With strain I sit up from where I lay on the hard, concrete floor.
The door is slightly ajar, a thin film of light flooding into the
confines of the poorly lit space. I pull on some shorts and yank the
heavy metal door open just enough to squeeze out. The grass is soft
against the soles of my feet, the sun blinding, warm on my chest. I
moved around sluggishly, dragging myself to the creek to get some
water, becoming a little lighter on my feet with each step. As I get
back Pablo is just waking up and poking his head out the door
revealing the day nature has produce for us. I lay on the compact
grass, watching the small cumulus clouds race the streaks of cirrus
through the sky, feeling a little humbled by the towering masses of
the mountains on either side of the valley.
* * *
30 Hours Earlier
The sound of music coming from the vibrating phone by my head easily
awakens me from my shallow, intermittent sleep. 6:15. Time to go. It
takes a few minutes to muster the strength to wrench myself entirely
from my sleeping bag. Its still pitch black outside. I frantically
stuff some things in a bag; mountain clothes, plenty of food and the
other small items that a big day in the mountains demands. I tuck my
crampons inside my helmet to try and guard the contents of my pack,
placing them both at the very top. After strapping our ice axes to
the outside we're off, heading for the barranco, a steep creek of
sorts from where our ascent will begin.
 |
| The route through the hard stuff |
Standing at the bottom it looks huge. And I probably can't see the
whole expanse. The map shows we have almost one and a half kilometres
of elevation to gain before we hit the rocky ridge. It seems almost
laughable to me, watching the silhouettes of the mountains gradually
gain more detail. We arrived well after dark the night before and now
we are leaving the valley well before it is light.
 |
| The traverse route; Refugio Labaza to Baysellance |
We start ascending steadily. I watch the terrain change beneath my
feet from pine roots, the sedges, to succulents and finally to rock.
As the valley narrows I watch a family of ibexs dart up the cliffs,
gaining perhaps 200m in minutes, sending loose rock down after them.
At around 2700m the walking changes completely to rock. I walk up
steep slabs, rendered clean by harsh winter after harsh winter.
The cairns are patchy at best. It feels like I'm back in Tassie all
over again, having to do my own navigation and make route choices
without the constant aid of tracks or other markers. But that's how I
like it. I love the feeling of being completely immersed in the
landscape I'm walking in, when its just you and the mountains and
there's few signs of past visits to deter your eyes from the grandeur
of the landscape.
Below the huge, smooth headwall that seemed to be made out of marble
there are some walled bivvy sites which could have easily been big
enough for small tents. My eyes follow the wall to the left, probing
the mountains for any sign of the mystical corridor that would
deposit us on the ridge forming the border between France and Spain.
Nothing. Everything blends in from this angle. I guess it'll become
apparent as we get higher. My eyes move down, following the curving
mass of ice down the narrow gully. It seems the sun has only just hit
it. We're making good progress.
After a long-ish break I shed the layers I put on to ward off the
cool of the morning and attach my crampons. The glacier starts metres
away. I start moving quickly on slopes of about 35 degrees, making
sure my feet are far enough apart that there is no chance they will
get caught on one another. As the gully narrows it gives the
prospective climber a choice; a quite narrow and steep piece of ice,
standing like a solidly reinforced bridge within the gully itself, or
a section of easy rock, of course done in crampons. I took the ice
very carefully before moving onto a little rock where I had to.
The glacier remained steep and got us higher quickly. In one point
the slopes must have been at least 50 degrees and without any kind of
anchors I was glad it was short lived. I firmly shoved my ice axe
into the now semi soft glacier, kicking in steeps as I went. Lower
down I thought I had seen a cairn. Turns out I was right. A huge
cairn sits on a stretch of precariously loose rock between glaciers
and once you are there the chimney itself becomes painfully obvious.
Two eagles circle overhead, battling for my attention over the French
grade III rock that is to come. Maybe the crux is higher up....
After a brief break I'm moving up the tight, enclosed corridor,
staying well ahead of Pablo in different gullies in case I dislodge
loose rock. Each move feels easy and has no exposure.
 |
| The chimney |
As I pull myself up a small overhang my head suddenly emerges above
the ridges. Wow. The bulk of the Pyrenees to the north is stretched
out before me, rendered desolate by the harshness of each winter and
dotted by small lakes nesting in amongst the rocky facades. My heart
begins to beat a little faster. We are close.
I can now see the two eagles circling in the valley on the opposite
side of the ridge, gracefully cutting lines through the air far
below, revealing how far we have come. The valley of Bujaruelo where
we started now appears tiny, as if its merely the small groove in the
landscape formed by a mountain creek. The ridge ahead is like a knife
edge. I step softly, trying to be conscious of the loose rock I can
see lining the tops of big drops on the surrounding slopes.
The cairns persist for a little while before disappearing for good.
The ridge is relinquished for slopes of loose shale, a game of
picking the line that's going to cause the least problems. When
climbing European mountains loose rock is an innate part of the
experience. I have never seen scrambling routes on good, clean rock.
I see too climbers, carrying rope on the ridgeline. Knowing I'm so
close I can almost touch it I speed up and in less than 50m I'm
standing on a small, shaley summit, finally on the border of the two
countries. The Glacier d'Ossoue stretches out before me in a bowl
ringed by a rocky ridgeline, one of the greatest remaining glaciers
in the Pyrenees and quickly receding.
The ground shifts below my feet as I descend the rocky ridge to the
edge of the glacier, chunks of rock tumbling onto its upper flanks.
