The Morning After Pill
In keeping with the contraceptive theme I have going from my prior post . . .there is no better cure that I know of for a regrettable evening of driving and an uncomfortable stay in the “Good” Western than two days in the High Pyrenees. Despite having a reasonable internet connection for most of the trip, I could not seem to find the kind of break from activity necessary to put my thoughts into coherent sentences. We quickly traded the “Good” Western for a Holiday Gite at the foot of the Col De Tourmalet. A great find at a great price. Nestled into a quaint albeit touristy burg deep in the mountains, we quickly forgot the long drive and lack luster accomodations of the night prior. The first full day of our trip was spent in transit from one location to the next. I was absolutely determined to drive over the Col De Tourmalet on our way, so we arranged the days events accordingly. Despite our recent and somewhat disappointing caving expedition, it was decided that we would have another go at subterranean exploration. This one was much more spectacular than the last and was one of the highlights of the trip. The cavern was small but picturesque and the tour was informative even though it was in French. I picked up a word or two and found myself feeling rather at home with the language. I still don’t understand most of what I hear, but it is now coming in bits and pieces. The best part of the tour was that a good portion of it was given aboard a flat bottom boat that our guide pushed through narrow channels by way of handrails that had been affixed to the wall. I have walked caves and even ridden in trains through them, but this was my first time by boat. As is my usual way, I couldn’t help picture what this must have been like for those first intrepid few to have discovered this natural wonder. Incredible indeed. After the surprisingly pleasant tour, we loaded back in the car and headed over the Col. It was a neat experience to drive the unbelievably steep roads that the true heroes of professional cycling make look so easy to conquer. Easy it is not, for I witnessed many mere mortals astride their steads trying to capture their own piece of Tour glory and it looked all too painful to endure. Most seemed to be struggling tremendously in the foothills. I thought to myself that it will be a rude awakening when they actually get to the climb.
The most amazing thing to witness that is not shown on the televised portion of the Tour is the coordination between man and free roaming cattle. I can’t imagine that the ranchers and shepherds have any way of controlling their animals migratory patterns during this grand event, and the collision between car and cow or sheep is fretful enough to imagine, let alone the collision between bicycle and bovine. The livestock is everywhere and lives quite harmoniously with the visiting tourists. Cars slow to a crawl to snap pictures as the herds cross back and forth over the narrow winding roadways. The most entertaining of the lot by far were the mules, who seem to have the run of most of the High Mountain villages. They hang out in front of local hotspots, soaking up the adoration of all the multinationals visiting this illustrious locale. I couldn’t tell if they were wild or if they were simply the mules they use for mountain tours that are not corralled, but set free in town when not in use. Either way, it was an enjoyable sight to behold. We ended the evening by checking into our Gite. Fortunately at this point, our French is strong enough to handle this type of transaction and the lady also spoke fluent Spanish. This would be requirement I would suppose in this southern reaches of the mountains given its proximity to the neighboring nation. We got along just fine in a mélange of French and Spanish. I was pleased to see that my comprehension of Spanish still trumps my skills in French, however, it is obvious my French skills are gaining ground. I was happy, however, to contribute to the experience with a moderate proficiency in two additional languages. Even more interesting is that fact that you are so far south that most folks greet each other with a “Bon Jour” followed by a hearty “Hola or Buenos Dias” being respectful of the likelihood of encountering both nationalities in equal part.
The following day would bear witness to this novelty as we passed folks on the trail. Sunday would be our day of backcountry exploration that started out with a bang and ended in a wimper (of pain). Armed with backpacks, snacks, water and a comfortable pair of shoes, we set out for a day of adventure. Unfortunately, locating our planned hike was a bit of a challenge. Even after a translation into English, the guide book was of little help in locating the trail. In a Three Stooges like cat and mouse game of parking the car, walking and then realizing we were on the wrong path, only to hike back to the car and drive further on we finally reached what appeared to be our trail marker. We only had to return to the car three or four times before we were confident we had gone as far down the rocky road as the Renault would carry us, so we set out on what appeared to be a well marked albeit somewhat rustic trail. After an hour or so of rather strenuous treking we came to the realization that we had stumbled away from our “easy” hike and right into the mother of all trails. Now, I have hiked what some consider to be the most difficult hiking trail in North America and this son of a bitch made that thing look like a moonlight stroll on the beach. I was somewhat handicapped as I was attempting the French equivalent of the Nose route on El Cap with a 3 year old in one arm. The going got too tough for him to manage, so old pops relinquished the pack to mom in favor of bearing the weight of my tired offspring. I have managed some pretty rough terrain with 70 pounds or so on my back, but clambering up scree slopes and over rocky and exposed traverses with a curtain climber attached to my chest and only one free arm was a physical feat that I was ill prepared for. At the roughly ¾ mark, I left the crew on a rocky, yet somewhat less exposed outcrop to scout ahead to see if our summit attempt would be remotely possible for my little clan. Without the extra weight, I made short work of it and found, much to my heartbreak that this wasn’t going to be doable for the fam. I returned with the bad news and we began our decent to the car. From my vantage point, however, I was able to finally spot our intended trail and determined that it was accessible by Renault. We made our way back to the car with enough energy left to drive further down the road to our intended destination. This was a very well beaten path through a boulder field that was covered in sheep and adjacent to a very cold and blue mountain lake. It was doable without packs, so we left them in the car and went for an enjoyable walk through the rocks and boulders. There promised to be a waterfall at the end of our journey, but weather was setting in and the kids seemed to be enjoying the rock hopping enough that we didn’t venture to the back of the canyon. We strolled along, listening to the call of the sheep and the steady clang from the bells around their necks. It was quite mystical in many ways, and I enjoyed walking along and snapping photos of my fellas enjoying their afternoon.
