tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52933623486047251922024-03-05T19:38:29.227-08:00AlpwalkWalks and hikes in Europe and California, posted sporadically as they happen… or as I reflect on them…Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-36746354205603545992016-07-14T06:48:00.001-07:002016-07-14T06:48:29.081-07:00Alpwalk 11: Rosuel to Col -du-Palet<img id="id_cc94_e8da_fb98_6cab" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PRRGhLPdERFXe6LSGGjY7OJV7p8uBM2obsy1OFdfs6edBYaq1wFfGYEg4UzDtPc3JztGSbpKa-UwmfNwVgCxq4a_ftAu3lulupMne0cgzDbgk7_spsrtvyVhPKSye9pwq0N_OiqeyOU/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 301px; height: auto; margin: 4px; float: left; display: block;"> <div style="text-align: right;"><i>Refuge du Col-du-Palet, July 13, 2016--</i></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I WOKE UP a little after six and looked through the window above the foot of my bed: a grey morning, but not raining. The firs are grey against a grey sky.</div><div><br></div><div>We eat the usual refuge breakfast; then pack up and sack up and out the door, 8:20 am. We are in the valley floor of a national park, the Parc du Vanoise, and at first the trail is manicured, ascending gently on dirt, grass, and occasionally gravel paths, often signposted, with a "nature path" branching off at one point, for those who want placards explaining the ggeology, flora, and fauna.</div><div><br></div><div>I am often among those people, but not on this trip: there's no time, and besides I am with three others, and aware of their interests. But mostly there's no time: <i>je mefie les temps</i>, I don't trust this weather. It could begin to rain at any moment. In fact, I've left the rain cover on my backpack.</div><div><br></div><div>The last ttime I walked this stage, eight years ago, it took me six hours. Of course we'd started off from Rosuel at one in the afternoon, having climbed up there from Landry, 800 meters lower, and having stopped at Rosuel for lunch. I didn't take that into consideration: I'm eight years older, and slower on the ascents; this is likely to take at least six hours, and who knows what the weather will be. Clouds and mists ccontinually blow through the gaps in the mountains on either side.</div><div> We begin in open fields, aware of the rush of water; the Ponturin torrent on our left fed, partly, by three waterfalls chuting down the opposite wall of this valley.</div><img id="id_4cbf_314_a01b_5fb3" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-GOIK3hEMzzqSh98vyQnbK4YDct5hdKgfXi7-KfXEqN1RwQXV8Y9TIAl39t6ePfOaTTAxpWtdxv-3_kircwjiiACmKtUG7U33HRIDbKw8R5mWlWeccmnjhJeqW3idJJwcnBVQBgCs_Ps/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <div><br></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Looking back toward Rosuel</i></div><div>Soon we are in forest, close and comforting, mostly larch trees around us. Our path is packed dirt fleckeed with stones, mostly about the size of my foot, sometimes larger. Kees is usually ahead, and occasionally waits for us; Curt goes next, then either Jim or me. I find the altitude increasingly problematic when climbing like this.</div><img id="id_544c_55e_88fd_652c" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUabewxwLoYz-sK3x_pLWTNcKjZr9ZcFX4q7p9ADeWdbhEoEJuI_qHS-YxtU-OB-hJRPUv7F0nTl1E7ZoBRbbOAxBB3Yr92Qul1OiqaoXbFMd0COinGBovsBtZc3Ex8fyaSQnlLZbW0m8/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <div><br></div><div><br></div><img id="id_d41d_93a1_1f01_469f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pAQ2TMA0-5c/V4eYBemlhAI/AAAAAAAAM7g/HQfNV-aM3KU/%25255BUNSET%25255D.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <div>From the forest we emerge into open country, much of itt covered with vegetation — there has been no grazing here just yet. At one point Kees points out some sorrel: Chew a leaf of this, he says; it counters thirst. I try it: he's right.</div><div><br></div><div>We cross the Ponturin on a wooden footbridge. Around us fairly large stones and boulders lie scattered; limestone brought by glacier down from higher nearby mountaiins. We are climbiing a seris of four or five huge steps, <i>plans</i> or "flats" of rubble, I suppose, left by successive glaciations, converted over the millenia into flat <i>alpages</i>: rock, gravel, soil, grasses, flowers. </div><div><img id="id_9635_ee57_fcfa_7cca" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKNnuvhuHTmpFWKJYEa1454zt8YP7V67PfA767sIe_TukLLFB6LfTCQ0DggyaGSJUkVguT3T2RQxyUvTcoornE2AlUoYQZHEVCLwbeUSMjrRCkv9Y62ZyKJQq1oi5XsbgFZo4Jbve_fA/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>You walk fairly easily across one of these <i>plans</i>, occasionally negotiating marshy areas or stepping across freshets; then you climb a hundred meters or more on a stony dirt trail, often worn so deep you have trouble moving one shoe past the other, to the next.</div><div><br></div><div>At a certain point we pass a stone chalet. A sign over the door warns that it is private, and a function, somehow, of the Park. The top half of a Dutch door is open, and a discreet glance inside reveals a nicely made-up interior. Walking past we meet a middle-aged woman sitting in the sun, now, on a stone wall; clearly she lives here. </div><div><img id="id_d553_1bdd_73c6_d237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS9KZdoff6pacwRoC5vamYRK2T7Y9ReTBORVHoGlGvh_GJdCYoe_CH8wuKPunFzV1ggVnN94s_88ZdWjTAvAdA8Zug_agOyg3_S6JE0XpJlTyua4XLhDAr7Uen71hQacF_recobOGtt8/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>And nearby there are milk-cows: first one with a six-month-old bull calf; then five or six more; then, in the distance, a herd of eighty or so, and a man walking with two border collies and a white dog that may be an Australian mix. And two grey donkeys among them, with their characteristic shoulder stripes.</div><div><img id="id_e041_c123_a75d_7eba" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QOhQ7jeT1QZG3On47Bu7NDSvOlxFtUnMLJi3UIDg4BCCdlPli7S1MxFJL798cvMrYoDJ0XzRy7SQ4WkzXiXrg7Z-x3Ac-Y9whPLVqa9PZg_7q4nWlvftd6mRBGypb2LEHyefpKb8ryI/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>We're in rhododendron country now. At first we see isolated plants blooming bravely against rock or grass; then there's a whole hillside, the sun suddenly opening clouds to shine through them for just a moment. And then you see the entire slope is covered with them, the bushes almost knee-high, all of them in luxurious bloom, surely half a mile of rhododendrons cascading down the hillside.</div><div><br></div><div>But by now we've climbed only halfway to the col; it's gettting chilly; I'm getting hungry and thinking about the "picnic" lunch the Refuge de Rosuel had sold me. A while back I stopped long enough to put my sack rain cover away, stowing things properly in my backpack and making my waterbottle accessible; but I don't think it advisable to stop any more; I don't trust the weather; there are surely snow patches ahead to negotiate.; and before them there are tricky water-crossings to manage.</div><div><img id="id_f392_ed27_c044_f511" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpBG4VCCsRpfvoPWP7soVoSBYQjVeg3yC7A9H2VvNihZRcov7Ljvm692h9VER9JJHCgQcZlOw0TPNYFj6pyDT_yfKpN5UJRIHGjAILvIkxOr1pWurDOzGm097qveKAS_xLtNegap140sA/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>We continue to cllimb. A refuge, Entre-le-Lac, is visible below us, next to a good-sized grey-green lake. We pass another private chalet, no more than sixteen feet square, with a covered area like a low carport (though no car could drive up here!) bearing a sign inviting ramblers to take refuge in case of bad weather but respect the property please.</div><div><br></div><div>We cotinue to walk uphill, more gradually now, throughh a defile I suppose you would call it, the Plan de la Grassaz. But we are higher and snow lies on the ground, covering the trail at times, sometimes only a short way, sometimes up to eighty paces. And the paces are short: left right left right the boot drives into the snow to anchor you against falling to the side, in which case you risk a <i>glissade</i> sliding down the slope, inevvitably into often sharp rock. </div><div><img id="id_bd7_b8a2_8fec_43d3" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgzXpLOIrGCmfwLt94_N2WFCtp8SJQKjzcjAVt3YLtDpC1TZHdWVQu6KBdkK5Q6gs5ucogi5B9qiKnzxoOaV05s7_VS_Wk6BOUPRv65o_e8MrgmEGgWeLZT1v9-m7WbnXN9qbDkXonJEk/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>We notice a sign noting our refuge <i style="text-align: center; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">↑</i>is twenty minutes away. This cannot be true; it's only a little past noon. But after negotiating a couple more snow patches there it is, a familiar roofline, and the welcoming refuge. We take off our packs, lean sticks against yhe wall, and enter a snug dining room, six tables each seating eight, a small stove in one corner, a kitchen beyond. </div><div><br></div><div>I want only a bottle or two of carbonated water, which they make on site from the fine glacial water of the area. We lay our sheets out in the <i>dortoir</i> in an adjacent building. Though its snug in the dining room, it's just above freezing outside.</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: start;"><i>July 13, 2016: 12 km; </i><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">↑</i><i>1000 m; 4:10.</i></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-34928152505148305212016-07-14T06:46:00.001-07:002016-07-14T06:46:42.759-07:00Alpwalk 10: to Rosuel<div style="text-align: right;"><i>Refuge-Porte de Rosuel, July 12, 2016—</i></div><div><img id="id_5c7a_e8e3_d1a1_2e8f" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMaefhPwhc4eQFtDIHcfG45vci5RQMCEiIL9lvdYCPIljdbJ0cSz8P9LugCwwTWPAt9Fij9QB-crvP2JmEJp4DCFYuNHbQ3VVijOi07uzm4K1QSs7Xwno9GhBFMtpedjw4kvUsU82lT4/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 399px; height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; display: block;"> <br></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Looking downvalley west from the refuge Rosuel</i></div><div><br></div><div>A VERY SHORT DAY today, partly to get back into the swing, partly to avoid bad weather, as rain and even thunderstorm was expected in the afternoon. We had our hotel breakfast (orange juice, café au lait, little croissants, granolla) and then, in a gentle drizzle, walked down to the taxi rank at the train station where we found M. le Norman, who'd driven us to dinner the previous night. He took us up to le Moulin, where we'd stayed a few nights ago.</div><div><br></div><div>There we shouldered our packs, already shrouded in their rain jackets, and hit the trail, crossing the <i>nant</i> Ponturin, which was of course running pretty fast, and taking a dirt path uphill.</div><div><br></div><div>The path soon turned into a somewhat stony dirt mule-path, always under spruces and firs, which broke the gentle rain so that I hardly noticed it under my straw hat. I was wearing my usual costume: long-sleeved hiking shirt, trousers, boots. I wear that no matter the weather, almost never adding jacket or shell or rain pants.)</div><div><br></div><div>At Nancroiix, unfortunately, further progress on the GR5 was barred: apparently rockfalls or sliides had made the way dangerouus. We had to cross the <i>nant</i> again, I think on the "Pont Romano," and take the paved road through Nancroix. This was a great pity, as it meant we'd miss the Palais des Mines, the beautiful stone college of mining set up in Napoleonic times; I particularly wanted to show it to the others.</div><div><br></div><div>Also we were now out in the open and the rain had increased. I put on my nylon shell, ignoring its hood, and we continued, first on D87, then, at a small ccollection of recreational buildings (café, equitation, gîte) on a dirt road. At les Bettières the dirt road had begun to give way at a bridge footing, and a back-hoe was moving big rocks into place to remedy the situatiionn.</div><div><br></div><div>From there we followed a grassy track which almost immediately brought us to our nght's refuge, Rosuel, in an interesting building designed to shed avalanches. (A refuge on the site had previously been destroyed in one.) </div><div><br></div><div>Walking today: four miles, 250 m↑, 1:30. Hardly counts. </div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-8302287862395586612016-07-10T10:49:00.001-07:002016-07-10T10:49:08.505-07:00Alpwalk 4: Chésery to Samoëns<img id="id_c92c_ba46_8d77_298e" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0IyTDu7qE6eEPEpz_UZGw0LcIcsVClyU6rfFz2GHqaylEhwa332d5OZZK8dNK18H20qKYQB2M2kUtmdZB3ocdD6h3RHq9lweJ-PLpdgbFDTTIjzZ1w6xF0YKOlfevhcWlGRaFvLzshsg/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <div><br></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>The Montagne de l'Huber, at Chésery</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">We left our Swiss refuge a little after seven, after a reasonably good coffee-milk-and-bread breakfast, climbed a little around the nearby lake to the col des Portes-de-l'Hiver, and then started the long descent through pastures, on dirt trails and country roads, in country I find a little too bucolic. Of course the country is Switzerland and the local industry is dairying, and I am fond of the Brown Swiss breed, which replaces the Abondance here. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">The pastures are almost lawns, with few of the flowers so abundant in the Abondance and Beaufortain on the French side; the road laces through them; there are neat farmsteads scattered along the route, some of them offering <i>boissons</i> and liight refreshment. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><img id="id_1f82_108e_3114_e0d0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5t-ZyrmMTFGwxRa9XOn9N_lUCtuIzLltqbGuBHTkK0yWzuuGkeA8ejaDvgQxklOZn-uXkIvalG2Kb1lN8X9n8HG9fEkwu28uIgJ0igRihIP-DdXX8Hgx8-nG8UZROmsn9JClDf3uLfp4/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div style="text-align: left;">And there is always the view of the distant crests — well, not all that distant; and one of them will inevitably have to be crossed for us to get back to France. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then I was in unfamiliar territory. Eight years ago I left the GR5 at just that point, descending to a hotel at Mines d'Or for the night, then taking the road (and to be honest thumbing a ride) into Samoëns. That was not today's plan. We were sticing to the GR5.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">This turned out to lead us down into a very pleasant valley where we fond a refuge, Chardonniere, which offered a fine salade forestiere. This braced us for what turned out to be a tedious descent via hairpins, often on asphalt road, sometimes past amazing formations of shale; and then into the night's lodgings in Samoëns. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><img id="id_282d_79f8_a42c_8412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBsG6MOW8C0mp8zppImsCDrvdfaQXZBl15-AVvqKO5OwkTCez89RXK44YZvBS5oqrYe6jFmFUYyjDyeABCMyZym1f7HfuLKZeGqYHwzWemvBjSDt2MPwLpfaQcfRj802AOmGneqv5r3W8/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once again we were in a hotel, the three of us sharing a room. A hot shower and a real bed!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-9933335420542003792016-07-10T01:59:00.001-07:002016-07-10T01:59:32.122-07:00Alpwalk 7: Bonhomme to Plan-Mya<div style="text-align: right;"><i>Gite du Plan-Mya, July 8, 2016—</i></div><div><img id="id_3295_370d_12dc_c174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYT-k2ramjUj1RsUZ7iut8RF9QKkLI_Ym4clC44wMcAm3xZRfvDCqk08qypyvOqN0rl6JYMIMh1_XG1sr7OfkmxcOCIRJiQBM6544L6abU4RI6_wlsqa6ijtMJsvlKS6ymxmfFDF_u24/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> </div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Crete des Gittes</i></div><div><br></div><div>We were up early for breakfast, which could have been considerably better, and set off for the day's destination, the Refuge du Balme — unaware there would be a change of plans.</div><div><br></div><div>The first thing on the GR5, leaving Bonhomme, is the amazing Crete des Gittes, which describes a long gentle arc swinging from southerly to westerly (as you walk in the direction we go, always southerly).</div><div><br></div><div>That's how it looks on the map. In fact, it's a narrow ridge, mostly level after you climb to it, sometimes right on the ridge, more often a ledge trail a couple of feet wide and ten feet or so below the ridge. The ground always drops away steeply from the trail, rarely at less than a 45=degree angle — the angle of repose, I suppose — and sometimes quite precipitously. I never look down from this trail: I look straight ahead, or at the path, or toward the distance.</div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_b948_ee44_2672_3d5a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qJBPZutj4_s/V4IN_fs9NHI/AAAAAAAAM34/6OTXYBHfj2s/%25255BUNSET%25255D.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div><br></div><div>The trail is well compacted and safe, but it was covered in a number of places by snow. Curt bravely postholed our path, once stomping into what turrned out to be a void, and we followed along, trying not to think about the glissade that would ensue if we slipped and fell.</div><div><br></div><div>It's an exhilharating trail, but it ultimately ends, descending by switchbacks, on stonier thus more difficult terrain, to the col de la Sauce. (I don't know why it's called that.) </div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_3924_a356_acd7_774b" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkwFgShLUaoYH7j2IQ0_jhQ6eln1LCDsatYEEgmkNZe1k6q-PawF8WJeePF5ZiSjvvQ8yGpnA1p_wn-sd3dRpI7LSSArXom3kvTMQcSKP3vRNzEBe1iXHx5u0c60j5eO-JZW01WEwVKqM/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto; margin: 4px;"> <br></div><div><br></div><div>From there it's another descent, often on rutted paths only a foot wide, occasionally on a country road, through alpages full of flowers. The <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">rhododendrons were </span> finally in bloom, on low shrubs suggesting thin soil.</div><div><br></div><div>I remembered this being the slope Mac had fallen on, eight years ago, breaking one of his hiking sticks: no sooner did I recall it than the path gave way beneath my left foot, sending me into a gentle rolling fall on my right side. No damage done, other than to my amour-propre.</div><div><br></div><div>We came out at a cafe-refuge on the departmental road, where I recalled eating a delicious apricot tart. Alas, there was only <i>tartelettes de myrtilles </i>today, those delicious mountain huckleberries that grow so prolifically hereabouts. We sat with tea and tartelettes for too long, considering how far we still had to go. </div><div><br></div><div>Only fiffteen miinutes later, thhough, we passed the Gite Plan-Mya, where I remembered buying the best Beaufort I've ever tasted the last time I was by. The place looks different, spruced up, but I recognized the woman who runs it, and noted that she was wearing a Slow Food apron.</div><div><br></div><div>So we changed plans, cancelling tonight's reservation at Balme. We will eat well tonight, and sleep in a pleasant dortoir; tomorrow will be an eight-hour walk to the pretty town Valezan, and if they don't have beds for us there we'll call another taxi and go to Landry or Bourg St. Maurice.</div><img id="id_8bc3_f07_64cb_124e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-whwk-JjxNWU/V4IOb03i_uI/AAAAAAAAM4A/Ocjocv4mhmE/%25255BUNSET%25255D.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <div><br></div><div><i>Day 9: say nine or ten kilometers (only!), up from 2433 m at the Refuge Bonhomme to 2538 m at the Crete, then down to 2307 m at the col de Saucce and 1822 m at the Plan de Lai, then up to 1860 m at tonight's gite. Up 240 meters; down 700. No more than three hours!</i></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-82852518749910079272016-07-05T21:25:00.001-07:002016-07-05T21:25:54.018-07:00Alpwalk 3: La Chapelle d'Abondance to Chesery<div style="text-align: right;"><i>Refuge de Chesery, Switzerland, Sunday, June 3</i></div><div><br></div><div>Apologies in advance for typiing: I'm still not used to this keyboard, and diacriticals are hard to achieve. Also I'm well behind in writiing, of course, partly for exhaustion, partly for distraction. </div><div><img id="id_b4e4_a1a2_167d_7970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcUG0hHv6yYG3AMKiC2w5sYodLI_yc5QAlsLsekF1toA2TeC-PMNLsQ9YrB_c9_ceqjT2UfnoK4BwN3qRH74colb2YBG_oQEKvwnaI8sWxrQGDAuhv-m_zbv_Qqc9MOASrEYNBJxiqygs/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>My knee fully restored after a rest day in the marvelous family hotel Le Vieux Moulin — in the same family for 300 years, I'm told! — we set out from La Chapelle d'Abondance at 8:45 on a pleasant morning. We'd have preferred earlier, but breakfast isnt served here until 8 am. The day was pleasant but recent rains have left the ground muddy, and after the easy walk along the Dranse, when the trail climbs through forest, the going is tough: gnarled tree roots, stones, and slippery mud make for treacherous footing.