Day Six, Refuge d’ Agnel (2580m) to La Monta (1661m) 11.3 miles 18.2 km, 1367m A, 1487m D
We left quite late the next morning, parting company from our cheery German friends as they set off up to the pass by tandem, heading for Italy with it’s salami and pizza. We headed upwards, gently at first, on a more northerly route, towards the next Col on our route.
Most mornings on our trek were gently warm and today was no exception, the marmots were on full morning nattering mode, the streams chattering joyfully as they ran over the rocks, and we listened to the world as we poled silently on our way. (Being a morose and grumpy git I refuse to discuss anything while ascending, I need oxygen!)
I’ve not mentioned the bugs that inhabit the alps, they are there in their millions, butterflies in profusion, day-flying moths as well. These both pale into rarity when compared with ‘little things that jumped’, and even more ‘little things that would have jumped if they’d done it soon-enough’ – it was with the greatest difficulty that one avoided homicide on a huge scale!
We had decided to detour from the main route, to a higher col from where we would head for the Pic de Foréant. Favourite Wife felt that we should bag at least one summit on our trip, so we turned our backs on both Le Pain Du Sucré, a classic glacial horn rising like a sharks tooth to the south-east, and from the main GR58 route, and trudged our way up a secondary, less obvious variant. We spotted a bouquetin, or Ibex as it is in English, browsing the vegetation, he was big and old and ignored us completely.
The Col de l’Eychassier 2827m claims to be the highest col on a standard GR trail in France and within feet of crossing we had entered another world, the hanging valley we looked down into was, according to the map, occupied by several small lakes, but these had shrunk since the cartographer had moved on, to large pools. The patches of snow that had lasted this far into the summer acted like ice cubes in a Gin and Tonic, bringing the temperature rapidly down as we worked on down – a tad like entering a walk-in fridge.
Favourite Wife voting with her feet. Beyond is the Crête de la Taillante (3197m)
Favourite Wife was not amused by the oncoming ice-age, added all the clothes she could, and voting with voice and feet, abandoned the idea of bagging a peak and descended with undue and un-ladylike haste to the long hanging valley below, seeking warmth.
Lac Foréant with it’s numerous species of Salmonids
This valley is slightly unusual in consisting of two hanging valleys stepping down in a straight line. It is occupied at it’s upper end by Lac de Foréant, one of two high-alpine periglacial lakes, inhabited by five varieties of salmonids. Another swimming occupant, a small cypronid called the mountain minnow, had cousins whom we had once kept in a tank at home.
The other side of the valley was occupied by the Crête de la Taillante, dressed on this its western side, in one massive slab of rock that glistened as it reflected the sunlight that swept the scene.
We stopped just below the outlet of the lake and had an energy-bar. In order to restrict weight we minimised the number we carried, some were ok, some barely palatable. The Mango bar by Torq was our favourite by far, and as with all of them we made one bar last several stops. I have a suspicion that Favourite Wife gave me that little bit extra as a precaution against me ‘popping my clogs’ so far from a convenient hearse.
The stop for a smackerel at the exit from Lac de Foréant.
This was a day of descents. We had only ascended just over 450m to the Col, the rest was down-hill all the way, descending some 1340m in four giant steps to our eventual destination. From our Torq-bar stop on the rock in the middle of the stream we retraced our steps alongside the lower end of the lake to rejoin the GR58 just before it plunged over the edge and took us steeply down to the next level. We ran into Stephane and Lawrence, and her brother who had joined the gang, just as we joined the path, and tracked each other until they turned off to a hummock to raid the boîte à déjeuner, and I suspect have a little snooze (not sure that the French have such a thing as a little snooze, perhaps ‘un grand snooze’!).
The view as we descended, our Leki’s extended just that little more than normal, making the descent easier as we twisted and turned our way down, took the eye many miles to far snow-topped peaks. The mid-morning light gave a clarity that belied the distance.
