Local Heroes
It was all going so well. I’d reached the stage where I could walk up the steep slope at the end of the street without noticing. If fitness continued to improve at this rate then I should soon be ready to tackle the Sesques, that elegant mountain on the far side of the Vallée D’Aspe that had been goading me ever since we moved here. Now, I was wondering whether I could make it up the slope at all. Reduced to moping around the house drinking and taking drugs, I couldn't help thinking this kind of lifestyle vastly overrated. Still… doctor’s orders. Who was I to argue? He’d been very quick to reach his diagnosis, I have to say. “Straight out of the book,” he said. “Pneumonia!” And I found his confidence and lack of equivocation reassuring as I set off to the pharmacy clutching a prescription for what turned out to be a carrier bagful of medications. I did, on the way out, raise one small query about the cough medicine. “I don’t have a cough,” I stammered in my under-the-weather french. “But you might do,’ he countered and added, “at the weekend.” I could see his point. Pneumonia! Back home I did some research. NHS Choices Website Pneumonia can affect people of any age, although it is more common and can be more serious in groups such as: • babies, young children and elderly people Elderly people! What do they mean, elderly? And then a thought hit me; perhaps I would have to start getting used to this new category. But hang on… I hadn’t even started on my State Pension! I couldn’t be elderly. No… that was someone like… like Jean-Pierre Lauzart. I knew exactly how old he was because he’d told me the year of his birth not two weeks earlier. It had been one of those days that started off miserably and carried on sulking, having minor tantrums all morning until, sometime during the afternoon, faced with the indifferent good nature of a patient sun, it gave up and sloped off to its bedroom providing me with the opportunity for a short walk before evening. It was on the edge of the village that I spotted him, easy to recognise with his green overalls and black beret worn, like all farmers, with a unique, personal slant. Keeping an eye on his flock of fifty or so sheep below him in a small field, he’d perched on a rock with both hands resting atop a walking stick, his chin balanced on the backs of his hands as though deep in some reflection or meditation. I watched him for a bit. It was strange but he appeared to know what was going on without looking. One of the scruffy-looking menech sheep might begin to stray onto a neighbour’s patch only to be startled by the seeringly pitched cries, in Béarnais of course, emanating from the old man. And if that wasn’t sufficient shock for the errant ovine creature, the sudden arrival of one of Jean-Pierre’s dogs certainly was. Peace would be quickly restored to this pastoral idyll. Not that John-Pierre Lauzart saw it like that, as I discovered when I went up to say hello. We shook hands and, to begin with, conversation was awkward. I tried to make some
observations about the sheep but he just shrugged and I wasn’t sure whether to move on or stay. But then he asked me a question and I felt encouraged. “Where’s your wife?” he wanted to know. “At home, doing some sewing.” “Sewing.” He seemed pleased with that and lifted his chin just enough to affect a nod. “Not out in the mountains?” he continued. “In this weather?” And I gestured towards the Cirque where the summits struggled to rid themselves of the morning’s clouds. “Quite right. Quite right. Mountains… they’re all very nice, very beautiful to look at but watch out. You need to understand them; show them respect. “Always been people coming here for the mountains. Some just go for a walk, for a better view - Cabanes D’Ansabère , Bonaris - have a picnic; wander back down in the afternoon. That’s fine. Nothing wrong with that. Even so, le brouillard*1 can arrive just like that, out of nowhere.” The old man paused long enough for me to find somewhere to sit on the bank a couple of metres away. “I don’t get lost,” he said without pride. It was a mundane statement of fact. “The years I’ve spent up there. How many Estives*2 I couldn’t say any more. All that’s finished now. Finished for me and finished for everyone else before too long.” Another silence slipped naturally and without awkwardness into his monologue. “Eh ben… c'est comme ça. “There was a time, now I remember… I was out on the mountain, up near Les Sources De Marmitou… Do you know where I mean?” I confirmed that I did.