</div><div><img id="id_7648_61ab_fb58_119a" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMuQtJde6XF6PfVjxGYPmWSlOV5HlmIBSy-ctjTxog_DZdMlfjjZUR7vUY9CyawxsUdUhx71oqhrRSAPIzIjK8SJA_E0FRyCTPWqdKHqTBgoX3gEvsVoUC0fIDL-OyYVk1wzpoL4rt4U/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>The compensation: fine fields of flowers. It's hard not to burst out laughing with pleasure at them: yellow buttercups, trolius, and dandelions; blue gentians and occasional crocuses, lots of white flowers I haven't identified. They're all scattered generously throughout the alpages; but now and then there'll be a patch so compactly arranged you'd swear they were gardened. And of course the fragrance is marvelous.</div><div><img id="id_7ca4_4f62_e698_4a90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAcybqwrQWwqXTh1S9VSE13eqrUA7qbVgIJFWE4omfY2uuCfFj9Ar_cjuyKNntx6ZOJ-knLqwFsMtvrSrhVYN3FrHZsldEgcSbvhpzn7PfQ95OGQavO5t_i1dmKsBCEW1myUQsbih_53M/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>Another compensation, a little before the trying climb from one of those alpages to the col de Mattes: a brief stop at a milk-barn chalet for a cup of milk, given freely — quite fresh but already cooled, full tasting, sweet.</div><div><br></div><div>De Mattes is our first "real" col, in the sense that here for the first time was an abrupt break between kinds of terrain, I think, and that sudden view of magnificent mountains beyond, and the sobering realization that somehow we were going to thread our way among them — and no refuge, village, or road to be seen, nothing but space, green alpages, blue skies, grey serious mountains laced with snow.</div><div><img id="id_e27_cf7a_e8e5_f72d" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPH9kQLd8mNntKNsRsJ6v_sjltZQdTJheWY-c1QMuieNIL1aMvPtDfBxxDpOKc9-ONoNHAyubsl91b4EVcokYpq614E_AJXISFdcbgMQwzjBwG_iTn9VpLX55SJnzsTCg0_vDq6gS_d8/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>We dropped three hundred meters over the next couple of hours, then took another treacherously muddy climb through "orchids, butterwort, alder scrub and mud," as we chanted, and finally reached the Refuge de Bassachaux where I had a pleasant dinner and night's sleep eight years ago. </div><div><br></div><div>Alas it is under new direction and no longer accommodates overrnighters. Regulations, they say; I'm not sure I buy it. We had a pot of tea and resumed the long road to tonight's stay: the broad dirt road rises easily most of the way, then gives way to a stony path throuh the last alpages before the frontiere.</div><div><img id="id_882c_e108_d597_b4a9" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZTpCpZiUH9qvQ8GwSLIJOwFeZCqDmIf5aa9uMol6MP0eoVQHNe0VXQRuNnM1NPvkZjo9nnpTEgAWu9NgzbHleTMWLJ5Hw_I-io3TbS6SRDVTTHhNl5zCa-9K3rvrclvF8K_8rFD4Rcwg/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div>The refuge was reasonably pleasant. I was too tired to negotiate the civilities of the one shower, and anyway it was almost time for dinner. We had lamb in tomato sauce with pasta, a grated carrot salad, and a nice dessert; then I piled into the lower bunk, accommodating seven other sleepers though fortunately not all had appeared and I had only one neighbor. I slept well.</div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_a1c1_25a5_eee6_30a" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4FrGMJBqlkrIARmvJ2mrtSf7eJJXRrM7XkCSKH9z-tabRB44wl-fB-b4WL-t5j7g8QnD1_7MIhy8bqIKdXS4ig7RaG7KOfCFikjWqT-HoTTolpdPyt50xblv_ZGIHQfxVjP24vHB8_k/" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-40357333335575014862016-07-05T13:35:00.001-07:002016-07-05T13:35:53.385-07:00Alpwalk 3<div style="text-align: start;"><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Refuge de Chesery, Switzerland, Sunday, June 3</i></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Apologies in advance for typiing: I'm still not used to this keyboard, and diacriticals are hard to achieve. Also I'm well behind in writiing, of course, partly for exhaustion, partly for distraction. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img id="id_b4e4_a1a2_167d_7970" src="file:///var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/47F7AF7A-BC8B-4EDC-9F19-C484647210EB/Library/Application%20Support/gallery_photo_temp9593.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My knee fully restored after a rest day in the marvelous family hotel Le Vieux Moulin — in the same family for 300 years, I'm told! — we set out from La Chapelle d'Abondance at 8:45 on a pleasant morning. We'd have preferred earlier, but breakfast isnt served here until 8 am. The day was pleasant but recent rains have left the ground muddy, and after the easy walk along the Dranse, when the trail climbs through forest, the going is tough: gnarled tree roots, stones, and slippery mud make for treacherous footing.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img id="id_7648_61ab_fb58_119a" src="file:///var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/47F7AF7A-BC8B-4EDC-9F19-C484647210EB/Library/Application%20Support/gallery_photo_temp59462.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The compensation: fine fields of flowers. It's hard not to burst out laughing with pleasure at them: yellow buttercups, trolius, and dandelions; blue gentians and occasional crocuses, lots of white flowers I haven't identified. They're all scattered generously throughout the alpages; but now and then there'll be a patch so compactly arranged you'd swear they were gardened. And of course the fragrance is marvelous.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img id="id_7ca4_4f62_e698_4a90" src="file:///var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/47F7AF7A-BC8B-4EDC-9F19-C484647210EB/Library/Application%20Support/gallery_photo_temp34761.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Another compensation, a little before the trying climb from one of those alpages to the col de Mattes: a brief stop at a milk-barn chalet for a cup of milk, given freely — quite fresh but already cooled, full tasting, sweet.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">De Mattes is our first "real" col, in the sense that here for the first time was an abrupt break between kinds of terrain, I think, and that sudden view of magnificent mountains beyond, and the sobering realization that somehow we were going to thread our way among them — and no refuge, village, or road to be seen, nothing but space, green alpages, blue skies, grey serious mountains laced with snow.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img id="id_e27_cf7a_e8e5_f72d" src="file:///var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/47F7AF7A-BC8B-4EDC-9F19-C484647210EB/Library/Application%20Support/gallery_photo_temp15349.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We dropped three hundred meters over the next couple of hours, then took another treacherously muddy climb through "orchids, butterwort, alder scrub and mud," as we chanted, and finally reached the Refuge de Bassachaux where I had a pleasant dinner and night's sleep eight years ago. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Alas it is under new direction and no longer accommodates overrnighters. Regulations, they say; I'm not sure I buy it. We had a pot of tea and resumed the long road to tonight's stay: the broad dirt road rises easily most of the way, then gives way to a stony path throuh the last alpages before the frontiere.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img id="id_882c_e108_d597_b4a9" src="file:///var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/47F7AF7A-BC8B-4EDC-9F19-C484647210EB/Library/Application%20Support/gallery_photo_temp47783.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The refuge was reasonably pleasant. I was too tired to negotiate the civilities of the one shower, and anyway it was almost time for dinner. We had lamb in tomato sauce with pasta, a grated carrot salad, and a nice dessert; then I piled into the lower bunk, accommodating seven other sleepers though fortunately not all had appeared and I had only one neighbor. I slept well.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img id="id_a1c1_25a5_eee6_30a" src="file:///var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/47F7AF7A-BC8B-4EDC-9F19-C484647210EB/Library/Application%20Support/gallery_photo_temp35029.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></span></div><div style="font-family: -webkit-standard; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-80776440826033294232016-07-02T08:48:00.001-07:002016-07-02T08:48:28.817-07:00Alpwalk 2<div><br></div><div><div class="body-fauxcolumns" style="position: absolute; top: 0px; left: 0px; z-index: -1; height: 3268.765625px; width: 375px; overflow: hidden; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; 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line-height: 1.3; position: relative;"><div style="text-align: start;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">La Chapelle d'Abondance, July 2, 2016— </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I'd expected the second day to be the hardest, but not this hard. I awoke about five in the morning and went downstairs to write, but found the door to the common room locked, so spent some time outside, most in the entry hall where one sets one's sticks and boots. Not conducive to writing. The weather was cloudy but dry; the clouds drift by — at tthis altitudee, 2200 meters, you're actually in them — and occasional part allowing a glimpse of the marvelous view. Ibexes everywhere, of course. </span></div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A little before seven three healthy young people, two male and one female, shinnied up the cheminee wearing shorts, tanktops, trainers, and backpacks. extringuisher weighingg a good thirrty pounds, and they'd left La Fetiuere an hour and ten minutes beforee!</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Finally the common room was opened, and bowls of cafe au lait were brought, first to these three heroic porters, then to the rest of us. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Breakfast here has improved: fruit juice as well as coffee; an apple as well as bread. Then it was time to attack the walk to La Chapelle, since the refuge at Bise is now closed. This would be a six-stage walk and it would be diifficult, though not including anything as ardduous as the cheminnee had been yesterday.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img id="id_d7ed_3bcc_6f05_c3f5" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_ErRzCCVXf8/V3faRy2NNAI/AAAAAAAAMzs/AwcET6J4eGY/%25255BUNSET%25255D.png" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="padding: 5px; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 1px 1px 5px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 1px 1px 5px; box-sizing: border-box; max-width: 100%; width: 353px; height: auto;"> <br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">First we climbed, much of the time finger-and-toe on rocks, to the summit of the Dent, where we did not linger. Then came what was to me rather a brutal descent, some of the time traversing with the help of bolted chains, then steeply on broken granite, finally dirt-and-gravel, on switchbacks.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Next we climbed, again on dirt-and-gravel, to a first col, down, then up to the second, where a herd of complacent mature male ibex congregate; finally down a slope where the trail was two or three times covered with snow. And here suddenldy my right knee failed, in a familiar way: the meniscus had taken more than it wanted on the descents, wherwe now and then it had to twist sideways. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I hobbled on, up to the Col de Bise, and then began a descent amost as hard as the one from the Dent, though not needing chains at least, because always in alpage. The trail here is dirt — rutted cowtracks, actually — and very uneven. In normal condition, and certainly when I was younger, this would not have been difficult: given the circumstances, it was slow and painful.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">At the bottom both my legs suddenly gave way and I sat down hard. This was just at the large white stone on which my hiking partner had announced, three years ago, that he could go no farther. A wave of sympathy for him, and remorse for my earlier failure to express it — but that didn't help in the present sittuationn. Curt andd Jim were attentive, and volunteered to carry my backpack, but I rested a few minutes, then hobbled on..</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">There'd be no question of completing stages five and six, the reasonably easy ascent tto the next col and the rreasonaby difficcult descent from it and the stroll into La Chapelle. But there was no placee to sleeep in Bise now, only a fromagerie wheere we could buy beer and cheese. There was no ttelephone to ccall a cab, and our phones wwere useless in this isolatedd valley. And tthe road in and out was closed for road repair!</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It would open at six, though, and then we could walk down it, seven kilometers, to the next town. In the end, thhough, we met a cadre of hikers ledd by two gguides, and one of thee guiddes volunteered tto drive us into town.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">After a couple of hours of refreshment and conversation with the farmer's wife, and with Dorian a young Brussels fellow who was walking to Gap to visit his grandmother, we piled into Valentin's car. He drove us all the way to La Chapelle d'Abondance, where we arrived at about the time we'd expected.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Curt and I walked the quarter mile up to the hotel I remembered from three years ago, to find it unchanged and available; then back down to the center to get our packs and an elastic knee brace for me, then back to the hotel where we checked into the same room I'd had three years ago. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">What a relief to find hot and cold running water again, to shower, to be clean! And then a fine dinner and a solid sleep.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Our third day, today, Saturday, July 2, I rested and wrote and studied the road ahead. I'll walk down to the center in a few minutes and post this, I hope; then another dinner, another goodd sleep, and back, tomorrlow, on the trail…</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> seven three healthy young people, two male and one female, shinnied up the cheminee wearing shorts, tanktops, trainers, and backpacks. Each was carrying a fi</span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-13662367899705977452016-07-02T08:42:00.001-07:002016-07-02T08:42:28.000-07:00Alpwalk 1 <h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="margin: 0px; position: relative; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">La Chapelle d'Abondance, July 2, 2016— </span></h3><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-8746468313173207406" itemprop="articleBody" style="width: 355px; line-height: 1.3; position: relative;"><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Landed at Geneva 1030 am on Wednesday June 29, spent the day with Jim in Thonon waitiing for the 5:35 bus to Bernex where we were to meet Curt at the hotel we'd booked, found the clerk had lied and the bus did not travel on Wednesdays and the bus she'd sold us tickets for would drop us off miles from our hotel at a place where we would find no other transportation. We shrugged and accepted the only option: a taxi. Thirtyfive euros, but we were at the hotel.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Walked a mile or so down into town — Bernex — for dinner at Tante Marie's; not bad. (See <a href="http://eatingday.blogspot.com/" id="id_6fec_fb8a_37e8_adff" style="text-decoration: none;">Eating Every Day</a> ) Asked the hostess if we could get a cab back up to the hotel, a half-hour climb from there, and she volunteered to drive us there. Typical provincial French kindness, greatly appreciated!</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Next day, Thursday, June 30, we walked to the Dent d'Oche, which I remembered fondly from eight years ago when I first walked this alpine traject of GR5. There are three stages to this walk. The first took us the mile or so down to central Bernex, where we bought nuts and dried fruit for our lunch. The owner of the gite we'd slept in, very comfortably by the way, hearing me mention <i>saucisson sec</i> to my copains, brought one of his own manufacture out, in a ziplock bag, and handed it to me with a smile. How much do I owe you, I asked: I can't sell it, he said, only give it. It's yours. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We bought a baguette at the bakery, then walked east along the main road — the only road — through the village of Trossy, then turned south, crossing a bridge, and continued on the road, now climbing rather steeply. This brought us to the end of Stage 1, the cafe-restaurant La Fétiuere — the word is local, and refers to the large copper basin in which milk is slowly curdled to make cheese. The staff was just opening up, but brought us tea, which we took on the patio, on a pleasant morning.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As we were drinking it we heard cowbells coming nearer. Just our luck: a herd of perhaps fifty milk-cows was sent up the very trail we were about to take, east, toward the Dent. That would muddy the track!</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We left the cafe rather regretfully — among other things, it had the last toilet we would see for a couple of days — and entered pleasant forest, walking steadily uphill on a dirt road. We noticed a trail leading off to the right but ignored it, walking on to a group of chalets — rough farm buildings, really — where we realized our mistake, and turned back, only two or three hundred meters fortunately, to the cow-affected trail.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This continued to climb, sometimes roughly, through the forest, then out into an alpage where the cows by now were grazing. Before too long we came to the Chalet d'Oche, a cheesemaking barn, closed of course, but with its welcome water-trough. End of stage two, and time to rest up for the finale.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Stage three breaks into two halves. The first is a rather steep climb, by switchbacks, through the alpage, on a dirt-and-broken rock trail. The second is a notorious chimney or chute, rising precipitously between stone walls. Hiking sticks don't heelp much here: much of the work is hand-and-foot, or finger-and-toe even; and the really hard parts are assisted by a chain bolted to the rock, which you can use to haul yourself along. Slow going!</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Finally at the Refuge we took off our boots and staked out mattresses in the dortoir. There are six other guests: a family from Utrecht, father mother daughter 23 and son 20; a Finnish couple from a provincial town, the wife a schoolteacher. All spoke English, of course; the gardienne and her assistant did not.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Dinner — again, see Eating Every Day. Not bad. Ibexes, of course, which the French call <i>biquoutin</i>, all around. To bed as early as possible, tired but happy, and reasonably good sleep.