Day 1 or Lessons Learned

Notes on day 1, February 25, St. Jean Pied de Port to Huntto (written on Feb. 26)



"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." - Lao Tzu

Today I learned that French chickens think absolutely everyone should be awake at 4:38am. Yesterday I learned that you should never plan to hike 8 kilometers up a steep-ass mountain without making 150% sure that the auberge you plan on staying at is open for the winter. I was 100% sure it was open before I left, but not 150%. Before heading out from St. Jean Pied de Port, I showed my map to Jean-Pierre, my earnest host, and he told me that the route I had planned to take to Roncesvalles, the Route de Napoleon over the Pyrenees, was covered in snow up to the neck (really? It was so warm out I wasn´t wearing a jacket), and that the Auberge d'Orisson halfway up the climb was closed for the winter.

Well that sucked donkey cajones. This was a disappointment because the other route to Roncesvalles followed the main highway and was, by all accounts, less beautiful, less breathtaking, and less solitary. But I decided to be philosophical about the change in plans: better to be sucking car exhaust than frozen in a block of ice on a mountain top and discovered in the spring.

But then I met Jeanine, an enthusiastically French Frenchwoman at the pilgrim office, who told me (in French) that Jean-Pierre (whom she seemed to know) was an idiot and didn´t know what he was talking about. The Route de Napoleon was open, there was no snow (I know! I´m not even wearing a jacket!), and the Auberge d'Orisson was open. Plus, she told me, the other route was ugly.

Well, that settles that. And my guide book even confirmed the Orisson auberge was open all year. Wohoo! My plan for crossing the French Pyrenees a la Napoleon Bonaparte was saved! And hearing the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark in my head, I set off from St. Jean.



Let me just say that the mountains are stunning. Whenever I wasn´t panting like an overweight Schnauzer from the climb, I was in sublime solitary hiker mode. I greeted everyone I met on the slopes: "Bonjour Monsieur Cow! Bonjour Madame Sheep! Au Revoir Madamoiselle Chicken!". I picnicked on fabulous stinky French cheese and tangy French clementines and buttery French chocolate overlooking a pastureland of grazing French sheep. I marveled at every blade of French grass and French leaf. I was in the zone.



But at 3:30pm when I reached the 8km mark that signaled my arrival at the auberge, I found out it was, after all, closed. I am proud to say that I worked hard to contain my freak-out and solve the problem. After all, this was serious business. I could hike the 8km all the way back down the friggin French mountain to St. Jean and start over again tomorrow, or I could continue on to Roncesvalles that night (still another 16.8km away and summiting the Pyrenees at 1450m above sea level). "Fuck it. I can do that. I can make it, damnit! I am woman, hear me roar... 'n' stuff."

But then I remembered I didn´t have much food and there was no water left (I had timed my drinking all savvy-like for my arrival at the auberge). It was when I started to think, "well, I can always eat snow for water," that I came to my limited senses and realized I was in fact not SurvivorMan, and I had only ever watched that show once and that time he was in Mongolia or something and the one tip on edible Mongolian snakes I picked up was not likely to help me here. Better to go back down the mountain to St. Jean then end up frozen in a block of ice on the mountain top and discovered in spring.



I began the decent, grumbling the entire way, of course, when after about 3km I spotted a little old limping Frenchwoman in her yard. I hailed her (in French!) and told her my plight (in French!). She answered me (in French!) that her neighbor runs the little auberge at Huntto, which happened to be right where we were standing!

I was saved! And soon enough I was happily ensconced in my little Auberge Ithurburia, soaking in a scalding hot bath, washing my socks and undies in my tub, and reveling in the unbelievable view of countryside and farmland and mountains from the balcony outside my very French bedroom. And after that I was invited to share an intimate home cooked Basque dinner with my hostess and her brother (I was the only pilgrim staying with them that night).

The dinner by the way, consisted of Port wine for aperitif, bread, the most hearty and simultaneously delicate vegetable soup I have ever tasted, Saussison en Pipperade (sausage in a tomato, pepper and egg gravy - a Basque specialty I am told), a cheese course, Spanish wine and blackberry ice cream for dessert. Hence all my certain weight loss from the day´s hiking evaporated in a haze of blissful gluttony.

And in the morning, after being awakened by my punctual French roosters, my hostess´s brother drove me right back up the mountain in his little French Peugeot to the spot where the night before I began my descent in a huff.

So in the end, nothing was lost, and everything was gained.