The Vallon D’Anaye approaching the Sources De Marmitou ————————————————————————————————————————— *1 Fog/ low cloud *2 The summer period where sheep are taken up to the mountain pastures
“In my opinion, it’s the most beautiful spot in the Cirque de Lescun. With the Pic D’Anie on one side, the Billare and Peneblanque on the other… it’s magnificent. “I wandered up above the big field of boulders; there’s a few stunted pines and plenty of myrtilles*3 around there. “Blue sky, beautiful day. Mer de nuages* 4 over Lescun but, at altitude, crystal clear. It was one of those times when you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. “But I’m going to tell you this. And this is as exactly true… as it happened. Within the hour the mer de nuages had spilled over into Anaye and crept up the valley like a great, silent wave.” The tone of Jean-Pierre’s narrative had shifted with dramatic effect, though the music of the local dialect, with its Rs rolling like wooden balls down a skittle alley, remained intact. “A great silent wave of cloud. I could see it coming and I started to get down. I knew that if I could find the path at the bottom of the slope, I’d be able to follow it to the cabane.Then I found myself with a big problem, before I could descend more than a few metres I was surrounded by the brouillard and all of a sudden I didn’t know which was was up, down or sideways…’ “Lost,” I summarised, helpfully. “No… Of course not! I knew where I was, more or less, but I was having trouble getting to where I needed to be. Below me there were some pine trees and I thought I’d head for them but the grassy slope was steep and the mist was making it slippery with moisture, so I traversed off to the left, which I thought was in the Sanchez direction, only it turned out that I’d become disorientated because the next thing I knew I was looking at a great rocky outcrop that I couldn’t get round. I must have been somewhere near the ridge between the Billare and Peneblanque.” “So what did you do?” “I sat down… I sat down and I waited.” “Waiting for the weather to clear.” “I had no idea… but, after a while, I heard a sheep’s bell. It was a bit higher up and in the opposite direction to which I’d been travelling… “Anyway, I got up and climbed across a tricky slope of steep grass and loose rocks where I found half a dozen animals grazing on an obscure meadow fed by a spring that I’d never noticed before. “Naturally, I couldn’t risk frightening them. I couldn’t have them running off in a panic,so I spoke to them gently. Told them everything was fine and they could carry on eating. And I sat down next to them.” I began to raise another question but the old shepherd silenced me with a raised forefinger. “I left them comfortable for a bit. Let them get used to me… then I told them it was time to go home. I stood up slowly and stirred my stick around in the grass. One of them, the leader, got the message straight away and started to move off. The others weren’t long in following. “And I followed them. Just kept them moving on slowly. They can move fast when they want to, you know. Didn’t want to be left behind! They led me all the way back to the cabane. “That was 1935,” he added. “I was ten years old.” Jean-Pierre Lauzart had enjoyed the good fortune to be born after the First World War and late enough to avoid involvement in the second. Two million frenchmen were held hostage in german labour camps during the WW2 - useful as a lever for keeping the Vichy government in order. ————————————————————————————————————————— *3 blueberries *4 a sea of cloud
And some of those men did come from Lescun. He went on to tell me that he had never lived anywhere but Lescun. It had been, and was, his life. The pastoral mountain, la montagne de vache, he knew like the back of the hand that spent so much time supporting his chin. But the high peaks, the austere mineral highland was unknown to him. He had never been to the top of the Pic D”Anie, the Table Des Trois Rois or the Billare and had only words of warning for those who tempted fate in their rocky gullies or on their ridges and faces. “It’s all very well,” he recounted. “Oh, I’ve heard it all before. Know it all they do. Full of young mens’ confidence… only to end up dead in the village.” And he was definitely there in 1970 when certainly not the last but surely the most reported, tragedy occurred on the Aiguilles D’Ansabère. One of the victims was brought to his neighbours’ house. It’s a story that really does begin with two confident young men: Bernard Baudéan and René Garroté. They had been climbing together for a while and were making a name for themselves in the small world of pyrénéists for the efficiency with which they were working their way through the grand classics of the time.
