Pyrenees Traverse 2018: Eastern Foothills

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29th & 30th October: Day 27 & 28

Day 27: 13 miles – 3,061ft ascent
Day 28: 13 miles – 2,631ft ascent; Cumulative: 412 miles – 119,063ft
 
I leave Pas de la Casa.
 
Slow going in the snow, though only calf deep at this point. As I get higher there’s a whiteout and I drop down to the road. It’s getting cold, and the forecast is for minus 12 degrees tonight – coincidentally exactly the maximum rating of my sleeping bag, so that’s nice.
 
There’s an icy wind and it starts to snow. I decide I need to walk with my thermals on, which first requires taking off a fair amount of my clothes at the roadside. A passing driver gives me a questioning look. I assume the question is: aren’t there easier places to expose yourself in public? A reasonable point.
 
I stay in a bothy. My laces and hands are frozen and I start to wonder if I’ll have to sleep with my boots on. (I manage to get them off eventually but it does involve hitting my boots with a stick for some time).

31st October & 1st November: Day 29 & 30

Short version: the snow is deep. Some people tell me the snow is deep. They are right.
 
Long version:
Day 29: 16 miles – 2,700ft ascent
 
Tricky day for weather. Start the day at minus 3 degrees, snowing heavily and some clothes wet. I wear everything I’ve got, to stay warm enough.
 
I drop down to a plain where the snow turns to heavy rain, all the clothes I have are now wet (still have no working raincoat), and then I climb back up into the freezing snow.
 
I stay at a bothy next to a shepherd’s hut – and there is someone else here! He is French, and is spending his holiday sitting up here in the cold (this bothy is just a shed, there’s no fireplace), writing something (I don’t understand what). He is dreaming of Scotland – he’s never been, but we have a long conversation about the mountains there, and whisky.
 
Day 30: 6 miles, 2,405ft ascent; Cumulative 434 miles, 124,168ft
 
The first question of today is a deep one: which is warmer – wearing one wet t-shirt or wearing two wet t-shirts?
 
The first dog of the day is the sheep dog. The shepherd has come up in his quad bike and is talking to the French poet, in french, which I don’t understand. As I’m unable to speak to humans, the dog identifies me as a companion clearly more on his intellectual level – we play fetch, with a stick he’s brought with him, in the snow, which I would describe here as about half a dog deep.
 
The shepherd warns me, via the poet, that the snow is too deep over the pass. Given I have no other option other than starting a new life up here with the poet and this dog, I make a sort of ‘this snow? Pah, it’s nothing to me’ gesture (which I think plays well to at least the poet side of the audience), and I carry on.
 
I accept the pass is bad, often knee deep.
 
A Spanish man with snow shoes (which I do not have), who speaks no English, shouts bravo when I reach the top ahead of him. He explains mainly through wild gesticulation that I will die on the next pass, while I act out various bits of winter equipment I have which I think might prevent this.
 
In the end, he is right, I can’t make the next pass today – the snow is even deeper on the way down and I am exhausted when I get to the bottom.
 
I sleep for about 12 hours (I never realised until now that I only went 6 miles on this day!)

Looking back to the High Pyrenees.

There was a lot of rain, on this plain. And it’s in Spain. This reminds me of singing the bear necessities in Yosemite (2006) when trying to work out what bears eat. Clearly can extend the process to weather forecasting.

2nd & 3rd November: Day 31 & 32

Day 31: 20 miles – 3,944ft ascent
Day 32: 14 miles – 5,276ft ascent; Cumulative: 468 miles, 133,388ft ascent
 
This is the worst snowy pass. I have to walk a mile along a ridge at the top, the snow is extremely deep and it takes a long time and is slightly worrying. But once down, I’m snow free and racing along.
 
The only problem – I’m running out of food, as didn’t expect snow to slow me down so much.
 
I find a town I think I can reach on the map and satellite message to my girlfriend to see if she can find me somewhere to stay there.
 
Supporting an heroic adventurer such as myself is a job my girlfriend takes seriously: I arrive at her chosen venue – Hotel Princess. (She is mocking me).
 
The hotelier is entertained to meet me. He’s been told I will require the finest room, but this has been slightly lost in translation and he believes what I need is the largest bed.
 
‘I understand that you require a very large bed? but, errr, you are not, I think, a very large person?’
‘Any bed is fine’
‘No, no, it was made very clear on the phone – I will show you to our largest bed’
 
This guy is definitely enjoying himself and spends some time pointing out ‘luxury’ features of the room to me – wet, covered in mud, torn shoes – not, to his eye, I’m guessing, the obvious candidate for a luxury lifestyle.
 
But he’s great and later intervenes in a dangerous conversation I’m having in French about wine, which I do not speak and do not like, respectively, and gives me some amazing beer (free beer – the tastiest kind).
 
It’s a bit of a shock to be back in the mountains the next day sleeping in an icy shed.

Up through this forest to the snowy ridge in the distance.

Thru-hiker luxury: not a tent

4th to 7th November: Day 33 to 36

Day 33: 19 miles – 2,913ft ascent
Day 34: 18 miles – 6,325ft ascent
Day 35: 22 miles – 4,606ft ascent
Day 36: 12 miles – 1,673ft ascent
 
Cumulative 539 miles – 148,905ft ascent
 
And that’s it. A couple more snowy passes, a short walk through a nudist commune (yup) and a few more days of pleasant autumnal walking down to the Mediterranean.
 
From sea to shining sea.

The last supper:

I am so hungry – 36 days of cumulative calorie deficit. This restaurant is far too fancy for me, in my worn out clothes and torn shoes. The other people here look like they’re out for a special occasion.

The waiter speaks no English. I ask for beer. This causes some upset. I think he’s telling me they only have one sort of beer, but it will turn out he’s telling me they literally only own one single beer. I should have drunk it slower.

There is no written menu – google translate will not save me now. The waiter delivers a long speech about the menu to me. I wonder if perhaps by the end of the speech I will have been immersed in the language long enough to understand. But no.

Urgh. I am so hungry.

The family at the next table gets involved. Their English isn’t great, but eventually between us we get to a reasonably clear view of what the menu contains.

But wait – what are the actual choices? This seems like just a list of tonnes of different courses.

‘Oh no, it’s a set menu – he’s just telling you what he will serve you, if you agree’

I look back at the waiter. He is smiling at our progress.

Oh my god. Have I just lost 10 minutes of eating time to this.

‘Yes! I agree! Bring me everything!’