Friday, February 29, 2008

le Refuge



My husband and I decided to go on a short hiking vacation in the French Alps with another couple. Maurice has been hiking many times over the years and knew a beautiful area with great hiking trails and places to stay. He told me it would be a little basic but I thought, "How bad could it be?" I pictured a little building made of wood, planks for the flooring, maybe some showers like the ones I experienced in gym class--those stalls all lined up but with doors. To me, basic means no curtains on the windows. I was to learn that basic means something else to a French hiker.

We set off early one morning from Paris heading south to Lyon and then east through Grenoble and into the French Alps. The roads got higher, narrower and more winding and rivers and streams could be seen far below. At times we had to stop to let cars pass which were coming from the other direction on the narrow road. Eventually, the road ended when we had come to the end of the world in a little village called La Berarde. We spent the night in a simple hotel there; the first in the area, it was built in 1909. We even took a short hike out into the valley, an hour each way, and saw the river up close and glaciers shining in the distance nestled on top of various mountains. It is not an area full of wild nightlife, and the altitude made us sleepy anyway, so we were in bed early.

The next morning we each packed, as lightly as we could, the backpacks we would carry, including the ingredients for a picnic at the top. Up the trail we started, the end of which we would find a refuge, famous places all over the Alps for hikers and visitors to the mountains needing shelter and a place to sleep. The first part was hard going, all uphill and the trail was covered in all sizes of rocks left behind when a glacier, centuries ago, slid its way down the mountain making a valley and leaving behind a clutter of rocky debris.



My backpack got heavier and heavier cutting into my shoulders. We reached a fairly flat area, crossed a stream a couple of times, walked in a green area with trees, which was pleasant. Waterfalls could be seen tumbling down the mountains that rose up on either side of us. Then it became difficult again--more rocks and all uphill. Eventually we could see the refuge up the mountain in the distance looking like something out of Lord of the Rings or maybe a labor camp, institutional in appearance. The men were losing patience with us women and finally left us behind in disgust and, scurrying up the boulders, got to the refuge first. They were waiting at a table outside in the sun, smiling, when we finally arrived, sweating, hot and with shaky legs. I had thought all the walking and stair climbing I’d done in Paris would prepare me for hiking. I was wrong.

We sat there and had a nice picnic. Then I wandered inside to find the toilet. Imagine the horror of someone with burning thighs and weak knees when opening the stall door and seeing a Turkish toilet, a spider-web-covered black hole in the ground. Oh the trauma.

I found the proprietor. "Where are the showers?" this innocent asked.

"There aren’t any."

I began to understand what "basic" meant. I looked at a long sink beneath some windows. I realized that this was going to be where any cleaning up would be done. There was a sign in French that my friend translated into, "This sink is for personal cleaning purposes only. Any dishes must be washed outside in the torrent." I was glad we hadn’t brought any dishes. I could see them being washed away in the fast-flowing stream down to the valley below.

I remembered that I had forgotten to include a towel in my backpack. "Do you have any towels for rent, or that someone may have left behind?"

"No."

"I don’t suppose there is any hot water?"

"No, all the water comes straight down the mountain from the glacier." The glacier could be seen high up on the mountain behind the refuge, melting in the summer heat.
This meant that the water would be ice cold. It occurred to me that I could have left a whole change of clothes behind in the car and not have lugged them up the mountain on my back. I also found out that we had to haul our own garbage with us when we went back down. Had we known that, we would have had one of the sandwiches sold there and not made so much trash with our picnic.

Then I went upstairs to check out the sleeping arrangements. My husband had told me that it would be a dorm set-up. I pictured rows of bunk beds. What I found was two giant bunk beds that ran from wall to wall with a row of mattresses all together where everyone would be "cheek and jowl" that night, rather like the beds I have seen in concentration camp movies. There were folded-up blankets, dirty looking mattress covers and pillows which, I discovered when I laid my head down that night, smelled. I don’t think they changed anything between visitors. I wonder if they only change the beds once a season? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Luckily, the refuge wasn’t full that night but Maurice told me that he had been there before when they had been packed in that bed like sardines, having to turn as one or not at all. I feel fortunate that I didn’t have to spend the night between two strangers. Both my friend and I rushed to grab our places at the extreme corner walls, using our husbands as barriers from strange men.

Later we sat outside, where the setting sun turned the clouds pink. We saw a small herd of chamois, a type of mountain goat, eating their way down the mountain. And a cute marmot, a type of badger, could be seen poking its head up and then waddling out to a rock, soon joined by its baby. Our dinner, surprisingly good, was served in a fairly dark room and we wondered why they hadn’t turned the lights on as night fell. We soon discovered that the refuge had a generator but they never turned it on. I quickly ran downstairs to brush my teeth to save myself having to find everything in the dark. I cleaned my face with a cotton pad, having lugged my beauty products up the mountain, too. By 8:30 we were all in bed. If you had anything you wanted to do, it had to be done with a flashlight. I read a little while with a small flashlight on my chest. By 9:00 we were all asleep.

