Sunset on the first night, at the Refuge de la Croix du Bonhomme
First Story. The End.I look out the refuge window, another huge one, and watch the colourful ants (daytrippers) in scurrying, busy lines disappearing down the valley to the towns way below, and as I watch I reflect on another wonderful day - a day that was a thorough delight, beginning with a fantastic sunrise and clear skies. The first three and a quarter hours (ie, the descent, the traverse and the first part of the climb) were characterised by fabulous views, a narrow path kind of contouring and dropping in turn along a steep spur, but primarily, by myriad clear, cascading streams and a multiplicity of flowers. It was very green and colourful.
Early light the next morning fills me with delight. Oh how I love to be in the mountains
Today was typical of randoneur life. I had made new friends sharing dinner the night before, but had to leave them as our routes diverged. Julian and I were the only ones doing our route, and he had left before me, promising to write. A few hundred metres along my way , I heard my name being called, but decided this was an aural illusion, or that some other Louise was being summoned. Eventually I turned around. There outside the dortoir was the artist I'd had dinner with, calling to wish me a happy day as I departed. With a smile I continued past "marmot rock", rounding a corner that put me out of sight. The drop to the valley was monstrous; rocky shapes stood out in stark relief. The sun blessed the tops of the surrounding mountains with its warmth and light. The plants I passed were frozen. I wondered if Julian had noticed.
First climb of the day (Day 2). Love it.
After a bit over half an hour, I had to cross a very large number of streams, many of which I suspected were newly formed after the previous night's storm. They may well have resulted from the deluge, but their water was pure and fresh, lifting the spirits. Meawhile, each one was flooded enough to pose a mild challenge with regard to crossing. They were still forceful enough to carry you a way if you slipped (Mathilde later told me people going her way used a rope, and she thought of me and hoped I was safe). I crossed with respect for the power of water, taking no chances. Leaping with quarter of my bodyweight on my back is possibly not elegant, but it did the trick. I had already dropped an alarming amount from the refuge (I greedily cling to any height gained and lose it with the depest reluctance).
Nearing Refuge de la Balme. This is a fabulous refuge, with excellent food and friendly staff.
Still, height was lost - how careless of these path builders to lose what has been gained with such toil - until another path intersection which was confusing, as it didn't match what I expected from the map, and which was signed with a destination that I couldn't find hidden in shaded rocks and contours on the crowded sheet. Luckily for me, two people came along from below with an altitude reader, so we were able to ascertain with a fair degree of accuracy where we were. I had thought Cirque might refer to a circular route I couldn't find, but they said it was a place, and showed me where it was. I was let off lightly in this confusion. Others had lost far more time, and ended up in false locations along this stretch. Horror stories had been told in the preceding days by the unlucky ones who fell prey to the confusing and absent signage in this area. And speaking of which, there, up a bit higher, was Julian, who had wasted a lot of time and energy trying to locate himself, going to and fro but getting nowhere. Oriented at last, off he zoomed, whilst I looked at my watch and decided I needed feeding and watering, so ate to give him space. We both prefer to travel solo and take in the environment without chatter, which can be done at mealtimes.
Colourful display near the refuge de la Balme (end day 2).
Before I say this next bit, I must stress that we were in a highly remote area of a foreign national park, and that I had now farewelled every friend I had made, all of whom were heading in different directions to me. It was now time to climb the Col d'Aussois, which undertaking the sign said would take 2.5 hours. Given how hot and now tired I was, I couldn't count on my usual trick of halving the numbers.
Rural scene on the way to Col de Palet (day 4).
Up I went. There ahead was a colourful group, snacking on a rock. There is a man waving at me. Yes, I know this group. "Bonjour encore, encore, encore," I callled, and they called the same back (the multiple encores being a joke we shared, as I kept passing them , but stopping to climb an extra this or that, and so passing them again). I very willingly shed my pack to tighten my plait and chat with them, and work out how on earth it was we were seeing one another again.
Country life at Refuge de la Leisse (end day 5)
Up I climbed again, lost in a world of rock and heat and sweat, moiling my way up the steep slope. "Louise," I hear yet again. This is getting funny. Again I ignore it. The call cannot be for me. Louder it comes and repeated. There is Mathilde, farewelled several days ago after the cute refuge de la Leisse. She was coming down while I ascended. We greeted with hugs and kisses, and once more sloughed off our packs to chat for a while and catch up on each other's story of the journey, our individual pilgrimages south.
Approaching sunset at refuge de la Leisse - an unexpected surprise given the earlier cloud cover.