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Don't have the stats yet: say 8 miles, 2000 meters climb, six hours including a couple of breaks. </span></div><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="line-height: 1.6; margin: 20px -2px 0px; padding: 5px 10px; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-color: rgb(238, 238, 238);"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1" style="margin: 10px 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="post-author vcard" style="margin-right: 1em; margin-left: 0px;"><span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235" rel="author" title="author profile" style="text-decoration: none;"><span itemprop="name">Charles Shere</span> </a></span></span><span class="post-timestamp" style="margin-right: 1em; margin-left: -1em;">at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://eatingday.blogspot.fr/2016/07/alpwalk-1.html?m=1" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link" style="text-decoration: none;"><abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2016-07-02T08:11:00-07:00" style="border: none;">8:11 AM</abbr></a></span><span class="post-comment-link" style="margin-right: 0px;"></span></span></div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2" style="margin: 10px 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><div class="mobile-link-button goog-inline-block" id="mobile-share-button" style="border-top-left-radius: 2px; border-top-right-radius: 2px; border-bottom-right-radius: 2px; border-bottom-left-radius: 2px; height: 18px; padding: 1px 10px; margin: 0px; position: relative; display: inline-block; text-align: center; vertical-align: top;"><a style="text-align: start; display: block; height: 18px; line-height: 18px; width: 32.03125px;">Share</a></div> <div class="goog-inline-block dummy-container" style="margin-right: 0px; vertical-align: top; padding-left: 0.3em; position: relative; display: inline-block;"><div id="___plusone_0" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; border-style: none; float: none; line-height: normal; vertical-align: baseline; display: inline-block; width: 90px; height: 20px;"><span style="width: 32px; height: 32px; position: absolute; z-index: 101; top: -10px; left: 80px;"></span><iframe frameborder="0" hspace="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" tabindex="0" vspace="0" width="100%" id="I0_1467474044716" name="I0_1467474044716" src="https://apis.google.com/u/0/se/0/_/+1/fastbutton?usegapi=1&source=blogger%3Ablog%3Aplusone&size=medium&hl=en&origin=http%3A%2F%2Featingday.blogspot.fr&url=http%3A%2F%2Featingday.blogspot.com%2F2016%2F07%2Falpwalk-1.html&gsrc=3p&ic=1&jsh=m%3B%2F_%2Fscs%2Fapps-static%2F_%2Fjs%2Fk%3Doz.gapi.en.9qLjStV9sOM.O%2Fm%3D__features__%2Fam%3DAQ%2Frt%3Dj%2Fd%3D1%2Frs%3DAGLTcCN2ETG7TF1d03hJXFLpbWTNIj_X0A#_methods=onPlusOne%2C_ready%2C_close%2C_open%2C_resizeMe%2C_renderstart%2Concircled%2Cdrefresh%2Cerefresh&id=I0_1467474044716&parent=http%3A%2F%2Featingday.blogspot.fr&pfname=&rpctoken=24095909" data-gapiattached="true" title="+1" style="position: static; top: 0px; width: 90px; margin: 0px; border-style: none; left: 0px; visibility: visible; height: 20px;"></iframe></div></div></span></div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-64477080174299438642013-07-28T08:48:00.001-07:002013-07-28T08:48:05.930-07:00Alps, 2013, 26: end of the trip<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">THE DAY AFTER our hike to the Merveilles yet another injury forced yet another rest day. The entire walk has been beset by frustration, interrupted by weather and injury. Our very first day we'd lost our balissage and wound up circling back to our starting point: that was, in retrospect, a warning. The second day was so long and hard and showed us so much snow that I'd made a quick revision, skipping the entire first (northern) part of the traject after La Chapelle d'Abondance, and taking the train to Modane for the southern half.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div><br></div><div>Even then, bad weather and susceptibility to back and knee problems kept us on the cautious side, often suspending the walk. Now it was happening again. I decided to salvage one final day, from Sospel to Menton, the final stage of the GR 52. I don't need to repeat the Valdeblore-Nice stage; I've done that; but I would like to experience the descent to Menton. </div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVstW-XBPPeO_kWFdC2JIMMw_S9nAz2W7A_9KcHQVF7F56gdGuiTT2Q6dvBDHEEjogzjRkdrcj1WoT8coVZdsWKrhK66bfknw64F1RJk424gT0mbELwlfbJYZUn1CECAbOQDat4VtMEnI/s640/blogger-image-703798129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVstW-XBPPeO_kWFdC2JIMMw_S9nAz2W7A_9KcHQVF7F56gdGuiTT2Q6dvBDHEEjogzjRkdrcj1WoT8coVZdsWKrhK66bfknw64F1RJk424gT0mbELwlfbJYZUn1CECAbOQDat4VtMEnI/s640/blogger-image-703798129.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">So the day after the Merveilles we took the bus back down to St.-Dalmas-en-Tende, saying goodbye to a gaggle of Russian, Turkish and Japanese youths volunteering in the refuge, and then took the train to Sospel, where we heard a fine concert of French baroque music in the cathedral </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div><br></div><div>We slept well after the concert, but not long, as we had a long walk to take today, and the weather is always chancy. Even though it wasn't yet seven there were two other tables already breakfasting, a couple and a group of two couples, who were discussing between themselves the GR5 and the possibility of walking it in sections. They seemed surprised that we'd done it — well, after our fashion — all the way from Modane.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKTF1wUDBufcctPRrkk2Iuno9MhKCsZojHX3hbJanvU72KpvJIGuW0lqfm6nW3psM265JV-isa3tJc2mjhbjdQVEwuOoGuvBLr8Kw7xbU5jCRWHkVmz5-PYic0ZVCQ9l03sEKGKdAKTQ/s640/blogger-image-1498470604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKTF1wUDBufcctPRrkk2Iuno9MhKCsZojHX3hbJanvU72KpvJIGuW0lqfm6nW3psM265JV-isa3tJc2mjhbjdQVEwuOoGuvBLr8Kw7xbU5jCRWHkVmz5-PYic0ZVCQ9l03sEKGKdAKTQ/s640/blogger-image-1498470604.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>We had little trouble finding our way back to our trail, now thr GR 52, even though Sospel seems sideways to me, straddling an unaccountably eastward-flowing stream. The trail climbs, fairly gently at first along road, then hardly at all, traversing through really marvelous forest. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07TicGU7Wv4IRSbtD7O0z_UFWYctuda8nMuSQTCBZ_DUaZRmwFMdpc9N1rKuD_UO3yoliYktqzCeusV7JzNG9aXE6MH5eAwPQt4C7mfRNTdjTWhBMiOWNtW9ikS_xK1eHR3TEtK19XxI/s640/blogger-image-690753021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07TicGU7Wv4IRSbtD7O0z_UFWYctuda8nMuSQTCBZ_DUaZRmwFMdpc9N1rKuD_UO3yoliYktqzCeusV7JzNG9aXE6MH5eAwPQt4C7mfRNTdjTWhBMiOWNtW9ikS_xK1eHR3TEtK19XxI/s640/blogger-image-690753021.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Before long we came upon a herd of goats. A young white guard dog, clearly not yet fully trained, found us more to her liking than the goats, and followed us for the next couple of hours. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-630bDT77yRNtjMDxvNhQUxTHbhszDKemfj-v7wz8_0h1Euf6r-q9_1c_mtLDPNXiOSI8jArSODbH4V188lz_Tn4dde2ZdFjGSs7-4nTm_NicITipcRWyroK5ho-0pX0TdfJS6sJp3XQ/s640/blogger-image--135556819.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-630bDT77yRNtjMDxvNhQUxTHbhszDKemfj-v7wz8_0h1Euf6r-q9_1c_mtLDPNXiOSI8jArSODbH4V188lz_Tn4dde2ZdFjGSs7-4nTm_NicITipcRWyroK5ho-0pX0TdfJS6sJp3XQ/s640/blogger-image--135556819.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Then the trail climbed roughly and steeply, ultimately to the Col de Razet at 1000 meters, 650 above Sospel. (3370 feet; 1150.) by now it was ten o'clock, and the col, actually more a flat under scattered pines, was an inviting place — but it was too early for our picnic.</div><div><br></div><div>Along the way we passed ruins of cabanons from time to time, and it was clear much of the land had once been farmed, and the path had clearly been carefully paved with stone, and I was impressed once again with the long history of human occupation and use of this countryside — and, of course, the melancholy history of wars and resistance, and the daily life that's been lived here for 3,000 years. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWvAO1W6S2LmlaqXZ7sZyOjxZfYiAnwmYTcyE8ZZxrnSK0Aj_9NiSC3qHtS6bMtqcTF08HGv1yAJImA3-hADiGn0RA2mo6Co5badbrTiWhDnhviLW_G2y7qdlq1eHDA6tIAHonJPnJus/s640/blogger-image--1547805355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKWvAO1W6S2LmlaqXZ7sZyOjxZfYiAnwmYTcyE8ZZxrnSK0Aj_9NiSC3qHtS6bMtqcTF08HGv1yAJImA3-hADiGn0RA2mo6Co5badbrTiWhDnhviLW_G2y7qdlq1eHDA6tIAHonJPnJus/s640/blogger-image--1547805355.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>In a half hour we were at another col, slightly higher at 1100 meters, and then we began a gentle descent to the ruins of old Castellar, a village flourishing already in the 1300s. For once these ruins suggest happiness rather than misery: the village was simply moved down to a more accessible and comfortable location in 1435, since the Saracen menace had finally been laid to rest. </div><div><br></div><div>In the nearly 600 years since the village — houses, church, restanques, and all — has slowly fallen apart and collapsed back into the hillside, leaving only a few particularly well-built walls standing. Perhaps this can only happen in a country like France, where the population is stable, and you don't have to accommodate constant demand for more housing and employment.</div><div><br></div><div>Here we met day-hikers coming up from (new) Castellar, and here we finally convinced our dog to leave us and return to her flock — not without pitching a rock at her, and using some impolite French and Italian, I'm afraid. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89KtrIn7w9EV5uI6wKAs-wHDKh25dxEsJi4znYmE_9Ki3IvL7QMpdSwp-A9ZCfIPD5vmCEFsAvZLaZ3EJDfTr0ZirowV9JmNvH_44ncY-mj-bJKfRWKMfQ8ED7l2BTW0zE3Op-1s7E2w/s640/blogger-image--780870540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89KtrIn7w9EV5uI6wKAs-wHDKh25dxEsJi4znYmE_9Ki3IvL7QMpdSwp-A9ZCfIPD5vmCEFsAvZLaZ3EJDfTr0ZirowV9JmNvH_44ncY-mj-bJKfRWKMfQ8ED7l2BTW0zE3Op-1s7E2w/s640/blogger-image--780870540.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Now we climbed again, occasionally scrambling up stony narrow trail through the maquis — brush, roses, blackberry vines, broom — to our final col, Du Berceau, at 1100 meters (3600 feet) not even quite as high as Mt. St. Helena near my home in California, and far from the heights we'd routinely climbed earlier. The overcast was finally clearing, and we could see Menton below us, and the blue Mediterranean.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwq8CoKcMVnSpmnHDirEfIRn7ckksC8EGuhd93U9pirkCxbzUc5DJ2Lvc7ixcNt4Wwz5IooTABm5LfUynZBJaj7aqZGTAFOBtGIeSbGUcVCv0ilRd8fJ0GopTqM71HtO5eqbCNN029emo/s640/blogger-image--212451700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwq8CoKcMVnSpmnHDirEfIRn7ckksC8EGuhd93U9pirkCxbzUc5DJ2Lvc7ixcNt4Wwz5IooTABm5LfUynZBJaj7aqZGTAFOBtGIeSbGUcVCv0ilRd8fJ0GopTqM71HtO5eqbCNN029emo/s640/blogger-image--212451700.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>But Menton was far below us, as if we were looking down from the peak of Mt. St. Helena at a Calistoga a thousand feet lower than in fact it is, and I thought about the warnings I'd read about this descent. At first it was kind enough, taking us to the pleasant Plan de Lion — "Lion Flat", I don't know why — at 700 meters. Then it turned more aggressive, down switchbacks of loose stone and dirt, down down down, until finally we were at a paved road.</div><div><br></div><div>In some ways the worst was yet to come: a pedestrian path down more steps than I could keep track of, hundreds of them, each doing everything it could to jolt knee, ankle, and instep. So often, on this long walk, Ive thought, while descending, "Well at least I'm glad not to be climbing this." (Or often the reverse.) This time I wasn't sure.</div><div><br></div><div>We kept thinking there must surely be a café soon, but there never seemed to be, until we finally happened on a miniature golf course set under an ancient olive grove, with a bar and restaurant completely empty of customers. The two-man staff seemed unhappy to see us (and in truth we smelled awful, drenched in sweat), but reluctantly sold us a couple of bottles of Perrier. From there it was an easy walk into Menton, where we checked in a little after four o'clock.</div><div><br></div><div>When reserving the room, yesterday, I mentioned that we were randonneurs who would be walking the GR 52 from Sospel. The deskclerk looked up at us: Ah, the two anglophone randonneurs who telephoned yesterday, he said. You've made good time from Sospel: it's a hard day's walk.</div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMx-cQw3V8XRKvLnOK7DSLpI5-E41YCBM_Ly7zoW3mRV4rLytu6q9gs0Du-g0cXGIOz4q_hO-Xd3RUK68ar5_kdoO5GLfAsj8CGIihbUjXGMeFIX7cKMPykoTWC7xUvr7sxquVfFpoow/s640/blogger-image--1288829142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMx-cQw3V8XRKvLnOK7DSLpI5-E41YCBM_Ly7zoW3mRV4rLytu6q9gs0Du-g0cXGIOz4q_hO-Xd3RUK68ar5_kdoO5GLfAsj8CGIihbUjXGMeFIX7cKMPykoTWC7xUvr7sxquVfFpoow/s640/blogger-image--1288829142.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">AND SO WE HAVE finished our Alpwalk for this year. On the GR 5 we logged <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">331 kilometers, 17,328 meters of climb; 16,560 meters descent (205 miles; 56,850; 54,330 feet) in 23 walk days, with 7 rest days thrown in. Our longest unbroken sequence was 16 days, June 30 to July 15, Fournier to St.-Sauveur-sue-Tende, when we managed about 230 kilometers.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We didn't finish the GR 5 to Nice; we fell three days short. On the other hand, we logged the last day of the GR 52, and an extra day to the Vallée des Merveilles. Given the handicaps, I'm satisfied. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">I undertook the walk to see what had changed in the five years since my last Alpwalk. The biggest change is the greater number of hikers on the trail. Most of the increase seems to me to involve people who are only walking a couple of days, a week at the most. They seem less prepares for the experience, and I'm not sure what they take from it. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Refuge tenders tell me they are more "exigent," and breakfasts in some cases reflect that. There are still plenty of old-fashioned refuges like the Vacherie de Roure, but the gîtes seem a bit more elevated in terms of facilities, and the dinners they offer seem more sophisticated — not always a good thing.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Another change: I'm five years older, and carrying twelve or fourteen kilos up steep hills slows me down a little more. On the other hand, I suppose I'm that much closer to ready for a final, permanent merge into these majestic, serene, powerful, noble la</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">ndscapes, or the great blue mother sea at their feet. They don't seem to change.</span></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-19583893649387623422013-07-25T07:26:00.001-07:002013-07-28T07:42:34.310-07:00Alps, 2013, 25: la Vallée des Merveilles<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYgRPDvTJI-GrVtOX3Pr1ZQQ7x4qZMEH1z3QNSYYmxzBLLzjBFEPU876H_xfNhvJHbD-FkXx2DU0dj520HgERhDftGBp6T2B0bc5oOHUOa-YNLWLSSCu7i6hDcJDt8-kJ1waJ76Pr1TQ/s640/blogger-image--1854088307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYgRPDvTJI-GrVtOX3Pr1ZQQ7x4qZMEH1z3QNSYYmxzBLLzjBFEPU876H_xfNhvJHbD-FkXx2DU0dj520HgERhDftGBp6T2B0bc5oOHUOa-YNLWLSSCu7i6hDcJDt8-kJ1waJ76Pr1TQ/s640/blogger-image--1854088307.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Refuge Neige et Merveilles</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div>July 24— we had time for a leisurely breakfast: the bus taking us to tonight's gîte wouldn't leave Tende until 9:15. Still, we were the first guests in the gîte to breakfast, at seven, and though we dawdled a bit we never saw the French couple, or the German family of four who had sat at the next table at dinner last night. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">We paid up and slipped on our packs and walked through town back toward the train station, where we caught the bus out of Tende to, first, St.-Dalmas en Tende, then Lac des Mesches. The weekly market was on, and we bought slices of porchetta to carry along for a picnic. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">The bus arrived on time, and made some elaborate backing-up maneuvers to get turned around in the right direction in the train-station parking lot. We got on, sitting in the first row of seats for the view and tossing our packs in the row behind us, since only two other hikers got onto the empty bus. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">The driver pulled out of the parking lot and started down the main road, then almost immediately stopped the bus, got out (leaving it idling), and went to the market, talking first to one vendor, then another. I thought maybe he wanted a sandwich or something, but he got back on empty-handed and resumed the drive, only to stop again, to talk to yet another vendor.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">Then we were on our way, I thought, but no: another bus was coming in the opposite direction, and we both stopped so the drivers could have a conversation. At the market, our driver told the other, right opposite the bar, the guy with a beard, wearing a cap: I told him his truck was parked over the line at the train station, it was impossible for me to navigate the lot the right way, I had to back and fill and back and fill, he told me he'd move his truck, see if he did, and give him hell if he hasn't. Right,said the other driver, You can be sure I will. And then we were well and truly on our way.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">What a ride! Down the gorge on the main road to St.-Dalmas, then up a very narrow road, with many switchbacks, to our destination. The bus went right to the edge of the road, in whichever lane it needed, and since I was sitting at the window I could see how little clearance there was. There were times a sheer rock wall was an inch from my window; at other times I was suspended over a dramatic drop to the river far below.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">And never once did the driver have to back up to take the turn in two passes. He drove his rather huge bus magisterially, honking the horn only at truly blind curves, relying on his knowledge of the road, the common sense and self-protective instincts of other drivers, and probably the sound of his engine which should have been a signal to any mountain-savvy driver coming the other way. Only once did he stop for an oncoming vehicle: a truck-and-trailer even bigger, hauling a load of propane.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE5exGohz2V9rLXKtGguJxV6QP1g9Nv_-vAP1XDk9DyaUzn5iL_53vjD5toY4R3rbNq-OYp2JEUWRv1apd7vqtyIl2u0YDFWIy57lSfrFOqwSF5Vbt7ub2Ar88RvXlAZqtaos6QOkT5Rc/s640/blogger-image-1859235268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE5exGohz2V9rLXKtGguJxV6QP1g9Nv_-vAP1XDk9DyaUzn5iL_53vjD5toY4R3rbNq-OYp2JEUWRv1apd7vqtyIl2u0YDFWIy57lSfrFOqwSF5Vbt7ub2Ar88RvXlAZqtaos6QOkT5Rc/s640/blogger-image-1859235268.jpg"></a></div><br></div><i>Lac des Mesches: ruins of the abandoned hydroelectric installation</i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><i><br></i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">Finally he stopped at Lac des Mesches to let us off, telling us to walk a little way up the road, then take a stairway to our left and continue for twenty minutes, and there would be our gîte Neige et Merveilles. Well driven, I told him, How often do you make this drive? Oh, four trips a day, round trip, he said, as if he were doing something easy.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">In less than twenty minutes we'd hiked up rather steeply to our refuge, a complex of several buildings. We were given a double room on the back (west) side of the largest building, a former barracks for the Italian army. (Hmmm: I wonder how many of these gîtes and refuges are such transformations. Swords into plowshares.)</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I asked a young woman who was setting cobblestones in sand — an accurate arm with the rubber mallet, I thought — where the reception desk was. Anglophone? she asked, and I nodded. She smiled: Me too, of a sort; I'm from Dublin. We checked in rather hurriedly: it was past ten, and a two- hour hike, they said, maybe more, to our tour, which began at one.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">The room is nice enough with two single beds, a table and two stools, and a bathroom with shower that we share with one other room. We lightened our backpacks even more, taking out all but raingear, emergency stuff, water, and the porchetta, and then set off for the vaunted Vallée des Merveilles. