Pyrenees Day 2: An unlikely encounter
On the second day, I packed up my tent early so as to avoid being chased off by park rangers (if there were any around). The ridge I crossed early in the morning provided some shelter against the winds, and soon the sun started to shine, allowing me to peel off my clothing layers down to pants and a T-shirt. Lakes, ponds, and tarns of varying shapes and sizes littered the descent. No two were exactly alike, and some had a very distinct personality. One large one stood firmly in my path, shining with a confident shade of blue and forcing me to skirt its boulder-strewn shore. Another was shallow and friendly, completely transparent right to its sandy bottom. Still another was brown and murky, with frogs croaking along the muddy shoreline.
A few of the lakes, even comparatively tiny ones were held in by stone dams, part of a comprehensive effort to use hydroelectric power for the benefit of local towns. The dams and occasional power lines certainly detracted from the mountains´natural purity, but many fit so neatly into the landscape that they almost complemented it.
My LP guide suggested a 2-day detour from the GR-11 trail about mid-way through the second day, and I decided to follow its advice. Shortly afterwards, on a poorly-marked trail on which I hardly expected to see many people, I came across another trekker, walking in the same direction. His backpack was almost as big as he was, and I knew he was no day hiker. Since the trail at this point was confusing, I tried to communicate with him, first in Spanish, and, meeting no signs of recognition, in French. He replied in French that his first language was English, and I asked where he was from. He said Washington, D.C.
His name was Mark Allen, he was a lawyer working at the Federal Elections Commission, here on a month-long holiday hiking across the Pyrenees on his own, with the same British guidebook as I. At this point, I was forced to completely renounce the prideful illusion that I was doing anything remotely unique with my life.
After a brief moment´s hesitation, we temporarily renounced our self-imposed solitude, and began walking together, discovering one thing in common after another. We even had a couple of acquaintances in common in DC. The time passed quickly, and around 6:30 we reached an alpine hut that was our goal for the day.
The hut, high on a slope overlooking a dark lake, was described in our guidebook as a popular rest stop. Indeed, there were around 25 people who had made their way there for the night. The accomodations, however, were far from the nicest. The barely-flowing ice-cold shower persuaded most people that hygiene was a luxury to be dispensed with up here. The sleeping room consisted of two levels of mattresses, with tiny pillows as the only indication of each "bed" boundary.
I was quite hungry for a hot meal, so I consumed the substantial dinner without much hesitation, pretending that the soup full of chunks resembling soaked brown croutons was indeed full of soaked brown croutons, as opposed to some spongy animal tissue, which was the more realistic view. Falling asleep on a full stomach was no problem at all around here, and it was lights out time at 10 (literally in the dining area, and figuratively in the sleeping area, since lights there never worked in the first place).
A few of the lakes, even comparatively tiny ones were held in by stone dams, part of a comprehensive effort to use hydroelectric power for the benefit of local towns. The dams and occasional power lines certainly detracted from the mountains´natural purity, but many fit so neatly into the landscape that they almost complemented it.
My LP guide suggested a 2-day detour from the GR-11 trail about mid-way through the second day, and I decided to follow its advice. Shortly afterwards, on a poorly-marked trail on which I hardly expected to see many people, I came across another trekker, walking in the same direction. His backpack was almost as big as he was, and I knew he was no day hiker. Since the trail at this point was confusing, I tried to communicate with him, first in Spanish, and, meeting no signs of recognition, in French. He replied in French that his first language was English, and I asked where he was from. He said Washington, D.C.
His name was Mark Allen, he was a lawyer working at the Federal Elections Commission, here on a month-long holiday hiking across the Pyrenees on his own, with the same British guidebook as I. At this point, I was forced to completely renounce the prideful illusion that I was doing anything remotely unique with my life.
After a brief moment´s hesitation, we temporarily renounced our self-imposed solitude, and began walking together, discovering one thing in common after another. We even had a couple of acquaintances in common in DC. The time passed quickly, and around 6:30 we reached an alpine hut that was our goal for the day.
The hut, high on a slope overlooking a dark lake, was described in our guidebook as a popular rest stop. Indeed, there were around 25 people who had made their way there for the night. The accomodations, however, were far from the nicest. The barely-flowing ice-cold shower persuaded most people that hygiene was a luxury to be dispensed with up here. The sleeping room consisted of two levels of mattresses, with tiny pillows as the only indication of each "bed" boundary.
I was quite hungry for a hot meal, so I consumed the substantial dinner without much hesitation, pretending that the soup full of chunks resembling soaked brown croutons was indeed full of soaked brown croutons, as opposed to some spongy animal tissue, which was the more realistic view. Falling asleep on a full stomach was no problem at all around here, and it was lights out time at 10 (literally in the dining area, and figuratively in the sleeping area, since lights there never worked in the first place).
posted by Dmitri Evseev at 7:54 PM
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