Off I set again, and at last the col was reached. It seemed to be the longest and steepest so far, but maybe it was just the heat of the day that gave that impression. I dumped the pack by the cairn in the pass and set off to climb to the Observation Point, a rocky spire that looked about ten minutes away. This was a real climb, and there were endless possible ways to "attack" it. Yet again, I hear "Louise" called. Yet again I ignore it. Yet again it is called repeatedly with increasing loudness. It was Julian. Unbelievable. What was he doing here? He explained. We chatted and then separated for the final time.
Refuge de la Leisse (No. The colour is not fake or tampered with) as darkness descends. The little outhouse is the free shower.
The rest of the journey was fairly quickly dispensed with - a steep descent lasting an hour that brought me to my chosen refuge for the night. Now I am sitting by the window smelling fabulous smells as the friendly staff members prepare dinner. If the rhubarb tart I had on arrival is any indication, it should be a memorable meal, which is fitting. Tonight is my last night on this three-stage journey from the north to the south of France on foot (GR5). How sad.
Day 6 begins with a descent, but first, I need to photograph sunrise
Near the Col de Vanoise near the end of day 6
Itinerary. I decided to write what I did, giving you an idea of life on one of these trails rather than a day by day account of where I went. I know that I found other people's itineraries helpful when planning, so I will now give you mine. This is not the official GR5, as the absolutely wonderful girl in the visitors' centre at the entry to the Vanoise National Park advised that GR55 was nicer than GR5, and that the route she then offered me was even nicer than that, sticking as high as it's possible to do whilst traversing the park. In my mind, I kept offering her thanks as each new delight was exposed. You'll need a good map to convert what I say to a route - but trying to do the GR5 without one would be madness. I carried both paper maps (IGN's Carte de randonees 1,2 and 3 [1:50,000] and the randoneur's "Bible", the official GR5 book in French that contains maps, a route description, and expected splits so you can plan your stages appropriately. I have not put in my times (mostly), as I don't believe them to be helpful or representative. I do my times for me, not for others.
I couldn't believe my luck in getting this close to this little marmot.
Schedule:
Day 1. Chamonix to Les Contamines by public transport, having already walked this section last time, and thence to the refuge du Croix du Bonhomme.
Day 2, to Refuge de la Balme.
Day 3, to Refuge Pont de Rosuel.
Day 4, to Refuge du Col de Palet (an annoyingly short day - I was there by 10 a.m. - but I had agreed to stop here).
Day 5, possibly even more annoyingly short - I was getting restless - to Refuge de la Leisse. I was disturbingly near the end of my book, with too much time on my hands and not enough reading matter to keep me happy.
Day 6, to the refuge Col de Vanoise. This, too, was a very short day - only 2 hrs 15, but this col was so beautiful the time there was well spent.
Day 7, to Refuge de la Valette. This was possibly also, normally, a short day, but I turned it into a 4 hrs 15 one by dropping and rising 1400 ms extra - not to be silly, but because the bridge on my chosen route had been washed away, and going right down to the valley floor and rising up again was the only way of safely crossing the very flooded stream. Even that route on this day was full of hazards. When I say "flood", I really mean it: it was exciting.
Day 8. Refuge de la Valette to Refuge de Fond d'Aussois. This one I will actually say the time, as I had been warned often that this day was hard and long and confusing. It was harder and longer than any of the other days, and certainly had its confusions, but the ten hours on the trail I had been promised was 5 hours 15 in reality, so bear in mind that the parameters for this day probably lie somewhere in between these times. Julian would have taken even less time than I did (which would have been less again had he not got lost). Two other guys maintain it took ten hours of consistently strong "marching", with only a single twenty minute break for lunch. Choose your own time.
Day 9. Final day. Descent to Modane, and then bus and train back to Chamonix in time for dinner.
(I have realised in writing this that I never published a blog for the GR5 stage 1 - Lac Léman to the Refuge de la Croix du Bonhomme. Once I've finished this year's holiday blogs, I will rectify that).
Marmot in location (day 6).
Another Story. "Refuge de la Leisse"
I round the corner, knowing from the elapsed time on my watch that I should see the refuge where I'll spend the night around this bend: the place of my fate and fortune for the next twenty hours. There it is, perched on the hillside. Having never researched these refuges beforehand, I always have an element of surprise on arrival, and, because of that, excitement. Will it be comfy or crowded? Will the people be friendly or aloof? I am greeted by three teenagers, eager to help the family business and obliging with attempts at English when my meagre French doesn't quite convey my meaning. They break off carting food to the two horses to show me around.