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2dhpJSl-tgNtWs_ZAX1-EJb_ZQlMDoPnvT37euIBPGJAQAEMEVpx3OY2dtpRHRIBX1KO3oMCrrcPmckdAM6buBfj2qTj6YVoj3nIdvOGeDltB2KDgx-CmrmLmEv8n-SBbk9t81svq1s/s640/blogger-image-887829472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz2dhpJSl-tgNtWs_ZAX1-EJb_ZQlMDoPnvT37euIBPGJAQAEMEVpx3OY2dtpRHRIBX1KO3oMCrrcPmckdAM6buBfj2qTj6YVoj3nIdvOGeDltB2KDgx-CmrmLmEv8n-SBbk9t81svq1s/s640/blogger-image-887829472.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">It was a longer walk, and in the last half more difficult, than I had expected. After a half hour or so skirting woods and the stream — we always start out alongside a stream — my companion said something like Is this perfect, or what?, and I said, We'll see how you feel on the way back. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">Because this was, I think, our first out-and-back hike: not what I normally </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">like to do, but inescapable today. And indeed the first part was easy and enjoyable, through fields of flowers, then a forest. Later it grew more difficult, sometimes almost bouldering — clambering over or around quite big rocks. My companion did fine; I flagged, and had to rest to catch my breath now and then.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV4bTNfn76YDbuCJwNL2lWLBslWDftOYhLYHhlpSWBXbE1vZdZlQEqU2RtUCYGz99qI5-wD3tDl16SHRe1TCRIRxn6TaSCFfKAD4gpDvNJWdaMsfcQ5acrYWttAUqUEHl3QeO-6ocOHg/s640/blogger-image-371353833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggV4bTNfn76YDbuCJwNL2lWLBslWDftOYhLYHhlpSWBXbE1vZdZlQEqU2RtUCYGz99qI5-wD3tDl16SHRe1TCRIRxn6TaSCFfKAD4gpDvNJWdaMsfcQ5acrYWttAUqUEHl3QeO-6ocOHg/s640/blogger-image-371353833.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">We came out onto a broad, low, exposed col, onto a 4x4 "road", walked past a parking area on which four official park ATVs stood, and, ten minutes to one, reached the Refuges des Merveilles, where a number of vacationers were standing around, eating at picnic tables, or lounging. We broke out the porchetta at a table, then joined a dozen or so who had gathered for a guided walk of an hour. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I negotiated about language yes, the guide speaks English, but if only for one person … Does anyone else in the group speak English? she asked, in French, and everyone shook heads in the negative except one man who said Non, mais je parles un peu Breton, and everyone laughed. Then the guide fixed her eyes on my companion and asked him, in English: you, do you understand French? When he confessed he didn't she turned back to me, saying ( in French) eh bien, you're in luck, since there are two of you I must explain also in English.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrR5R_xmQjRlRAY7QQxo2PyPuHBb6hyCkgqKYTI7x4Cd_KdkUqfB6XdqJx5JRVHCq1wblAK2EPDDMHmZ-KjShdgsQxsLLBMoemzocV7z8PD2KQ1Ol3NGjSHunciCg7xLBnwLayhV3DwE/s640/blogger-image--258925292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrR5R_xmQjRlRAY7QQxo2PyPuHBb6hyCkgqKYTI7x4Cd_KdkUqfB6XdqJx5JRVHCq1wblAK2EPDDMHmZ-KjShdgsQxsLLBMoemzocV7z8PD2KQ1Ol3NGjSHunciCg7xLBnwLayhV3DwE/s640/blogger-image--258925292.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>The gravures are quite interesting and our guide was patient and clear. There are thousands of them, virtually all incised or chiseled into smooth glacial-polished stone, using harder stone tools. With very few exceptions they have been classified into five signs or forms: corniform: an upward crescent on a vertical stroke, representing a horned animal head; blade, representing a stone blade; poignard, a dagger; ax-shape; unknown or unfinished or mistake (or, as I think, often a practice area). Something like forty percent are corniform. </div><div><br></div><div>It's thought they were made about 5-10 thousand years ago, before the invention of writing, but long after e.g. Lascaux. Probably by herding people doing then just what they still do: transhumance. What was most fascinating was the exceptional gravures, which show gridded rectangles the specialists take to represent plowed fields, or others clearly representing yoked oxen with plowshares.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhum9zYAoPLEXtRgUGkk9Z2yXPpARlrKEvA6RCbev2SKsBRkVA-a3IGhQi8AkSjcVtH4D7RvnfYcSsgnvjOj6CS0DlhwXqSWHAxMs8qvNnc6OsYog-N8mQowDww3rcJtmz9Q_zU8aaghJY/s640/blogger-image--965639032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhum9zYAoPLEXtRgUGkk9Z2yXPpARlrKEvA6RCbev2SKsBRkVA-a3IGhQi8AkSjcVtH4D7RvnfYcSsgnvjOj6CS0DlhwXqSWHAxMs8qvNnc6OsYog-N8mQowDww3rcJtmz9Q_zU8aaghJY/s640/blogger-image--965639032.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div>In one area there are also a number of boats, rather rudimentary hulls with a single mast and perhaps a square sail and a double row of tiny circles the guide said were cannon, showing these to be at least 16th- century. But no man-o'-war would have had a single mast for that many cannon, I think; this looked exactly like an early bireme to me, and I wonder if it refers to the arrival of early invaders at the coast, which is only 40 km away. Well: much to speculate on. </div><div><br></div><div>But our guide was finally looking at the sky, as I had been for some time, and she recommended we prepare for rain. My pack was already covered: i got into my rain pants and windbreaker, and the thunder and lightning began, and hailstones the size of small cherries.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPl6g8GDmnurPAOVzwYOskRzqAJZ-gq8xMnzKzC6AWnRB6ro1P2gRWtFaeTH6yV5uuMKGMqxR9R8YscRdVq_SYD4CRZS7Z98AdH5tZh4-k9Rm4MrAfe7TzcSiOb0E1RWDv5j7HGeic5vk/s640/blogger-image-2115099574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPl6g8GDmnurPAOVzwYOskRzqAJZ-gq8xMnzKzC6AWnRB6ro1P2gRWtFaeTH6yV5uuMKGMqxR9R8YscRdVq_SYD4CRZS7Z98AdH5tZh4-k9Rm4MrAfe7TzcSiOb0E1RWDv5j7HGeic5vk/s640/blogger-image-2115099574.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>We were expertly herded from one outcropping to another, finally to a hut, to wait out the worst, and then we made it to the Refuge des Merveilles where we hunkered until the storm had passed. We still had the two hour hike back to our own refuge, of course, and we arrived quite wet. We had a hot shower, though, and spread things out to dry as best we could, and dinner with pleasant companions, and then in the bar my Dublin girl picked up a guitar and sang some lusty Irish ballads, and so to bed. (Not with her.)</div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">We were perhaps eight hours on the trail, some of the time rushed, other times leisurely, inspecting the gravures. It had been our third hailstorm, and I hope it's the last, at least this summer. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-234051902145430132013-07-25T07:11:00.001-07:002013-07-25T07:23:22.134-07:00Alps, 2013, 24: Tende<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wdtd23DG5Yaz6Td7DwTRz0jJXxedMEgSdA68TeOfYrZ7Lv0i7vhbo152-vfLzWZcT2w9BwCsnSRMs55cS90sX6C6ifM_V0fb1i0V1RhL1ecENUCvhxVMJu6x9ttPqVfncHKka7I8jvE/s640/blogger-image--630164482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wdtd23DG5Yaz6Td7DwTRz0jJXxedMEgSdA68TeOfYrZ7Lv0i7vhbo152-vfLzWZcT2w9BwCsnSRMs55cS90sX6C6ifM_V0fb1i0V1RhL1ecENUCvhxVMJu6x9ttPqVfncHKka7I8jvE/s640/blogger-image--630164482.jpg"></a></div><br><div><br></div><div>WEATHER INTERFERED TWICE with this Alpwalk, first when we had to give up the northern half, then when thunderstorms and hail beset the southern cols. </div><div><br></div><div>Now it's not weather but injuries that have detained us. No sooner had we resumed, taking the bus back up to St.-Sauveur for yesterday's walk to Valdeblore, than one of us came up with a tweaked back. That forced us back to Nice, where nothing could apparently be done on the weekend, but on Monday a trip to a chiropractor set everything right, and <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0">Tuesday afternoon</a> we took the train to Tende to resume yet again.<br><div><br></div><div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">I'm afraid I nodded off from time to time on the two-hour ride to Tende, but I was also awake a lot of the time. Once away from the coast it,s a dramatic ride: into tunnels, out onto high viaducts, or often on ledges: you look down what seems hundreds of feet to the streams below. You pass a number of "villages perchés" — villages perched like swallows' nests on the side of mountains. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We arrived in Tende about <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1">five o'clock</a>. We heard distant thunder, and rain threatened but never really materialized. I know the main street from a number of drives up the old Salt Road from Nice to Torino, but I'd never been off that road. The town climbs dizzyingly up the south-facing flank of the mountain from the main road, stone houses with stone roofs, many of them four or five stories high by the time they climb from one street to the next one higher.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3mZMY1siDLeezgc_pDGfUS6qsbMp64TZ45ul8HXuPiQJY2ECtloVUUo2NGWxQjPuVa1nRBWunsOc1j4v2yIOZ4PJme1rZ3YWrUQ_KmTG3q3iMiVw_kSdHveq29hjdbbdtsBoU0ydL0k/s640/blogger-image-377356544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW3mZMY1siDLeezgc_pDGfUS6qsbMp64TZ45ul8HXuPiQJY2ECtloVUUo2NGWxQjPuVa1nRBWunsOc1j4v2yIOZ4PJme1rZ3YWrUQ_KmTG3q3iMiVw_kSdHveq29hjdbbdtsBoU0ydL0k/s640/blogger-image-377356544.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">The streets are narrow, often no more than a donkey wide, often stepped, often leading away though an arch or under overhanging buildings, many dating back to the 16th century and before. At the top of Tende the graveyard climbs further, the lowest level set about with gravestones, the next two boasting more elaborate tombs, the last two or three, spread along over a stone wall, all uniform grey marble tombs, like drawers in a secretary. It's odd to think of the dead living there above the living: it brings the final scene of Our Town inescapably to mind. We had a good dinner in our gîte, and turned in early, eager to hit the trail tomorrow to the Vallée des Merveilles, so named for their thousands of petroglyphs.</div></div></div><div><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-28457096606924995552013-07-21T05:19:00.001-07:002013-07-21T05:42:01.113-07:00Alps, 2013, 23: St.-Sauveur-sue-Tinée to St.-Dalmas Valdeblore<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i>SJuly 19, 2013—</i></span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><i><br></i></span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1tryzt3NSOP2e-ObBO5wf6G-T_53hJ898wJ6ebMGWuC7z4OzDunnwO05yVR-HHmjTbzl5V3LgqRFemhUcNeG6UPjham08mP9hFJ7tMuilNCNtJENx9SxMhDik45FuS-K8_x6SxEpork/s640/blogger-image--215622582.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1tryzt3NSOP2e-ObBO5wf6G-T_53hJ898wJ6ebMGWuC7z4OzDunnwO05yVR-HHmjTbzl5V3LgqRFemhUcNeG6UPjham08mP9hFJ7tMuilNCNtJENx9SxMhDik45FuS-K8_x6SxEpork/s640/blogger-image--215622582.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Looking back to St.-Sauveur</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></i></span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">THE HAILSTORM HAD </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "> affected us so badly that we began to re-think our plans. Thanks to having had to skip most of the northern half of the walk, we had plenty of time, the next day's stage was fairly short, say five hours, to St.-Dalmas Valdeblore, and could be dome even if an afternoon storm threatened (as it did), but the following day, taking us to Utelle, was a long one, certainly nine hours, on exposed country, with no shelter, café, grocery, or anything. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And storms were predicted for the mext few days. So we decided to bag it and take the bus from St.-Sauveur to Nice. It left at 8:45 in the morning, giving us plenty of time to make the secision, and me plenty of time to consider its immensity, and the immensity of my irresoluteness. Oh well.</span></div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The bus ride is dramatic at first, down the Tinée gorge, rock hanging over the road on one sode, the precipice falling away from it on the other, tight turns, one-lane tunnels, trucks coming at you, that sort of thing. I am happy at this state of things. The French, at least the provincial French, don't seem to feel the urge to conquer and subdue nature that thwpe American highway department does. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We arrived in Nice about ten-thirty Tuesday morning, a little sheepish (me at least) at having failed, amd Spent the rest of the day, and the next two days, relaxing, eating, visiting with friends, and indulging ourselves, always with an eye on the weather, and — me certainly — itching to get back on the trail. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Finally, Friday morning, after a rainstorm the previous day seemed to have cleared the air, <br>Chuck dropped us off at the train station, which is temporarily also an important interurban bus station, about <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0">nine o'clock</a> in the morning, on his way to his office, amd we took the <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1">9:10</a> bus back up the Tinée gorge to St.-Sauveur, where we'd caught the bus to Nice on Tuesday. We arrived <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://2" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="2">at 10:45</a> and, because the weather didn't look threatening, dawdled over a cup of tea before hitting the trail <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://3" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="3">at 11:10</a>.<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjQH22IEcgPE1H-wIB-nih7k-RQxca5TLbZnO6XpTY0GpyM1q5E93IZAk0ELpgne6AlpL4n3AThoTbyOHXKt0ifiAjq24-jrvle3YBha9mVNWHOGhP0FIjZe4SZlaeI9OM1DqKXjg_2Es/s640/blogger-image--1789285155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjQH22IEcgPE1H-wIB-nih7k-RQxca5TLbZnO6XpTY0GpyM1q5E93IZAk0ELpgne6AlpL4n3AThoTbyOHXKt0ifiAjq24-jrvle3YBha9mVNWHOGhP0FIjZe4SZlaeI9OM1DqKXjg_2Es/s640/blogger-image--1789285155.jpg"></a></div><br>St.-Sauveur is at about 500 meters above sea level, as low as the GR 5 has taken us this far, and from there we immediately climbed to the village of Rimplas — the final "s" seems to be pronounced, at least by old people – at 1000 meters. (1600 feet; 3200 feet, roughly.) the trail starts on paved road, then enters forest trail, then an old unpaved road, fallen away a bit in places; it hugs the side of the at times very steep hillside above the Roubinastre torrent. <br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDB50kh1B-CnZLCWqSuH9prTJHXWwoTx4j5vtunP_qLHiKwElO9oqbotwkJE3pcQ43sxz3jBKKlohyhrbP66PZqzQ3bmsuzaq6F7NpwacW4lQ63VLB9d22CBLtKBEk7A0Et4zGKyx3-V8/s640/blogger-image-58054163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDB50kh1B-CnZLCWqSuH9prTJHXWwoTx4j5vtunP_qLHiKwElO9oqbotwkJE3pcQ43sxz3jBKKlohyhrbP66PZqzQ3bmsuzaq6F7NpwacW4lQ63VLB9d22CBLtKBEk7A0Et4zGKyx3-V8/s640/blogger-image-58054163.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvm77PQyxC6A-uLdGrT0BShM3drobHGRA2ydnM4djJ9OX6mBuhpK6xumGy3Mh8rd_6-4hDe_55H6U-bAMttCABDN9b3hFnRyd3lCb1Fk6vbkDcZgNkcBm7iKXf6DvZ4k-qvNDut_uLLk/s640/blogger-image--847321046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvm77PQyxC6A-uLdGrT0BShM3drobHGRA2ydnM4djJ9OX6mBuhpK6xumGy3Mh8rd_6-4hDe_55H6U-bAMttCABDN9b3hFnRyd3lCb1Fk6vbkDcZgNkcBm7iKXf6DvZ4k-qvNDut_uLLk/s640/blogger-image--847321046.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We made Rimplas in an hour forty minutes, exactly what the book suggests, five minutes faster than I had five years ago — and that in spite of momentary confusion at a fork where we took the wrong choice for a few minutes before realizing it and retracing our steps. (Of course the same thing happened five years ago, though at a different juncture.)<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQKu_sW1IUmIjH5XdgsYXWumUh6AeTC8xykGyYLy7WnnS8Bk-cm-LqbxZt0PtCy_CrvqnrkMHNChyphenhyphenet6YsFLofQsQFwPdUrhGYcPeByQgWH1wnp5JMqKA8BMTUalj47VRfKpwuk9udzs/s640/blogger-image-2028478563.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDQKu_sW1IUmIjH5XdgsYXWumUh6AeTC8xykGyYLy7WnnS8Bk-cm-LqbxZt0PtCy_CrvqnrkMHNChyphenhyphenet6YsFLofQsQFwPdUrhGYcPeByQgWH1wnp5JMqKA8BMTUalj47VRfKpwuk9udzs/s640/blogger-image-2028478563.jpg"></a></div><br>Just before entering Rimplas I thought it looked like rain, and we put on our gear. Immediately it began to rain — not hard, more a sprinkling, but enough to make us grateful for the gear. By then we'd caught up with three young Frenchwomen, college students I'd say, who were walking nonchalantly in shorts and tee shirts, with sleeping pads on their packs, and no trekking sticks: they'd started out in Modane, and were going to Menton, staying in refuges and bivouac, for they had a tent.<br><br>From there it was a fairly long easy descent, again on ledge trail, to no apparent purpose other than a nice old stone bridge, and then back up again, first to La Bolline, the first of the three villages making up the Valdeblore ensemble, then past la Roche on an unpaved road through (or past) meadows, finally into St.-Dalmas, at nearly 1300 meters (4250 feet).<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-izGR9GJJ4hC8adhyn4DcCW7ElawhZigRzJEveFGDUl-eqwC5Ac5PBchoZzegEND0KJQ8OxlABVBx0CHZZ9KlCRaNAgAfMfx0udRQxjIkHxxyKdEgY8Ec1y9gCrnX8hYh2jHeZ5npi0/s640/blogger-image-1269465241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy-izGR9GJJ4hC8adhyn4DcCW7ElawhZigRzJEveFGDUl-eqwC5Ac5PBchoZzegEND0KJQ8OxlABVBx0CHZZ9KlCRaNAgAfMfx0udRQxjIkHxxyKdEgY8Ec1y9gCrnX8hYh2jHeZ5npi0/s640/blogger-image-1269465241.jpg"></a></div><br>Because I'd made and then cancelled twice running a reservation in the town gîte I was embarrassed to make a third. (Especially because I'd forgotten to notify them the second time, and they'd called me to find out when the hell we'd turn up, and expressed some displeasure when I said we were in Nice for the night.) So i'd made a disastrous decision to reserve two beds at a chambre d'hôte at the near edge of St.-Dalmas. We arrived at three-thirty to find a very swank house in an immaculately tended garden, and a distracted, somewhat overwrought woman picking up sheets of cardboard from a couple of children's car-seats she'd been installing in her VW.<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vonAiKmZXzSJynA16DgeSpm9CmzNKx6v9hmdGgz3bzlMWUbHyjCOnpAPjiUBYE_xx_cBNLXLAcd6sM2dfb1AtIgQM-fzXQL5h_vwrCD8doX0QutESgHCRDbsa2o45IO4uUfUsJLJ_0Y/s640/blogger-image--90286557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6vonAiKmZXzSJynA16DgeSpm9CmzNKx6v9hmdGgz3bzlMWUbHyjCOnpAPjiUBYE_xx_cBNLXLAcd6sM2dfb1AtIgQM-fzXQL5h_vwrCD8doX0QutESgHCRDbsa2o45IO4uUfUsJLJ_0Y/s640/blogger-image--90286557.jpg"></a></div><br>She showed us our rooms, plural, for each contained one double bed. Big, airy rooms, each with a luxurious bathroom containing two sinks and a bathtub as well as the toilet and, in one case, a separate shower stall. This was going to cost us plenty, and there was no dinner possibility.<br><br>By now it was raining pretty hard. We cleaned up and changed, and then she drove us to the tourism office, considerably higher (2200 meters, 7200 feet) at the Col de Veillos — we'd never have got there otherwise — and there I found out about a promising third alternative to our GR5 to Nice and the GR52 I really want to take to Menton: the GR52A, shorter than the 52 and apparently easier because avoiding the heights. On the other hand, it also bypasses the Vallée des Merveilles, the site of Neolithic petroglyphs I want so much to see, so I'm still at a loss to make a decision, and will probably let external events make the choice — weather, fatigue, who knows what.<br><br>Madame our hostess had suggested the night's restaurant, but it would not serve until <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://4" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="4">7:15</a>. My companion's back was bothering him, so we didn't do much walking: we nursed a beer at one place, then went to the town épicerie superette for tomorrow's lunch: whatever our decision, it would be a long day — we'd asked for breakfast at six — with no café, restaurant, or shop along the way.