Mountaineering: The Freedom of the Hills (part 2)

Warning: this post is no different from the previous one: the reference it contains to the Bible-of-mountaineering,-your-ticket-to-the-wilderness is nothing but a humble tribute of two enthusiastic Mountain lovers (and occasional Tree huggers, btw). We would consider ourselves truly satisfied, would you decide to buy it and dive in its amazing content just based on our warmest advice...

the back of the 2c15 in B.B.B (Breakfast-Buffet-Brunch) setting. 

For those who don't remember it, the first part of the adventure finished like this: "After that, we headed the 2c15 up north again, through Huesca and Sabiñanigo to the Pourtalet, where we spent a beautiful yet chilly night with the milky way and the Midi d'Ossau (2884m) straight in our bedroom window." Our idea was to wake up early and do a fast up-and-down hike to summit Jean-Pierre (the emblematic Bearnese peak's nickname) by its normal route: Refuge de Pombie and Col de Suzon, pif-paf, back to the car for lunch and let's roll... I can hear them laughing "the meek shall inherit the earth". Well, our early wake-up was early-ish and the car park (i.e. both sides of the narrow mountain road) was over-crowded with vans, cars, campers, motorcycles and motor-homes packed in a chaotic, yet optimized pattern two hundred meters before and after the beginning of the trail. The trail itself - wandering through the high altitude meadows, peacefully grazed by a bucolic crowd of sheep and cattle - was a continuous, never-ending and dense chain of hikers, who resembled, from a distance, some Catalan pro-independence demonstrators or some XIXieth century firemen passing along the buckets of water to control a fire...

Iconic view from Laruns downtown: "le Pic du Ger a mis son écharpe".

It's not that we don't like human beings, but we're not that much into massive gatherings and tend to find mountaineering enjoyable and rewarding precisely because one can (eventually) experience loneliness and solitude, while feeling lost in the seemingly infinite wilderness. Bull-poop! The Pic du Midi d'Ossau happens to be THE place to visit on a sunny August 10th morning. Call us anti-conformists, we passed along and parked the 2c15 a few kilometers lower down the road for breakfast. The little road to Bious-Artigues was closed due to a heavy traffic jam and the tiny village of Gabas was totally collapsed. Les Eaux-chaudes was desert and looking like a ghost town (this shouldn't be a surprise to anybody who's ever been there), so before we could even realize it, we were in Laruns, taking pictures of weird electric sheep and weeding the grave of Futuna's grandmother (not shown). All right. We had an appointment we couldn't miss with our dear A., his girlfriend M. and her family (two sistas and motha), somewhere over the rainbow: "let's meet at the Refuge de Baysselance, he told us, on the evening of the 12th. We'll have climbed all the way from Pont d'Espagne to the North Face (the "Gaube" side) and hopefully summited the Petit Vignemale along the way! We'll have dinner together and then we'll sleep at the cosy shelter while you guys set your bivy somewhere around: it's gonna be legen... etc.". When A. sets up a meeting, you don't doubt about it nor negociate: you do and you make sure to be on time.

Wallis looking for her route at Arudy ;end of the day on the way to Ossoue ; two wild Iris and still waters right after dawn.

So, with an extra day in the pocket, we drove to Arudy, found a nice spot and did a little bit of sport climbing at a nice crag whose name we don't remember*. Pleasant and quiet spot, nice routes in our grade (5+ to 6a+, we left the couple of 6b and 6c for the next go, "when we're stronger", if that day comes, inshallah!), smiling friendly locals and a middle-aged couple of french traveling hippies playing pétanque with a glass of rosé before dinner. The perfect retreat? Almost... Unfortunately in less than one hour, some forgotten (but still pretty fresh) canine mines exploded under our feet and not even the left one(s). The next day, we did just a tiny little bit of early climbing then we drove to Pau, Lourdes and Gavarnie. Once there, we finally took the dirt road up to Ossoue's dam for an early dinner and 4-star night in our 2.0 bivy: a minimal 1,1kg McKinley tunnel shelter we (compulsively) purchased in Pau after the 1.0 experience: the sleepless slap-in-the-face cold and windy night. Truth is, we were inspired to get it and take it with us on this hike and you'll soon discover how much! No fee for us, no family working there, no special interest in selling the gear, but: we are generally very satisfied with McKinley products and the Arium1 shelter is just fantastic! End of the commercial... back to the hike: from Ossoue, the trail goes up a narrow valley, on the right side of the creek, all the way to a couple of caves dug in the rock (probably by Russell). From there, a trail takes you to the Refuge de Baysselance, while another one goes straight to the foot of the glacier d'Ossoue.

the lower part of the glacier d'Ossoue, with the thick lips of some impressive crevices...

After hiding the bigger backpack under some flat stones, we headed to the glacier, disturbed some young fellow Pyrenean chamois**, took out the ice axes and put on the crampons... The glacier was impressive, steep and deeply cracked but fortunately, some clear and quite young traces gave us the confidence we may have lacked... Ha ha! Ice terrain is no joke... Approximately half way to the top of the glacier, we met two friendly guys from Madrid and finished the ascent with them, while a rope-party of seven, most probably led by a guide, was taking the tourist route across the crevices. I reckon when you pay for the services of a mountain guide, you want to see some real stuff and go where you wouldn't on your own! Anyway, at some point and after passing at the foot of the Pointe Chausenque, the Piton Carré and seen from above the perspective of the most famous corridor of the Pyrenees, the Couloir de Gaube, we reached the foot of the Pique Longue du Vignemale. On a neat and flat area, sharing the available room with the other two parties, we removed the crampons and soon began to "climb" the final section, wisely following - as the guidebook advised - the lines of red rock better than those of grey, more slippery and loose.