At least three parties are on the same ridge. I can see the
silhouettes of two figures illuminated against the harsh alpine sun,
victoriously standing on central peak. I can see another party of its
rocky slopes and another in the saddle beneath it. And plenty on
Vignemale itself.
This area is so well frequented that it's obvious where everyone
walks on the glacier. There are no crevasses or steep slopes to
excite. Only flat, easy walking and in five minutes the loose slabs
of Vignemale's normal route extend into the sky above us.
It felt a little annoying to be putting crampons on and off for such
a stretch. By the looks of the footprints in the snow many don't even
bring crampons when coming from France. This would be incredibly hard
work with 2.5km or so of glacier walking. Although the glacier seems
to be fairly shallow and crevasse free the slopes are steep and your
feet would be sliding everyone.
The summit being this close only pushes me harder. I climb up past a
party that are using a rope to come back down, worried about the lack
of features in the rock. I take a more direct route that most,
following what appears to be limestone rather than the distinctive
red rock. I see several more parties that aren't using protection but
are roped up glacier style. From the looks of things their days would
get very interesting if one of them was to slip. The other would be
taken with them.
Most people just climb free, despite a few sections of loose rock.
This is what I had chosen to do too and didn't once feel
uncomfortable. The climb is technically easy and for anyone used to
even Tassie's scrambly mountains it is non-problematic.
As I arrive on the rounded, compact summit the bulk of the Pyrenees
takes shape, extending for hundreds of kilometres in each direction,
the spine dividing Spain and France. The iconic mass of Monte
Perdido is easily visible, deceptively close, with the highest
summits of the Pyrenees beyond. I think of Andorra, nestled somewhere
on the other side of those peaks, where I had been weeks earlier.
Close if you're a bird but otherwise a huge distance away, guarded by
battalions of serrated ridges of loose rock and deep valleys.
We spend more than an hour on top, intoxicated by the view. I swear I
could spend all day on top of a mountain, just probing its nuances
with my eyes, somehow never becoming bored. The occasional bird might
pass by, sweeping and diving through a few circles above my head,
momentarily pulling my attention away from the landscape.
The broken red rock poses a bit more of a problem on the way down but
still we arrive at the end of the rock and the start of the glacier
quickly, strapping on crampons once again. The descent is somewhat
tiresome. It goes without saying but the landscape is spectacular as
per usual, however the walking feels somewhat monotonous after what
we've already done. The glacier seems to go on forever. In total it
might stretch on for two or three kilometres, terminating at around
the same elevation as Baysellance Refuge, the most common starting
point for an assault on Vignemale and the direction from which every
person started that day but us. Nobody else climbed via the Corredor
de Moscova, the far less frequented ascent route that we had chosen
to ascend, starting from Spain, not France.
As we pass Baysellance a quick check of the time reveals it's after
six. Daylight is receding. We've now been on the go twelve hours and
have quite a few more to go before we can sleep.
100m of climbing is followed by 500m of descent. The tracks are great
but that kind of up and down after a long day is enough to break
anyone. The mountains are already illuminated before we start
descending, shrouded in a warm glow. The north face of Vignemale sits
entirely in shade, making in ominous, threatening, fully accentuating
the size of the fissures in the steep glacier guarding its feet.
On reaching the valley floor, another 500m of ascent awaits, a major
mental challenge of the exhaustion levels we are now wearing. We sit
down, the sun entirely gone from the valley, and rug up. We eat
quickly, frantically almost, but then can't compel ourselves to get
up. We linger ten minutes more, savouring the respite from standing.
The first few steps are a struggle. Then the food begins to kick in.
It had been far too long since I'd snacked. As I get higher I feel
stronger and as the grasses are relinquished for rock I begin to get
excited. Before long I am standing above Bujaruelo once again. I
watch Pablo climb the last few metres, a smile growing on my face.
We don't linger. We quickly dash down the winding path benched into
the scree, marked by cairns. The sun set a reasonable time ago. By
the time we reach the very bottom the light is well and truly on its
way out, meaning it is around 9:45. We move faster, wanting to make
as much progress before the light disappears altogether.
We were loosing the track even in the fading light. Once darkness
sets in things are no different. What we thought would be an easy
dash back down the valley turned into an off track walk in pitch
darkness. The sky is completely clear but there is no moon. Few
stars. We listen to the tumbling and falling of the creek, serving as
a guide to deliver us back at Refugio Labaza, home.
The walking is open and easy, aside from a few steep slopes. It takes
hours, we're moving so slowly. A few times we think we've passed it
until I look at the mountains and think about what the alignment is
like from the Refugio. The walk seems to drag on. And on.
Then we almost stumble on the rocks bordering a large creek. I almost
start running. I recognise this creek. I recognise the valley it is
pouring from. We have been here before. This is where we started
climbing eighteen hours earlier. Eighteen hours.
I force the door open, a stiff, heavy piece of metal trying to bar me
from sleeping, probably waking up the “neighbours”. Oh well. That
door scrapes loudly no matter what.
I stumble in and find my sleeping bag. Despite the uncomfortable
sleeping arrangements I'm out like a light. It's now 1:30. And we
left camp at 6:45. Talk about a productive day.
* * *
Walking through the gates marking the end of the valley felt surreal.
After the previous day we drag our feet, moving very slowly, nursing
the pads on the bottom of our feet, or what is left of them. We had
woken up at close to midday, no real surprise considering the events
of the previous “day”. With only a kilometre left to walk we
stop. I strip down to only my shorts and dash for the water under the
bridge, lazily caressing the steep sides. I come to a tree hanging
over the water and don't bother progressing any further. I simply
throw myself in head first, cleanly breaking the perfection of the
mineral blue pool.
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