8

A Lad In Seyne

SUMMER’S THE TIME to go to the Alps. Obviously. Clement weather, paths clear of snow, meadows bursting with wild­flowers… Instead, the spirit moved me to backpack across the Provence Alps in spring. Mistake.

It looked fine on the map. A reassuringly fat red line marked the GR6, one of France’s Grandes Randonnées (long-distance trails), a 45-mile route that linked the towns of Sisteron and Seyne and climbed no higher than 2,000m. A springtime crossing would avoid the debilitating heat of a Provençal summer and, that close to the Mediterranean, winter snows would already have melted. Surely.

I began in Sisteron, a picturesque town situated on the banks of the River Durance beneath fluted cliffs towering 300m overhead. The GR6 headed for high country immediately with a 600m ascent over the shoulder of the 1,147m Rocher de la Baume. All first days are tough, but the trail did its best to ease the burden of a full pack by climbing in shallow zigzags through a scented pine forest on a carpet of pine needles. Provence in springtime. Good choice, I told myself.

Entrepierres gorge provided a congenial riverside pitch for a first night in the wilds, with a source of excellent water in an abandoned hamlet. Such ghost villages are a feature of the high country of Provence, the old habitations having been left to decay when the people migrated to the towns. They make for spooky campsites but, as the horizon swallowed up the sun and darkness descended, I was more than content with my lot.

Day two began with a more intimate section of trail that contoured across high farmland, where splashes of red and white paint waymarked the route. I still managed to miss the painter’s handiwork and unwittingly discover some interesting variations to the voie normale, but I remained vigilant not to stray too far from the trail because water was scarce. Finding a source, usually a spring or well in the broken-down outbuildings of some long-abandoned dwelling, was like finding nectar.

Eventually the trail quit its contour line and plunged down wooded slopes to the scorched valley of Abros, where the old village was under restoration and I succumbed to a riverside siesta in the afternoon heat. The lost height was regained on a lazy 500m climb out of the other side of the valley to the Col de Mounis. This would have made a fine campsite, but it was necessary to climb still a few hundred metres higher to the parched open land called Le Désert in order to camp close to the only source in the area (thankfully signposted). It turned out to be no more than a trickle of water buried in the undergrowth, but it did the job.

Day three. So far, so good. But now the easy-going GR6 decided on a change of policy. Having lured its followers into a false sense of accomplishment by taking the line of least resistance around highpoints, it now attacked every peak in its path directly. It climbed up and down Mélan (1,708m), then up and down Guéren (1,880m), until it came face to face with the redoubtable 2,000m mountains of the Val Haut Crest, dominated by the bulk of Les Monges (2,115m).

I camped on the slopes of Les Monges at the Col de Clapouse. In summer it would have been an unbearably waterless spot, but trickles of snowmelt from above made an overnight springtime pitch possible. That snowmelt should have forewarned be about what lay ahead on the remainder of the route. The GR6 would bypass the summit of Les Monges itself but then take a directissima line over the three remaining 2,000m peaks.

On Day four, the first of the three summits, La Laupie (2,025m), came underfoot with surprising ease, giving no inkling of the difficulties to come. Then the ridge narrowed. The wind speed increased exponentially. And suddenly I entered a whole new world of whiteness.

It was as if the GR6 had deliberately saved up all its snow and dumped it here. It was so soft and deep that every step became a trial. It took an age to cross the shallow dip between La Laupie and Le Clot de Genoux (2,112m) and even longer to cross the deeper gap that barred the way to L’Oratoire (2,071m), the third and final 2,000m peak. And matters were about to get worse.

L’Oratoire is a fine mountain of classic pyramid shape whose traverse in summer conditions is purported to provide an easy and wonderfully airy walk. Under snow, without skis or snowshoes, it presented a virtually impassable barrier. The white stuff did its utmost to show me the infinite variety of forms into which it was able to shapeshift. Deep marshmallow snow alternated with ridges of hard frozen snow, interspersed with bottomless snow topped by a hard crust that broke thigh-deep just as weight was about to be transferred from one foot to the other.

Sometimes both legs disappeared into their own snow holes and I found myself half-buried, waist deep, with my pack denting the snow behind. If this situation coincided with a particularly strong gust of wind, I was rocked back and forth like a punchball. Extricating myself from such a predicament was inordinately time-consuming. I had to remove the pack, climb out of the hole and re-shoulder the pack, only to take another step and have to repeat the process all over again.

Progress ground almost to a standstill. I could see the ridiculous side of it, but some choice expletives were nevertheless borne away on the spindrift. Hours passed before I finally crested the summit of L’Oratoire and, on easier ground, was able to roll down the far side until the snow was left behind.

At last, nothing now blocked the way to Seyne. But if I thought my problems were over, I was about to be rudely disillusioned. The route into town merited barely a sentence in the guidebook. The last few miles merely followed an anticlimactic cart track. What the guidebook failed to mention was that after rain the track became a slough of ankle-deep mud. And it appeared to have been raining on a scale that would have given Noah pause for concern.

The Val Haut Crest

Even worse, it may not have been all mud. Cattle had also been given free rein to use the track. The noxious smell that assailed my nostrils added to my sense of unease as the glutinous concoction sucked at my boots. Farmers in flanking fields shook their heads in Gallic bemusement at the sight of yet another flustered foreigner adopting a ridiculous high-stepping gait in a forlorn attempt to avoid splashes.

I reached Seyne aching from the contortions demanded of the Val Haut Crest and caked with foul-smelling gunge. A brief rinse at a town waterpipe was all I could manage before warily presenting myself at the most run-down hotel I could find in the hope that the management would be less discriminating about their clientele. Luckily I found an establishment whose concierge appeared to have no sense of smell.

For once, I settled into my urban surroundings more with relief than nostalgia for the heights I’d left behind. Don’t get me wrong, I love my tent, but a hot bath has its place in the world too.