Hiking With History in the Pyrenees
By MARK C. HANSEN; MARK C. HANSEN has written frequently on hiking.
Published: May 20, 1990
IN 1700, Louis XIV of France observed his grandson's accession to the Spanish throne with satisfaction: ''the Pyrenees have ceased to exist,'' he boasted. Luckily for those who crave the satisfactions of great massifs, the Sun King's edict left undisturbed this soaring frontier dividing France from the Iberian peninsula. The Pyrenees, a chain running 270 miles from Atlantic to Mediterranean, from the Basque country to Catalonia, retains its air of regal isolation long after the heirs of the Bourbons were compelled to surrender theirs.
The Pyrenees have often been slighted by comparison with the more elevated and celebrated Alps. But in some respects the Pyrenees are the more impressive chain; harsher and more rugged, a nearly impenetrable frontier along the length of the French-Spanish border. And they are vibrant, in high summer valleys and tawny sheep meadows strewn with bright blue mountain iris, with gentian, juniper, wild whortleberries and red currants; piles of greenish-gray scree sprouting pink clusters of moss campion; forests of conifer, beech, silver fir and pine; rock-rimmed lakes at cloud level, and patchwork villages carefully terraced amid passes, valleys and foothills. Any comparison with the picturesque Alps beggars the rugged satisfactions of what the French call ''la frontiere sauvage.''
The rustic Pyrenees are best traversed on foot. Although roads now lace the mountains, the region throughout history has been walked - by eighth-century Spaniards fleeing the invading Moors and medieval pilgrims headed south to Santiago de Compostela, by downed American airmen and refugees during World War II. The paths are well-marked, owing to the development of cross-country routes (the prime example being the French Grande Randonnee, or G.R., No. 10, from Hendaye on the Atlantic to Banyuls on the Mediterranean), and well mapped in a series of minutely detailed topographical maps. Mountain villages, a solid day's walk apart, serve as ideal resting places.
This past October two friends and I ventured a traverse of about 50 miles in 5 days of the Mediterranean end of the range, in the Pyrenees Orientales. Ceded by Spain in the Treaty of the Pyrenees of 1659, the Pyrenees Orientales region of France stretches from the hill-bound hamlet-state of Andorra to Perpignan and the flatlands of France's Mediterranean coast.
Comparatively unvisited, the mountain villages of this Catalan country are where the tricky mother-tongue is spoken, cafes fill with shepherds and farmers and a folk-dance called the sardana is danced. Above these villages are grand aeries equal to, if fewer than, the better-known summits of the central Pyrenees. Yet the region boasts some of the range's best weather and beautiful valleys that shelter such towns as Ceret, headquarters for some of the Cubist contemporaries of Picasso, and Vernet, a languid spa beloved of Kipling.
Our weeklong hike had certain constraints. We did not want to camp or carry heavy packs. We did not want to eat beans cooked on a camp stove. We expected three courses, if not three stars. Yet we proposed a self-guided tour into rough country. Our plan was to follow the eastward course of G.R. 10 through southern France (the trail and its high altitude variants closely track the French-Spanish border). We wanted to attain the region's two highest summits (Carlit and Canigou), cross the fertile valleys of the Cerdagne and explore the French fortresses commanding the approach routes from Spain. Most of all, we wanted to observe the travel dictum of Walt Whitman: ''I loaf and invite my soul.''
With such indulgent expectations and modest packs containing only clean clothes, bad weather gear, first aid kits, a precautionary sleeping bag and other lightweight items, we set off by slow local train from Barcelona. As we entered the Pyrenees through the gentle valleys of the Spanish Cerdagne (Cerdana in Spanish), the dry, hardscrabble country yielded to umber mountai