valley on the left to the lake and then it’s straight on up to the plateau. Are you all right?” they ask, clearly taken aback by our exhausted appearance, Greg’s peculiar exercises, and our apparent lack of orientation, which cannot seem like the best state in which to climb those mountain peaks. It is just as well these are the last hurdles we have to deal with today , I think to myself.
The climb goes better, Greg’s pain diminishes a little bit, and we are able to set a fast pace, running the whole way up to the col and the peak, where a spectacular ridge brings us straight down over the lake in Ansabère. It is a steep descent, and here his pain gets sharper, though we are moving very slowly. A path along the right shore of the lake gently slopes down to the Las Foyas ravine, where we find Olivier and Thierry, who stay with Greg. We weren’t aware that time had caught up with us, that we only had three hours of daylight left. We are still 18 miles from Somport and 30 from Sallent de Gállego, where we are supposed to sleep the night.We agree with Thierry that it would be better to spend the night in Somport and resume our run tomorrow. That 30-mile stretch would be too much for us now.
I still have some of the energy that the rolls provided and start briskly on the climb to the peak of Rincón. The path disappears, and I start to climb slopes covered in grass and slate that take me straight to the top. The cold but pure air, the energy that comes from being alone on a ridge, and the strong smell of wet earth motivate me to start running, leaping, and singing as I zigzag on the path along the edge of the ridge. The mist teases me, playing fast and loose, and the wind appears and disappears as I imagine I am hang gliding over the ridge.
I think you can experience no greater sense of freedom than what you feel when you run on a ridge that seems to hang in the air. It’s like running along the edge of the blade of a sword, taking care not to fall over one side as you accelerate with every step to leave the blade and the danger behind, though at the same time you don’t want it to ever end. There is danger, but you can think only of flying, of giving your legs the freedom to go faster and faster, letting your body dance as it keeps its balance. It doesn’t matter when or where—you could be descending the ridge on the Bosses of Mont Blanc, the ridges on the Olla de Núria or Carlit—that feeling of freedom never changes. However, like everything in life, nothing is eternal; the ridge finally gives way to a descent that takes me to the Lapassia refuge, where a short but demanding climb at this stage in the day, after some 55 miles, takes me to the Arlet Col.
My phone rings. “Where are you, Kilian? I’m climbing up from Somport looking for you with a headlamp. Don’t leave the path and then take the trail, understand?” says Joan. He is clearly worried by the darkness that is beginning to descend over the valley floors.
I still feel strong and launch myself at speed along the small path to Espelunguere. I reach the cabin in five minutes and start running on the trail. The path is quick and direct; however, it goes into the woods, and the darkness under the trees won’t let me run without risk of stumbling over a root, rock, or fallen tree. Although I can’t see where it’s going, the track is broad, so I take big, high strides to avoid stumbling.
I have been going downhill for a good half an hour when the telephone rings again.
“Hey! Where are you? Have you passed the cabin yet?”
“Wow, I must have passed it almost 40 minutes ago. Where are you?”
“I’m coming up the trail, on the right of the river. Can you hear the river?”
“Hmm … ” I listen hard to my surroundings but can hear nothing. “I think it must be farther down, because I haven’t passed anything, though the floor of the valley is beneath me, on my left … ”
“All right, continue on down. I’m in a clearing that
The climb goes better, Greg’s pain diminishes a little bit, and we are able to set a fast pace, running the whole way up to the col and the peak, where a spectacular ridge brings us straight down over the lake in Ansabère. It is a steep descent, and here his pain gets sharper, though we are moving very slowly. A path along the right shore of the lake gently slopes down to the Las Foyas ravine, where we find Olivier and Thierry, who stay with Greg. We weren’t aware that time had caught up with us, that we only had three hours of daylight left. We are still 18 miles from Somport and 30 from Sallent de Gállego, where we are supposed to sleep the night.We agree with Thierry that it would be better to spend the night in Somport and resume our run tomorrow. That 30-mile stretch would be too much for us now.
I still have some of the energy that the rolls provided and start briskly on the climb to the peak of Rincón. The path disappears, and I start to climb slopes covered in grass and slate that take me straight to the top. The cold but pure air, the energy that comes from being alone on a ridge, and the strong smell of wet earth motivate me to start running, leaping, and singing as I zigzag on the path along the edge of the ridge. The mist teases me, playing fast and loose, and the wind appears and disappears as I imagine I am hang gliding over the ridge.
I think you can experience no greater sense of freedom than what you feel when you run on a ridge that seems to hang in the air. It’s like running along the edge of the blade of a sword, taking care not to fall over one side as you accelerate with every step to leave the blade and the danger behind, though at the same time you don’t want it to ever end. There is danger, but you can think only of flying, of giving your legs the freedom to go faster and faster, letting your body dance as it keeps its balance. It doesn’t matter when or where—you could be descending the ridge on the Bosses of Mont Blanc, the ridges on the Olla de Núria or Carlit—that feeling of freedom never changes. However, like everything in life, nothing is eternal; the ridge finally gives way to a descent that takes me to the Lapassia refuge, where a short but demanding climb at this stage in the day, after some 55 miles, takes me to the Arlet Col.
My phone rings. “Where are you, Kilian? I’m climbing up from Somport looking for you with a headlamp. Don’t leave the path and then take the trail, understand?” says Joan. He is clearly worried by the darkness that is beginning to descend over the valley floors.
I still feel strong and launch myself at speed along the small path to Espelunguere. I reach the cabin in five minutes and start running on the trail. The path is quick and direct; however, it goes into the woods, and the darkness under the trees won’t let me run without risk of stumbling over a root, rock, or fallen tree. Although I can’t see where it’s going, the track is broad, so I take big, high strides to avoid stumbling.
I have been going downhill for a good half an hour when the telephone rings again.
“Hey! Where are you? Have you passed the cabin yet?”
“Wow, I must have passed it almost 40 minutes ago. Where are you?”
“I’m coming up the trail, on the right of the river. Can you hear the river?”
“Hmm … ” I listen hard to my surroundings but can hear nothing. “I think it must be farther down, because I haven’t passed anything, though the floor of the valley is beneath me, on my left … ”
“All right, continue on down. I’m in a clearing that
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