All the way up on the glacier d'Ossoue: with an old pair of vintage crampons and many unreal shades of blue!

A professional rope party, the glacier from la Pique Longue and the last 100 meters of natural rock stairs.

Breathtaking views from the top of Pique Longue (3298m), with the Midi d'Ossau in the background and... rush hour to the top!

The summit of the Pique longue (3298m) was easy to reach and the weather clear enough to enjoy 360º of breath-taking, jaw-dropping views: with Gavarnie on one side and the crowded Midi d'Ossau on the other, plus an endless sea of unknown mountains and valleys on the Spanish side... After some quiet sandwiches and still water, the loud guided crowd started to make it to the top and chased us right away. The way down along the (red) rock stairs was easy and quick, so we soon were back and down on the glacier. The refuge de Baysselance we saw from the top at about 600 vertical meters lower to the East right at the foot of the Petit Vignemale and the Hourquette d'Ossoue, was still a long way around the glacier, back to where we dropped the main backpack and back up to its green saddle facing Gavarnie. Just took the average 5-minute pause for a photoshoot by the exit of the Couloir de Gaube, and down we went, following our own previous traces through the rare cracks of the north side of the glacier. As morning advanced and the sun got higher, we feared the snow may become weaker and switched to the rock earlier. Lower on, the backpack was so artistically covered with stones and hidden, we hardly could find it, and the rest of the way to Baysselance was about 40 minutes with no particular problem.

hourquette d'Ossoue and refuge de Baysselance ; beautiful way down ; impressive Couloir de Gaube ; photoshoot in B(lue) flat ; Vignemale family, from left to right: Small, Chausenque ; Carré and Pique Longue!

At about 14:00 we were sunbathing in fornt of the refuge de Baysselance, sipping an instant coffee with milk prepared on the wonderful Trangia stove U&L gave us and giving a bite to the special homemade "mountaineers' cake" they cook up there: absolutely delicious! We met a very nice Belgian couple from Charleroi, hiking part of the GR10, and chatted with them part of the afternoon and evening, while they made plans for the next days... we showered in the wind, stared at the views of a storm approaching from Gavarnie and waited for A. and his angels to show up... but they didn't. At some point, the Belgian couple decided to summit the Petit Vignemale in the evening, just in case the weather became bad for longer than just the night and we went to built the bivy 2.0 on a nice flat area sheltered from the wind with a great round sonte wall. Perfect spot? Looked like... A. and his angels were still nowhere to be found by the time dinner was served, which we enjoyed even more after the guy from the refuge told us they had arrived safe at the refuge des Oulettes de Gaube, at the foot of the north face, and decided to stay there for the night... One eats much better with no worries!

the bivy 2.0, the whole Vignemale family again and the refuge de Baysselance... the calm before the storm. 

We went to bed early and slept like two logs, until the roaring storm reached us, pouring lightning, thunder, rain and thin crushed ice around our 1-person ultralight, waterproof, tiny, shiny lime-green, nylon fortress! It held all night and did the job remarkably, even though the neat stone-walled flat area we had settled onto eventually became a cozy jacuzzi, whose 10 cm high tide started to move our mattresses across the perfectly dry floor. When the water finally found its way through the door's zip, it was about 06:30. We called it a night, packed everything, jumped out just on time to see our hiking boots drifting away with the flow, put them on and run to the refuge for a warm breakfast. Some weren't as lucky and others pitied us after a comfortable and warm night in a comfy bed and under a solid roof. Call it classes if you want, but as for the way down, we were all equal! Fortunately, the rain stopped shortly after 09:00 and we even saw a little bit of sun and blue skies before reaching Ossoue's dam and the 2c15.

Ossoue's waterfalls backed by the night's rainfalls and the unreal greenness with its icelandic je-ne-sais-quoi. 

After a short second breakfast of bread, cheese and red wine, we gave the Belgian couple a lift down to Gavarnie, exchanged emails, bought some postcards and arranged a meeting with A. and his angels, who happened to be doing some sightseeing and miracle-hunting in Lourdes. The rest of the adventure is not worth telling in details (the road, drying the gear, washing the clothes, showering with warm water, cooking real food...), except for an important one: we didn't summit the Petit Vignemale on day 2 as we hoped, but we made it back home alive and safe, which is - according to Mountaineering: the Freedom of the Hills and without a doubt, the one and only goal when going into the wilderness!

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* help us retrieve this information and win an exclusive Un(t)raveling postcard and envelope, all the way from us to you, straight in your mailbox!