At our feet the head of this lower section of the valley was scattered with peri-glacial wash, and it was clear that the lake in the distance had been much larger before the stream that flowed from it had flushed away the terminal moraine to form a gorge, ever deepend by the passing of countless centuries of meltwater.
Tucked onto the edge of one of the heaps of stone were several stone hovels, once occupied by the shepherds as they tended the flocks, indeed possibly still. We heard and then saw a large flock, with it’s accompanying shepherd and large almost wild guard-dogs, whom it is wise to avoid, and certainly not to try stroking.
Shepherd huts.
The path had taken us past Lac Egorgéou and along the upper side of the gorge, before straying away from where the gorge and it’s accompanying waterfalls plunged steeply down, taking a less steep route for us mere humans.
We walked across close cropped meadow in gentle large ziz-zags (it was tempting to run down making whee noises) until returning once more to the stream below the section of gorge. It was here on large rocks by the eager and noisy stream, that we sat in the sun and finished the supplies we’d carried from St Véran and beyond. The warmth was gentle and wonderful, and the stream bitingly cold to our resting unbooted feet.
Within minutes of starting again there was a loud clap of thunder as a black cloud sailed, battleship like, over Le Grand Queyras to the west, it’s opening salvo announced the arrival of rain; ‘Il pleut des cordes’, and we quickly put our waterproofs to the test.
For those interested; we carried lightweight waterproof Spark jackets by RAB, these proved to be truly the ‘lightweight fantastic’ very effective in the couple of storms we encountered, and were much more tailored than many, now don’t get me wrong I’m not the type who would worry much about tailoring, except that it meant they flapped less in the wind. Sadly these are no longer made, and I’m advised by Rab that a suitable replacement is the Kinetic Ultra – perhaps we’ll try them on another route.
We were less bothered by quality of waterproof trousers as we reckoned to be wearing shorts most of the time and these were largely covered by the jackets. I regret going quite so lightweight and would happily carry better quality lightweight that is actually waterproof, and has zips down the side. Zips down the side, now that is important. With the storm I’ve described here, it arrived with such speed that I was still fighting to get the trousers over the boots and not fall over, when it hit.
The storm passed, as quickly as it came, tracking it’s focussed raindrops across the valley and beyond. We picked our way down through dripping trees and miniature steams to the main valley below where the Guil river occupied but a fraction of the river bed that it would during snow-melt time, the rest being boulders, temporary saplings and Rosebay Willowherb Chamaenerion angustifolium.
We crossed the river to the village of L’Echalp. Finding that the refuge was open for ‘drinkypoos’ we spread our waterproofs to dry and waited for the charming Patron to return. Un pichet de rosé for Favourite Wife. In a similar vein to God looking down on the earth after six days of trying to work out the instruction leaflet – that He himself had written – and announcing that “it was good”, I tasted my ‘really rather expensive craft beer’ and “it was good”.
Essentials after a rainstorm.
We shared un tarte aux framboise of some excellence, and shared tinges of regret that there had been no room at this refuge. If you follow in our footsteps then book this place early!
Time was on our hands and we sauntered down the valley to the refuge at La Monte (1661m), arriving mid-afternoon and sitting in the sun until the next shower came and drove us under an umbrella – the French all went indoors. Our refuge that night and the nearby church were the only two remaining buildings in what had once been quite a substantial village, the rest of having been destroyed by a fire resulting from Italian bombardment during WWII.
The nicer view from our ‘corridor to the loo’ chambre.
The refuge itself provided us with a fairly unique ‘chambre’, with our beds either side of the small room through which ran the corridor leading to a curtain and beyond it the bathroom. Not made for romance despite the premium price.
Dinner was equally unique, assigned yet again to share a table with poor Lawrence and Staphane, Favourite Wife had a very fine ‘omelette avec ortie en poudre’. The rest of us had ‘poulet crémaux aux aiguilles de mélèze’, or ‘creamy chicken with larch needles’. And fruit salad.
And so to bed, blessedly with not too many ‘passers-through.’