The snow was lying low in the Alps for early June, blanching the icy runnels between granite spires, dilly-dallying beneath the treeline. And more was due to fall. This is the mountain guides’ off-season, neither winter for skiers, nor summer for climbers. The lifts lie idle, signalling the hour to mend equipment, confirm future business and rest boulder-hopped limbs. But for the active, the opportunity for sneaking in a few routes when others aren’t watching, and head for warmer climes, cannot be missed.
The Dollies are plastered, said Matt, and there’s nothing in condition in the High Alps. Let’s head to Provence. Agreed, I said. Verdon? Yes, plus there’s this unheard-of place that Rémy mentioned – Aiglon. Immaculate and hard, requiring the old magic.
After an Arve Valley warm-up, polished, between rainshowers, we drove south. Miles ticked by as a sliver of sun was promised in the Midi, according to our Météo, trusting a forecast made by experts we’d never meet. The car sloshed past Chambéry and Grenoble, crept over the mist-clagged pass to Gap, rested a few hours beside the motorway, continued under castellated Sisteron and breached the deceptive hills of the Alpes Maritimes. Lurching through the final kilometres above the Verdon River, we saw the ice green thread that deburred its limestone sides. The chasm became deeper and steeper, and with every metre our anticipation grew.
There she is, said Matt, le Paroi du Duc! On freewheeling the last few metres to the panorama, we unpicked ourselves from behind the dash. A just Mistral whipped the face and dispatched our belongings across the parking lot like tumbleweed as we prepared for a day on the cliff. Hardly a cloud marred the sky, but the sensation was Baltic.
Over the torrent we hauled ourselves across on a Tyrolean traverse, scooted up through the stunted trees and laced up boots beneath the route. Matt began the first of the four easy pitches, climb, clip, climb, clip, his experience reading the moves perfectly. I followed and we swapped at each belay. The rock was cool, but my stomach was churning. What’s the matter? Dunno, I said. Think I’m going to be sick…
The angle changed to vertical, and we turned into the sun. This line was subtle, following slots and knobbles and horns, cracking through the vertical sections on ramplines and handrails. Tapping the limestone gave nothing but thuds of permanency. Matt blasted the crux on small crimps and I followed with the rope tight, my head swimming. The metres passed without registration. At the summit, I think we mid-fived and stumbled through the shrubbery. Autopilot must have guided me down the many abseils to the river again, by which time the fog had gone.
That evening, we turned into the campsite of La Palud. With an open communal area backing on to the northerlies she looked the same as 23 years ago, when we last visited, having hitchhiked through the night. Perhaps the willows were taller concrete had encroached further upon the lawn, but nothing else had changed. The owner sauntered up. Bonsoir, m’sieur, I said. On a passé une semaine ici une fois, en1990. Bienvenue de plus. C’etait moi là - le seul guardian depuis 30 ans, t’imagine! ‘British’, vous dites? Connaissez-vous Ron Fawcett? Oui? Je me souviens comme il pluvait sans arret, lors qu’il tournait son film. Ils ont mis tous au garage! We smiled back and pushed in our tent pegs.
The next day, we rapped off the Belvedere, straight down the line of our route. On ‘La Marche du Temps’ the limestone shimmered. Our feet barely touched the rock. We descended a ropelength or half too far and had to climb a pitch of the infamous El Topo and a crumbling traverse where a slip would have cracked my skull. But once on the route proper, we simply danced. Never too strenuous, pawing the fossilised trilobites required accuracy and focus. The occasional whoosh past the rock worried us at first, with the sound of rockfall, but was only the eagles soaring on the afternoon thermals.
We coiled our ropes on the top, wafting the smell of wild rosemary. The best bit, said Matt, was that hard grey section on pitch four - fantastic! Sorry, can’t remember, I replied. He looked at me, incredulously. No, really, I must have been concentrating so hard.
The following morning we upped sticks and drove east to a little-known crag close by Nice, but a world away from the Promenade des Anglais. Single-track roads twisted and switchbacked. Hamlets clung precariously. The houses looked wonderful with their painted shutters and red roofs. Aiglon, the cliff we’d come to climb, appeared suddenly. We walked towards enormous bastions along scree-filled paths, legs brushing the thorns. Matt began the first rope, inching across an enormous traverse above a cave. When I followed, the line tugged annoyingly rightwards and the air ballooned below my feet.
We took the best parts of two routes through the weaknesses above. The fourth pitch was immaculate, the crux blocking a 30-degree roof with two finger pockets as main leverage. The only sound was my breathing and the slide of nylon through karabiners. Higher up, the surface became grey, wave-formed, pockmarked. Further on, the sheen turned to coral, with every touch a thousand needles. After three days without a break, our skin was hurting. Finally, a traverse of the gods led to a final sting in the tale on small holds above an impossibly steep drop. That’s what climbing is all about.
Look at these paths, said Matt. They must be ancient. Well, I said, Hannibal came through here, with elephants! Poor guy never committed to take Rome when he needed to, but wandered aimlessly for years. Well, said Matt, seems like we’ve followed in his footsteps.. We laughed and headed down, enjoying the sun on our faces.
Routes
Verdon - Série Limitée and La Marche du Temps (photo)
Aiglon - Saga/Dissipation (photo)
Images
Verdon gorge
Matt on Série Limitée
The author at Aiglon
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