt-ness me pop was referring to. Plus the kids get a few quid for donkey nuts,  Win: win.
I would sit on a rock - getting my breath back- look across at a lake and say - nothing.

Up that morning after a blustery katabatic nights sleep.  It's easy! Tent and stuff away and on the path in half an hour wash my face in the stream and look for a rabbit for lunch. Not quite, but oddly that morning, while walking up the track to get out of the valley I was in, I noticed a pool of urine and a lot of dug up stones all the way up the path and wondered what it could have been snacking so close to my tent last night!

Were they the little cloven feet of small deer? Pyrenean badger? Spanish wallaby? I didn't know but it gave me some food for thought that morning in between careful map reading.  There were lots of lakes and lots of paths around them.  I was headed for the refuge at the back of the lake above for a morning coffee with a view.

Looking back  down the valley I camped in.

Mystery solved? A Marmota

Espot - wild camp

The mountains above Lake Maurici.
The three intrepid Poles and I marched up that hot winding road, feeling the sweat dripping down our necks for well over 7 minutes before we spotted some shade under trees to our left. Kris and I stepped into it and released the straps on our rucksacks. We breathed deeply.  The others weren't far behind and we started up the hill again.  These guys were brave, their rucksacks weighed at least half as much again as mine!  On the left before long, the drive into a camp-site appeared and we trooped down it in file like we'd made a wrong turn in Afghanistan.
Heaving our bodies round like pregnant cattle we dumped our bags and took a table outside, a tray arrived and the girl under it smiled as she helped the four cold glasses of beer down to the table in front of us, it was Ice Cold in Alex all over again: the droplets of condensation slowly sliding down the glasses and us inspecting them before ceremoniously raising them and like the 4 Musketeerskis in unison we called cheers! na zdrowie!
 Before long we stamped into Espot where we were welcomed by a convocation of white landrover defenders.  there must have been 50 of them lined up and a dozen more driving slowly around the quaint little town.  It was the start of the Parc National d' Aiguestortes

We found a little shop and re-provisioned, tomatoes, peaches cheese and chocolate, something to drink than the four of sat in the shade of this tree and put the world to rights.  The little things!!

After half an hour of winding up the road and then bearing off through coppiced hazelnut trees, I wished them luck and pulled ahead, I wanted to get through the park and wild camp up on the ridge Port de Ratera before nightfall.

The lake in the middle of the park was beautiful and I met a lovely mother and daughter from Israel, Avivula and the daughter was called the Hebrew for Bambi, which I forget now. I tried to show the mother how to operate my camera/phone in panoramic but after take-three Bambi (12) had to do it!  Like a true Jewish mother in no time she was worried about me:"you're on your own!!" "what if something happens to you!" "he's got a phone mother!!" "but I can't a get signal, can you get a signal, already!" so with these warm sentiments muffling the humanity in me and pulling the tears to my eyes I left them to join up with their kite flying men while I threaded past this waterfall to gain the open ground of my camp that night, wherever it might be.

The Waterfall.:
Avivala :                                               Wild Camp:

Tavascan - Llavorsi - Espot

  

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I past this cabana and thought how much more of this old rustic Pyrenees I had expected to find.  Dropping into Tavascan finally across its beautiful mountain river, I saw a village which had obviously benefited from good times.  Not that it had expanded much, it was definitely a one horse town.  With just three big hotels, a shop and a tourist centre (shut of course).

Having had no rest-day, on top of seasonable heat and having just finished an eight hour walk,  I couldn't think very clearly, or rather it meant I couldn't think economically, or perhaps not very brightly.  In any event I sat down outside a hotel under a big red coca-cola umbrella and asked the emerging waiter for a menu.  "We have tables prepared  inside" he told me with a little condescension.  Though part of me thought Kwai Chang Cain might not be who you wanted sitting outside your hotel. I persevered  until the wind, the plastic, and the tiredness all conspired to relocate me within.

Breakfast at Llavorsi

Ask me about staying at that hotel it's too long a story! and people want pictures.. so I missed the lift I'd been promised at 7.00 that morning after the three course meal and bottle of wine and a few beers...never mind, my body was recharged after 12 hours sleep, my mind was recharged after 12 hours sleep and my phone was recharged after 12 hours stuck in the back of the managers computer.  I stuck my recharged thumb into the road and hitched for the first time in ooh I don't remember..3 weeks! (only joking) probably 25 years.  The first time I ever hitched was home from school because I'd missed the bus.  I was too shy to ask the secretary for the bus fare so I went to the King's Arms roundabout in Wilmslow and stuck my thumb out.  A brand new Jenson Interceptor (google it girls) stopped and took me to my door!  I remember the G force created by the 16 cylinders -wow! I remember too (but vaguely) him warning me against hitch hiking again. I still get a Christm...

Yes the first vehicle that came into sight stopped.  I got out of its way thinking it about to collect something and the driver waved me up, oh boy, a big green Tonka toy!  He was going to Llavorsi, with a detour, and off we went emptying all the glass bottle recycling bins on the way.  He was a lovely man, from Chile, from a suburb of Santiago but I didn't remember it.  We had a great chat and he dropped right outside the colourful fresh fruit market in Llavorsi.  I bought a little bag of those cute tiny pears, a couple of ripe peaches and a couple of beef tomatoes.  Ask anyone who wild-camps what it is they miss most and I'm sure they'll offer back "fresh fruit".