<br><br>We bought walnuts, prunes, a dry sausage, and a detailed map: if we were to leave the GR 5 we'd want reliable trail information. Today the balissage was missing now and then, the trail overgrown in places, blocked by inconvenient fallen trees at others. Somehow I had come to a final decision: we will walk to Utelle tomorrow, Levens Sunday, Nice Monday; then, after perhaps a rest fay, do the walk to Menton, which has been the real purpose of the trip. Then we had dinner, and then walked back to our sumptuous digs, and tumbled into bed.<br><br>It hadn't been much of a walk today, no more than say six miles and 1500 meters of up-and-down dénivelément (5,000 feet), but I was pleased at how easy the climbs had been, with our lightened packs. It felt good to be back on the trail after three days off in Nice.<br><br><br><br></span></div></div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-30914114790180689462013-07-21T00:51:00.001-07:002013-07-21T00:51:02.413-07:00Alps, 2013, 22: Vacherie de Roure to St.-Sauveur-sur-Tinée<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div><i>St.-Sauveur-sur-Tinée, Alpes-Maritimes, July 15, 2013—</i></div><div><br></div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4C-gh3KRDjhgrooZkSigVMVRHdOH7hEPJarI4eu-sal3tY7_usnw_T2JWr_ZxYetFIONgGD09UUqjFlNhdG-Pyu_OKurTdCGz_DNHFRcmA_PO8NlIxMpMauWzBIbxSSA_oisb5RWXZI/s640/blogger-image--1121048201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4C-gh3KRDjhgrooZkSigVMVRHdOH7hEPJarI4eu-sal3tY7_usnw_T2JWr_ZxYetFIONgGD09UUqjFlNhdG-Pyu_OKurTdCGz_DNHFRcmA_PO8NlIxMpMauWzBIbxSSA_oisb5RWXZI/s640/blogger-image--1121048201.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The Italians outside the Vacherie</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div>THE <i>DORTOIR</i> WAS comfortable, ditto the mattress; and dinner had been convivial, but I slept badly, troubled by dreams of detailed discussions of Feminism and politics. At one point, for example, I was explaining to the man from Antwerp:</div><div><br></div><div><i>Politics is the art and process of establishing and maintaining social institutions, structures, and services for the guarantee and provision of the basic civil necessities to fulfill the innate rights of the citizenry. </i></div><div><br></div><div>That sort of thing. Then he would counter with something, relevant or not, and I would have to expound further, and so on. Occasionally I'd wake up, and think about what we'd been saying in the dream, and dream and wakefulness would blur. I had been talking to Johann, the man from Antwerp, about Geert Mak's book <i>Reizen zonder John</i>, and shown him some of my notes on it, was the immediate source of all this, I suppose. And since I've been reading and writing less than usual this last month, I suppose it isn't surprising that my sleeping self would begin to compensate.</div><div><br></div><div>But the result was that I woke up a little tired, for the first time on this walk, and it didn't help morale that everything outside my backpack — shoes, hiking clothes, guidebook, pocket things, bandanas — was very damp at best, still quite wet at worst. The fire had burned down and out without drying my boots. The clothes I'd hung on various available hooks and knobs hadn't dried out at all. </div><div><br></div><div>And at seven, though the Danes, the couple from Antwerp, and we had asked for breakfast at seven, and were sitting impatiently at the table waiting for it, it hadn't yet arrived. The goodnatured tousled whitehaired mussieu in charge was not to be seen, nor the girl. After a time we heard what we took to be an approaching cowbell, and then there he was, and baskets of sliced bread, a big pot of coffee, thermoses of hot milk, and pitchers of steaming water for the Antwerpers' tea were set out.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSun-ofd7k2ELFA58TqJ5vVz7eo2DRklxldQ8nSdo_zaGvojK5TVrPCN6KaiLg1kDdPgGndUAZJY-gm2zFEBXPHLxABdVfZSvfCewavcmNmwYc15Q8r95ases7Wd9uOeaysC3X3GdaHM/s640/blogger-image--1467779366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSun-ofd7k2ELFA58TqJ5vVz7eo2DRklxldQ8nSdo_zaGvojK5TVrPCN6KaiLg1kDdPgGndUAZJY-gm2zFEBXPHLxABdVfZSvfCewavcmNmwYc15Q8r95ases7Wd9uOeaysC3X3GdaHM/s640/blogger-image--1467779366.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>By then sunlight began to touch the soaking wet picnic tables outside, and I spread my hiking shirt and pants out, and the bandanas, and yesterday's shorts, and various socks. The shoes were hopeless, but I knew my feet would dry them before too long. In twenty minutes or so things were dry enough to put on, though a bit clammy, and I stuffed my sleeping sheet and a few other dry things into the backpack, and tied all the still wet things onto the outside, and we got under way, finally, about twenty minutes to nine, long after the Danes and the Antwerpers.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBfVZFoXq79yutzabMxeIVliGgI8myez9YhtZU0Ck8grLin3wiOmJr2dJz6_HUHYK89bilIefZLFVeIvL-YjBhG8N7vQqhRUJE91msRL6r_na85KxWksvtbL2s5h7MZpq7ROzCrC2XEc/s640/blogger-image-978325711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTBfVZFoXq79yutzabMxeIVliGgI8myez9YhtZU0Ck8grLin3wiOmJr2dJz6_HUHYK89bilIefZLFVeIvL-YjBhG8N7vQqhRUJE91msRL6r_na85KxWksvtbL2s5h7MZpq7ROzCrC2XEc/s640/blogger-image-978325711.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>It was a fine morning, not a cloud in the sky, but I was thinking about the ten hours plus this stage took to walk five years ago, and the likelihood of another storm this afternoon. The path descends at first, often very precipitously, through open forest only goats could work, as indeed they were doing. Then the path joins an old forest road descending gently on a long traverse. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEBhSoBpCCl4ivnvJ4C75LjWG8cRH4OKK_cW9kGT6e4HGHgE9HphNuM5X0sLgxhWAa65JU9sZ0CpXa3h3FsBg30fIVnAMw_gotHjjovy93nsZ2l-t76V-3F_DDM0jB3wDhAe5Tw7qvJQ/s640/blogger-image-928196131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGEBhSoBpCCl4ivnvJ4C75LjWG8cRH4OKK_cW9kGT6e4HGHgE9HphNuM5X0sLgxhWAa65JU9sZ0CpXa3h3FsBg30fIVnAMw_gotHjjovy93nsZ2l-t76V-3F_DDM0jB3wDhAe5Tw7qvJQ/s640/blogger-image-928196131.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>In the forest we'd already overtaken the Danes, a boy in his twenties and his younger sister. We walked together for ten minutes or so, he and I in front, talking about Denmark and Greenland — his English quite fluent: You needn't speak French to me, he'd observed. Then he suddenly said Oh i had better wait for my sister, she's a little afraid of the path, and he stopped, and Stefan caught up with me, and we went on.</div><div><br></div><div>Suddenly we saw Johann ahead, without his hat, or his backpack, or his wife Manon. From a distance he seemed a little distraught, but it turned out the'd only taken a wrong fork, and climbed a fair distance before realizing they'd seen no balissage, and he'd returned to the fork to check out the other alternative — which we, in fact, were just about to follow. We pointed out its balissage, painted on the side of a chalet not far down the road, and he smiled a little ruefully at himself, and said e'd have to go fetch Manon, perhaps we'd meet down the road. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOpt-JLpMbskrzWUK8AXMXolKqsDATOFApW_qGmnxUk3GS3mISSO6UIIz0JyGYl_nAD-08UV-csE3k73ZUE7noGrNHsanTMBq1U3mqK-jjYC-GgKQ8sjq8Mhus5XiMndGcU4D29nUuwqs/s640/blogger-image-424379060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOpt-JLpMbskrzWUK8AXMXolKqsDATOFApW_qGmnxUk3GS3mISSO6UIIz0JyGYl_nAD-08UV-csE3k73ZUE7noGrNHsanTMBq1U3mqK-jjYC-GgKQ8sjq8Mhus5XiMndGcU4D29nUuwqs/s640/blogger-image-424379060.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Our next stop would be the picturesque and surprising " hanging village" of Roure, nearly three hours from our start. Here we broke for a cup of tea, tired — at least I was — by the very steep descent we'd been making, on a narrow, stony path, relieved by occasional glimpses of the deep valley, and by a couple of opportune cherry trees.</div><div><br></div><div>From Roure it was another hour and a half, always descending steeply on loose terrain, before arriving at St.-Sauveur at about one o'clock. I was tired and hungry, and remembered a nice lunch we'd had here five years ago. Then there was the question: did I want to make the steep climb out of town, then the long walk through not very interesting terrain, on to St-Dalmas Valdeblore, where we have reservations tonight?</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnku0zmqQ9nnfAowGbt7Yax-gnA_S5ABrN5rBu8zt7MvL1C0oYzH9PBnm5tZ-YhWmE8m6WOt6WOUEj_th8A7JiQoUoggGCy_yvkeYRM8-kH7Uzx3LOaZG-Pr1Huhk9fLLIvgC51oyjLM/s640/blogger-image-1713716059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEnku0zmqQ9nnfAowGbt7Yax-gnA_S5ABrN5rBu8zt7MvL1C0oYzH9PBnm5tZ-YhWmE8m6WOt6WOUEj_th8A7JiQoUoggGCy_yvkeYRM8-kH7Uzx3LOaZG-Pr1Huhk9fLLIvgC51oyjLM/s640/blogger-image-1713716059.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>I asked the waitress if there were rooms: <i>Oui, mussieu, demandez-vous du patron. </i>So I booked a room, and cancelled St-Dalmas, asking if we might stay there tomorrow night instead. The couple from Lille turned up after a bit — theyr'e staying in their tent, in the municipal campground. They joined us for dinner at our hotel and we reminisced about yesterday's storm, by now not much more than an enjoyable memory. </div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-91848075146617137362013-07-20T23:24:00.001-07:002013-07-20T23:24:04.768-07:00Alps, 2013, 21: Roya to Vacherie de Roure<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><i><br></i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><i>Vacherie de Roure, July 14, 2013—</i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><i><br></i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><i>QUEL QUATORZE! </i>We started out from Roya (1500 meters, just under 5,000 feet) on what I knew would be rather a long day fairly early in the morning, <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1">at 7:40</a>, about as early a start as we've yet made — this would be a long day: five years ago, it took us nine hours. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3W2kUT_eNxqxKxv5zuRFI70SWBxrLQS28g-I8MdcWCVkbNxzLSRAaJHnpymnQrcN_6xM2tHNmt7tKrbo1xOEQHyBKsCzFHNO8soxjPsw8DwJB-suH_2216drH31KiOppYFG8VKFvAjj0/s640/blogger-image--845164625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3W2kUT_eNxqxKxv5zuRFI70SWBxrLQS28g-I8MdcWCVkbNxzLSRAaJHnpymnQrcN_6xM2tHNmt7tKrbo1xOEQHyBKsCzFHNO8soxjPsw8DwJB-suH_2216drH31KiOppYFG8VKFvAjj0/s640/blogger-image--845164625.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We were soon back inside the Mercantour National Park, following a valley southward through forest which opened now and then for glimpses of the steep terrain hidden by the trees, and the tumbling Mairis.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QxsU95X1pCBswTEw-o-E-PwQ7Aeyca1RYEvcf4t6leEGkEtNa13cJwo-NDuzH7QkyDrE-0lX-E3A4hg3aMBUJrH15fSCFGyb6eUGDaVLgGMrlt-LJnr8qhRtzLecZJi9KOMS0HlxK3c/s640/blogger-image--1603063685.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3QxsU95X1pCBswTEw-o-E-PwQ7Aeyca1RYEvcf4t6leEGkEtNa13cJwo-NDuzH7QkyDrE-0lX-E3A4hg3aMBUJrH15fSCFGyb6eUGDaVLgGMrlt-LJnr8qhRtzLecZJi9KOMS0HlxK3c/s640/blogger-image--1603063685.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Then we turned eastward, following the Sallevieille (who named these streams?) upstream to a ridge. there was a fair amount of snow before reaching today's high point, the Col de Crousette, at 2480 meters (8100 feet).</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJpL2vkNtGpMJLh7wbojga_YXwCTcTfzR-z-H68x7wzb57FVT_ziBhH2tk98tH7uNDiXqBRmLozkDO7xz1Y134mqA2UvKCVuhzWfMGVvG2VEVUNi2P3VUSMoi_I8ae2dBCk_BrW6h2D8/s640/blogger-image-783014224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJpL2vkNtGpMJLh7wbojga_YXwCTcTfzR-z-H68x7wzb57FVT_ziBhH2tk98tH7uNDiXqBRmLozkDO7xz1Y134mqA2UvKCVuhzWfMGVvG2VEVUNi2P3VUSMoi_I8ae2dBCk_BrW6h2D8/s640/blogger-image-783014224.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">It was just ten minutes to twelve: we were making pretty good time. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NW3JlSdmpA7aFeTP4MREaRwWdgqtWC7nUu0nz5VlTZY-Sjb6QYYc-Zr-uyp6slPfHCua3DC9lBaB_2iChafuECan9aRieWyXpG9EKPsi3rAhLZq-FLyDflV6hdz9UKgX0d6av3eFe-4/s640/blogger-image-740458629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NW3JlSdmpA7aFeTP4MREaRwWdgqtWC7nUu0nz5VlTZY-Sjb6QYYc-Zr-uyp6slPfHCua3DC9lBaB_2iChafuECan9aRieWyXpG9EKPsi3rAhLZq-FLyDflV6hdz9UKgX0d6av3eFe-4/s640/blogger-image-740458629.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We had been playing leap-frog with Johann and Manon, the couple from Antwerp, who had left a little before us. Early on we overtook them when they had taken a wrong fork; and toward the top of the col we slowed a bit, keeping them in sight behind us, when we had to cross snow patches hiding the path.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUK_zofBwIxXZDAaRIVDioXlq4Ny6E_yDTu56t6BEoLDHuTztZbBMPBIHhdD5DC1exHsL8CX6QQaPhc2-Pd5d4uhyphenhyphenHyjoEjP01D_g1bEk482sbNY69lIJeJG55qj1skSpBN8MK-4vMPk/s640/blogger-image--32009006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUUK_zofBwIxXZDAaRIVDioXlq4Ny6E_yDTu56t6BEoLDHuTztZbBMPBIHhdD5DC1exHsL8CX6QQaPhc2-Pd5d4uhyphenhyphenHyjoEjP01D_g1bEk482sbNY69lIJeJG55qj1skSpBN8MK-4vMPk/s640/blogger-image--32009006.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">A marble column stands just south of the col, a hundred meters higher yet, dedicated to a fallen Alpinist: I remembered the marvelous panorama seen from there last time I was here. Today, though, the sky was low with clouds and mists, and I didn't feel like lingering. We rushed through the lunch we'd brought, then started the long easy descent, much of it traverse, across alpage on the south flank of Mont Démant, </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtA8uVRab7JB3TfxB5WmO_8zuvzhibAdsfsn74LTTiL8mYlKTbFYtZdCOCl8jrv45rhjjkt5ZEjfrae7zZiCuKxVa5q6sZ0i9UQNo-hB6lT4zYk1VflFh53PJFm2HfBYXGi8LercVGHxk/s640/blogger-image--1276972599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtA8uVRab7JB3TfxB5WmO_8zuvzhibAdsfsn74LTTiL8mYlKTbFYtZdCOCl8jrv45rhjjkt5ZEjfrae7zZiCuKxVa5q6sZ0i9UQNo-hB6lT4zYk1VflFh53PJFm2HfBYXGi8LercVGHxk/s640/blogger-image--1276972599.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">The clouds had passes harmlessly and it was a fine afternoon. Far down in the distance we could see the hamlet Vignols, under its imposing grotto. We continued our easy descent, passing below the fanciful rock formations marking this area, but I was a little uneasy, looking at the ascent we would soon be making, under skies that were beginning to darken again. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Toward the lowest point, where the trail crossed the tumbling Bourgette torrent, who should we see but the Philippe and Becquie, the smiling young couple from Lille! How and when had they passed us? We talked for a minute; then I gestured toward the sky and left them, shrugging at the weather and enjoying the moment in a last patch of sunlight at the brook.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblwISKB5iyWYkozs0hAZlS4GCnfzNZsJmjbAhmAZB5LslJ3AzB0Fh8BTDPS6wnDBmVgbjc8Ya4HUAcSjj2wZXMLPwpl3fSXxPCtwwUYsIiFJCJnAzDF1xb1Cu1bDcJFkQRZs1kOer2k4/s640/blogger-image--940189271.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblwISKB5iyWYkozs0hAZlS4GCnfzNZsJmjbAhmAZB5LslJ3AzB0Fh8BTDPS6wnDBmVgbjc8Ya4HUAcSjj2wZXMLPwpl3fSXxPCtwwUYsIiFJCJnAzDF1xb1Cu1bDcJFkQRZs1kOer2k4/s640/blogger-image--940189271.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We toiled up the last climb, which is fairly long and steady but on good surface — except one or two last snow patches. Then, just below the col at the Portes de Longon — 1950 meters (6400 feet) — all hell broke loose. Distant thunder rapidly came alarmingly close, and rain began to pour down. I'd covered my pack, but hadn't put on my. Rain pants or jacket, so I quickly opened my umbrella. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Stefan was fighting with his poncho, flapping wildly in the high wind. I helped him get it over his pack, then turned and set out down the path. This last mile or so to our refuge, I remembered, was easy trail slightly downhill through a fine high meadow, alongside a creek. But I could hardly see, and the heavy, blowing rain had turned to hail.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">My poor flimsy folding umbrella, meant for polite urban showers, had flipped inside-out several times in the shifting winds, and had opened a tear along one rib, but I held it above me to keep my vision clear, occasionally wondering if it would act as a lightning-rod. The meadow is fairly broad, but the ridges on either side weren't that much higher; we were in rather an exposed position.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We were soon completely soaked: no reason to avoid wading down the path, which had filled with swift-flowing muddy water. I glanced behind me from time to time: Stefan was keeping up at a bit of a distance, his poncho flapping wildly. The path and its balissage were invisible, but the direction was clear enough, and I stumbled on as fast as I could. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfxjP0sr-m0bkJepsoY7IC_-8ixRrHHsSK9LuNqctW620Dn6sq7NsHA8meXVlrJji6j7Y2aPd8_eNHmclJzC5yR_NLteauhRKtuKOJRIxfFcHpUWXVoXOhWL-ckYpi-34zg_4kIW2tVY/s640/blogger-image--3922040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfxjP0sr-m0bkJepsoY7IC_-8ixRrHHsSK9LuNqctW620Dn6sq7NsHA8meXVlrJji6j7Y2aPd8_eNHmclJzC5yR_NLteauhRKtuKOJRIxfFcHpUWXVoXOhWL-ckYpi-34zg_4kIW2tVY/s640/blogger-image--3922040.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Finally we were at the refuge. I entered without knocking, completely soaked and a bit chilled, apologizing for my wet clothes dripping onto the floor. Two young people, a young man and a girl, sat at the table; the gardien of the refuge was in the kitchen doorway, his young wife and a child or two nearby. A welcome fire burned in a hearth at the other end of the room, and I eyed it greedily. The gardien looked at me a little skeptically, I thought, and asked if I had a reservation.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Yes, fortunately, we did. I wondered where Stefan was: he was taking a long time to appear. Finally, just as I opened the door to go out looking for him, there he was. We were shown to the dortoir where we began getting rid of our wet clothes when Philippe and Becquie showe up: they'd been following closer than I'd realized, keeping us in sight.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We're all family here, I said, no false modesty, get out of the wet clothes and dry off. I'd staked out an end bed in the dortoir; the couple from Lille climbed up into the loft. I wondered what had happened to the couple from Antwerp, who we hadn't seen since shortly after beginning the descent from the column. There was no shelter anywhere on the trail, and it was getting dark, and still raining hard.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Well : all's well that ends well. Johann and Manon ultimately turned up, philosophical and stoic like good Flemings. He methodically stuffed their boots with paper, and I remembered to remove the insoles from mine and dry them by the fire. We had a pot of tea, and I poured the last of my bourbon into it, to Philippe's amusement. Then we joined him in a beer: amazing, how thirsty you can get hiking, even in a downpour!</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_rUw_j7GO7EBDAG-iyGaGLwyaRcFSVuycStjse-sI22dsKknNndwnH5h05z1P-c9ioPbVL9y_KQnCHGWYA0VngWgaVmAM27yjxnURi7EGKAEEIHeEZVURtt75B36UxP_nR8P638Yjuk/s640/blogger-image-456845731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_rUw_j7GO7EBDAG-iyGaGLwyaRcFSVuycStjse-sI22dsKknNndwnH5h05z1P-c9ioPbVL9y_KQnCHGWYA0VngWgaVmAM27yjxnURi7EGKAEEIHeEZVURtt75B36UxP_nR8P638Yjuk/s640/blogger-image-456845731.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Two or three rather elegant Italian couples showed up from somewhere, dry and neatly dresses, and joined the rest of us at dinner. The young man and girl turned out to be Danish, and spoke good English, as did the couple from Antwerp; the Lillois and the Italians did not, or said they didn't, but conversation flowed nonetheless; we even managed, among us all, to remember most of the words to <i>La Marseillaise</i> — though there were no fireworks.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">After dinner we hung clothes around as best we could, but the refuge, in fact a barely remodeled cowshed, was pretty damp. Oh well. I was pretty tired, and sleep came easily. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXmAYszvDr-JNnw_zm6_AsNhBq6m_XwPPDcHktG7BvzVpSvr4fMhPlmas04mVTtjp8AmUAaVxqAT4UqWJcVXGaxA2x5W0X-r4ptQNiyxxattgQB75bYgx-do9y4blDJ-gL9fp7EE-mrM/s640/blogger-image--538844558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXmAYszvDr-JNnw_zm6_AsNhBq6m_XwPPDcHktG7BvzVpSvr4fMhPlmas04mVTtjp8AmUAaVxqAT4UqWJcVXGaxA2x5W0X-r4ptQNiyxxattgQB75bYgx-do9y4blDJ-gL9fp7EE-mrM/s640/blogger-image--538844558.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-85702456006741965862013-07-19T23:50:00.001-07:002013-07-19T23:50:24.306-07:00Alps, 2013, 20: St.-Étienne to Roya<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><i>Roya, July 13, 2013—</i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><i><br></i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZb8BNAt02qQhR_XMQcUCWrPHtDdAYUTY7ffDCOVdPJpKiSlA0VtJuSA0bhcwvBZI9LRrg3V48VkkKH4ydpn8RN2So51RtFMgDd0E14rkgIYW70yYGWWF35fePFHH5R5EWGqry3_TkHAc/s640/blogger-image--1905218109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZb8BNAt02qQhR_XMQcUCWrPHtDdAYUTY7ffDCOVdPJpKiSlA0VtJuSA0bhcwvBZI9LRrg3V48VkkKH4ydpn8RN2So51RtFMgDd0E14rkgIYW70yYGWWF35fePFHH5R5EWGqry3_TkHAc/s640/blogger-image--1905218109.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Leaving St.-Étienne</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div>And so breakfast in the great ugly institutional hall, coffee coming out of one spout of the inscrutable machine, hot milk from another, applecake, moldy-tasting applesauce, guaranteed fruit juice. We stopped at the bakery for a baguette and a pain au raisins, and walked out of town. Lazily I walked the way I knew it would be rather than look for the ballisage, so we saved ourselves some nasty climbing by walking along the main road for maybe half a mile. </div><div><br></div><div>Then, though, there was no denying the balissage, and rather than continue by lazy but still climbing asphalt hairpins to ascend the 450 meters to Auron, a town I do not like, we took a really punishing scramble up steep, loose, stony paths, 70 meters higher than necessary, and then dropped to Auron, a town I do not like, and had to walk through it, on hairpins of asphalt streets, past seven-storey ski condo chalets with prominent signs</div><div><br></div><div>PRIVÉ DEFENSE D'ENTRER</div><div><br></div><div> as if anyone would want to, and then came to the golf course at the foot of the ski-lift where our GR5 would return to sanity. </div><div><br></div><div>Except that there was no sanity. There was a scene that reminded Stefan of Burning Man. The National, European, and International championships of downhill trailbiking were being held here, right here, this weekend. Pavilions, shops, campers, emergency clinics, and of course every European media outlet was here, as well as smartalecky kids and teenybopper groupies. Zoo time. </div><div><br></div><div>We had a cup of tea and then set out. Impossible to resume the official GR, as temporary fences had been set up everywhere. I navigated by map, and before long was far enough from the craziness — if not from occasional unsettling pairs of downhill cyclists (for they'd ascended their courses, unlike us, on the ski-lifts) — to intersect with the GR 5.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4O8a3KMgnnj1MgcNbJHX8sgc4TFauruVwJC0g3Ad1FT_tTMsD5wB7Vz8dJC2R4m3_qtle3ytbo042vkXFXVxuHI3Z9niwSWoISjH0w_MH9UhSJgnTB-2zYQTBQBSugz2ZWylSQpdt_uI/s640/blogger-image-2127631721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4O8a3KMgnnj1MgcNbJHX8sgc4TFauruVwJC0g3Ad1FT_tTMsD5wB7Vz8dJC2R4m3_qtle3ytbo042vkXFXVxuHI3Z9niwSWoISjH0w_MH9UhSJgnTB-2zYQTBQBSugz2ZWylSQpdt_uI/s640/blogger-image-2127631721.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div>We climbed quite a ways on nice forest path, coming out at a fine viewpoint, the Belvedere du Chamois, at 1810 meters. Then we climbed in earnest. Having nothing better to do I counted my steps: 1960, to climb 200 meters to the Col du Blaimont. I figure, and could be wrong, that it's about twenty inches to the step, say 3200 feet or, roughly, a kilometer, to climb up 650 feet: a one-in-five slope, or 20%. </div><div><br></div><div>In any case at twenty to one we were at the col. Like yesterday's, it didn't offer thrilling views or defining moments. It was a big grassy plateau, with hikers scattered about apparently snoozing after their lunches, and now and then a trailbiker nonchalantly speeding through. We ate fruit and bread and then, an eye on clouds to the southwest, started our descent. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAhGhNvOsbWjByXzFFZpqiS6BbTxLBeO_QlnITkJiJCvtCN6K18GyEffFEXXJ-7G8XubmxJBNtTJiyVJW0Dy8jxvBWq5zc6E3ZxOa0oJ2jqts4xV_w77KSJPhHCqlJae1kHaGz__stAE/s640/blogger-image--1160971048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAhGhNvOsbWjByXzFFZpqiS6BbTxLBeO_QlnITkJiJCvtCN6K18GyEffFEXXJ-7G8XubmxJBNtTJiyVJW0Dy8jxvBWq5zc6E3ZxOa0oJ2jqts4xV_w77KSJPhHCqlJae1kHaGz__stAE/s640/blogger-image--1160971048.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>Like yesterday's, it led us through alpages of flowers, and occasional ruins, even what looked as if it had at one time been a fairly extensive hamlet, complete with a chapel — Saint-Sébastien — now without a roof and part of a wall but charming in its (literal) delapidation. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXzFTJcOesymu-3vTXCAgx3UjpTx-0bomiMjhDKeAChMGMUYI5dWX7jnc4m3qbNimGOCyveFeEAtiK2JdQuQbaMaZOVhlKeOQgTYQGq_JsYIA1bgO6ScyDmdNQi7fvImymB5W8A-3_HhE/s640/blogger-image--592544201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXzFTJcOesymu-3vTXCAgx3UjpTx-0bomiMjhDKeAChMGMUYI5dWX7jnc4m3qbNimGOCyveFeEAtiK2JdQuQbaMaZOVhlKeOQgTYQGq_JsYIA1bgO6ScyDmdNQi7fvImymB5W8A-3_HhE/s640/blogger-image--592544201.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>It wasn't terribly hot, but it was warm, and midday: at one point we walked right next to a big flock of sheep, all totally flaked out, lying in one another's shade, hardly bothering to glance at us though we walked past close enough to reach out and touch them.</div><div><br></div><div>Ultimately we arrived, at 2:30, perfectly dry, at our gîte in Roya, where we have a private room containing bunk-beds with drawers under them and three hooks on the door. In a later report I'll try to describe this gîte/refuge life. Right now it's time for sleep. We have a nine-hour walk tomorrow. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_nOSqoWWe9Yy0404M4-P5kmFRL5oXJ9g23tL2x93vsjzunmZHZLVAS_7lp0__VQ2wG3VmEprt4H_hpaRhPZPeN25nt7S2pQnElidzkXrcPmwe2SNzGdMLKM4iR-QbX6MAIm91n3Fyis/s640/blogger-image--1383847504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_nOSqoWWe9Yy0404M4-P5kmFRL5oXJ9g23tL2x93vsjzunmZHZLVAS_7lp0__VQ2wG3VmEprt4H_hpaRhPZPeN25nt7S2pQnElidzkXrcPmwe2SNzGdMLKM4iR-QbX6MAIm91n3Fyis/s640/blogger-image--1383847504.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div><br></div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-21776619182337048422013-07-18T22:26:00.001-07:002013-07-19T23:31:32.815-07:00Alps, 2013, 19: St.-Dalmas-le-Selvage to St.-Étienne<font face="Helvetica" size="4"><span style="line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>St.-Étienne-sur-Tinée, July 12, 2013—</i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_QIVkuyWp2OEAARfdqYCWvw7yFBZhS7qJJ9AEI8bPdy-7_bJx3YUZFXlVHz0uxq9z1QoTOhyOXfIgbzUYXRU38O0Tr16NJyQHY0RynhGbEvkpIPovWXD_TDxqqAwlhGgGg740gvf-Ho/s640/blogger-image-877224091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_QIVkuyWp2OEAARfdqYCWvw7yFBZhS7qJJ9AEI8bPdy-7_bJx3YUZFXlVHz0uxq9z1QoTOhyOXfIgbzUYXRU38O0Tr16NJyQHY0RynhGbEvkpIPovWXD_TDxqqAwlhGgGg740gvf-Ho/s640/blogger-image-877224091.jpg"></a></div><br></div><i>Leaving St.-Dalmas le Selvage</i></span></font><br><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><div>Breakfast was, surprisingly, in the living-dining room of the couple who own this auberge — their eleven-year-old daughter was not in evidence. As we walked to it, through the kitchen, i regretted we'd not dined last night en pension, entertaining (and good) as the next-door restaurant had been. Everything in this auberge is bio, and on one wall there was a small open cabinet of perhaps five shelves, each filled with little vials — there nust have been sizty of them. No idea what was in them. I posted photos of the breakfast room on Facebook: in the room, a Roland electric piano, a tomtom, a pair of bongos, paintings — not his, the host assured us; his are in the next room, hidden. And yes, that's turpentine we're smelling. </div><div><br></div><div>I was sorry to leave St-Dalmas-le-Selvage; it's very peaceful; everything — even the two or three buildings that eem to me new since five years ago — seems to be where it should, to look as it should. Of course it didn't hurt that the village was nearly empty. Four teenagers had been playing foosball on the machine outside the Bureau of Information last night, but they weren't around today. The village dog was lying on the street in front of the local-products alimentation. We stopped in to buy a saucisson sec for our lunch, then, at twenty minutes to nine, walked past the pretty little church whose interior I've yet to see and crossed the fine old bridge to take the ancient road up to the Col d'Anelle. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2W6zQK6ZgdTAgd10aqAQnVzjCl2vbC0FloPGnXgmeJ1g7pnOGgLI-77A7NXQaMFyrlAvMIy24AbtGLLNYaFSJkRQNZEkyqWA8Yee7poSEOFJ41ccP5y8cAH-qOu5jPW1WXwdtA7o1brE/s640/blogger-image-2088127720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2W6zQK6ZgdTAgd10aqAQnVzjCl2vbC0FloPGnXgmeJ1g7pnOGgLI-77A7NXQaMFyrlAvMIy24AbtGLLNYaFSJkRQNZEkyqWA8Yee7poSEOFJ41ccP5y8cAH-qOu5jPW1WXwdtA7o1brE/s640/blogger-image-2088127720.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>The road climbs gently between alpages on its left and forest on the right. It was a fine morning, blue sky, warm, with much birdsong in the air. We reached the col in a little under an hour.</div><div><br></div><div>The col is not particularly rewarding; there aren't really any extensive views from it. It doesn't offer a sharp ridge or crest, defining zones; it's more like a gentle hilltop — it's only 1739 meters high, 239 meters above St-Dalmas-le-Selvage. (5705 feet; 784 feet.) It was interesting to me for being the first one we've crossed without walking across snow, north or south side. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOdvuSCRKnSlpG3v_f9ebbtKTEDchhSANWsDBZqDvzj15BmyDSQ0VqUeiuOIj2kfYpnfdAmGvIEm7-rABNEHpRz-ZzhQj9XIbi_zCxzqkS77anoO6CDdMPA_qJfFUR2NQZJO0a-PLnc0/s640/blogger-image-1486539507.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmOdvuSCRKnSlpG3v_f9ebbtKTEDchhSANWsDBZqDvzj15BmyDSQ0VqUeiuOIj2kfYpnfdAmGvIEm7-rABNEHpRz-ZzhQj9XIbi_zCxzqkS77anoO6CDdMPA_qJfFUR2NQZJO0a-PLnc0/s640/blogger-image-1486539507.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>From there it was a pretty simple descent down to the first real town we've seen since Briançon, nearly ten days ago. We walked into town alongside restanques, noticing thyme, lavender, and pinks in the path — the first pinks we've seen. Plenty of lizards, too. . </div><div><br></div><div>I suddenly realized the Bureau of Tourism would soon close — it was nearly noon — so we got away from the café we'd stopped at, on its bleak and tawdry street, and walked around the corner into the town center, alive with the weekly market and dressed up with a huge shade-canopy over the town square, a temporary stage set up at one end, and tricolor bunting and pennants everywhere. </div><div><br></div><div>The lady at the Bureau of Tourism was dry, stern, brisk. The hotels were all full; so were the gîtes. There was only one possibility. She made a phone call, then told us to go through the market, just at the end, past the school, on the right, was the Rabuons; we should talk to Mme. Jeannine. </div><div><br></div><div>This turned out to be a strange place. Mme. Jeannine showed us to a small, clean room with two small single beds, a plain armoire, and its own bathroom. We heard children practicing on string instruments, and were told the place offered all kinds of activities for vacationing families. </div><div><br></div><div>We showered and changed and went out to a nearby café for a coffee and pastry, but immediately a violent downpour chased everyone inside, grabbing folding tables and chairs to take with them. Another afternoon thunderstorm had rolled in. I asked the woman running the place, in fun, if she sold parapluies: no, but the souvenir shop next door did. We dashed into it and bought inexpensive compact folding umbrellas, stepped outside, unfurled them, and began walking back to our room. Immediately the rain stopped. </div><div><br></div><div>Since Rabuons had a pretty good wi-fi, I began working on accommodations for the next few nights. It's going to be difficult. We have a reservation in Roya night after next, though we should in fact be there tomorrow. There's nothing here in St-Étienne tomorrow, either. Finally I found a hotel a half hour's bus ride down the road at St-Sauveur, and took the room, though there's only one bus a day. </div><div><br></div><div>Then, though, the woman at the gîte in Roya called: do you still want to come tomorrow? We've had a cancellation… so I called St-Sauveur and apologized and then, while I could, researched beds for the next few nights: Sunday the 14th, the Vacherie de Roure; Monday, Les Marmottes, in St-Dalmas Valdeblore; Tuesday we'll be in Utelle already… absolutely no rooms in Utelle. Well, enough for tonight: let's have dinner…</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYL897v7ZQuv93poCG-_2VeHFAZiKNgcG8WR0hT4D3pnWdegaBTfF2P0Fz9EZnMoq9U83qBvru5JjEQ6TQrzI5tOWbDXq_BywBLK0RqvEbPFsP7-QHobPFsifO-ztPwUrOviI61Gu1sIA/s640/blogger-image-1281899851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYL897v7ZQuv93poCG-_2VeHFAZiKNgcG8WR0hT4D3pnWdegaBTfF2P0Fz9EZnMoq9U83qBvru5JjEQ6TQrzI5tOWbDXq_BywBLK0RqvEbPFsP7-QHobPFsifO-ztPwUrOviI61Gu1sIA/s640/blogger-image-1281899851.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><i>St.-Étienne-sur-Tinée</i></div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-80853044796456219502013-07-12T07:59:00.001-07:002013-07-12T07:59:26.057-07:00Alps, 2013, 18: Bousiéyas to St.-Dalmas-le-Selvage<div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXoQ0b8C9v_653f0pjWK9scT630C2eY111ct3_I4OExofMRAQNmyTVMBU8bhwJoMEUT15vgCBXXvwz0Jwl8XI14viV_BowNSmkFqx_DO1kGCxx5YUma_QZ5f2nYAu5ezwSv3SSQFBbCk/s640/blogger-image-1435467161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; "><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXoQ0b8C9v_653f0pjWK9scT630C2eY111ct3_I4OExofMRAQNmyTVMBU8bhwJoMEUT15vgCBXXvwz0Jwl8XI14viV_BowNSmkFqx_DO1kGCxx5YUma_QZ5f2nYAu5ezwSv3SSQFBbCk/s640/blogger-image-1435467161.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Bousiéyas</i></div></div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">July 11, 2013: a lazy day, welcome after yesterday's epic. We started about 8:45, knowing we had no more than four hours of trail, but it was a false start, someone forgot a hat and went back for it, and it was closer to 9:15 that we actually left. The first climb was delightful, from Bousièyas at 6200 feet to the Col de la Colombière at 7300, at first on forest road, then somewhat steeper forest trail, and ultimately out onto the incomparable Vallon de Frondière, one of the quietest, most regularly beautiful landscapes we have seen, open to the northeast, green woth new grass, and save one or two shepherd's chalets entirely unspoiled — though clearly modulated by centuries of grazing. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi85i87TtbvBgOF9Y67vuDmHmGL_efvTXiiE8wSGiT07vETNmFpJ712ZnAwlFUPkYSkRxPb5ddaIm8KB3f9KkCtD0kV1ussPiF8ick6yCi-vt3cntkFJ0_tKtUzBW6x3dAiKGlGxFSz0J4/s640/blogger-image-1687778155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi85i87TtbvBgOF9Y67vuDmHmGL_efvTXiiE8wSGiT07vETNmFpJ712ZnAwlFUPkYSkRxPb5ddaIm8KB3f9KkCtD0kV1ussPiF8ick6yCi-vt3cntkFJ0_tKtUzBW6x3dAiKGlGxFSz0J4/s640/blogger-image-1687778155.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Then, in a little over two hours, we climbed further, again once or twice walking on snow, to the col, which seems the absolute demarcation: descending on stony path, bowling-ball runnels, and grassy track, we were in roses, broom, lavender, thyme, lilies, and Flora knows what else. Arnica, for one, whose sap I put in my troubled fingertip; and angelica, and violas, and many many more. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnZH320mog-esoenI0CLpUO3eQVWQykP4yBpSPHyyxOaCadd-Ax8jI0Lf1AuvmyHpWc0e5oSzPhZtcgiDFfR8BqIND2AnMVua3142zkwlgU7XzIOt9rI5ZevNuHLDYfevFwN0SOQibss/s640/blogger-image--230023003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnZH320mog-esoenI0CLpUO3eQVWQykP4yBpSPHyyxOaCadd-Ax8jI0Lf1AuvmyHpWc0e5oSzPhZtcgiDFfR8BqIND2AnMVua3142zkwlgU7XzIOt9rI5ZevNuHLDYfevFwN0SOQibss/s640/blogger-image--230023003.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">I saw my first lizard of the walk, not bright green as advertised in the guidebooks but dull brown. There were still the enchanting butterflies, small as my little fingernail, apparently cut out of dusty Alice-blue silk, with surprising yellow edging along the wings; and others, hardly bigger, violet-mauve; and then those an alarming marigold orange-yellow with brown leopard-spots, small enough to have flown out of a dressmaker's thimble. Yesterday put me in mind of <i>King Lear</i>; today I thought of <i>A Midsummer Night's Dream</i>. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxBDqbLqphNgtT7Gh-frvD7NI0cVsO1Sr36xHnhw_TwE9HX8ZTaYu1pA7nSlw4bbLfGRMnz2XKjvgL3TxWZoOWyBa647uGHwCCrXJ1aV7F88_SiUcObGKnBnlIKhwc-kvCp2OYiWdYZM/s640/blogger-image--1071777806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxBDqbLqphNgtT7Gh-frvD7NI0cVsO1Sr36xHnhw_TwE9HX8ZTaYu1pA7nSlw4bbLfGRMnz2XKjvgL3TxWZoOWyBa647uGHwCCrXJ1aV7F88_SiUcObGKnBnlIKhwc-kvCp2OYiWdYZM/s640/blogger-image--1071777806.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">We walked down along ledges between dog-roses and broom, across patches scattered with sparkling mica and pyrites, across crumblimg schist, decomposed granite, clay, occasionally scree. We stopped at a ford on the Combe, to admire the no-longer-so-distant church and bridge at St.-Dalmas-le-Selvage. We walked into the village along a restanque, our first on this trek; to our left, field of Flanders poppies. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnWK-buZHd0VE4O1DvXFcs0061JmcWVCZ541fC7hh50G8X0wemoO2RrjqFrtnDpkm6PwqALIYIa1REv0wtAtZfoYQDLxoAXQPvT4wOhyphenhyphen1JzD-StWHPhG8kFHhn6REq5JsNNudZ_abEU4/s640/blogger-image-1802913567.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnWK-buZHd0VE4O1DvXFcs0061JmcWVCZ541fC7hh50G8X0wemoO2RrjqFrtnDpkm6PwqALIYIa1REv0wtAtZfoYQDLxoAXQPvT4wOhyphenhyphen1JzD-StWHPhG8kFHhn6REq5JsNNudZ_abEU4/s640/blogger-image-1802913567.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-31886159664870653942013-07-12T06:07:00.001-07:002013-07-12T06:07:52.536-07:00Alps, 2013, 17: Larche to Bousiéyas<br><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllsizkzrKTvjiR-2qCAjO0DOR1LK483FU0tGyK41jotvnQmpwAfPxmuKhL9Kx8RSbjkYX_2tiYtXH2VTotVwdOVZ9__B_TUdbcI9a8K9a59zveWPdxZpl08ZouT1IuEL-9AXO95L27cc/s640/blogger-image--710848785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllsizkzrKTvjiR-2qCAjO0DOR1LK483FU0tGyK41jotvnQmpwAfPxmuKhL9Kx8RSbjkYX_2tiYtXH2VTotVwdOVZ9__B_TUdbcI9a8K9a59zveWPdxZpl08ZouT1IuEL-9AXO95L27cc/s640/blogger-image--710848785.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><b><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></i></b></div><div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">July 10, 2013: up <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1">at 6:30</a>, the usual businesses, breakfast at 7 but we were 15 minutes late. We left Larche in good time, but after walking ten minutes or so Stefan had the happy idea of asking the nice bartender to make us sandwiches for our lunch, which would let us have a cappuccino while waiting. And so we actually left town later, about <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://2" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="2">8:30</a>. The first part of the walk was very pleasant and almost imperceptibly climbing, most of the time on a country asphalt road leading to the trailhead parking-lot at the national park. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We never saw the serious guy and his friend: I'm sure they are very fast and disciplined — or perhaps they simply levitate. We soon caught up with the couple from Limoges, though; we played leapfrog with them all day. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Having walked east, nearly to Italy, to get to the trailhead, we then turned south to walk up an extraordinarily beautiful valley. To my mind it's been slightly spoiled since five years ago by the addition of explanatory panels and, for the first kilometer ir so, a concrete pavement suitable for wheelchairs. There were marmots everywhere; the air actually smelled of them, probably because day-hikers feed them, in spite of signs politely asking them not to.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">After a while, though, the concrete trail gave up, there were fewer people on the trail, and the smell of marmotry gave way to grass, larches, and quickly flowing water. The grade increased, and the surface became more rutted, then occasionally stony. Here and there footbridges and steps assisted, but it was still a hiker's trail, not a walker's footpath.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">A little before reaching the col we passed a couple of lakes, the second of which, smaller and higher, was mostly iced over. It took a few hours to get to the first col, the Pas de la Cavale, at 8700 feet. Six or eight times the trail was under snow, sometimes for sixty or eighty (linear) feet. The view from the col was extraordinary, but we didn't linger, as we were hearing a thunderstorm approach. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Soon after beginning a steep, stony descent, with many switchbacks, it began to rain in earnest, and that quickly turned to hard hail, copious haikstones the size of BBs, or coriander seeds. This made the descent that much harder, particularly wearing glasses. I'd put the raincover on my pack and put on my windbreaker, but hadn't had time to put on my rain pants, and before long I was pretty well soaked through.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">The thunder and lightning seemed to have moved on, but the hail didn't let up. We found a goodsized boulder, big enough for the four of us to shelter in its lee, and waited a few minutes, and the storm began to seem to lett up. I knew we had hours to go, though, and that the weather could turn nasty again, so we set out.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Almost immediately a steady cold rain set in. The trail, a deep dirt rut through rather high grass, was running water, and very slippery. I fell once, my feet sliding out from under me; and I fell again, stepping into a marmot hole invisible in the grass, which I'd begun to walk on to avoid the slippery mud. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Suddenly a bolt of lightning and its thunderclap struck almost simultaneously. I wasn't seriously worried about lightning, as we were well below the col and its surrounding peaks, but I saw Stefan throw himself on the ground, and wondered momentarily if he'd been struck; then realized of course he'd have been on the ground before I'd ever heard the thunder. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We pressed on. I remembered that it was a good three hours from the col to our lodging in good weather; who knew how long this was going to take us in this. I set a pretty fast pace on the rest of the descent, finding the way partly by instinct, partly from memory – from the book, and from five years ago. At one point I tripped on a tuft of grass and pitched headlong forward, taking most of the fall on my right shoulder.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">At the bottom, though, two thousand feet below the col, we came to what I'd been most worried about, the ford we'd have to make of the stream draining this valley. The path had been washed out earlier, and the water was beginning to run high — and, I noticed, not clear as the snowmelt is, but almost black with dissolved black shale.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We found a way through; then faced the next problem: a steep ascent, on fairly dry dirt still but slippery where steepest. We had only six hundred feet to climb, but it was raining hard and pretty cold. It didn't help morale that Stefan noticed the body of a good-sized sheep that had apparently been lying there a day or two. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">I thought to myself: I would never do this willingly, but being faced with it, of course one perseveres — and, fact is, it was exhilarating. In some ways the three hours or so since the storm began was the severest weather I remember facing unprotected. Where looming thunderstorms had earlier made me think of Giorgione, now I was thinking of King Lear. It was magnificent.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">But on reaching our second col, at 7400 feet, we still had to descend to Bousiéyas, 1200 feet lower and 45 minutes away in good weather. We were in a thick fog, so thick it might as well have been rain. Visibility was poor. Our path was partly on the asphalt D64, the famous Col de la Bonnette road from Nice to Barcelonnette, and partly on slippery, steep mud ruts cutting through the many D64 hairpins. We chose to stay on the asphalt, and after watching a few campers drive by I held my hand out to the next car, which obligingly stopped.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">The driver opened his window halfway, and I saw the back seat was empty. Do you have room for two of us, I asked, and he looked at me with a concerned, rather mystified silence. I realized I was in such a state that I'd forgotten to speak french, and asked again: avez-vous deux places pour madame et mussieu?</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">His wife popped out of her door and suddenly both back doors were welcomingly open. The couple from Limoges absolutely refused to get in, insisting that we do — they'd seen our falls, having walked always behind (and profiting from our footsteps). We argued a very short time; I wasn't sure how patient the driver would be. Then we tossed our packs in the trunk and got in.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">It was so foggy, and we were so wet that the defroster couldn't clear the windshield, that we drove down to Bousiéyas with the two front windows open, the driver's wife with her head out, trying to make out the edge of the road. They were very nice people, in their forties or early fifties, down from Orléans for a week's holiday in Provence. They'd been in Barcelonnette yesterday, and had pretty well decided to give it up because of the storms, and head for Nice.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We finally reached our gîte, where I immediately took a nice hot shower. There's more to report, but it will wait. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-13399556337585544792013-07-12T06:00:00.001-07:002013-07-12T06:00:55.420-07:00Alps, 2013, 16: Fouillouse to larche<div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><b><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For a number of days we have lacked internet access. I will post here the notes of the last few days. Photos alas will have to wait until I have more tome and a real computer, but those who follow me on Facebook may find some there.</i></b></div><div><b><i><br></i></b></div><div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">July 9, 2013: </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Breakfast at 7:15 — we were a little late — bread, butter, little package of peach jam, café au lait into which I added some powdered cocoa. Then we hit the trail, stopping to admire the little Fouillouse cemetery with its cautionary warning over the nice metal gates:</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">PASSANTS</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Souvenez-vous que nous avons eté ce que vous êtes</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Et que vous serez un jour ce que nous sommes</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The path was easy at first, ascending through now forest, now with their small patches of snow always close left and right and of course ahead. Military history was rarely absent, in the form of old pillboxes and hillocks which seemed likely to have. Been mounded over other installations. I wondered idly if these areas had ever been mined, then dismissed the idea. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">In a couple of hours we reached our first col, the Vallonnet, at 2520 meters (8260 feet): we'd climbed two thousand feet. It was cold and windy, though not bad enough to require windbreaker or jacket; and mists swirled around the nearby peaks, though to the southeast the sky looked more promising. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">From there it's a fairly easy traverse, then climb toward the imposing ruin of the Viraysse barracks, whose parade ground, big as a soccer field, was entirely surrounded by barracks in beautiful stonework. Virtually all the roofs are gone, and two sides have lost their barracks, but what is left is impressive.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">From there a half hour climbing switchbacks to the Col de Mallemort, a little higher than the Vallonet, and soon our destination was in sight, hardly a mile off as the crow flies, but down nine hundred meters — three thousand feet! — and about two hours of difficult walking, sometimes through exceptionally beautiful fields of flowers, but too often down steep switchbacks paved with loose scree and gravel.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Military installations continue to be ubiquitous, and at one point there's an explanatory panel describing the events of World War II, when the town of Larch ws completely destroyed, all but the memorial to the dead of World War I, by the retreating Germans and Italians. Now the flags of France, Italy, and the European Union fly over the site.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">We entered Larche at quarter past one, footsore and with aching calves. The gîte is simple but clean and comfortable. I had a nice conversation, what I could understand of it, with two women in the Syndicat d'Initiative; they assured me that nothing at all happens here most of the time; a few skiers from December to March, a few hikers like us for six weeks in the summer. It uses to be busy here, with an army detachment and their dependents, a national gendarmerie, and the customs officials and workers, since Larche is a border town. Now all that is closed. Peacetime and open frontiers are bad for business.</div></div><div><b><i><br></i></b></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-71336583661968896872013-07-12T05:56:00.001-07:002013-07-12T05:57:25.917-07:00Alps, 2013, 15: Maljasset to Fouillouse<div style="text-align: left; "><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; "><b><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For a number of days we have lacked internet access. I will post here the notes of the last few days. Photos alas will have to wait until I have more tome and a real computer, but those who follow me on Facebook may find some there.</i></b></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); text-align: -webkit-auto; "><b><i><br></i></b></div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">July 8, 2013: </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">We found breakfast gathering itself a little before seven. Of our dortoir we were the first up; then the two Germans; the two Lyonnaises didn't appear until we were finishing breakfast. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">It looked like rain, so I covered my pack and for the first time broke out my windbreaker/jacket, and we were en route by 8, walking down D25 toward St. Paul-sur-Ubaye. The morning continued overcast for a long time, even drizzling from time to time.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The only unusual thing that happened was our meeting a huge flock of sheep coming our way. At the head, two stalwart paisanos with staffs (not trekking poles) and, between them, one milk cow, wearing her bell. A black dog had preceded them. Then came the flock, a couple of hundred sheep I would say, some marked M, others F – I have no idea why. At the back of the flock there was a truck towing a trailer full of young lambs. It was driven by a good-looking well-dressed woman, I asked her where they were coming from: Forqualquier, in Provence. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">We turned off the paved road for a while to cut through flowered meadow between the road and the Chátelet torrent, but after the previous night's rainfall everything was quite wet; my boots and trouser-legs were soon soaked.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">In a little over an hour we'd reached the road leasdng up to Fouillouse. This was new to me: five years ago Mac and Henry and I had walked on down to St. Paul in the mistaken thought we had a reservation there, and had finallly had to commandeer an obliging fellow to drive us up to Fouillouse. Finally today I learned what the GR5 does here. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">What it does, is climb, steeply, first up the asphalt road to the magnificent pont du Châtelet (a stone bridge 300 feet above the river), then up stony forest path, nearly 300 meters, often breath-to-a-step steep; and then finally descend on gravel and dirt path to Fouillouse. You really begin to feel you're in Provence, as technically you are. Poppies, roses, thyme, geraniums, low juniper, pinea. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Now here we are. In a comfortable gîte in our own room, not a dortoir, with a BATHTUB, our first. We arrived at 11:30, first dampened by light rain, then dried out by sun, then soaked in sweat — me at least; don't know about Stefan. It was not much of a hike, I guess, but a little strenuous at the end. We cleaned up and washed some clothes, and then had lunch: charcuterie, omelette, salad. Again, we have neither telephone nor Internet: I write up these notes, read a little, and take a nap.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Dinner with a guy we met in Ceillac: German, on a bicycle tour holiday, Manfred, from Bönen, near Dortmund. Very interesting and nice. Systems analyst, I think. Interested in the fortifications hereabouts: French, Italians proud of them, make tourist attractions of them, unlike the Germans, who lost nearly all theirs, and choose not to dwell on it. Has been within a few km of many peaks, which completely satisfies him. Totally satisfied with life except when he thinks of political situation, and daughter's situation. I say: it's their problem; their world; they will find a way. He agrees. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-66871861585598079012013-07-12T05:48:00.001-07:002013-07-12T05:48:50.189-07:00Alps, 2013, 14: Ceillac to Maljasset<div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><b><i>For a number of days we have lacked internet access. I will post here the notes of the last few days. Photos alas will have to wait until I have more tome and a real computer, but those who follow me on Facebook may find some there.</i></b></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">July 7, 2013, refuge du Club Alpin Français, Maljasset—</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">I was awake at six, and soon up; breakfast at seven, with the women we'd dined with last night. Decent coffee from a huge urn, and hot milk for a change; orange juice, bread and butter, and nice myrtille jam. (I forbore yoghurt and corn flakes.)</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We filled our canteens at a fountain and struck out <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1">at eight o'clock</a>, walking down a pleasant track alongside a stream, the Mélezet. After an hour or so, though, the trail took us more steeply uphill, on stony terrain in a forest, sometimes quite steeply indeed. Occasionally we walked beside alarming drops, only inches from the trail. We came upon a fine cascade, then finally emerged from the forest into more open country about <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://2" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="2">ten o'clock</a>, passing the Prés-Soubreyand lake, also called Lac Miroir but today too wind-rippled to reflect the magnificent peaks above it. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Next, <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://3" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="3">at 11:15</a>, came a really stunning lake, a sort of miniature Crater Lake, incomprehensibly blue, as if its waters had dissolved every nearby gentian (they hadn't; there were gentians all around, and pretty tiny pansies of some kind, too). We rested there a short while, near the chapel of Ste. Anne. Soon, though, dozens of day-hikers showed up, because it is possible to drive to this location, and we resumed the trail, knowing we had a pretty hard climb ahead. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">It led us, through switchbacks on dirt, on scree, and once even on snow, to the highest col we will have faced: Girardin, at 2700 meters — only 8,850 feet, but cold and windy. We didn't spend a lot of time admiring the view, because a thunderstorm was threatening. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">The descent to Maljasset took nearly two hours. It began fairly easily, once we improvised a way around a snowbank; but then, especially after leaving our GR5 and taking the sidepath to Maljasset, it became quite steep, eroded, and treacherous, on decomposed schist, fragments of stone as big as your hand, slick and brittle and sounding like shards of glass or porcelain underfoot. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">We reached the night's lodging early, <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://4" x-apple-data-detectors="true" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors-result="4">at 2:30</a> I think, but none too soon, as it had begun to rain. Maljasset is only 1900 meters above sea lavel, 6200 feet, but it feels remote, with neither telephone nor Internet access (though somehow our hostess was able to telephone to tomorrow's gîte, at Fouillouse, to reserve a room for us). Our gîte is comfortable; there are seven bunkbeds in our dortoir, no spaces between them, but only six of us in the room. The showers and other facilities are clean and adequate, if you have your own towel; and dinner was fine. </div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-3459181211415497762013-07-06T13:00:00.001-07:002013-07-06T13:00:11.640-07:00Alps, 2013, 13: la Chalp to Ceillac<div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><i>Ceillac, France, July 6, 2013—</i></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "> I KNEW THIS was going to be a hard day. Paddy Dillon's book, which is detailed but in some ways misleading I think, suggested that it would be. My own book, which I find utterly reliable, said that it would be. ("Today’s walk, the book warned, would take nearly eight hours, and would involve nearly 2400 meters — 7800 feet — of elevation change, including a steady gain of a thousand meters in four hours.")</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">And my memory warned me the same. We did have one advantage over the experience of five years ago: we did not descend to Arvieux, the next town, but set out at quarter past eight, directly from our very fine Chalet Viso, on a forest trail that led us through cool surroundings and gentle ascents to the hamlet of Les Maisons, where we arrived at nine o'clock, filled our canteens at the fountain, and engaged in some banter with the three men and one woman who were cutting the grass and weeds from a triangular plot hardly bigger than a modest house.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUgUb-YFkJLXm81vlt0DavcfMJPicuO6e3CRD_ByvzaC622vTYrWHnB_6WGtB6akUuUdI2hFhnmbZ7LR7EsGd2LDejj5cnvQhMC03ySC-xuhu5PER_16CGQM0JgHt_ivDgn0LI-tCUbU/s640/blogger-image--1560292166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwUgUb-YFkJLXm81vlt0DavcfMJPicuO6e3CRD_ByvzaC622vTYrWHnB_6WGtB6akUuUdI2hFhnmbZ7LR7EsGd2LDejj5cnvQhMC03ySC-xuhu5PER_16CGQM0JgHt_ivDgn0LI-tCUbU/s640/blogger-image--1560292166.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">A scythe would ne faster, cleaner, and a lot more tranquil, I observed, and the guy with the Stihl weed-wacker smiled, and agreed, and shrugged his shoulders, and went bacck to work.