In the Col
Combining our best efforts we manage to communicate. I am shown a tiny wooden building (outhouse dimensions) which is my shower should I require it. It has cold water - and is free, the boy proudly tells me. Below me is an equally tiny shed, a toilet apparently, which I will need to walk to during the night should I need it. For exactly this purpose I carry a headtorch. I'm fine.
Drama at dinner time (day 6)
The sleeping room, which contains an inordinate number of bunks smashed in on top of each other, is also wooden, and is very dark. The only light comes from a hole in the door at the far end. I am told that the darkest bed, bed number 48, is mine. I say I don't like it; can't I choose? I want light. He says people don't choose. I ask why not and he can't think of a good reason other than that's the way it's done, and, realising that is not an adequate justification for anything, acquiesces, and lets me have my bed near the light.
Leaving the refuge at the Col Vanoise (day 7).
Outside, the family is back, attending to the horses; an array of hens and chickens cluck around me as I plomp myself at a table in the sun. Ducks are dozing in the shade of the Salle à manger. I am in a verdant green bowl of grass and flowers, encircled by towering eroded mountains; there is a stream far below, which I intend to explore later, but the wildflowers have a greater claim on my attention. Clouds are gathering around the tops; we may have another storm this afternoon (which will once more ruin my chance of a beautiful sunset to photograph). The wind is picking up force, so I think I'm right. While I sat with the dirty dish of my crêpe au fromage et jambon before me, staring at the peaceful scene, two parties of walkers from last night's hut came through. We greeted each other but also said farewell, as they are going further. I have played hare and tortoise with these friendly people who have dubbed me The Singing One "celui qui chante" They are lovely, but now our paths have parted, which is always the sad but eventual way of the mountains.
Arriving at the Refuge de la Valette (day 7)
......
It is time to explore the stream and flowers and to photograph before this storm breaks. Even in the time it has taken to type this, the clouds have taken on a much more defined shape and colour. Also, since sitting here in a random couch placed out in the sun, conveniently positioned to give me a vista of the valley, I was offered dessert, and ordered and ate the standby sweet of the savoie and haute savoie: fromage blanc aux myrtilles. This one was not as good as the norm, but the myrtilles are the nearest thing I'm going to be offered to fruit in a region where fruit and vegetables need to arrive either by donkey (the most common method) or by helicopter (prohibitively expensive). Right now I am hearing the teenagers giving the four walkers who have just entered the same spiel I got. These are no disenchanted, alienated, anomy-specialists here, but a contributing part of the family, and exercising their responsibility as such with élan.
sunset at la Valette
.....
Now it is several hours later. The tiny hut is filling up to an alarming degree as walkers continue to trickle in from the variety of possible directions, some looking fresh, others exhausted. Ones I recognise from previous huts greet me and we exchange stories of the route. Others travelling in reverse directions to ours tell us of what is to come.
Morning breaks at la Valette
.....After dinner, there was not much time before sunset. I couldn’t see many possibilities for a good shot, so just climbed a hill to sit in a hollow out of the wind and watch whatever was going to happen, without any particular photographic ideas in mind. Luckily for me, when drama began, I discovered I had pleasing foreground interest, and was satisfied with my results. I returned to the hut, thinking everything was finished, only to discover that the sky behind the refuge was turning pink. I looked at my result on the screen and let out a whoop of joy. Others from the hut came scurrying up to me. "Montrez- moi s'il vous plait". Suddenly I had new friends. It was all too beautiful to go to bed. The others turned in, but Mathilde and I stood there together as the sickle moon and stars became brighter and the sky turned to ink. The moisture in the air condensed to clouds in the valley below.
Julian prepares to set out
Uncharacteristically, I needed the toilet twice during the night. The first time was at midnight. To my amazement, the clouds had risen, and mist enfolded me as I mooched my way over the terrain to the tiny building that served my needs. At 4 a.m., on the other hand, the clouds had gone, the moon had sunk just below the horizon, leaving a mild glow as residue, and the stars were shining. The mountains around were dark silhouettes in the sparkler sky. I stood on the balcony, leaning on the railing, admiring.
The trail, day 8.
Soon enough after leaving next day, I caught three friends whose route had run parallel to mine for a while, but now it was time to say a sad goodbye. Our paths would diverge forever around the next corner. Life in the mountains is full of these warming yet temporary meetings of kindred spirits. We gave the standard French double kiss and bid farewell, each promising to write. Parting is always such sweet sorrow, a microcosm of life. On I continued alone, in song, rising up to the next Col where I would be greeted by plentiful flowers, a quiet, rippling stream and countless marmots.
More day 8 splendour
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