Bernard Baudéan
Easter weekend, and the pair, with finally a bit of free time, are determined to complete the route they have targeted on the Petite Aiguille. The weather forecast is poor but they see a window which they believe will be long enough to achieve their objective. Despite the time of year, winter conditions prevail and it’s necessary to excavate access into the Cabane D’Ansabère where they pass the night sheltering from the blizzard carousing outside in the darkness. The cold light of day brings encouragement in the form of much calmer weather. Before long the sun
will be on the face facilitating the enterprise. Baudéan and Garroté set out on a trek through deep snow to the base of the cliff where, after preparing their equipment, they begin the route. All goes well and they reach the summit in good time and without difficulty. They are certainly a match for the climb but are disconcerted to find the top of the aiguille piled high with unimagined quantities of snow. Furthermore, in the icy darkness of the North Face the temperature remains stubbornly well below zero with fierce winds whipping up blinding spindrift. Here lies the normal descent. After a few futile attempts to negotiate the iced-over exit ledges they decide to return to the south face and try descent by abseil - a technique of sliding down a doubled rope which is then recovered by pulling on one end. This will be carried out several times in order to reach safety as the rope is nowhere near long enough to reach the ground. The first abseil goes well as does the second. On the third, however… calamity! The single piton hammered into a crack in the face, the one point of contact between rock void, between life and death, fails.
It fails and Garroté falls to his death leaving Baudéan alone, stranded. He is secured to the rock face but he has no equipment, no food, no water. There is nothing he can do but wait. Hope for rescue. On this occasion the weather forecast proves accurate and bad weather returns. Miraculously, the young man survives the night but he is not optimistic that help will come soon. He has left a note to his parents recording the anticipated time of his return but he had left a margin during which, perhaps, they might be spared concern. Sometimes, though, as in this case, parental anxiety can turn out to be useful. Baudéan’s father takes it on Pitons of the period himself to start the journey up to Ansabère in the hope of meeting his son on the way down. Arriving at the track from Masousa which leads up to the mountain he finds the pair’s abandoned car and immediately comes to the conclusion that if the boys are still up there, then they’re in trouble. He descends to Bedous and alerts the Gendarmerie which, in turn sparks the rescue. Over the next 48 hours Lescun is turned into the base camp for one of the largest operations ever seen in European mountains. The Post Master works round the clock keeping communications open. The Hotel Pic D’Anie, run by the Carrafanq family, becomes the centre of operations. and the village phone box is in constant use. (No mobile phones at this time.) The big names of the mountaineering world make their way to the site and the elite services of the CRS, miles away at Lannemezan, ignore orders to stay put until further instructions, and begin their journey to the centre of action. But it takes time to locate the victims. No-one is aware that a young man’s life hangs in the balance high up on a mist-shrouded mountain. He spends a second night there. At around 9 am the following day, the body of René Garroté is discovered and flown by helicopter back to Lescun. Alf, then a twelve-year-old, witnesses its arrival and remembers how small the body bag seemed. The search continues for René’s climbing partner. For his part, with failing cognisance but, no doubt, some awareness of the activity below, he has the presence of mind, coupled with some residual strength, to brush the snow from his blue jacket in order to make him easier to locate should the clouds clear. It’s a move that pays off and the pilot of the alouette rescue helicopter identifies a figure out on the rock. What’s more, he sees him move and reports back: “He’s alive!” The rescue regains a new sense of urgency but the difficulties of reaching the stranded climber are prohibitive and he is obliged to spend a third night on the wall in atrocious weather conditions. At dawn, however, the rescue begins with three strong pairs of mountaineers inching their way slowly up the Petite Aiguille. Ahead is the formidable team of Raymond Despiau and
