Alpwalk 11: Rosuel to Col -du-Palet

 

Refuge du Col-du-Palet, July 13, 2016--

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.

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.

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: je mefie les temps, 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.

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.

 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.

 

Looking back toward Rosuel

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.

 

 

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.

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, plans or "flats" of rubble, I suppose, left by successive glaciations, converted over the millenia into flat alpages: rock, gravel, soil, grasses, flowers. 

 

You walk fairly easily across one of these plans, 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.

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. 

 

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.

 

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.

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.

 

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.

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 glissade sliding down the slope, inevvitably into often sharp rock. 

 

We notice a sign noting our refuge ↑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. 

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 dortoir in an adjacent building. Though its snug in the dining room, it's just above freezing outside.

July 13, 2016: 12 km; ↑1000 m; 4:10.

Alpwalk 10: to Rosuel

Refuge-Porte de Rosuel, July 12, 2016—

 

Looking downvalley west from the refuge Rosuel

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.

There we shouldered our packs, already shrouded in their rain jackets, and hit the trail, crossing the nant Ponturin, which was of course running pretty fast, and taking a dirt path uphill.

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.)

At Nancroiix, unfortunately, further progress on the GR5 was barred: apparently rockfalls or sliides had made the way dangerouus. We had to cross the nant 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.

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.

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.) 

Walking today: four miles, 250 m↑, 1:30. Hardly counts. 

Alpwalk 4: Chésery to Samoëns

 

The Montagne de l'Huber, at Chésery

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. 

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 boissons and liight refreshment. 

 

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. 

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.

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. 

 

Once again we were in a hotel, the three of us sharing a room. A hot shower and a real bed!

Alpwalk 7: Bonhomme to Plan-Mya

Gite du Plan-Mya, July 8, 2016—

 

Crete des Gittes

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.

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).

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.

 

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.

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.) 

 

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 rhododendrons were  finally in bloom, on low shrubs suggesting thin soil.

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.

We came out at a cafe-refuge on the departmental road, where I recalled eating a delicious apricot tart. Alas, there was only tartelettes de myrtilles 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. 

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.

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.

 

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!

Alpwalk 3: La Chapelle d'Abondance to Chesery

Refuge de Chesery, Switzerland, Sunday, June 3

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. 

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

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.

 

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. 

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.

 

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.

 

Alpwalk 3

Refuge de Chesery, Switzerland, Sunday, June 3

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. 

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

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.

 

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. 

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.

 

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.

 

Alpwalk 2

La Chapelle d'Abondance, July 2, 2016— 

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. 

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! 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. 

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.

 

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.

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. 

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.

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..

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!

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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…

 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

Alpwalk 1

La Chapelle d'Abondance, July 2, 2016— 

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.

Walked a mile or so down into town — Bernex — for dinner at Tante Marie's; not bad. (See Eating Every Day ) 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!

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 saucisson sec 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. 

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

Dinner — again, see Eating Every Day. Not bad. Ibexes, of course, which the French call biquoutin, all around. To bed as early as possible, tired but happy, and reasonably good sleep.

Don't have the stats yet: say 8 miles, 2000 meters climb, six hours including a couple of breaks. 

Alps, 2013, 26: end of the trip

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.

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. 

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 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

AND SO WE HAVE finished our Alpwalk for this year. On the GR 5 we logged 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.

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. 

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. 

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.

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 landscapes, or the great blue mother sea at their feet. They don't seem to change.

Alps, 2013, 25: la Vallée des Merveilles

Refuge Neige et Merveilles

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lac des Mesches: ruins of the abandoned hydroelectric installation

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.

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.)

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.

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. 

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. 

Because this was, I think, our first out-and-back hike: not what I normally  

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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.)

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. 

Alps, 2013, 24: Tende

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. 

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 Tuesday afternoon we took the train to Tende to resume yet again.

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. 

We arrived in Tende about five o'clock. 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.

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.