** here they are: a bunch of young Rupicapra pyrenaica fellahs, on quite an exotic "Holiday on ice" ballet:

Mountaineering: The Freedom of the Hills (part 1)

Warning: the post below does not intend to talk comprehensively about, judge or even review in any way the absolute and definitive Bible of mountaineering (here pictured in its 8th Edition, the one we bought in flesh and bones - or in paper and ink - and have been going back to quite regularly since that moment)! This being said, we can nevertheless make a general comment: anybody who has ever practised, be it once, back camping, hiking, trekking, skiing, rock or ice climbing... should consider buying it for the mere pleasure of holding it in their hands and experience the wells of knowledge and wisdom it gathers inside its sober, yet inspiring soft cover. It is thick. And it is heavy. Needless to add we won't (and don't want to) publish an Amazon fast buy link, nor earn a single cent on your purchase to finance the time we spend writing this blog! Buy it wherever you have a chance to, most preferably at your local dealer, be it a bookshop or a mountain gear store... Ah! the Bible's ISBN is: 978-1594851387. 

the Book, the one and only Bible, the way to wilderness.

What's really fascinating about Mountaineering: the Freedom of the Hills is its seems to contain everything: from how to choose a backpack to how many pairs of socks and grams of dehydrated mushrooms you need to pack per party per day; to how to dig an emergency shelter in the snow; to how to escape a belay in a self-rescue trad-climbing scenario; to how to use a map and compass... It's an outdoor equivalent of Julia Child's two volumes of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking": indispensable, definitive and brilliantly haunting. In our culture of mass consumption, Mountaineering is both your ticket to the wilderness and the exact opposite of a Decathlon store (your B plan to the back country):
 - from the moment you grab Mountaineering..., everything inside the book is about being humble, taking steps one after another. Understanding at any time what you are doing,  what you can do and what you shouldn't. Looking ahead and planning back-up(s). Being alert and humble. From the introduction, you'll learn the first and main goal is not summiting but getting back home alive.
 - from the moment you enter a Decathlon, everything in there is about acquiring then conquering. Plus, of course, having fun. Looks like all you need to become a rock-climber, a para-glider or an ultra-trailer is to pay for the gear! As if the pieces of nylon fabric sewed in PRC contained nano-particles of terrain wisdom and experience that silently penetrated through your skin and went straight to your brain and limbs. Their implicit anthem seems to be "buy the stuff, you'll master the skill". Which is a lie. And there's always an opportunity to (re)learn the lesson!

We had to deal (Futuna did but, technically, Wallis had (and still has) to deal with it too...) with a bad shoulder injury back in November 2014 and consequently almost didn't climb nor hike (nor do any kind of outdoor activity!) at all during winter and spring. August 2015: several months, general practitioners, traumatologists, neurologists, physiotherapists and osteopaths later... things haven't improved. Not a bit. And finally, here we are: mid-summer, our first hike of the year! We decided to go to Monte Perdido, Aragón, for a 2-day hike through Valle de Pineta and the classic north face from the Étang du Marboré. Left home early afternoon headed to St. L, where Futuna's godfather keeps enriching his amazingly huge and reasonably freaky collection of stoups, had a nice time and dinner with him, listened to the Boltaña's mountain choir and orchestra, then crossed the tunnel way too late at night to go and sleep at the end of the road, 15km off Bielsa.

"an amazingly huge and reasonably freaky collection of stoups..."

After a late wake-up and lazy breakfast, feeling exhausted before even starting, we packed late and heavy (food, shelter, sleeping bags, thermarests, water, stove, ice axes, crampons...) and finally started to walk passed noon. Under a bright, cloudless sun!
Not sure whether we already talked about this special kind of hikers one often meets in the mountain and we call seagulls (les mouettes in French and las gaviotas in Spanish, sure enough in some posts from 2014 in the Dolomites). Not because they laugh/scream like seagulls, but because like seagulls, their presence means land. Terra firma. When you see some, your car shouldn't be very far anymore! They usually wear shorts or jean's, tanktops, flipflops or "sport shoes", a baseball cap or nothing, a tiny backpack or even a stray basket, no water or just a 25 cl bottle. They never seem to care for sunscreen, dehydration or evening storms. And more importantly, as you're coming back down early afternoon after your seven-hour hike, they're generally starting and doomed no to get far away up the trail - even though they're convinced they'll eventually summit AND walk down safely. You sometimes pity them, sometimes warns them it's long, without shade, very long, steep and extremely long, sometimes say nothing more than "Hello!" and feel responsible for what may happen to them within the next 3-4 hours...

What seagulls never see: north faces of Monte Perdido (3355m) and Cilindro de Marbore (3328m) from the Balcon de Pineta.

So, our soundtrack for that day could be a cover of David Bowie's We can be Seagulls just for a day! After a tough hour struggling with a 15 kg backpack and the heat in the shade of the forest, we found a spring and the very last tree we'd see in 24 hours. Not far from them, the amazing pool of a beautiful waterfall. Then nothing but a steep trail under the sun and a long three-and-a-half hour to make it to the balcon de Pineta... As the two wise and usually-not-too-seagull hikers who we sure are, we tried and convinced a bunch of other first-grade seagulls to give up their intention to make it to the balcon without any food, proper clothing and especially, without a strong and clear will to bivy up there... and Ford, did it go up long and steep! We thought (and argued about) giving up and going down a few times... But finally got to the balcon de Pineta, exhausted. And from there, up to the little Marboré's lake, where we crashed with headache, nausea, sore joints and swollen feet!