Pierre Ravier (Fifteen years later I would climb the direct route on the Petite Aiguille with Pierre’s nephew Christian.) In diabolical conditions they persist through the day, at one point descending much of the route in order to avoid overhangs but at five o’clock in the afternoon their efforts are rewarded as they draw level with Baudéan and, against all odds, find him still alive. They introduce themselves and, in his confusion the sick man replies: “Let’s not waste time. Put me on your back and get me out of here. I’m hungry.” If only it were that easy! Despiau and Ravier have established and secured the route; they must now give way to the The Alouette flying in good weather conditions mountain rescue specialists of the CRS who dispatch their duties with “une compétence at rapidité extraordinaire”*5 despite the unrelenting blizzard which means that the helicopter is unable to land at the foot of the Aiguille. There is, however, no shortage of volunteers on hand to carry the injured man down to the ambulance which waits at the Pont de Masousa, a walk of about an hour. From there he is taken to the house of Roger and Lyliane Africati where the dining room table has been hastily cleared creating a space for the doctor to make his assessment and carry out appropriate first aid. As far as Lescun is concerned, the drama is, essentially, over*6. Such tales of upset and tragedy would only serve confirm the attitude that many of the oldtime agriculteurs hold towards the high mountain - an attitude that is often described in terms of respect, sometimes fear and then again, perhaps more often, in terms of indifference. Why would anyone want to risk their lives up there when there is work to be done down here? What fool would neglect their sheep to wander the barren rocks where no grass grows? Spare time? Then busy yourself with hay-making, the milking, the cheese, the pigs. There is nothing for us at altitude and no good will come of it! Of course, there are always exceptions and the character who leaps off the page of Pyrenean mountaineering history to fulfil this particular role is none other than Pierre Bourdieu, shepherd of Escot in the Vallée D’Aspe, born 1895. In order to understand the significance of Bourdieu it is necessary, first, to be aware of the intensity of competition between the protagonists in the world of explorers and adventurers who, since the birth of “alpinism” during the second half of the 19th century, excited public imagination almost as much as they excited themselves. The first serious players were usually the well-to-do. It was they, after all, who had the time and the resources to launch into this new arena of discovery. Batting for the British we have Edward Whimper making the first ascent of the Matterhorn in 1865 while, in the Pyrenees, Lord Henry Russell becomes so enamoured with the range that he somehow contrives to buy the Vignemal, the highest peak on the french side, and spend much of his time living there, in a cave. And threading through though the never-ending tales of climbing conquests we come across the idea of “the last great problem” which in reality could be more accurately described as the ————————————————————————————————————————— *5 Patrice De Bellefon, interviewed for the “Sud-Ouest” *6 Bernard Baudéan was transferred to hospital at Bordeaux where frost bite claimed all his fingers and the lower part of both legs. He went on to become a gold medal-winning paralympic skier.
“current” problem” - the mountaineering conundrum that, temporarily at least, remains unresolved. And, during the first two decades of the twentieth century, the last great problem in this neck of the woods was the Capéran de Sesques. The 120m pillar of limestone, set apart from the Pic de Sesques, rears up from the ridge, a bare-faced challenge to those compelled to stand on top of things. It just begs to be climbed.
Pierre Bourdieu, barefoot on the Aiguilles D’Ansabere
At this time, the well-heeled adventurers of the Victorian era with their tweedy selfconfidence and private incomes had largely given way to a new breed. Characteristically, these came from the burgeoning middle and professional classes who, increasingly, had a little spare cash and, more importantly, time.
