Snow line

Snow Line

Returning to Lescun after the road trip I had three priorities. The first was to complete the next letter but, equally urgent, was to get some exercise and return to eating our own food. I’d had enough of being at the wheel of the car and I’d grown tired of eating from someone else’s menu, no matter how good the restaurant.

Thankfully, the weather was with us and as soon as we arrived home we were out on the Betat, the ridge traverse above the village. The next day, however, we felt the need to engage in something a bit more demanding and, consequently, set out on a familiar route up to the Crete D’Ouratasse, the first and toughest stage of the walk to the Cabane du Boué.

At 1 452 metres of altitude and perched on an expansive plateau between the forest and a wall of limestone cliffs, it has become one of our favourite destinations. From there, views to the southeast reveal, amongst other giants, the Pic du Midi d’Ossau, while to the south and south west one is perfectly placed to enjoy the peaks of the Cirque and, further, the high mountains on the Spanish side. It’s a good place, too, to observe the casually gliding vultures that nest in the cliffs above and, before the sheep arrive to begin their summer grazing, it’s a paradise for those who are interested in mountain flora.

Today, however, there is something other than the natural flower show that catches our attention for, lying sleepily on the path, we come across a vipère-aspic. Still lethargic from its winter hibernation, it’s in no hurry to flee or defend itself, allowing us plenty of time to make observations and record its appearance.

They are not particularly large snakes but this one seemed particularly small. How it had managed to survive the cold months buried beneath a metre of snow is a mystery to me. But here, weeks after the thaw, the little creature was out and about. It must have been starving.

For a vipère-aspic, the meal of choice is a small mammal - a shrew or a vole, for example. But they wouldn’t turn their nose up at a lizard, opening jaws to an angle of 180% in order to swallow their prey.

Unfortunately for them, they are not at the top of the food chain, so they need to keep their wits about them.

Birds of prey are quite happy to make off with this humble reptile and bigger snakes are not averse to a bit of cannibalism!

Of course, mention vipers or adders to most people and they will Our young vipère-aspic probably think of the danger they pose - the deadly poison. However, during the last twenty years, it’s a fact that no-one in England has died from an adder bite. Perhaps the french varieties are more aggressive but judging by the evidence in front of us on the path, I doubt it. In fact, the poison is only used to immobilise their prey or as a defence against predators and they are quite capable of delivering an “empty” poisonless sting as a warning to creatures, like me, who simply irritate them. Apparently, it takes quite a lot of time and energy to produce the venom, so they go easy on it.

Reptiles, however, are not the only representatives of the animal kingdom who spend their winters sleeping it out beneath the snow.

In a previous letter I mentioned the example of marmottes and the tough time they had of it three years before. With the landscape covered well into June, their normal hibernation period of five and a half months was extended beyond critical tolerance. The population took a hammering, with the effect that few have been seen around during the intervening years.

It came as a pleasant, surprise, therefore, on approaching the cabane, to come across at least eight sunbathing atop the various boulders that surround the shepherd’s summer home. Of course, the sheep have not come up into the mountain just yet; the thaw is recent and the pastures have not had time to recover. But, judging by the size of some of the marmottes in the area, they at least are finding plenty to eat.

Normally, we would have expected some of the creatures to have noticed our arrival and to warn the tribe with their characteristic train-whistle alarm. The fact that they did not suggests that they had only recently emerged from dormancy.

It’s during the month of May that marmottes breed and we were intrigued to observe one little specimen collecting moss from a crack in a boulder before carrying it off, no doubt to line his or her burrow where, in about a month’s time, we might expect a brood of three to four young.

Here, thankfully, they seem to be making a come-back but it’s not a picture I see repeated elsewhere in the Cirque.

Marmotte sunbathing near the Cabane du Boué I speculate that the reason for this is about when and where the snow melts first and, essentially, there are three factors that govern the process.

Firstly, it’s about exposure to the sun. Le Boué, as mentioned earlier, is well orientated to gain the maximum benefit from the rays that, at this time of year, are sun-burningly powerful.

Altitude is also an important consideration and here we are at the lower end of the range colonised by marmottes. (Some make their home as high as 3 000 metres!) The third influence on the thaw is accumulation. Snow accumulates in drifts where there are hollows, gullies and other formations

that trap the stuff. Being remarkably free of such geographic features, Le Boué does not cling on to its covering.

I was curious, however, to find out what was happening at the snow line and, as luck would have it, a couple of days later I was presented both with a free day and a day on my own.

I love walking on my own.

Don’t get me wrong. I like walking with other people, too. At least… some people. My favourite companions in the mountains are those with whom one can slip easily in an out of conversations or say nothing at all for a whole hour.