The view from the first window through the trees (0h30) and past the spring and waterfall (1h). Further up, looking back (2h30).

A miso soup with a lot of water and a late nap saved us. As the sun went down behind the ridge of the Astazous, we were ready to set the bivy, cook dinner - mainly a broth - and go to bed. Skip the soundtrack to Marc Ribot's Dark was the night, cold was the ground... and strong the wind. We were lucky it didn't rain because the minimal setting of our shelter wouldn't have done much to protect us... A long sleepless night: the fabric flapping and slapping us in the face with fury, like the sails of a ship in the storm. Sounds romantic? Well it wasn't. Eventually though, the wins stopped with the first lights of dawn - immediate blackout for Futuna, who had spent the whole night receiving the slaps with his strong nose so as to let Wallis get some rest (he's a hero, why doesn't anyone seem to notice it?).

Ready to enjoy a miso soup thanks to the fantabulous TRANGIA U&L gave us ; our sexy slap-bivy ; the north face at dusk,just before a long night!

Next thing we remember: we were having biscuit while heating water for the instant coffee at around 09:30. Sore legs and shoulders, backpacks still way too heavy and right in front of us: the thousand vertical meters of the north face, with its glacier and steep rocks. We tried to spot the way up to the col du Cylindre, between ice and rocks, only to discover an enthusiastic party of young and loud Basque mountaineers had picked the wrong access to the small yet recognizable chimney and were somehow stuck not even half way to the top... We humbly decided to walk back down (alive!) to the car and called it a... WUTH (Warm-Up Test Hike. It was absolutely worth it on its own, since the morning views were breathtaking: Monte Perdido, Cylindre du Marboré and the Astazous; the unreal Brêche de Tuquerouye, a thin scar in the rock face of the Cirque d'Estaubé, where some insane Frenchmen hung a small halfpipe-shaped shelter at 2660m.

"the valle de Pineta from its balcony, an ode to greenness after the..." zzzz!

And finally: the whole Valle de Pineta from its balcony, an ode to greenness after the silent landscapes of stone and ice... The way down was long and painful for the knees and eels (gravity being on ones side, it may feel it's going to be easier than going up, but it's not). The sun was already quite high and hot. So, when we finally met our first couple of seagulls, we (indeed) felt relieved: the end was near! Home was close! We met/crossed/passed them just a few minutes above the spring and last tree. We remembered this old logic trick of the monk hiking up the mountain then down the next day, thinking whether he might have been at the exact same point of the trail at the exact same time on both days, then thought these seagulls would be our "us" of the previous day, then decided the old monk was actually right and forgot about the problem. Unlike us, the other "us" were four, smiling and they visibly had no idea what they were up to. Light sport shoes, no backpacks, looking extremely tired and desperately asking for ¿el balcón? ¿el balcón?

Magnificent Pineta and a little "Where is Wallis?" challenge.

Our conversation was something like:
- How long did it take you to make it here? (gently asking)
- One hour and fifteen minutes! (proudly answering)
- So, I guess you still have about three to three and a half more hours to make it to the balcony, with no shade, no water and the last two hours are the steepest of the all route. I assume you're not sleeping up there and plan to hike back down today, right?
- ... (quietly weeping inside)
- There's a lovely tub with free waterfall and flat rocks ten minutes up the trail and to the left, you'll love it there! (both smiling)
- Sounds like a plan! Have a nice day, amigos! (relieved)

The forest part was long too, but we found our little corner by the creek to bath and refresh before getting back to the car, cooked a nice pasta while watching the squeeking ballet of hundreds of seagulls of all kinds and ages in their brightest Quechua outfits, then pushed the 2c15 down the road, heading to L'Ainsa, Barbastro and finally got to S., our beloved friends' secret retreat at the foot of Sierra de Guara, just on time for a nice dinner with red wine and sobremesa before a well-earned night of rest. Tradition is, when we drop by S., to stretch limbs and sport climb at Olvena's Garrapatillos sector, then lake-swim somewhere along the nearby congostos and pantanos. We also (even though for way too short a visit) drove up to Rodellar to try and blend in among the really tough climber fauna. Due to a surprisingly moody weather (understand "heavy pouring rain"), the whole valley looked like a mountainous remake of Woodstock: mud, tents and more mud, everywhere around! The tough climbers seemed pissed and depressed, smoking and sipping coffee with milk all day at the camping's cafeteria, while sporadically staring at the cliffs around with a sad dog look - and a wet dog smell, by the way...

Breakfast in Bierge; psychedelic sunset in the Somontano wineyards close to Barbastro; G.'s handcraft: handmade with rope!

Seriously, the true reason we went all the way up there despite an awful weather, was our dear friends G. and I. who were working at the camping for the season. We hadn't seen them in a while and thought the rain would allow us to spend a couple of hours chatting with them and doing the due updates! In spite of the hard work shifts between camping and hotel, plus some canyoning and climbing on their (rare) spare time, G. handcrafted bracelets and necklaces off old climbing ropes and slings - a must-have for all freaky climbers at the camping - and some amazing sculptures of branch climbers in tough overhanging roofs*! After that, we headed the 2c15 up north again, through Huesca and Sabiñanigo to the Pourtalet, where we spent a beautiful yet chilly night with the milky way and the Midi d'Ossau (2884m) straight in our bedroom window.