So we find, for example, amongst the members of the famous Pau-based climbing group, the Kroquants Club (1922-3), teachers, engineers, doctors and exmilitary men with even the odd priest making a guest appearance. Weekend after weekend, with the conquest of targeted summits and pillars and faces of pillars in mind they trudged their way up long approach walks often to return disappointed yet determined to do better next time. And the Capéran de Sesques would have been, the objective that consumed their thoughts, their conversations and their plans more than any other. Imagine their consternation, then, when the first ascent was made by a bare-foot shepherd climbing alone with no rope. The name of Pierre Bourdieu became, overnight, the stuff of legend. To their credit, certain members of the club were quick to enlist the shepherd in their climbing teams and before long he was accompanying the likes of Dr Francois Lacq on ascensions of both the Grande and the Petite Aiguilles D’Ansabere where his fellow climbers remark on his incessant chattering and his inability to descend using abseil, preferring to get back down from the summits by climbing (shades of Ginger Rogers) backwards, but without the shoes. Four days into my illness and two days into the treatment I was finding it hard to get out of bed. To cap it all the weather was perfect for venturing up into the mountains but all I could
do was lay there with the window open enjoying, between sleeps, the blue sky with the white peak of of Le Bacqué against it. Alone in the house, at some point during the afternoon I managed to drag myself downstairs to make some tea just as the door bell rang. Still in pyjama bottoms, with two days of stubble and hair resembling a tramp who’d been in a fight I went out on to the balcony to see who was there. Down in the road was Pascal - Pascal Senvanter, keen mountaineer and part-time resident of the village. Like a lot of people hereabouts, though not native, he’d been coming to Lescun since a child and when his parents bought a holiday house here it became more like a second home. “Pou-tain! You look awful!” he exclaimed. “Yes… pneumonia,” I replied. Although it is rare for the real locals to see the mountains in terms of recreation, for the “incomers” such as Pascale and, I suppose, myself an essential part of the area’s attraction is the call of the hill, in all its aspects - the forests, the rivers and lakes, but above all the compelling yet sometimes rebarbative world of calcaire. “So what are you doing with yourself?” I tried the joke about sitting around drinking and taking drugs but he just looked at me quizzically leaving a long pause before asking if I’d been to see the toubib. Pascal Senvanter is man of my age, as he keeps reminding me, who prides himself on being unusually strong and exceptionally fit. He demonstrates this by trying to break the bones in my hand when greeting me and by recounting tales of his numerous exploits in the mountains, always emphasising the astonishing rapidity with which they were accomplished. An ex-soldier, I find it hard to picture how he ever managed to hide from the enemy as his body is always on the move apparently having difficulty in confining its natural energy within the boundaries of its skin. And so, in the street outside the house, he shuffles his feet like a boxer, plunges his hand into tracksuit trouser pockets in order to play some hidden keyboard or, otherwise, holds them vibrating in front of his torso as though attempting to crush an invisible pumpkin. I also happen to know that he is a keen participant in village power play and a member of the Conseil Municipal, or local council. “We’ve had a bit of a to-do in Lescun,” he announced and immediately my heart sank. What could it have to do with me? “Dog shit,” he proclaimed. “We’ve had complaints.” Not surprised, I thought, but knew better than to get involved in local politics so said nothing. “Too much dog shit in the streets they’re saying! Stirrers, trouble-makers, I think, but anyway, the Mayor, I mean we, felt obliged to do something about it.” “Well I don’t have a dog,” he quickly reminded him. “No, no. Of course… but the Mayor has passed the problem to me to deal with. Dog shit. He’s asked me to look into it.” And I couldn’t help detecting a soupçon of pride in Pascale’s voice. “And your name came up.” “Mine,” I croaked incredulously. “Yes,” he confirmed. “We thought you might like to join the Lescun dog shit patrol.”
