Being Young
Shortly before Oddvar and Candelaria left Lescun in order to pursue a job opportunity in Provence, the young man calmly informed me that he had been to the top of the Table Des Trois Rois that day and was feeling unexpectedly tired. In summer, the route from the Plateau De Sanchez up through the forest to the Vallon D’Anaye and on to Les Sources De Marmitou is already a three-hour trek with just 800 of the necessary 1300 metres of height gain accomplished. Add to that the arduous slog through the Col D’Insole, the navigation across the limestone chaos beyond and the climb up the steep couloir giving access to the final summit slope and you have a happy five-hour ascent. In winter conditions, with a thick layer of snow under feet that have metre and a half planks (albeit of carbon fibre) strapped to them, and you have a different kettle of fish. And the equipment, naturally, has to be carried through the forest, both up and down, as the way is too tortuous to ski.
The Vallon D’Anaye with La Table Des Trois Rois out of sight, over the horizon. Coming back, of course, is another matter as the skilful skier will work their way through some treacherous terrain before luxuriously swishing back down the open valley of Anaye. But still. I remind myself that Oddvar is more than 30 years my junior and what do you expect, but rationality doesn’t quite assuage the envy or the frustration of one who is ageing, not gracefully but reluctantly. A little over a week later we set out on the same route without expecting to make it to the summit (I’m not completely unrealistic) but hoping to get to the Sources de Marmitou and back. It was a fine day with sun making long appearances between drifting cloud curtains and, with temperatures well above zero, it was important to get going early before the firm snow turned
slushy. So, by nine (early for us) we were well on our way down the track to the Plateau de Sanchez where we were to find a good covering resisting the general thaw. It was, however, the snow cone, formed by avalanches pouring down the steep hillside above that posed the first obstacle. It had to be climbed to reach the forest. At about thirty to forty metres in height and set at an angle of around forty-five degrees, the standard technique would be to create an icy staircase by kicking steps all the wall up - not too difficult providing one were careful and the snow firm enough to support the load. A slip, however, could result in a human toboggan ride accelerating toward the rocks below. Thirty, twenty, even fifteen years ago I would have launched into the problem without much thought and I imagined Oddvar, a few days before almost running up, skis slung over his shoulders, probably whistling the tune of some Scandinavian folk ballad. Now, though, a more measured approach would be required as slowly, one shaky step at a time, we make our way to the top while, at the same time, beating off anxieties about what it would be like on the return journey. And that’s another thing I’ve noticed about getting older - “what if…” - that tendency to become
Well above the avalanche cone with the Plateau de Sanchez below preoccupied by worst case scenarios; the modification of behaviour in order to avoid potential yet, frankly, imagined difficulties. And, still worse, there is the futile and time-wasting predisposition towards solving problems before they actually arrive. (This, of course, might explain why folks over fifty tend to go in for more insurance.) The result was that, instead of enjoying the frisson of the climb, there was a small voice inside saying: this is OK but what will it be like later when the sun has softened the snow? Six-year-olds, I’ve noticed, don’t think in the same way. And this became abundantly clear to me when we went skiing with the youngest grandchildren. In this part of the world basically three types of skiing are practised. The kind of wild, way-off-piste, mountain adventure enjoyed by the likes of Oddvar is known as Ski de Randonnée and it’s only for those who know what they’re doing.
The tamer, more familiar version of this, referred to as Ski de Piste, involves queuing for lifts which transport the skier somewhere up a prepared slope while, if you are unlucky (or perhaps lucky depending on taste), pop music is basted from loudspeakers. A zig-zag descent is then effected after which the process is repeated. Finally, there is Ski de Fond or Ski Nordique. With no lifts, no music and a freedom to roam the 40 km of tracks along the frontier with Spain, this is the one for me. Not that I’m any good at it. Last year, for example, while stopping to admire the view in what were, admittedly, very icy conditions, I suddenly and inexplicably found myself flat on my back, staring at the sky with an acute pain at the rear of the right rib cage. And, to add embarrassment to injury, a moment later, the concerned face of an elderly lady-skier loomed over me asking if I was alright. I reassured her that I was, even though I certainly was not. No more skiing for me that day I decided as I divested myself of the kit and carried it, with a degree of humiliation, the two kilometres back to the centre.
