"Oh yes" said the one-eyed hotelier as she limped away clutching our money, "...there's no problem with the snow"."Are you sure?" I called after her. I was fairly certain that she hadn't been up the Col d'Hourquette recently. Or perhaps ever. It was our highest pass so far at 2465m, and reputedly could not be crossed until late June. We were three weeks early but with a sunny spring melting the snow, a bit of luck and the miracle of global warming, we might just make it. Prudence, however, suggested that we ask about at basecamp and find out if the pass was open. But she had already disappeared.
A strange little place, Gabas. It stretched down a steep hill in a damp valley - a handful of dingy houses with shutters that dangled precariously from the windows. The forlorn restaurant looked like something out of the wild west - cobwebs across the bar suggesting it hadn't seen much custom for a while. Two huge, scraggy mountain dogs snarled at us as we approached the only shop in town to ask for directions. The owner shrugged and turned away. Dusk approached. We polished off our chocolat chauds and got the hell out of there.
A short hike by headtorch and we made a hasty camp in the valley above Gabas, rising early the next morning to continue up to the pass. Picking our way up the vertiginous rock pathway caved into the rockface, we crept slowly upwards. Hour after hour we climbed, clambering across streams and rocky plateaus as vultures circled overhead. Finally leaving behind the treeline in the afternoon sun, I paused on the trail to tie my laces, becoming aware of a strange panting noise. Out of nowhere, a fellrunner nimbly swerved past me in a flash of tight red lycra and leathery skin. He grinned from ear to ear (as fellrunners tend to do) and bounced upwards towards Dad.
"Monsieur!", I called after him. "Is the pass d'Horquette open?" He yanked the headphones from his ears and turned back, all heaving shoulders and pulsating temples. "Yes, it's open!" he smiled. "Pas de probleme! I'm going there now... over the top to Gourette! I'll sleep there tonight - ha ha!"
We chatted some more. He was a mountain athlete, competing regularly in long distance, high altitude races on France's finest peaks. This little practice run was a bit of training for a forthcoming race across Corsica, much higher and tougher than these parts. He obviously knew his onions, this fellow. We breathed a sigh of relief and continued plodding up the mountain.
Two hours later, we pitched our tent in the evening sunshine a couple of kilometers short of the summit, preparing ourselves for the final push the following morning. As we sat gazing upwards, sipping mugs of sweet tea, the same tight-shorted fellrunner descended back down the trail, his enduring smile replaced by a furrowed frown.
"Too much snow", he mumbled. "I go back to Gabas"; he glanced at our bubbling macaroni cheese: "Bon courage, et bon appetit..."
Thankfully, he saved us the final few hours of sweat and toil to the top, and the tricky decision of whether to tackle the summit snow and glaciers. We were able to retrace our steps to another valley, plot a lower, longer route across another saddle and, after many extra miles, arrive at Gourette safely the following afternoon. The cold, north-facing slopes of Col d'Horquette beat us this time... we were down, but not out. Fortified by red wine, rare steaks and a stern team talk, we celebrated our cunning detour and rallied ourselves for another day on the trail. Besides, there was no time for being down or out: we still had to tackle Col de Madamette - fifty meters higher - in less than a week. Find out how we got on
here
Until the next time!
Sarah and Rick x