Coming soon: the rest of our Mountaineering adventures in the central Pyrenees...

The balcony: a silent geology masterclass (taught in Aragonese)!

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* anybody willing to buy one (or several) of G.'s bracelet(s) or freaky branch climbing sculpture(s) can ask for a contact; we'll kindly provide phone number and email of the artist - and charge you no extra fee nor commission! ;)

Deshilachados: entre (It)acá y otra parte...

Como ya contamos en su momento, hubo un momento a principios de enero en el que nos encontramos de repente sin nuestra casa rodante. La quisimos vender y tuvimos bastante suerte: la vendimos rápido. ¿Demasiado rápido? Tampoco es que teníamos donde ir a parar, a pesar de las habituales casas de familia y amigos. Y aunque se esté muy, pero muy bien en casa de familia y amigos, no son exactamente lugares para quedarse mucho rato... Especialmente en invierno, cuando hace frío y lo que más apetece es moverse poco, abrigarse mucho y quedarse cerca de la estufa todo el día, mirando por la ventana las montañas nevadas, los renos que pastan y cosas así. Uno de nuestros himnos, evocado alguna vez ya en estas columnas, es la Canción de las simples cosas de la gran Chavela Vargas, maravillosamente versionada por Concha Buika y Chucho Valdes:

"Uno vuelve siempre, dice, A los viejos sitios, Donde amó la vida"

D.O. Somontano: ermitas colgadas entre canales de regadío y viñedos.

Y eso es precisamente lo que se nos dio por hacer este invierno: entre tener la casa metida dentro del coche y tener el coche aparcado delante de casa, tuvimos un extraño paréntesis de varias semanas en las que flotamos - apátridas y sin rumbo - entre viejos sitios donde amamos la vida. Con el proyecto de buscarnos una madriguera de alquiler en algún rincón de algún valle pirenaico, emprendimos un mini-recorrido de casas conocidas, de brazos acogedores, de nostalgias adormecidas y de hogares adoptivos... Con dos mochilas y una manta de acrílico a bordo del 2c15 mínimamente acondicionado (pero todavía mucho más austero que el viejo TRANSITion!), la carretera se convirtió en una especie de soma, una especie de droga de textura espesa que difuminaba el frío y la falta de destino concreto a base de kilómetros de paisajes petrificados.

El señor de todas las Catalunyas en pleno ataque de esplendor!

Parecía que las siluetas del Canigó, de Ordesa, del Ossau o del Pic d'Anie se nos apresuraban todas contra los cristales a la vez ; como si el tiempo y las distancias se borraran en el desfile lento de ríos y valles por los retrovisores... Las indicaciones de los carteles: Prades, Jaca, Tremp, Pau, Figueres, Pamplona, Aspet, La Seu... iban perdiendo el significado al pasarnos en el borde de la carretera. Se volvían sonidos familiares pero confusos, oraciones mil veces repetidas: unos salmos a la gloria de aquellas deidades arropadas en la nieve y el olvido. En ningún caso permanecían como referencias tangibles de nuestra divagación invernal... Liberados de las normas topográficas, buscábamos algo a lo que agarrarnos. Siempre nos quedará el Pirineo, parecía decir nuestro ir y venir por la falda de los valles, aunque no tuviéramos ninguna idea clara de qué hacer de Él. Para quien vive o ha vivido cerca del Pirineo, su eje es más bien un centro. Centro de gravedad o de rotación. Centro del mundo, tal vez... Raíz, también. Más que frontera, el Pirineo es puente. Y son muchas las orillas que une su arca de piedra. Con cariño y algo de paciencia, con un poco de tiempo y con lo suficiente silencio, cada una de ellas se deja domesticar. A cada una se la puede llegar a llamar hogar: Pyrénées-Orientales, Catalunya, Ariège, Andorra, Haute-Garonne, Hautes-Pyrénées, Aragón, Pyrénées-Atlantiques, Nafarroa, País vasco... de mar a mar, y vuelta.

Desayunando en el gran Café Iruña, bocadillitos de jamón contra vientos y mareas.

En estas pocas semanas, cruzamos y transitamos de arriba abajo, en ambos sentidos (y hasta a veces en diagonal) la mayoría de sus provincias. Como huyendo hacia quién sabe donde, dos Ulises (¿o serán dos Uliseses?) que ya ni recuerdan la islita llamada Ítaca que andan buscando... En país vasco como en Eea, la isla de Circe, hace tiempo ya que han cambiado a los marineros por cerdos (with all due respect...). A algunos nostálgicos de la pesca del bacalao puede que les disguste escucharlo pero lo que hay que reconocer, es que sí entienden de jamón... Saben más incluso al Sur de Ibañeta que no al Norte, a pesar del orgullo con el que te hablan allí del Kintoa o de la D.O. Ibaïona. En fin... Por eso quizás y porque la estación de Pamplona o el gran Café Iruña son lugares de aquellos donde amamos la vida, decidimos volver unas semanas a trabajar por las Iparraldias.

El perro pastor educado: si no te puede morder, por lo menos te saludará. 

