Pic du Midi d'Ossau

Today, I bit off a little more than we could chew.

This morning, we decided to rent a car and head up to a local mountain in the Pyrénées. Driving in unfamiliar cities is not something I normally shy away from. Road trips are synonymous with some of my best memories—criss-crossing the highways of North America telling stories over playlists as long as nights ahead. But, driving on another continent; this was a new one.

For as formal as the French are in speaking, they sure do leave some lines off of the roads. Multiple lanes funnel into roundabouts and leave the rest up to chance. C’est la vie? Je pense pas. The streets teem with scooters and pedestrians—each relying on you to pay attention. Intersections seem antiquated and haphazard though everyone seems to find their way across. You are constantly retraining your eye on where to look. And no matter where you are, in an instant it seems you could find yourself on one of those dreaded one-lane, cobblestone streets—the ones you have to fold your mirrors in to squeeze through. After nearly two months without driving, our cushy Jeep Cherokee lulled me into a false sense of security. It was a familiar freedom and independence. But, this time it would require a lot more work.

We made our way out of the valley and into the foothills of the mountains. As we turned off the highway and up a single lane track, I breathed a sigh of relief. A mountain road is a mountain road no matter where you are.

The trail I had set my sights on was a 10.7 mile circumnavigation of the most prominent peak in the region: Pic du Midi d’Ossau. Coming to a jagged point above the valley and surrounding peaks, it seemed like the Matterhorn of the Pyrénées-Atlantiques. I knew it was the most ambitious trail out of the few I had picked out, but with a singular day of good weather, it was now or never. We had crossed an ocean to see these mountains; why not at least give it a go?

Leaving the parking lot, we heard an unfamiliar clamor in the trees. It was loud, metallic, and random. My eyes searched for the noise until I saw a shepard leading dozens of cows down the steep slope. In the last days of summer, they were moving the herds from the high meadows to the pasteures in the valleys below. We made our ascent up to the trailhead—careful of our steps the whole way.

The trail followed it’s way along a glacial valley south toward the Spanish border. It made its way across a high meadow and along a stream before breaking off and turning skyward toward the treeline. After a little route finding, we picked our way through the trees and started upward. The climbing seemed to last for hours. The treeline eventually ceeded and gave way to sweeping views of the valleys below. The land rippled like sand on the ocean floor before turning vertical. In the distance you could spot a shelter or two for the local shepards tending to the few herds still remaining. Knowing we’d inevitably hit a low point in the day, I snuck a sleeve of Biscoff cookies into the pack.

As we sat and gazed out, the oldness of the place struck me. I thought of the stories that these peaks knew. The kingdoms that rose and fell on either side of them. The soldiers who had to traverse them. The refugees who must have fled through them. Back home, our mountains have been left largely undisturbed for the ages, but these had been worn by more than just the elements. They carried a weight to them.

I sat and consulted the map. We had gotten a late start and we weren’t as far along as we hoped, so we elected to turn back instead of racing nightfall. It’s funny how after you’ve been inside for weeks you’re like “my soul is in the mountains,” but after a hard day of climbing all you can think is “why did I ever leave?” Some days in the mountains age better with time. That was compounded by the fact that a knee injury from earlier in the summer was flaring up for the first time in awhile. I had overused and strained my IT band just before leaving the States. Apart from a long day here and there, it had largely been improving. But the descent seemed to be bringing me back to square one.

I hobbled my way back to the car not sure if I was more discouraged over my misjudgement or the effect it might have on our plans in the coming months. That’d have to be a worry for another day. The lone peak hung quietly in waning evening light—as if keeping watch over the ages—while we retraced our steps across the meadow. Wisps of fog began to form over the ridges as the cold breeze brushed against the back of my neck. Ahead of us a lone fly-fisherman strolled back empty-handed but content as if to remind me: no day in the mountains is wasted.