I was dumbfounded. But Pascal was obviously expecting an answer. His shuffle had turned into an impatient-looking bounce and his right hand was, repetitively, smarming back his agedefying jet black hair. “Actually,” I began. “I’m a bit under the weather at the moment.” “Really! What’s the matter with you, man?” he almost barked. “Pneumonia.” “Damn! Still… you wouldn’t have to pick the body stuff up, you know.” “That’s good,” I replied. “No, no. Nothing like that. Just go round with some florescent spray paint and blast the pile of shit with red, or yellow… maybe orange. End of the day, it doesn’t matter what the sodding colour is. Just as long as people can see it and, well, if they go and put their foot in it after that, they’ve only got themselves to blame.” “I see.” “Anyway… think it over,” he added generously and began jogging on the spot. “Off to the Pic D’Anie tomorrow. Take advantage of the weather. South face. Don’t bother with the normal route these days…straight up the face…easy climbing… You should give it a go.” “I’d like to… when I’ve recovered.” “Yes… quite,” and there was no hint of breathlessness in his voice as he turned away and began trot down the street. “Anyway…” he called over his shoulder. “Glad you’re feeling better!” And he was gone, disappearing down the steep slope and into the Rue Henri Barrio. The plaque which marks the only named street in the whole village*7 is fixed to the house of the late Roger and Lyliane Africati and commemorates one of Lescun’s best known local heroes. Barrio was a man who packed a lot into his relatively short life and his exploits read like something out of Ripping Yarns. Despite being born with a malformed foot and a withered hand Barrio went on to become one of the most famous pyrénéists of his era. Known not just for his skill and determination but also for his fearlessness, he successfully climbed many of the hardest classics in the Cirque de Lescun and beyond as well as adding a few “first ascensions” along the way. It is ironic, though, that while he qualified as a “Guide de Haute Montagne” shortly before the second world war he was judged unfit for military service owing to his disabilities. ————————————————————————————————————————— *7 With generally no street names in the village the postman or woman is obliged to learn who lives where. However, with so few families occupying the village, family names provide insufficient information to secure the successful delivery of correspondence, so the names of people who lived in houses years ago are added.
This, however, did not stop him joining the resistance making a speciality out of smuggling refugees over the border into Spain. Eventually, when tracked down and arrested by the Germans he vehemently protested his innocence. “Look at me,” he insisted of his interrogator. “You say I am a great mountaineer who knows the landscape like the back of his hand, but look at my hand.” And the held up a shrunken fist bearing just one finger. “And my foot.” Again he exhibited his disability. “And then there’s my dislocated knee!” (Actually the result of a skiing accident.) His questioner was so perplexed by the contradictions of the case that he arranged for the prisoner to be sent by train to Toulouse where his superior would take over the case. They should have known that Barrio would not give in as easily as that. Just outside Pau, as the train began to pick up speed, he found an opportunity to leap from the carriage and roll down the embankment. From there he walked back to the Vallée D’Aspe where he took refuge with his old friend Pierre Bourdieu. After the “Liberation” Henri involved himself with numerous projects providing young people with experience of the mountains. In fact, one of his great legacies the Refuge De L’ Abérouat, a centre for mountaineering activities, still exists just above Lescun. So there we have it: tales of courage and cunning, tales of persistence and skilfulness, determination and endurance. And somewhere amongst them are the qualities I need, on this sixth day of pneumonia, to get myself dressed and up and out into the world Henri Barrio once more. And driven, it has to be said, more by boredom and impatience than by the examples of these local heroes, I manage it. Puffing on the uphill stretch, I make it out of the village and on to the Belvedere on the high, narrow path that leads to the “Kiosk”. From here, the stone shelter with its slate roof supported on four wooden pillars, one can enjoy a spectacular view of the mountains around Lescun. Inside, there is a table d’orientation, a horseshoe shaped structure upon which is laid out an annotated, three-dimensional model of the range. Much of the original colouring has been worn away, so too most of the labels which were intended to allow visitors to name the surrounding summits. For me, using the table for support as I recover from the effort of getting there, the labels of the Cirque are unnecessary. I know them all so well. On the far side of the Vallée, however, there remain a few with which I am unfamiliar and I try to match the half erased titles with the mountains in the range to the East. One peak, though, is all too familiar. Head and shoulders above the others, dazzlingly bluewhite in the afternoon sun, the Sesques seem further away now than ever. I just need to get better.
February 19th 2016