Hacer temporada de pique (se trata de saneamiento de ganado estacional, una tarea veterinaria a la que dedicamos tradicionalmente parte de los meses de enero, febrero y marzo) allí ya es casi una tradición. Y en épocas de no tener según qué cosas bien claras, las tradiciones son algo demasiado sólido como para no agarrarse de ellas! A pesar de un tiempo particularmente feo, de nevadas y lluvias torrenciales, inundaciones, carreteras cortadas y árboles arrancados ; a pesar de (y como consecuencia) encontrarnos al rebaño de ganaderos de una mala leche de millésime, reconocimos allí caras y rutinas familiares, así como algún que otro nuevo amigo peludo siempre dispuesto a enseñar la patita... o el colmillete. Allí entre vacas y ovejas, se trabaja de lunes a sábado al aire libre, lo que quiere decir: a la intemperie y no hay excusa que valga para escaparse. Por eso y con semejante dieta, si toca mal tiempo el domingo también, uno no se siente culpable por quedarse en la cama! Aun así, puede que la promesa de unas grandes mareas y un sol tímido te inciten a bajar hasta el océano para "aprovechar" algo del fin de semana. ¡Ingenuos! Una vez traducida, la propuesta suena a algo así como: "pasar frío en los diques abandonados, cazar fotos de faros como otros cazaron molinos de viento hasta finalmente no poder más con los latigazos del viento salado que hace vibrar un mar color de boquerón en salmuera, con aromas de mejillón pasado y vuelos de bolsas de plástico"... Y después de tanto pinchar y tanto vacunar a tanto y tanto ganado, después de ir y venir tantas veces por las mismas cuatro carreteras de los mismos cuatro pueblecillos, después de repetir tantas veces "Hola! Qué hay? Como le va la vida? Están las ovejas? Las tiene preparadas? Cómo que no le habían avisado? Vale, vale, me espero. No hay problema!", una buena mañana llega el último día y a la tarde de repente se acabó, terminó, ya fue.

La desembocadura del río Adour contra vientos y mareas, nunca mejor dicho.

De todo aquello, solo te quedan ropa para lavar y unas mochilas por hacer y nuevamente, allez hop! a la carretera. Solo que ahora, te llevas en el coche un recuerdo tenaz y persistente de aquel mundo rural tan entrañable. Hay historias de veterinarios que después de unos años de trabajo con su coche lo intentan vender y no pueden, de la peste sofocante que desprende. Parece que han curado millones de quesos de leche cruda allí dentro... En nuestro caso y con las temporadas cortitas que hacemos, no es nada que unos árboles mágicos no puedan solucionar. En el supermercado de la esquina, nada más salir de la clínica, te venden estos ambientadores con forma de bandeja de Euskal Herria y olor a manzana verde que hacen milagros... además de garantizarte un encuentro cálido y entretenido con la policía foral o la guardia civil nada más cruzar Ibañeta o el túnel de Aragnouet-Bielsa. No vamos a poner aquí palabras que hagan saltar los robots de la NSA, pero hay una cosa que no deja de fascinarme en las brigadas anti-terrorismo de dichos cuerpos: "Si fueramos t-----istas cruzando el Pirineo con el fin de reunirnos con otros t-----istas o cometer un acto de t-----ismo, ¿de verdad piensan ustedes que lo primero que se nos ocurriría sería colgar una bandeja vasca del retrovisor del coche robado en el que transitamos? ¿De verdad en sus talleres de formación específica, en esto les enseñan que tienen que fijarse?" En fin, cambiemos de tema que acaba de pasar un drone sobrevolando el huerto. De nuevo: colladas, nieve, valles, el Midi de Bigorre como un hito: Adiós Aquitaine! Hola Midi-Pyrénées! ¡Cuánto tiempo! Una y otra vez, el camino se retuerce y se pisotea a sí mismo. Que sensación más extraña, la de dar vueltas así. Lo mismo que hacíamos por el barrio en Barcelona, hace un año y medio. Una eternidad. Solo que ahora hay donde perderse, donde jugar: el patio se extiende de mar a mar.

El Lauragais: luz de fin del mundo y árboles fantasmas. 

A propósito de andar pasando una y otra vez por el mismo punto, decía nuestra querida Clara algo así como: "si te da la sensación que tu vida va en círculos y no estas avanzando, cambia de punto de vista. Pronto verás que se trata más bien de un espiral!" ¡Gracias Clarita! A mi, la línea de nuestras andanzas y vagabundeos me recuerda un trazo en cursiva: bucles grandes y pequeños, redondeando con pluma y tinta las curvas de cada letra... Como si al final se tratara de escribir la propia historia  a lo largo del camino, a base de andar, andar y andar. Y acá estamos otra vez: no muy lejos de Toulouse, entre Ariège, Aude y Tarn. En esta franja de tierra barrida por los vientos, que parece estar dudando siempre entre mar o montaña, continente o mediterráneo, occitán o catalán, lenguadoc o rossellón... Nos ponemos a buscar una madriguera en serio, adivinando en costras de queso de oveja el nombre del pueblo donde iremos a parar. ¡Venga! decidnos algo... Una pista, al menos... ¡Venga! La primera letra del pueblo ¿sí? Igual nos sería más fácil buscar en una playita de arena de la cuna de algún fresco torrente, una jabalina amamantando a sus jabatos, para decidir que allí nos instalaremos. ¿Y por qué no? Por lo menos eso en alguna ocasión se hizo, y con cierto éxito además. Bueno, no me extraña que los oráculos no se hayan quedado eso de las costras del queso entre sus métodos favoritos: los cuervos y el poso del café hablan más y no son tan sibilinos! Al final no hay que darle demasiada bola al ¿dónde?: Nicolas Bouvier decía en L'usage du monde que "lo importante no es llegar a ninguna parte, desde luego se trata de irse". Así que tarde o temprano aparecerá una tierra donde naufragar el 2c15 y sentarnos en un bacno a mirar la puesta del sol... de hecho, puede que ya la hayamos encontrado y esribamos esas líneas desde acá... pero schh! eso es otra historia!)

