It was noon when I arrived at Augusti's dominion and my first question to him was: "How long from here to the top of Pic d'Estats and back?" He looked at his watch as people sometimes do that want to gain a minute or two, 5 hours up: 5 hours back he told me. Many people think it should be quicker coming down, only on a sledge.
That's 10 hours, a full day's work and 2 hours overtime, but I wasn't in that world any more, now things were a lot simpler, as on the map (which is an awful disguiser of gradient), which showed the refugio, a path, a peak. So bouyed by my marathon of yesterday and blind to most logic, I stuck my rucksack in a locker and set off with but a dry bag holding some bread, cheese, chorizo, chocolate and a fleece in case it got chilly on the top. The going was steep at first up the side of a foothill until, over the top, it levelled out into a valley walk along a pleasant river, 5 hours! the guy was dreaming. It was 12.30 now, I looked forward to being back at the refugio by 8.30. So I bounded along looking around me for wildlife or signs of it and enjoying the quickly changing landscape as I moved up the valley and various geological features revealed themselves.
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| "..by the lonely tree and the sky.." |
Lakes stay hidden until the last moment and they're all you can see. With no rucksack I felt I was making good headway, the sun and I tore into the afternoon and soon I was passing my second lake. There were plenty of people about, with tents ill-diguised among the massive rock domes in reds and blues. It was no irritation to me though and I carried on up occasionally chatting to walkers coming down. I knew from the map that it was possible to go directly from the col to the peak over a couple of other peaks as at Coma Pedrosa. It was a bit like asking Kasporov for tips on beating Karpov: what do you do with the advise?!
The time saved was one thing the doing it was another. When at about 5.30 I reached the col and looked at the rock jutting up like a petrified monkey puzzle tree, I could easily envisage myself being stuck either by a sudden and unexplained bout of vertigo, or just climbing into a dead end. So after giving it a go, having hidden my little bag in a crevice, I turned back found by bag and decided to go the conventional way.
That meant going down the north side and across one glacier then behind another, not to mention a football field or two of rocky going. Then a climb of about 250 metres.
I should not confess to the fact that I was wearing (very comfortable) walking boots, that had seen service across 300k of the beautiful uplands that sit under Offa's Dyke on the Welsh/English border. Miendle are a good name too. But it had been spotted by the sharp eyed indigenes hereabouts that they lacked ankle support and good enough grip for snow fields wedged up agin' mountains. There were a number of amateur meteorologists up the mountain that day too, quite sure we were about to witness the perfect storm over Pic d'Estats. I had my spare fleece.
I was still an hour away from the peak...
There were not stairs and a handrail up this mountain, just itself. Rubbed into its sides were paths that were forged over the years by the volume of trekkers seeking to stick their neck above the pond of humanity and take a gasp of enlightenment before dropping back down to, hum drum ways.
Glacier
After gingerly traversing the above glacier; climbing over a little ridge; puffing and panting; walking behind another glacier; picking up the dear little red and white signs; looking up at the seemingly unattainable peak, sighing from exhaustion and a hint of impatience, I sat down on a rock and took a taste of my handy vitals and a sip of water. In truth, though, I wolfed every last morsel of yesterday's bread and shiny chorizo down, guzzled the water and tried to slow down long enough to be aware that it was chocolate finally reaching a welcome stomach.
Even though you know where the top is, there is a heck of a large apron of rock plantations beneath it. I put that little boulder coloured bag with my water bottle and extra fleece in it down among the bag coloured boulders, it wasn't easy going because in my excitement I'd come off the path and was just heading straight up. Tired, it was my second 3000metre peak in as many days, I looked for about 30 mins for it before I just stopped and asked myself where it was. then I looked up and looked straight at it 150 feet away near a snow triangle, I was amazed at the power of the sub-conscious, and happy to get my bag back.
On top I was emotional and elated, They sight of bottles of water left for anyone to avail themselves of was the trigger for a few tears then it was back down tout suite! I stopped to photograph a lovely couple of elderly French Basques from Bayonne, with their camera.
They spoke to each other in a very guttural dialect (like the fish in Stingray). I hurried back down the mountain delighted to see the moon putting in an appearance, storm! That guy was dreaming! I could keep walking if there was moonlight, but I wouldn't be back to the refuge until midnight. Now I was dreaming, I made it to the first valley lake before giving up and spotting the cabana hoping there was room in it for a tired chap from Manchester.
It was the size of a double-bed inside half of which was covered in soldier - Captain Domingo Al..... His head torch found me out as I knocked on the door and asked if there was a spare blanket. I didn't know the Spanish for it but saw two survival blankets stuffed into the rafters. Wrapped like a Christmas turkey I lay down next to him and tried to sleep. Rustling with every breath and turn, my knees yelped, my feet groaned my blood ran with adrenaline, over-tired and without a headrest sleep came only fitfully, Domingo gave me anti-inflammatory tablets and I finally hit the z road.
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