Twenty-five loud, soiled hikers suddenly burst into our dorm room, arriving late and setting up their sleep areas. All during the night there was snoring (and a few other disagreeable sounds). All night, people climbed in and out of the squeaking bed, carrying their flash lights, then walked across the creaking wooden floor to noisily open the toilet door. One group got up at 3 AM to hike across a glacier while it was still frozen. A second group got up at 5 AM to hike with a loud, "Time to get up, boys." We managed to sleep until 7:30.

The trek downhill was, of course, much simpler and faster. With a sigh, we reached the bottom. Maurice had planned another hike up to another refuge but the women rebelled. I, for one, just could not face another sweaty hike followed by no shower and then a night in a room with a group of smelly strangers whose bandaged feet protruded from the bunks. I guess I’m just not cut out for this stuff anymore. I’ll leave it to young, rugged men. I love the scenery, love the walking, but give me a comfortable clean bed, a place to take a shower and a standard toilet. That is basic enough for me.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

A Taste of the French Alps

Having a chance to visit the Alps and, in particular, a city called Annecy, I had to get out a map of France and to find it is in the eastern part of the France, in the French Alps. When I finally got to see Annecy first-hand, I wasn't prepared for its beauty. It is situated around a stunning lake and has a charming old city full of beautiful buildings and an old prison around which a stream splits and flowers spill out of containers on every corner.



This, I knew, was to be the beginning of my love affair with the French Alps. I have since been into the French Alps to a town called Bourg St Maurice. I like it with it's own little old town lined with cobbled streets. The village is in the center of the Haute-Tarentaise region and is the starting point for an entry into Italy up and over a mountain pass, or the way up to a ski resort called Les Arcs. My husband and I have skied at Les Arcs, and it's huge with runs all over the mountain.



In the summer, I've seen people taking off the side of mountains on hang gliders, and there is excellent hiking. We trekked over a mountain trail, through fields of lavender flowers, to a little Russian-looking chapel at the top of a mountain built sometime in the 1800s. I wondered what inspired someone to want to build in such an inaccessible place, and how hard it must have been to get everything up there.



We found a great restaurant in Bourg St. Maurice called Restaurant La Tartiflette. It's a wonderful place to try the food from the Savoie region such as Tartiflette, a dish made with potatoes, bacon, onion, and the local Reblochon cheese , or Diot, a local pork sausage with Crozets a Savoie pasta. Try the Vin de Savoie, such as Apremont, as well as one of the killer desserts, like the ice cream dish called Vertigo or Diablo. (Just don't plan any strenuous activity afterwards, as this is not food for the diet conscious!) Be sure to say hello to the very friendly, and entertaining owner of ten years, Rene Bignon.

While we were in this area one summer we did several driving trips to explore the many little villages. All of the drives involved hairpin curves, and there was seldom a time I didn't get a little car sick. One day we went across the border into a little Italian town for lunch. We crossed a pass called Col du Petit St Bernard where a good deal of fighting took place during World War II and there is a statue of St. Bernard de Menthon standing at the top. Another day we headed off for a little town called Bonneval-sur-Arc. It lies south of Mount Blanc and to get there we had to go over a pass called Col de l'Iseran, the highest pass in the Alps. There are areas here where the snow never melts. When we started out it was a sunny day, but as we got higher we entered thick fog and had to creep along, almost deciding to turn around. We finally got above the clouds and as we reached the summit, it started snowing (this was only August!). Then we descended the mountain, going again through fog and finally entering the area of Bonnelval-sur-Arc, which sits in the valley of the Arc surrounded by high peaks. It is a little town left totally untouched by development, with no satellite dishes or phone or electrical wires in sight. The tourists are all put up at a nearby village, and no cars are allowed. The buildings are all built of rough granite blocks, and the roofs are covered in slabs of stone. It all has such an ancient feel. It rained the whole time we were there, and it was cold so we went into a little restaurant and had some hot tea and a lunch of salad and local cheese and sausage to get warmed up. Coming out, we passed some hikers dressed in shorts and looking, to my unseasoned eyes, very wet and miserable. The whole area is covered in hiking trails that are used a lot during the summer months. I could see ski lifts for winter skiing.

My husband's uncle had told us to be sure to do the drive to Beaufort, as it was especially beautiful, and he was certainly right. After many a hairpin curve, we entered a little valley where one of the most beautiful lakes I have ever seen sat—Roseland Lake. It was a milky turquoise color sitting in the sun. I have since read that it is manmade and covers an old village, but it is still breathtaking when first viewed.



As we drove along we could see a glacier in the distance, and we passed cows everywhere eating grass that eventually becomes the famous Beaufort cheese.



The charming town of Beaufort has a stream running through the center and flowers everywhere—and, of course, a picturesque church. What's a wonderful thought to me is that we have barely scratched the surface of all there is to see in the French Alps. I am not much of a hiker, but I am inspired to become fit enough to start taking hikes around this beautiful area. Hiking is very popular in Europe, and now I know why.

Restaurant La Tartiflette 29, avenue del la Gare BourgSt. Maurice 04-79-07-07-94