I arrived in Hendaye on July 20 via train from Utrecht, staying in the camping park Camping Alturan.
Day 1
I slept until 8:30 this morning-the travel and early morning yesterday exhausted me I guess. I packed up and made my way towards the Hendaye shore, not walking particularly fast. There were hundreds of people on the beach, enjoying their holiday. It occurred to me how differently people can find enjoyment and relaxation.
I Eventually wound up through the city streets away from the shore, up and up and up. My bag is heavy with a week of food. I think there will be opportunities to buy food en route, but I didn’t really plan for that when I prepared. I slowly climbed into the foothills above Hendaye, meeting a few hikers along the way-apparently it’s an option to start the Camino de Santiago at Bayonne, one town over-there were a number of people on day 2 or 3 of their hike. It is quite populated here and feels strange to be “backpacking.” In the early evening, I came across a British girl who said she was also on the Haute Route-they were going to wait until nightfall and then camp. I needed water, though, so kept moving, and found a small stream 30 minutes or so later. It’s a bit of a process to mentally transition from “city life” to “hiking life.” I hiked until about 8 pm and started the ascent to La Rhune, a small mountain near the coast. I turned off at a small field and set up my tent, cows with their cowbells happily clang-clanging nearby as they grazed. I went to sleep to this music, happy to finally be here.
Day 2
I woke up early, around 6, and got moving at 7:30. There was a low cloud layer, which looked both a little ominous and also cozy. I climbed slowly up the auto road of La Rhune, listening to the the jingling bells on the grazing ponies and sheep. La Rhune kind of reminded me of Mount Washington in New Hampshire-it really is quite a steep walk up, but there is a bar/restaurant on top, an auto road, and even a small train to the summit. I had a cafe con Leche at the restaurant with the friendly Basque staff and it occurred to me how much I love this area. Mercifully, everyone working in the service industry here seems to speak Spanish, even if I am in France. I slowly worked my way down the steep mountain and got to the base at about 11. I filled up on water and started right back up again-Tom Martin’s Day 2 per the guidebook. The route stayed on dirt roads and the GR 10/11, but my pack is heavy, I am not in hiker shape, and it is hot, hot,hot. My pace became slower and slower, and as evening approached there was no water to be found. I realized that I would need to complete the full second day and descend all the way down to the village of Arizcun for water. It was an incredibly beautiful day, and as I felt the weariness in my body and the heaviness of my pack, I reached the descent-the slopes turned gold and bronze in the evening light, and the tiny white Basque buildings shone beckoningly below. A massive bird of prey, bigger than any I had seen before, lifted noiselessly out of the ferns just feet from me and drifted away down the mountain. I worked my way down to the edge of the first village and pulled a ripe plum from a neighbor’s tree-it tasted like heaven. I called the Pensiòn hostel and the innkeeper let me know that they were closed,but that she would let me in when I arrived. People are so humane and kind here. I wearily walked/limped as fast as I could to the edge of the village, crossed an ancient stone bridge and walked up a Roman road to the pensión. I took a shower and laid down-the house was situated next to a barn and I could hear a horse just outside my window. Otherwise it was silent. 14 hours of hiking and the thing that I realize is that I am so very happy.
Day 3
The horse outside my window woke me with its snoring in the night. I had no idea that horses snore. I got up and got moving at 8:30 this morning. Nothing was open in the village yet. It was sunny but with a nice breeze all morning- I climbed up, up, up on dirt roads, views behind me of the village and the Navarra foothills. I climbed a fence and crossed a field, then entered some woods, no trail to be found. But there in the middle of the woods was a very old roadbed covered with a thick layer of leaves. The road wasn’t noted on any of the maps. How old? 800 years, a thousand? Who came and went on this road, and where were they going? I bushwhacked up to the ridge in sunshine, the heat starting to build. The huge birds of prey were lazily drifting in the air currents. I took a dirt road all the way down to the village of Aldudes and got the weather report- 100 degrees today. Time to wait in the shade for awhile. I went to the little food store and bought a baguette and a dry sausage and called Martijn. At 6 I finally headed out, only to the first pass, already dripping sweat. Enough for today. I’ll get up early tomorrow.