To quote Jorge Borges: Don’t talk unless you can improve the silence. Not that there is ever silence in the hills - even without the sounds of nature, there’s the crunch of boots on stone or the rush of one’s own laboured breathing.

Walking alone, however, is something else.

I would describe it as meditative.

The important thing - the main thing - is to establish, early on, a rhythm. Too fast a pace… up here and you’ll quickly feel ill. Too slow and, well, you might as well not bother.

The optimum point is reached when heart, lungs and muscles are working efficiently together without pain yet steadily making progress. And with my target destination of the Col de Pau, at an altitude of 2 000 metres, progress meant going up.

Once the ideal rhythm has been reached the mind becomes liberated. And what a load of crap it comes out with, at least to begin with!

Stick with it, though, because it’s just a phase.

Letting the mind drift creates, effectively, an empty stage. First performers are concerns of daily life - does the car need an MOT..? Did I lock the door..?

Once these have vacated the boards new anxieties arrive, turning somersaults and cartwheels, the big questions about money and health have a ball.

But eventually, with the effort and rhythm of movement, the thoughts exhaust themselves. They pack up their little bags and leave the theatre.

And it’s then, not until then, that the brain begins to engage with what’s really happening. Shaking off regrets about the past and worries about the future, it finds itself, astonishingly, in the present.

Senses become sharper - you hear the grating complaint of the crow; you feel the breeze producing a cold sweat on skin; you see myriad colours of flowers that rise or drop from the path.

You’re on your own, so you focus on placing your feet - a twisted ankle or, heaven forbid, a broken leg will be a serious problem.You’re living the present and, nowadays, that’ s pretty rare.

So, as I pass the picturesque Cabane de Bonaris at 1 770 metres and progress further up to where the first of numerous snow fields and snow-filled trenches cut across the path, I am able to enjoy the feeling of being in danger while having the knowledge and the presence of mind to deal with it.

Some of these névés*1 are of a gradient that allow me to cross without worry. Others are steeper where a slip would result in a possibly fatal helterskelter slide down to the rocks below. But, as it works out, it’s invariably possible to find a way round, or a place where the angle eases.

A long slide to the bottom if you slip!

Not far from the Col the path is blocked by a mound of wind-driven snow and, here, the route forward is found by climbing over the rocks at the side.

It’s the first time I’ve been in the Pyrenees at this time of year. Mostly, because of work, we’ve been restricted by the academic year which tended to mean holidays in August. Now, the mountain, empty of sheep and cattle, and with very few tourists around, seems a far wilder environment than in Summer.

Lower down the plants of early spring are giving way to a second surge of plant growth, with a variety of species and an abundance of specimens far greater than I have ever seen in England.

Up to about 1 800m, roughly the altitude of the cabane, there are more wild flowers than you could shake a botanist at.

If this is what bio-diversity looks, then let’s have as much as possible.

At the snow line, however, spring is only just arriving. As the thaw climbs, slowly and irregularly up the slopes we find, typically, wild daffodils, and primula.

And, just behind the line of the retreating drifts, within a day or so of the melt, hellebores and asphodels push their still yellow leaves into the sun.

New plant growth following the thaw.

Life, it seems, follows the snow line. Whether it’s creatures such as the viper and the marmotte, waiting patiently for the new season to nudge away the old, or the flora responding to what Dylan Thomas described as “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower”, at altitude it is clear to see.

And what is impossible to miss, as I clamber over a schisty shoulder while attempting to avoid yet another white tongue extending down from above, is probably the largest herd of izard I’ve ever witnessed.

Some are browsing the newly emerged vegetation while others appear to be enjoying a large snow field below the Pic de Burq. I attempt a count but, when I get to 49, I lose track.

There are young, too, gambling like spring lambs. Energised by the warm sun, they run, leap and slide on the cold surface beneath them while the mothers watch indulgently yet attentive. It is now that they are at their most vulnerable to predators. Mountain foxes, but particularly the aigle-royal, or golden eagle, are out to get them.

Since the rut in October/November their mothers have carried their young through the hardships of winter in order to give birth in late spring. They are not going to give them up willingly as I discover when, without warning, they get wind of my presence and are off, bolting into a hidden couloir that will deliver them safety to the inaccessible niches of the cliffs above.

I just have time to whip out my camera and zoom in on the panic of flight before, to my complete amazement, they have all gone… disappeared into the chaos of rock and desperately clinging vegetation of the lower mountain.

Briefly I had the feeling of being no longer alone. Now, again, it seems that I am.

Adult female teaching her young how to get the hell out of it!

*1 nĂŠvĂŠs - areas of snow remaining after the main thaw has taken place.

May 28th, 2016