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbheaepg59-lk6URxwu1hWqdr-_veax0wrisqp7UsV8IiX6Ogand2RKBwHP0o5NBnGlFkACE9osuENQTAp87BhWykhKefMZ4T6E5qOuqoUyW7uQZZ4Gy4_5SaaCrO93lYakS38UVOOz4/s640/blogger-image-1226970659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnbheaepg59-lk6URxwu1hWqdr-_veax0wrisqp7UsV8IiX6Ogand2RKBwHP0o5NBnGlFkACE9osuENQTAp87BhWykhKefMZ4T6E5qOuqoUyW7uQZZ4Gy4_5SaaCrO93lYakS38UVOOz4/s640/blogger-image-1226970659.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The path took us through pasture and forest to the Lac de Roue, now greatly overgrown with vegetation, and then down through spruce forest and picnic ground, down down down, to château-Queyras, where we broke for tea and a rather firm but still delicious Charentais melon. The fort here is architecturally beautiful from outside, but our host at Chalet Visi had warned us that the interior was not particularly interesting, and I was thinking about the climb facing us, harder, I knew, than anything we had yet done.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">It begins with a long scramble up stony paths, often very steep indeed. I've often thought about actually measuring these gradients, but when you're actually climbing them, especially not alone but with a companion, it's just too hard to take the time. If I were to bend over to put my iPhone on the ground, to measure the gradient, I might have a great deal of t rouble picking it up, or righting myself. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Instead I think about my breathing. It's always best when you're unaware of your breathing. I find that when I do become aware of it I'm probably inhaling for two steps, then exhaling for two. As the grade grows steeper it's inhale sharply on one step, exhale the next two. Then it's inhale on one, exhale the next —I try to exhale while planting the right trekking pole and advancing the left foot, then alternate.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The worst, of course, is inhaling on one step, exhaling the next.. But it gets worse than that, at times, and you find yourself panting, a quick inhale and exhale on EACH step. At that point I stop, lean on the poles, and think about my pulse, which is probably up to about 130. Before long it drops to something more comfortable, and I resume the walk.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Of course in addition to the lean-on-poles there are also the occasional sit-down-catch-your-breaths, and more rarely, when a stone or a grassy bank the right size shows up, a throw-off-your-sack-take-a-proper-rest break, maybe every twenty minutes. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">In this manner we finally reached the Col Fromage at 3:30. It's only 2300 meters, 7500 feet, but it seemed higher. It was windy, of course, and a little chilly, though it was the first col we've approached and crossed without being hampered by snow. We found a place out of the wind and ate the sandwiches last night's hostess had provided, and began the long tortuous descent, through many switchbacks, steeply, </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">We were in the day's destination, Ceillac, by quarter past five. I remembered a fairly decent Martini I'd had at the bar across from our gîte, but that's another of the changes I'll be writing about when I really address this adventure. For mow, another amazing sunset, and another hard day tomorrow.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">I seem to have taken very few photos today, or at least few successful ones. You can only do so much.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihs8idsKQ227jLeBEG62X9i2c1lJmjvMAa1xGQUt8qeL9HzRuK-J9giLQjj78HKaR0SGZZV5phuIBjMI1IGnfGaE2mrsBFgpIJ_4WuRZa9upP4DJeMBhAzf6cxIYRHIGxSpjwWDsG2ips/s640/blogger-image-1335800625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihs8idsKQ227jLeBEG62X9i2c1lJmjvMAa1xGQUt8qeL9HzRuK-J9giLQjj78HKaR0SGZZV5phuIBjMI1IGnfGaE2mrsBFgpIJ_4WuRZa9upP4DJeMBhAzf6cxIYRHIGxSpjwWDsG2ips/s640/blogger-image-1335800625.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-81921527423838054622013-07-05T12:25:00.001-07:002013-07-05T12:25:40.294-07:00Alps, 2013, 12: Montgénèvre to la Chalp (3 days)<i>Chalet Viso, la Chalp, France, July 5, 2013—</i><div><i><br></i></div><div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">THERE WAS REALLY not much to report about the walks on July 3 and 4. They were short, downhill for the most part, and pretty much devoid of views. If we weren't so lazy (or, in my case, old) they would have been tacked on to adjacent longer days.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">On July 3d we could have walked right through Montgénèvre-not-my-favorite-town and stayed in Briançon a day earlier — or even two nights, though I'm not sure Briançon is worth all that much time. (Though we did have a very nice dinner there.)</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">From Montgénèvre-not-my-favorite-town we walked a bit of main road, then ducked into forest, often descending fairly steeply on logging roads, at other times keeping to narrow forest trails, in an hour or so we emerged onto meadows, passing a pasture whose three bored ponies eyed us as we went by. Then it was back into forest, climbing to another old road, which suddenly led to the magnificent Pont d'Asfeld, the sober, strong stone bridge built in the 18th century but looking as good as new. (Perhaps partly because 21st-century vehicles are not allowed to use it.)</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Yesterday, July 4, we spent a lazy morning in the lower outskirts of Briançon, partly in search of shopping, partly killing time before a second two-hour walk, from Briançon o its suburb Villard Saint-Pancrace. The reason for this short day is that the following day's walk, which we did today, if you're still following me, looks like a long and strenuous one. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">But our walk to Villard Saint-Pancrace took hardly an hour, as it turned out, because we were tricked by balissage indicating an alternate. This wasn't present five years ago, and I was unprepared for it. It cost us what I recalled as a delightful ramble alongside an irrigation "canal," hardly more than a ditch, filled with speckled frogs.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Two interesting middle-aged ladies from Antwerp, however, who had notbeen fooled by the variant, said that it wasn't that interesting at all, so maybe we'd done the right thing. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">In any case we were up early this morning and on the trail at 6:30, knowing we were facing a long ascent and hot weather. In two hours we'd gained 500 meters and arrived at the Ckalets des Ayes, where the buvette I remembered from five years ago was still in evidence, providing a welcome cup of tea.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLo7dScrRRJw76L6Ts3mcZ1kUcbu-qJWHMOGLvtf7eiPvcYiLWrI3bQt-X_Pa8_muzm4ksXx294OMKeF8KZEeoNNeX_kbgB-xbJvHnvUejEF8Ky0T9NNnz-LYFLfUKigNfSgpwJx2kz78/s640/blogger-image--1454391047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLo7dScrRRJw76L6Ts3mcZ1kUcbu-qJWHMOGLvtf7eiPvcYiLWrI3bQt-X_Pa8_muzm4ksXx294OMKeF8KZEeoNNeX_kbgB-xbJvHnvUejEF8Ky0T9NNnz-LYFLfUKigNfSgpwJx2kz78/s640/blogger-image--1454391047.jpg"></a> <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieotyFjrY1p7DT8eCBJk3mjN8e7yiq2HnNVQPmuQZhYzkKqTaMPD2ElUHaKm1uHGW1Tnp55oXlFhvwQ3WCu2QAJeDILFsePCbizDvb3XYQfcnyVnvnTQqchguj0lT6ViGLbKEOCQqCNNI/s640/blogger-image-1257849340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieotyFjrY1p7DT8eCBJk3mjN8e7yiq2HnNVQPmuQZhYzkKqTaMPD2ElUHaKm1uHGW1Tnp55oXlFhvwQ3WCu2QAJeDILFsePCbizDvb3XYQfcnyVnvnTQqchguj0lT6ViGLbKEOCQqCNNI/s640/blogger-image-1257849340.jpg"></a></div></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Another two hours of climbing brought us to the Col des Ayres — I've posted photos from there to Facebook — and here we took advantage of a windbreak and benches predecessors have gratifyingly improvised out of the stones lying around to stop for the pique-nique last night's hostess had prepared for us.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_Pp64u8JAnE6_2LzRSz_H8sKI40PLBECOSePmnHvGwZcFvtps1q1u23ZBq4fh7n6EYOI-yXRLVVyytJQnVaHEVhF8fGuF9plHtfBxMhzuYvS-K6_h3jdGcdey2o81nIouXmS3VR8c14/s640/blogger-image-933689296.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge_Pp64u8JAnE6_2LzRSz_H8sKI40PLBECOSePmnHvGwZcFvtps1q1u23ZBq4fh7n6EYOI-yXRLVVyytJQnVaHEVhF8fGuF9plHtfBxMhzuYvS-K6_h3jdGcdey2o81nIouXmS3VR8c14/s640/blogger-image-933689296.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Then it was down, down, down, from the col at nearly 2500 meters to tonight's gîte at below 1700. The surprise came immediately: the GR5 was covered with snow on the south side of the col, and covered with a bank we could never have walked across, because it ended in a very steep slope. Not realizing this, we took a wrong trail for maybe a hundred feet. At that point our trail could be seen clearly emerging from the other side of the snowbank, so we went back and improvised a scramble over the rocks around the snow.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">After that, Bob was your uncle. We descended by switchbacks and straight steep runs, on scree, then dirt, sometimes grass, trough alpage pastures, ultimately coming to a paved road that took us through fragrant spruce forest and ultimately to Brunissard, then la Chalp — where we reached our delightfully comfortable Chalet Viso no later than 2:30!</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-34354056305315445882013-07-04T07:48:00.001-07:002013-07-04T07:48:50.012-07:00Alps, 2013, 11: Plampinet to Montgénèvre<div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">WE WERE UP about 6:30, but as usual breakfast was not served until 7:30. DIt didn't matter, as we couldn't leave anyway before 8:30, when the closest thing to a grocery store would be open — the local-products gift corner in a rival gîte, which by the way looks like a wonderful place to spend a day or two. There we bought a few slices of ham, and a good slice of tomme to go with the bread we'd salvaged from the breakfast basket.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Then we went out for a half-hour warmup on flat trail, not the one we should have taken; and then, about 9:30, we started the real thing. This took us up a steep gravel/dirt road that ultimately developed a number of switchbacks. At one of them, a solitary ewe, looking completely out of place — fairly recently shorn, but where had she escaped from?</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The day's traject was a fairly arduous one: a long steep climb; a long steeper one; two cols, close together; a gew patches of smow to walk across; then a quite long and usually quite steep descent, into Montgenevre, a town I haven't liked since it changed drastcally (into a ski station) about twenty years ago.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The first part of the climb took us on a former military road, graveled, rocky, or dirt, its only wheeled traffic now the jeep-like cars hunters and, I suppose, shepherds use these days. Now and then there's a hardy family in a small car, toiling up to a summer cabin. Along the way I noticed the culvert Henry had explored five years ago, and of course the curious guardhouses protecting the narrow valley, an important pass between Italy and France. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKbx6P49O9UrL3F_HC2FX-NlQAwEhY2xg9vCtYnZhdkoOd_rgNdWPnYY_m6vO1-uy6Jwbpm6v0kJmbpem6lbwKNmH84gWOxaxVuFlw_81IFJzgbcXnmsw9-J4Hrxr9JbYSYjZmdPgpWk/s640/blogger-image--360452510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKbx6P49O9UrL3F_HC2FX-NlQAwEhY2xg9vCtYnZhdkoOd_rgNdWPnYY_m6vO1-uy6Jwbpm6v0kJmbpem6lbwKNmH84gWOxaxVuFlw_81IFJzgbcXnmsw9-J4Hrxr9JbYSYjZmdPgpWk/s640/blogger-image--360452510.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">At the Chalets des Acles, nearly 1900 meters high, 400 meters higher than Plampinet, the GR5 makes a ninety-degree bend to head south, climbing along the Opon torrent toward the Col de Dormillouse, at 2450 meters. I misjudged the location of this col, finding it nearer than it actually is, and we picnicked at a comfortable spot and rested a bit before crossing snow to the col itself. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUQ4O-XNASB0uy-Mn5F_c704eePmqRMs0pvfGn8H7B4o3b_ZZti-kis81aPxqpxEDf1NVOLRguRBUeFBwQ6XkVHBbFiZ1eBodkEKiIYpVRF-rIZhjNuAClTx9RL041pVIJmwSxzikjsI/s640/blogger-image--1243240318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUQ4O-XNASB0uy-Mn5F_c704eePmqRMs0pvfGn8H7B4o3b_ZZti-kis81aPxqpxEDf1NVOLRguRBUeFBwQ6XkVHBbFiZ1eBodkEKiIYpVRF-rIZhjNuAClTx9RL041pVIJmwSxzikjsI/s640/blogger-image--1243240318.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">From there, though, you only climb higher, easily at first, then more steeply, to the Col de la Lauze, today's high point at 2530 meters (8300 feet). We'd climbed 3400 feet in about four hours. Again, the trail had been covered with snow for perhaps fifty feet at times, and it was somewhat windy, but not at all cold. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdLlvwtTkhaVBQUpBnqtJWPdQL7vYNdAP7YvqkiIV9FNn0B4EuQ03ui_P90oesBVBO32NYDOpcjpDteoB5GuAXJva539Nq4gyKBjMI_0OGtXIu3xq-msiJjTzHN0hbMwS3ncHE6HCMAY/s640/blogger-image--335893022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqdLlvwtTkhaVBQUpBnqtJWPdQL7vYNdAP7YvqkiIV9FNn0B4EuQ03ui_P90oesBVBO32NYDOpcjpDteoB5GuAXJva539Nq4gyKBjMI_0OGtXIu3xq-msiJjTzHN0hbMwS3ncHE6HCMAY/s640/blogger-image--335893022.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The descent was fun — through alpage, at first by a few switchbacks, then down a delightful trail worn into the clay soil as smoothly as if it had been etched by a bowling ball. It would have been fun, if a little irresponsible, to roll a bowling ball down that trail; it would have sped along a couple of miles, I'm sure.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Then we came to what can only be called parkland, ski slopes interlaced with a number of hiking trails, and we found the main road over the Monginevro pass, and before long entered the town of Montgénèvre, fairly dead at this season, and our hotel. We'd been perhaps six hours on the trail, climbed a thousand meters, dropped seven hundred — in, oh, maybe or fourteen miles, hard to say.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5293362348604725192.post-37674210011794580112013-07-03T08:22:00.001-07:002013-07-03T08:22:48.220-07:00Alps, 2013, 10: to Plampinet<span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><i>Plampinet, July 1, 2013—</i></span><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHePQxwRnvbj-41fJ0V2rxfbWJXNGi_JrVt81m4ewo3Hq0Ks2gzXb-c8gvrZsWVk8euARodVLHLVxQ0y3uNaxIEm6ldzf0tQ1KPmHk7D6RTUyEAKdZA9BeuT1GCgj8PKSSxcZ9sQkvHvg/s640/blogger-image--1212258317.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHePQxwRnvbj-41fJ0V2rxfbWJXNGi_JrVt81m4ewo3Hq0Ks2gzXb-c8gvrZsWVk8euARodVLHLVxQ0y3uNaxIEm6ldzf0tQ1KPmHk7D6RTUyEAKdZA9BeuT1GCgj8PKSSxcZ9sQkvHvg/s640/blogger-image--1212258317.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">We awoke about </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">5:30</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">; but had to wait an hour for breakfast — muesli, bread, coffee, juice. Then out on the trail, first across some snow patches, then suddenly ti the Col de la Valée Etroite, with a stunning, incomparable view, the sun full up, not a cloud in the sky, the mountains, snow, trail, alpage, and the morning itself in full relief. </span><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5EvWePPUrs9pM-NkpInaZDX2mxzcrm4hZci-dpOMwMGnFfmTTPVdktMTyLfwaLE8EIXbfwpe1nPh8OtqVh5gyLFwQ8PZkfVcvtwPUClCYF8Ho6MzokNngDRXrq-X3c7JsYZsAIkoFKE/s640/blogger-image-1208320215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5EvWePPUrs9pM-NkpInaZDX2mxzcrm4hZci-dpOMwMGnFfmTTPVdktMTyLfwaLE8EIXbfwpe1nPh8OtqVh5gyLFwQ8PZkfVcvtwPUClCYF8Ho6MzokNngDRXrq-X3c7JsYZsAIkoFKE/s640/blogger-image-1208320215.jpg"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5EvWePPUrs9pM-NkpInaZDX2mxzcrm4hZci-dpOMwMGnFfmTTPVdktMTyLfwaLE8EIXbfwpe1nPh8OtqVh5gyLFwQ8PZkfVcvtwPUClCYF8Ho6MzokNngDRXrq-X3c7JsYZsAIkoFKE/s640/blogger-image-1208320215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNMn7bZ42adErka4pWnIaOGJ-HHbkZtnp_YxxRJJ4Kjy-c4cYFr1kIPQRoYHYQLJxtdPrpx9O0szhxYUheWYkRR1QaJereI1h0MsKDXrceTlq0tFfvBhU_t8f4wjzarqz9OC4-WYAbn4/s640/blogger-image--1654810390.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNMn7bZ42adErka4pWnIaOGJ-HHbkZtnp_YxxRJJ4Kjy-c4cYFr1kIPQRoYHYQLJxtdPrpx9O0szhxYUheWYkRR1QaJereI1h0MsKDXrceTlq0tFfvBhU_t8f4wjzarqz9OC4-WYAbn4/s640/blogger-image--1654810390.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpvx0zV4Z2xpN4JZ_BmVYZzAy1ppkMm4fGBSe8h5-oGdJ3SmAnlQv7r-cnBdJC_1Gap1M0RJC0e5-NKNgLOb3MlhxS5yCblbLY2qP7R9Zu-2fvAAvH-adyZN5hFJisrFj3hdDIUuIXmQ/s640/blogger-image-2031917389.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpvx0zV4Z2xpN4JZ_BmVYZzAy1ppkMm4fGBSe8h5-oGdJ3SmAnlQv7r-cnBdJC_1Gap1M0RJC0e5-NKNgLOb3MlhxS5yCblbLY2qP7R9Zu-2fvAAvH-adyZN5hFJisrFj3hdDIUuIXmQ/s640/blogger-image-2031917389.jpg"></a></div></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">The day's agenda was straightforward: an easy descent, a harder descent, a stop, a steep climb, a rather trying descent, an easy descant, a stroll. The first descent is in fact delightful, on a dirt trail through alpage, with those memorable mountains around us. Then the trail disappears under new foliage, for the season is late, and then the grade grows steeper.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTNtngm0FFgVY5MPx7PgIn3d7qvnsIBIQ2sQmurACMATrj7Ns9L34S1pE4quLKJlIqicDyuXgS89FOxptHa0o4T8ZzRg6tz5DWtaFaZ6rSeSj7_0LNcqgGW-uMTSG-PtYChpRsCb4vl8g/s640/blogger-image-1224101688.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTNtngm0FFgVY5MPx7PgIn3d7qvnsIBIQ2sQmurACMATrj7Ns9L34S1pE4quLKJlIqicDyuXgS89FOxptHa0o4T8ZzRg6tz5DWtaFaZ6rSeSj7_0LNcqgGW-uMTSG-PtYChpRsCb4vl8g/s640/blogger-image-1224101688.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lEsq3gAf9gaK1kqhjwXuEpS6DpM-3sFIjMQD7_kzfkYseqLDOId5b8HqNZSMzn114u_vr8tRfGkIlS1uiHt4dzHT3A2wYTMjjAABrxItl-qbW5bFZYJGiwLNvX2AYPU8H92AI8_ISWE/s640/blogger-image-1035228986.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lEsq3gAf9gaK1kqhjwXuEpS6DpM-3sFIjMQD7_kzfkYseqLDOId5b8HqNZSMzn114u_vr8tRfGkIlS1uiHt4dzHT3A2wYTMjjAABrxItl-qbW5bFZYJGiwLNvX2AYPU8H92AI8_ISWE/s640/blogger-image-1035228986.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">And the balissage, the marking of the trail, seems not yet to have been renewed. Furthermore, two or three GR trails intertwine here, and one's never sure which to take, or which has just presented itself.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">After taking one fork, clearly marked GR5: Plampinet — today's destination — I noticed far away on another a lightly-dressed athletic young man with a Labrador retriever on a leash, apparently descending.. Later there he was, unaccountably overtaking us on ours. Soon I realized we'd taken a bad turn: we turned around and took the trail I'd first seen him on. We'd lost maybe twenty-five minutes.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Further down, a new bypass seems to have been installed since the old edition I have of our trailguide went to press — why, I can't imagine: it substitutes a number of switchbacks in the woods for the open mountain road. We took the new variant, but it ruffled my feathers.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNTrXJChaQEKJTtje8H5xMmaSyXcBTEXLZYXNFWrYB0qehKPKqQvJ9InPOFARBPWnOmpJ3iCVhFIm1VbYq4ofgUkjs8_kGDS0rnUFP89Okh3ZrOBOdUZ0zqaikEqnNamts3_UKUWncVI/s640/blogger-image-709081752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNTrXJChaQEKJTtje8H5xMmaSyXcBTEXLZYXNFWrYB0qehKPKqQvJ9InPOFARBPWnOmpJ3iCVhFIm1VbYq4ofgUkjs8_kGDS0rnUFP89Okh3ZrOBOdUZ0zqaikEqnNamts3_UKUWncVI/s640/blogger-image-709081752.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: left; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">No matter: we ultimately ended at the proper spot, a vacation village being expanded down on the main road between Nevache and Plampinet. We turned east, took a delightful country road paralleling the swift Clairette, and entered Plampinet, about three-thirty, tired but triumphant.</div></div>Charles Sherehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480432901356490235noreply@blogger.com0