Six-year-old granddaughter during her first attempt at Ski de Fond Thus, almost a year later, I set out on the ski de fond pistes at Somport with two young children who had scarcely seen snow before let alone a pair of skis and a nagging fear that, once again, the day might end painfully. My focus was clear - not to fall over. The trouble with carrying this dread, however, is that it makes it hard to relax. And, though, I didn’t actually go over, neither did I let go and take the risks that would have allowed me to improve. The grandchildren, of course, had no such inhibitions. They saw the whole experience as a new adventure so that when they went for a tumble it was a case of - so what? They simply bounced up and carried on. True, they didn’t have far to fall and that helped but, considering it was their first attempt at an unfamiliar activity, they were impressively fearless. By the end of the session they had already, by trial and error, without tuition, learned to stop and to turn. Once above the avalanche cone on route for the Sources De Marmitou the way through the forest was straightforward, though hard going with a random mix of bare rock, hard ice or knee-deep
snow. Consequently, it wasn’t until half way up to the Vallon D’Anaye that we felt it was worth while donning snow shoes. They helped as we no longer sank so far in the now consistently deep snow, but progress was still tough and, by the time we had emerged into the open valley, where we were greeted by an icy wind, and had plodded up to the shepherd’s cabane we were cold and quite tired. Naturally, at this time of year, there are no sheep in the mountains but one room of any cabane is always left unlocked to serve as a refuge for those who are out on the hill, as we say. Venturing into the Cabane d”Anaye we found, as is usual, a table and a couple of wooden benches, one of which we took outside to sit on and rest in the lee of the building. The sun was out and, sheltered from the wind, it was pleasant enough to look around, take some pictures, have a drink and eat our sandwiches. There was a decision, however, that could not be Exposed to the icy blast in the open valley. avoided. Go on or turn back? Looking up the valley toward the place where rocky cliffs marked its end, and below which were to found the famous springs, it seemed a long way. Added to this the firm snows of the morning were already a memory so that the racquets kept clogging up with sticky almost-slush. Wisely, I think, we decided that enough was enough. Time go down. But I could not help wondering what Oddvar would have done which was a pretty stupid question, really, because he would have probably covered most of the distance to the summit by now. I have known people of my age who say - I might be xx-years old but inside I feel like 18! - and I’ve always thought this demonstrated a singular lack of self-awareness. Most of us, after a certain age, are hopefully significantly different from our youthful selves. If not, what was the point of growing up? Better to adapt than to lament or even rail against the passing of time. But the process of adapting, of getting used to changes that are natural and inevitable - this itself requires time. Typically, I find myself perpetually about five years behind the ageing curve so that, for example, just when getting comfortable with greying hair and a thickening waist, some new physical or mental challenge presents itself, which in turn will have to be assimilated. The summit of the La Table de Trois Rois in winter conditions is, thus, abandoned with an acceptance that these days it is just too much but, and here’s the thing - there is still a faint but niggling regret that, perhaps, as Shakespeare wrote: I wasted time and now doth time waste me.” It is common that people who, as they progress through life, give up on the mountains. They walk high ridges, scale rocky summits only in their memories and in the stories told to younger generations.
Personally, maybe out of stubbornness but, more likely from a reluctance to give up on something I love, I refuse to abandon this long term relationship with what are essentially lumps of rock. And there are always new adventures to be found - a descent down a valley where walkers never go, a wooded ridge that suddenly bursts open in a panoramic view, a forgotten path lined, in spring, with myriad wild flowers - always a new experience to energise the spirit and re-fire lagging enthusiasm. So, a morning near the end of March finds us in Spain beginning the track which our guide book assures us will lead to the Ermitage de la Virgen de la Peña, a hermitage clinging impossibly to a ledge on a sheer cliff face. It’s a beautiful spring day; the sky an uninterrupted azure and, looking back, the high white peaks of the frontier chain shimmer in the distance. But our goal lies in the opposite direction in the pudding-stone hills to the south of our starting point, the curious village of Santa Cilia - half ancient pueblo, half modern housing estate - on the Jaca to Pamplona road.
The shepherd’s hut (right) and (above) the inside of the stone roof
Despite the general feeling of well-being, luxuriating in this welcome precursor of warmth to come, the stony track holds little interest but we plod on to a surprise meadow revealing evidence of the previous year’s grazing. Here, it’s the ancient shepherd’s shelter that captures our attention. Built entirely of local stone, it’s roof forms a remarkable, unsupported dome which, of course, we are obliged to investigate. An hour or so later the track ends at a carved cross where we get our first view
of white structure apparently stuck to the grey and yellow face of El Gocho, even now snowcapped. Here we rest a while before continuing along the narrow path in the forest. Around us, it’s almost possible to hear, and certainly possible to feel, the the natural world waking from its cold dormancy. Insects, flowers, birdsong… It’s an area renowned for its bio-diversity and it doesn’t disappoint. We come across curious green butterflies and then, by the side of the path, the tiniest daffodils one could imagine. We are a long way from the austere landscape of the major summits. Our day presents only a modest physical challenge and, certainly, when I was young I would not have thought it much of an adventure. But as we make away along the silent cliff-edge path with vultures and kites gliding above; as we climb the scree and traverse the narrow balcony across the precipice to reach the final ledge upon which perches the strange building, it certainly feels like one.
Ermitage de la Virgen de la Peña
March 30th 2016.