Day 4
I woke up at 6:10 this morning to the soft “jingle-jangle” of sheep bells. I opened my tent and a herd of maybe 20 sheep looked up at me like I had violently offended them, and galloped off en masse. Sorry guys, didn’t realize this was your backyard. I packed up and started hiking, on pleasant dirt roads mostly-not too hot yet. I helped myself to some water from an obliging water trough-not too pond-like once I filtered it. I continued walking through beautiful forests and fields, up and down, up and down. My legs are starting to remember how this works. I crested one hill and a massive vulture swiveled his head around and eyed me suspiciously. I took a picture and a video and sent it to Martijn, who found out it is called a gryphon vulture. I have never seen a bird that big so close-much bigger than a bald eagle. I got to the pass above Roncesvalles, which shares the Camino de Santiago for a little while. I decided I didn’t need to go into Roncesvalles, because I had enough food and there was a stream right at the pass so I didn’t need to get water. I started up from the pass and realized I was actually ON the Camino when hoardes of people started passing me going the other direction. The first man I met said disbelievingly, in English-
“You’re going BACK??” (towards St Jean Pied de Port, the beginning of the Camino de Santiago, about 1 day the other direction).
“This is forwards for me.”
“But where are you going to sleep tonight?”
“I’m not sure yet. You and I are probably not on the same route.”
“Well be careful because there is NOTHING that way for about 15 kilometers!”
“….like I said, you and I are probably not on the same r…..never mind, buen Camino.”
I spent about 20 minutes stewing with annoyance over the arrogance of this dude, with his potbelly, on day one of the world’s easiest thru-hike, giving me advice as his initial and only interaction. In moments like this I fantasize about having kind of a “do you know who I AM???” moment and just listing everything I’ve done. This is the major freaking downside of being a single female on these trips-no matter who you are, or what your abilities are, people often question your decision to be in the wilderness, and often the first thing that comes out of people’s’ mouths is a warning. But later I thought-you know, he probably had no idea that that piece of trail was also the GR-11, and the Haute Route. He probably has never heard of the Haute Route, and had I been more patient I probably could have taught him something he didn’t know. Oh well.
I walked until evening. Once again the hills turned gold. I set up my tent on a perfect little grassy platform with a 360 degree view of the mountains. My guidebook mentioned some Roman ruins-I looked up, and sure enough on a mountain across the trail, you could see the remains of an old watchtower. Amazing. I thought of Roman sentinels looking over the mountains, these same mountains-who were they looking for? What were they doing this time of day? What did their language sound like? I went to sleep as the stars came out one by one. A herd of cows slowly grazed their way by, their jingling bells comforting.
Day 5
I slept poorly. The wind blew my tent around and I woke up coughing at about 3 am. I think the air is drier up here—at least until these 3 days of thunderstorms and rain start tomorrow. I got moving at about 8:30 and walked gently down for awhile-on dirt road, through huge open fields. I came upon a “cromlech”-an ancient stone burial site, I believe. This one was right next to the road. I descended to a river and then climbed about 500 meters (1600 feet) straight up out of it. I made it to a shelter/refuge which the guidebook listed as closed. I was going to have a closer look but there were 6 or 8 horses right next to it, and a really aggressive huge stallion chased a smaller horse right by me. I decided to pass. By the way, there are “free range” horses, cows, and sheep literally all over the place here. I rarely see a person with them, but they all wear cowbells (what I would call a cowbell…) so I guess that’s how the shepherds/farmers find them. It’s kind of cool to be so close to these animals as I hike by. After the shelter I had to climb a steep grassy mountain straight up for about 600 meters (1900 feet). It was really hot by then, maybe 90 degrees (30 degrees C). I had drank about 4 liters of water by this point but it still felt insufficient. The mountain was incredibly beautiful as I slowly worked my way up and then side hill traversed around the side (no trails except the occasional cow path.). At the top I connected with the GR-12 (another long distance trail) and descended to another river, on a road. I camped in a “camping park”. I think the best sleep in my life that I can have is in my tent, with other campers nearby. I set my tent up next to a bubbling river. A French family was having dinner at their camper van. There was a huge cloud rolling in-here comes the weather front. Hopefully it cools it down somewhat. I’m tired of filtering water.