Despite all the warning signs being in place, I chose to ignore them and stayed about 5 minutes too long. I have spent a fair amount of my life in the outdoors and have been well taught by the men before me to keep close watch on the horizon and pay even closer attention to the warnings that nature presents when shit is about to hit the fan. The cattle were bedding down and the sheep were returning to the valley from the upper reaches of the canyon. I knew this could mean but one thing. The increased breeze was but the most obvious clue. Soon enough, the gray skies turned black and I finally advised my crew that it was time to get the hell out of Dodge. With a grumble or two about not getting to stay longer, they followed and what was a pleasant walk through the boulder field on the way in ended in a crazy ass sprint over rough terrain with a very unhappy and ill clothed 3 year old in my arms. I must say though that the quick work I made of the trail in nothing more than shorts and a pair of track shoes made the North Face clad ubber hikers look like a bunch of pussies as I sprinted passed. They were peeling off their packs and going for rain coats as they leaned on their trekking poles to catch their breath. I shot by them like a Kenyan in the New York City marathon without even so much as a sigh. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fleet of foot enough under the additional weight of the youngster I was carrying in my arms, and the last five minutes of our journey was spent in a steady rain. While much of the day was spent on an ill advised hike over some pretty tough terrain, we all had a blast and no one got injured. Wet, but not injured. What was supposed to be a leisurely family stroll through the mountains ended up a baton death march over the Eiger, but we did it all with smiles on our faces. I for one felt right at home, as this was the kind of trip my father before me and his father before him would have required their family to endure. We have some great memories and fantastic photos to remember our time here in France, even if this whole adventure ended tomorrow.
So, I sit here at the kitchen table back at the Chateau, slowly sipping a Dirty VirJeanUh as I affectionately refer to it (Old Virginia Bourbon Whiskey and Jean’s Cola) . . . don’t ask . . . and I realize how lucky I am for all the blessings in my life. Before I get all sentimental on you, I want to close with one last piece of social commentary. As you may or may not know, the rest of the world is a fair bit more socially liberated than the good old USA and in the past week or so, has become a talking point with my eldest child. As I was working in the kitchen the other day, I had the television on to a public channel to watch my “stories” and my eldest noticed that during several of the scenes in this soap opera of sorts, women appeared without their tops. Something he is now accustomed to given our many visits to the coast, but it drew his gaze nonetheless. I giggled and used the opportunity to drive home a lesson that I preach to my kids. Open mindedness. If they can talk with my comfortably about such subjects at such a young age, they will be able to talk with me about anything. My eldest is a case study in this method of parenting and there isn’t a subject in the world that you could address with him that would cause him to pause or become uncomfortable. He is truly enlightened at the tender age of 9. I often times think it would be a more worthwhile read if it were he rather than I that kept this little journal of sorts. His observations astound me daily and he continues to be living proof that what we have done here is nothing less than parental brilliance. That being said, even I have to draw the line somewhere. As the rest of the family slumbered at the “Good” Western, I restlessly laid in my bunk and channel surfed the 18 some odd channels available for my viewing enjoyment. The clock struck 12 and one of the “public” channels (like NBC or CBS) turned decidedly hardcore. I don’t mean Skinamax, I mean the full enchilada. Thank God they were all asleep. I am not ready for a conversation about anal sex and golden showers. I will wait till he is at least 10 for that one. On that bomb shell, I will bid you a good night. R.
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