Deshilachados: entre (It)acá y otra parte...

Happy 2C15!

With our best wishes for the New Year, we are delighted and proud to introduce our new transportation vessel, mother ship and tiny-house-on-wheels: the 2C15.

2C15 is a 1996 Citroën c15d, 1,7L (60hp). We bought it second (third? fourth?)-hand, mostly for its reputation of being time-proof, easy-to-fix (with a swiss-knife and and a youtube tutorial "mechanics for dummies") and in a couple of words: virtually indestructible. Other pros were:

Snow-white, Beauty and the Beast, all in one!

- its unique, unmistakable look, making its owner seem at least familiar to any person living in a remote area, working outdoors or on a farm (anyone who ever owned one will tell you how so very much they miss it),
- its versatility in all circumstances and on all terrains (especially if they have to do with timber, sheep, straw, steep dirt roads or goin' fishin'),
- its second-to-none heating system which consists in keeping the gearstick warm while the whole rest of the car (people on board included) is freezing cold...

We checked online for second-hand c15s, saw several ones in December and finally bought the beauty up here. We needed it prepared a little bit, though. You can find all details and many pictures of how we dit it on the TRANSITion! section, where we already detailed the preparation of our first un(t)raveling vessel. Anyway, as we did with the Ford Transit three years ago, we called our dear friend M. for some support on technics and logistics: workshop with all the space, gear and tools you can dream of, free tips and advice, extensive knowledge and first-hand experience. Put all that into a friend who happens to be a great cook, fellow climber and fine artist with inspiring conversation, readings and insights... Mmh... M. hosted us for a few days so we could deal with the most critical steps of the process, he helped us a lot and we couldn't thank him enough. Possibly maybe a good opportunity to say all friends how much we need and love them. Possibly maybe a good opportunity to say Hello! (and thank you for all the fish) to Mr. Joe Cocker. It's on the house!

I’ll get by, with a little help, from my friends… 

canción de las simples cosas

tomando el sol en Can Baró, al pie del turó de la Rovira.

"Uno vuelve siempre

A los viejos sitios

Donde amó la vida

Entonces comprende

Como están de ausentes

Las cosas queridas..."

Me llegó hace años cantada por Chavela Vargas, pero cuando se la apropian Buika y Chucho Valdés (en youtube aquí), se convierte en una de las (simples) cosas más bellas que hay. Llevamos unos días re-escuchándola una y otra vez en la furgo, como el himno de nuestra mini-vuelta a Barcelona. Nos habíamos apuntado en Enero a una semana de trabajo con la asociación Tripalium, que propone talleres participativos de construcción de molinos eólicos para auto-producción eléctrica (más información sobre los talleres aquí). Se nos canceló a última hora por falta de asistentes, así que con unos días de antelación y con pretextos varios de trámites y cosas que arreglar, volvimos a un viejo sitio donde amamos la vida. También fue una gran oportunidad para celebrar 6 meses ya de Un(t)raveling rodeados de seres queridos y cerrar un primer ciclo-círculo. Paso rápido con el tema ITV, seguro e impuestos varios del TRANSITion!, así como renovación de documentos y puesta a día de datos personales en algún que otro archivo o padrón municipal. No fue especialmente interesante. Como bien decía John Rambo a finales de los ochenta: "un hombre debe hacer lo que un hombre debe hacer"... Gracias, John. Ahora ve a descansar un poco. Y pégate una ducha ya, hombre!

Durante estos días de urbana locura, nos quedamos - muy a gusto, la verdad - en casa de U. y L. Meses atrás, justo antes de irnos de Barcelona, celebramos el suyo mutuo amor con saltitos de alegría (ver nuestro primer post) y pues, ya os imaginais: les echábamos de menos, un poquito. Por eso muchacho no partas ahora, pensando el regreso... Disfrutamos mucho de su lujoso y cómodo ático en forma de loft, de su colchón inflable para invitados, de su cocina hiper-equipada y de su hospitalidad re-que-te-comprobada ya. Cenamos y charlamos muy bien hasta las pequeñas horas de la madrugada. Lejos de cansarnos mucho, parece que hasta nos dio fuerzas para córrer parriba-pabaho sin descanso. O será que andando por la calle medio-zombie, la gran maratón administrativa façon Brazil (la peli, no el país), a uno se le hace menos pesada? Puede que suene muy guiri, o muy campesino-que-baja-a-la-ciudad pero: Barcelona es muy grande, ruidosa, sucia, agitada, contaminada y desesperadamente llena de gentes. Vaya reencuentro después de 6 meses dando vueltas por allí, entre lo verde! Nos dio la sensación de estar todo el rato mirando a la gente por la calle y en el metro como si acabáramos de llegar de otro planeta. Para aguantar tanto estrés, hasta tuvimos que cenar alguna carne a la brasa en la Malandrina y digerirla con luces suaves e infusiones de poleo-menta al volver a casa. Quedar con mucha gente en poco tiempo, ponerse a día, escuchar historias y noticias, es un ejercicio más difícil de lo que parece y para asimilar tanta información, las luces suaves e infusiones de poleo-menta van muy bien también.

