Читать книгу A Walk in the Clouds - Kev Reynolds - Страница 24

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NO FRIEND IN HIGH PLACES

The Pyrenean High Route makes an epic traverse of the range from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, keeping as close to the frontier ridge as possible. Since its inception by Georges Véron in the late 1960s there has never been one definitive trail – indeed, long sections have no visible trail at all – and there have been numerous variations, all leading to a challenging trek of about 42 days. In 1979, for his first visit to the Pyrenees, Pete Smith and I trekked a two-week section of the Haute Route, but with variations of our own. It proved to be another memorable trip, with tough days counterbalanced by laughter; but I hadn’t considered his ability to embarrass…

Pete and I had known each other for years, but this was our first mountain trip together. We laughed a lot, challenged each other with unbelievable stories, and shared the same ironic humour. A few days ago we were struggling out of the Aspe valley on a trail that had no respect for heavy sacks and weary legs; I was in front, suffering (momentarily, you understand) in the heat, when Pete, gauging how I felt, had summoned strength and breath and stormed past me, hands in pockets, whistling.

Now we were camped beside Lac de Pombie at the foot of Pic du Midi, the massive south-facing walls of the mountain softening in the alpenglow. It was my turn to cook the meal, and I was crouched in the porch of the tent protecting the cooker from a breeze when Pete, who was outside, announced that he could see a couple of climbers beside the refuge above us studying a copy of my guidebook. ‘I’ll just go and tell them the author is down here,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they’ll want to meet you!’

I gave him a mouthful of abuse.

The next morning it was our plan to move on to the Balaïtous massif, so we collapsed the tent, ambled up the slope to the refuge, then began our descent to the Ossau valley, across which the bold granite mountains were as tempting as ever. In another four hours or so we would be there, and I looked forward to introducing them to Pete, to crossing their ridges, skirting their lakes and camping among their wild recesses once more. He’d find the Balaïtous very different from Pic du Midi and those mountains we’d traversed since leaving the Aiguilles d’Ansabère, but I was sure they’d be to his liking, rough and uncompromising as they are.

Descent to the valley is steep in places, but easy enough, and at one point there’s a trail junction with a footbridge over a stream that takes one path into woodland. That would be our path, but standing at the junction were two climbers clutching a map and a copy of my guidebook. My heart sank.

‘Are you lost?’ asked Pete.

‘Not really,’ answered one. ‘Just wondering which path to take.’

‘Don’t you have a guidebook?’ asked Pete, feigning innocence.

‘Yeah, but it doesn’t mention one of the options.’ He held the book up for Pete’s attention.

‘Blimey!’ said Pete. ‘You’re not using that, are you? I know old Reynolds. Full of bullshit, he is. As for the Pyrenees, he’s only been here a couple of times. And that was by car. He never walks anywhere, lazy sod. But he’s got a good imagination.’

With that I left the three of them to discuss the merits of guidebooks and their authors, crossed the bridge and disappeared into the woodland. I’d get my own back later.