the direction of Larrau. A track leads us gently up to the high ridges of Abodi, and the good weather and fresh air seem to bring the blood back to my legs, which start to regain their energy, allowing me to look up from the ground as we reach the ridges. The view is spectacular. The first rocky peaks of the Pyrenees tower in front of us, behind Belagua, and, farther on, the horizon extends like a rumpled blanket of myriad shades of yellow before disappearing into the sea. The view gives me the strength to reach Larrau, and I anticipate that the morning will be a smooth run through pristine passes.
After a short stop to consume gel and isotonic drinks, we start our run toward the peaks of Mesa De los Tres Reyes and Anie. Joan and Edu now accompany us; they didn’t want to miss out on the spectacular landscapes in this corner of the Pyrenees. The miles pass by quickly, eased by our conversation and the gently undulating grassy terrain that allows us to run at a moderate pace, as if we were crossing clouds of soft cotton. The pain that my tendons and joints were feeling this morning is forgotten.
Our conversations gradually fall away, not for lack of topics or out of shyness, but because the terrain gets steeper and steeper and we need to reserve our energy for breathing and footing. We concentrate on the 10 or 12 miles still left to go. Edu and Joan wentback a while ago, and Greg and I are now facing the peaks on the Barazea. We started out almost six hours ago and have eaten nothing solid since breakfast. Feeling hungry and tired, we stop for a few moments to sit down and take a rest under one of the peaks. The track continues to climb a short distance until it reaches the peaks and then starts an immediate descent into a long valley that should take us to Belagua, where tasty rolls await us.
You do not make good decisions on an empty stomach. We are growing increasingly hungry, and when we sit and look at our maps, we see that if we continue to press along at our present altitude below the peaks, we’ll reach the end of the ridge path and then an easy descent will bring us to the bottom of the valley, within a few minutes’ reach of the rolls that keep taking shape in our thoughts. It is a perfect plan; we can cut half an hour off our hunger if we go at a brisk pace. We are pleased with the clever way we have oriented ourselves.
I don’t know whether the image of those rolls was so strong and powerful that it blocked our vision or erased the valleys from our map, but half an hour later we are at the end of the ridges and facing a rocky valley where there are clearly no paths. Our disappointment is plain in the glances we exchange. We are completely on the wrong track.
As hunger is more powerful than disappointment or niggling thoughts about why we were so stupid as to leave the right path, I immediately vanish into a sea of granite rocks, and Greg waits up on the ridge for a sign from me before hurtling down the scree. I start to advance to my right, looking for a route that will allow us to make a safe, rapid descent and that doesn’t hide any surprises, such as a ravine or unstable rocks that might collapse on our backs. I see a route about 100 yards from the plateau where Greg is waiting for a signal from me. I shout loudly into the wind at him, tellinghim to come to where I am now, and without a second thought I head down the scree.
The fine stone makes for speedy progress and is easy going. I take big jumps and glissade down over the pebbles as if this was a dune in the desert or a safe, no-risk slope of fine snow, a soft surface cushioning us from the impact of our leaps or falls. We let ourselves be swept along by our emotion and the ease with which we make our top-speed descent. We forget our legs are not German engines able to turn at more than 7,000 rpm. Two minutes and we are on the valley floor. In the end, our error hasn’t lost us as much time as we had imagined—only a few minutes. We grin and race
After a short stop to consume gel and isotonic drinks, we start our run toward the peaks of Mesa De los Tres Reyes and Anie. Joan and Edu now accompany us; they didn’t want to miss out on the spectacular landscapes in this corner of the Pyrenees. The miles pass by quickly, eased by our conversation and the gently undulating grassy terrain that allows us to run at a moderate pace, as if we were crossing clouds of soft cotton. The pain that my tendons and joints were feeling this morning is forgotten.
Our conversations gradually fall away, not for lack of topics or out of shyness, but because the terrain gets steeper and steeper and we need to reserve our energy for breathing and footing. We concentrate on the 10 or 12 miles still left to go. Edu and Joan wentback a while ago, and Greg and I are now facing the peaks on the Barazea. We started out almost six hours ago and have eaten nothing solid since breakfast. Feeling hungry and tired, we stop for a few moments to sit down and take a rest under one of the peaks. The track continues to climb a short distance until it reaches the peaks and then starts an immediate descent into a long valley that should take us to Belagua, where tasty rolls await us.
You do not make good decisions on an empty stomach. We are growing increasingly hungry, and when we sit and look at our maps, we see that if we continue to press along at our present altitude below the peaks, we’ll reach the end of the ridge path and then an easy descent will bring us to the bottom of the valley, within a few minutes’ reach of the rolls that keep taking shape in our thoughts. It is a perfect plan; we can cut half an hour off our hunger if we go at a brisk pace. We are pleased with the clever way we have oriented ourselves.
I don’t know whether the image of those rolls was so strong and powerful that it blocked our vision or erased the valleys from our map, but half an hour later we are at the end of the ridges and facing a rocky valley where there are clearly no paths. Our disappointment is plain in the glances we exchange. We are completely on the wrong track.
As hunger is more powerful than disappointment or niggling thoughts about why we were so stupid as to leave the right path, I immediately vanish into a sea of granite rocks, and Greg waits up on the ridge for a sign from me before hurtling down the scree. I start to advance to my right, looking for a route that will allow us to make a safe, rapid descent and that doesn’t hide any surprises, such as a ravine or unstable rocks that might collapse on our backs. I see a route about 100 yards from the plateau where Greg is waiting for a signal from me. I shout loudly into the wind at him, tellinghim to come to where I am now, and without a second thought I head down the scree.
The fine stone makes for speedy progress and is easy going. I take big jumps and glissade down over the pebbles as if this was a dune in the desert or a safe, no-risk slope of fine snow, a soft surface cushioning us from the impact of our leaps or falls. We let ourselves be swept along by our emotion and the ease with which we make our top-speed descent. We forget our legs are not German engines able to turn at more than 7,000 rpm. Two minutes and we are on the valley floor. In the end, our error hasn’t lost us as much time as we had imagined—only a few minutes. We grin and race
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