las vistas desde nuestro colchón inflable: Hi-Fi y Low-Light.

Aprovechamos el jueves festivo para entrar de una vez en la piel de unos turistas: nos metimos en los atascos de la salida de Barcelona a eso de las 12 del mediodía, nos asamos escalando bajo el sol en las peores horas del día y nos tomamos unas cañas en el chiringuito de la playa de Garraf. Con los hombros y la nariz quemados, volvimos a Barna, a pasear nuestro nuevo look gamba por l'Eixample y el Barrio Gótico, hasta un concierto de nuestra querida Sandra Rehder, estrenando su nuevo disco "Umbral" a duo con Gustavo Battaglia. Noche de tango en el Circol Maldá. Mmmh... Viernes de visitas y trámites otra vez, que culminó con una cena de antología en Ca la Carme. Unas albóndigas de otro mundo, cuyo ingrediente misterioso no cedió ante los ataques de nuestras más insistentes investigaciones. Volvimos rodando hasta casa de U. y L., donde una vez más nos salvó la infusión de poleo-menta.

El sábado, fuimos a darles un fuerte abrazo a C. y J. en su burbuja al pie de Montserrat y ver los avances de la casa de paja, a base de mucho amor y muchas horas de trabajo. Al llegar la noche, subimos a cenar y dormir en la furgo por allí, bien cerca del monasterio. Nos despertamos tempranito a la mañana siguiente y aprovechamos el sol del domingo para tachar de la lista de tarea vertical la bonita y agradable vía Stromberg al Gorro frigi de Montserrat. Más fácil de lo que esperábamos después de cuatro meses sin tocar roca, llegamos a la cruz relativamente frescos, tras escalar cinco largos en cuatro tiradas. Los problemas se hicieron esperar y no aparecieron nunca, y aunque no somos especialmente valientes, hasta nos sobraron algunos parabolts. También nos sobró el viento del Norte que, a pesar del sol radiante, dejó congelado en cada reunión al que no estaba escalando. Después de una mini-siesta con higos secos en la cima, inauguramos el nuevo descenso con rapels para finalmente descubrir, a una hora ya avanzada del mediodía, a siete u ocho personas aglomeradas en la vía del Carles: dos en cada reunión, otros escalando e incluso unos cuantos esperando a pie de vía. Y eso que no vimos a nadie en toda la escalada: A quien madruga, el viento le putea pero Dios le ayuda!

Wallis a lo largo de la bonita via Stromberg (6a - 150m) con vistas al Monasterio, a Sant Benet y al Pirineo.

Ya que habíamos logrado escapar de la atracción gravitacional barcelonina para un breve fin de semana, procuramos no volver a entrar otra vez en su atmósfera, alejándonos incluso a una prudente distancia. En las tierras del Somontano, en la antesala de la Sierra de Guara, M. y el peque U. nos recibieron otra vez en su casita de S., transformada por los meses de labor de M. y por la luz de la primavera. La era estaba hecha un huerto de primera, el patio una terraza lounge y un gimnasio con pesas, barras y slackline; la granja, una zona de taller despejada y diáfana. Resultaba difícil creer que un sólo hombre, con sus brazos y su voluntad, había podido... Otro reencuentro allí, con el lento y lindo arte de vivir en S.: los campos de maíz transgénico hasta el horizonte, las cigüeñas en el campanario de la iglesia, el local social divulgando siempre lo mejor de la televisión nacional, la carne dudosa del súper Orang-Utan de Monzón... Uno vuelve siempre... También nos encontramos a un G. en plena forma, de visita por la zona. Quedamos los cuatro para una sesión de deportiva en Benabarre, de la que aún nos estamos recuperando! Ja ja ja! Espero que estos dos (M. y G. digo) queden más a menudo para escalar porque aquel martes, se juntaron el hambre con las ganas de comer! También escalamos un poco en Olvena el miércoles y CastillonRoi el jueves (ayer), antes de emprender camino hacia Francia otra vez, la cabeza llena de reencuentros, abrazos, sonrisas e historias. Más ligeros también de saberles felices, ilusionados y en movimiento; buscando y encontrando caminos propios. Semana de vacaciones corta, intensa y agotadora pero, por suerte, el lunes volvemos al trabajo! Continuamos un(t)raveling en el Lot-et-Garonne, el Lot y la Dordogne...

la "nostra cova" y el hospital de Sant Pau: unos viejos sitios donde amamos la vida...