Day 6
It began to rain around 6 am. I exited my tent and the French family with their camper van was gone. I packed up and hiked in the rain up to Irati, a tourist complex high in the mountains. There was zero visibility in the mist and I heard thunder, close by. I decided to go low and take the GR-10 trail as an alternative, as it will rain for the next 3 days, and the route goes off trail, above treelibe, High, and technical in this section. I walked the road down to the village of Larrau, really a lovely walk, with low misty clouds moving in and out among the mountains. I descended to Larrau and met a very nice, very old lady who talked very slowly to me in French and told me I should stay at the camping park. I bought a few groceries at the tiny grocer, including Corn Flakes, and a wedge of local sheepsmilk cheese. It’s awkward to be American and not speak French in these tiny places, and I feel that I stick out like a sore thumb. Almost nobody speaks English, although a surprising number speak “Castellano”, or Castilian Spanish, because I am so close to the border. I went to the camping park and set up my tent in between downpours. The ladies who worked there were very kind, and i was able to do laundry. I don’t think I’ll be able to do laundry in Lescun. This is kind of a strange village-it is very small, but every car I see is a BMW or a Mercedes, and the one restaurant in town mentions its Michelin stars and starts at 50€ a plate. I feel a little lonely today.
Day 7
I awoke to steady rain on my tent. Well, as advertised. I got moving at 8:15 and connected a mile from Larrau to the GR-10, which immediately climbed up into the mountains again. The weather became quite cold, and rainy-and I put on a lot of clothes and needed to keep moving. Mist obscured any views that might be had. Amazingly different from the 100 degree heat of a couple days ago. I had my half baguette and wedge of local cheese on the road-still amazingly delicious. In the evening, I think about 17 miles in, I pulled into the village of St. Gracé in the rain. There was one gîte d’etape in the village who initially said “sorry, we’re full…” but I begged and the lady figured out that there was still one top middle bunk in a row of 5. Fine with me. She couldn’t include me in the dinner because it was too late but made me a HUGE French bread sandwich with pâté, Serrano ham and tomatoes. It seems that people tend to stop hiking earlier than I am used to- this explains the GR-10 finisher I met on day 1 who proudly said “I did it in 33 days!” Which would be about 15 miles a day-not really that impressive. Anyhow, I nice surprise was that the American girl, Jukebox, that I had met on day 3 in Aldudes was staying there with her PCT friend Flora. They’re also doing the High Route and also bailed at Irati due to the crappy weather. Nice to have some other folks around that speak English and are doing the same thing I am. I laid out all my wet things, a luxury, and passed out instantly in my middle bunk at 9 pm. I slept with no dreams and no movement for 9 hours.
Day 8
I got moving surprisingly early today, about 7:30–the gîte d’etape bunkroom emptied out by about 7. Jukebox and Flora were long gone-I think that they must be trying to rejoin the High Route today. The weather was still cloudy in the morning with huge clouds sitting on the mountains, but at least it wasn’t actively raining. I climbed 3500 feet straight up to the village of la Pierre St Martin, distracted by a really addicting podcast called The Gateway about a current cult leader named Teal Swan who propagates her message through YouTube, targeting suicidal people. I walked straight into a cloud-the weather turned cold and misty. I also accidentally walked into a herd of sheep-looked up and suddenly like 50 sheep were walking at a good clip right at me. The shepherd didn’t seem too upset; he gave me a pleasant “Bonjour.” I got to the refuge at the top of the mountain and was able to get a huge French bread sandwich-pâté with little pickles. Not what I would have come up with on my own but delicious. They had a huge, friendly dog with the thickest fur I have ever felt. I started to make my way down the other side of the mountain range through incredibly beautiful “karst” limestone landscape. This really does start to look like the Sierras, with emerald green meadows and soaring peaks-it’s just that there are herds of sheep in all of those meadows, different from the Sierras, which are protected. Actually, 120 years ago, the Sierras were also full of Basque shepherds and herds of sheep, but conservationists changed this with regulations secondary to the harm the grazing sheep were doing to the landscape. But there are still Basque communities in places like Bakersfield, CA because of this. Anyhow, the sheep are alive and well here. I wearily made my way down to Lescun, the village at the end of this section, at about 6:15. I found a gîte d’etape with an available private room, no bunk room tonight-and demolished a French omelette and a pile of fries. Tomorrow is the start of Section 2, and the start of the High Pyrenees. This is an adorable, small French village with an ancient church with a bell that chimes the hour, the open-air restaurant near the center, surrounded by the peaks on all sides. The only language I hear is French.
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