On the bridge over the river I ate my peaches, luxuriating in there sensual ripeness, sucking the juice out of them and feeling their soft flesh slip down my hot throat, ahh (6 days in the mountain!).  I looked at the water level in the river and wondered how they managed to white water raft in it!

A small shop sold me some nail clippers and a postcard for the tennis club then I went next door to a cafe(above) for a sandwich and coffee.(below)

 Now the girl in the shop was telling 3 Polish guys that there was no bus to Esterri d'aneu I saw them scratching their heads at the timetable and they saw me doffing my hat at them and walking into the cafe,(I'd already told them that my Chilean friend had said there was a bus) which was my highest priority.  I love to people watch, drink the great coffee eat the big sandwiches and use...you guessed it!

Remember me telling you before, no-one knows, so they tell you anything!

Chris, one of the Poles, came in to tell me there was a bus at half past ten.  I was still making my mind up about directions.

At half past we four jumped on the bus, the plan to go to Espot and pick up the GR11 and Aneto.

As you can see it was a very hot day and we stopped often to take advantage of the shade.  But look closely my bag now weighs just over 12 kilos, theirs weighed nearly 18!! I know they were well built but!
Between them they had everything, pots, pans, kettles, mugs, food. I was still happy lighter and I'd given my sticks to one of those girls from Hereford.  Yet here I was with three walking Poles!!

Here we stand in front of an old Jail-house,


Three great hombres with stories to tell that made me cry, we are so spoiled over here that even if we know it, or think we know it, we don't know it, we don't know it!

I take my hat off to you three men of Poland

Baborte - Egyptian Vultures - Taverscan

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Well bless my cotton socks, not a lammegeierbut an Egyptian vulture

At one point I saw 20 of these little rascals swirling on the thermals above me, which was a sight indeed.  If you're not a twitcher, apologies but that place up on the Pyrenees gave me one of the best feelings ever.  Alone on top of the world in perfect weather, trust me, I'm going back there sometime soon.  All around me I could see peaks with wisps of clouds winding through them. And! oh joy!! I was at the highest point of the day and it was only 9.30! The hard work yesterday had paid off.

Flat grass to walk on! more joy! I've got to hand it to my feet, they stood up well to the constant pounding.
The only downside to this perfect day was that I had run out of water, still there would be plenty of streams when I dropped below the top.
These were the rocks the path went over. The white marker replaced the red and white one because this wasn't the GR11 I'd been following up to now.  It was a short cut Augusti had told me about -  a little local knowledge!

I found water after I dropped over the edge, but it was a very hot day, a great day, I must have been 2 kilos lighter and I'd sent 2 kilos home! Put 4 bags of sugar in a Tesco bag, and see how much it is, oh boy!  As I walked along the grasshoppers danced about my feet in welcome, the butterflies prettied themselves up, the vultures swung left and right and put distance between us effortlessly. So today my theme was down, down crossing streams and weaving down between ancient hazel coppices, down through young birch trees and rowan. Down to Taviscan an altar to tourism where the place to gorge my mountain appetite lay and the bar to quench a fathomless thirst stood. Down.

Back to Refugio de Vallferrera- Refuge Baborte.

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Behind the glacier.

I remember taking this video and being acutely aware of the quantum leap between what I wanted to do, and what I could do.  That night I had "hardly slept a wink" Cymbeline Act111 s111 
At 6.30 the next morning though, a little stiff, all ills were forgotten and a 3k walk down the valley as the sun seeped over its edges was the perfect cure. 
Augusti was busy in the kitchen with his Catalan girl Friday, Mar. I ordered a breakfast and immediately regretted it when a saw the plate of plastic wrapped French toast and  plastic tubs of confiture.
The coffee was superb though and the shower superber! It was just a shame Mar was busy in the kitchen. (4 days in the mountains now).
Outside the chair under the shade of a birch tree beckoned.  There I sat watching the comings and goings for four hours, while my clothes dried and my limbs rested. Eight girls from a girls school from Hereford trooped in and set up camp, well kitchen, and chomped their way through an hour, sprinkling their girlish giggles about and slightly disturbing Augusti's equilibrium.

Though this looks like the sun rising that morning  it's actually later that day setting behind me as I rise up to Refuge de Baborte.  I had only wanted to push on in the afternoon and get a head start on tomorrow.  Impossible here though.  The river in the valley floor by the last refugio was at about 1600m,  Balborte was at 2500!  900m over 4k. 2k of which went with the contour just up from the river. Up and up and up through trees and trees and trees.

At last, puffing and panting, I came to this cabana, set on this ledge in the hillside,  I was tempted to stop, but wanted to get the bulk of the climbing out of the way so that I could enjoy mostly going downhill tomorrow. Another hour and I stepped into the sight-line of a beautiful tarn sitting under the muñoa that had the refugio on it.

You can just see it middle-right of the picture. Still an hour away!
It was about half-eight when I got there.  Outside were a Spanish couple chatting, inside two older spanish men were sitting down to eat.  The little table in there was candle lit and food and wine was flowing.  One of them went through an over-elaborate explanation of which beds were free: "this one is free" he said slapping his hand down on a bunk, "this one is not free" etc. quite bizarre I thought.  Perhaps I looked a little Cretinous, I had sure drunk plenty some of that mountain spring water, yes sir, I had!
I set up my little stove outside and boiled my water, and ate my silver bag of stodge and drank my vanilla tea and looked out over the lake in the dying of the light:

Those two 'viejos' (old men) looked like they'd been living there for years.  I asked them before I left in the morning how long they had been living there, "2 nights" they told me.

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