EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALDecember 14, 1998
Arbonne
Cote Basque
There’s a family of goats at the trailhead. They live in a
roofless stone house and they recline on the remains of a chimney. Father Billy is
forthright in his inspection of us. They initiate the hike with a chorus of bleating.
The goats share the mountain with the Pottock ponies who graze freely
on the prickly bushes and soggy grass. The scrubby trees have tacks for leaves. The horses
nibble without notice.
We scramble up the hill, first on a service road beside the cogwheel
railway, which is closed until March. We poke into a stream valley, and walk through the
mud and grass, surrounded by dense forest. The forest is a solid green patch on the
scruffy, rocky hill. Today is the most perfect day since we’ve been in Europe. The
sky is a clear blue dome and the wind is Africa’s exhale. We’re transported to
summer as we push ourselves forward, in anticipation of an unobstructed view. It’s 20
degrees.
Hiking, even the most pleasurable of dayhikes, always enlivens the same
feelings. Challenge, invigoration, heat, thirst. My legs blow out and then settle into a
comfortable climbing rhythm. My mind drifts deeply into memories. My thoughts are clear
and focussed. In this sudden heat, after months of damp and cold, I think of our six
broiling days hiking in the Grand Canyon two Springs ago. We call it The Trip in the
Pit, The Furnace. Growing up on the moist, fertile west coast of British Columbia does
not prepare one for the Arizona heat. The sensation of thirst, and carrying ten pounds of
water daily is an entirely different challenge in the wilderness. The location itself is
breathtaking, so unlike anything else I have ever experienced, but the feat of hiking in
such conditions is surprisingly enormous.
We’re in the shadow of a plateau and the shade is a relief. A
stream is clear and cold. The ponies nibble in the corner of my eye. We follow the railway
and cut through the steep, open grass towards the summit. In two and a half hours we climb
900 metres in elevation.
We stand at the top of the isosceles triangle, La Rhune. From
the tiny station, stairs lead to a restaurant and bar…La Panoramique. All is
quiet. There is a telecommunications station with the tower we can see from Mendialde.
The view from the summit completes the circle of our last six weeks. Bordeaux lies on the
distant horizon to the north, with the Cote d’Argent creeping towards us.
Bayonne and Biarritz prevail at the western water’s edge. The Corniche Basque
connects the deep, crescent-shaped harbour of Saint Jean de Luz and the sprawling beach of
Hendaye. To the east we see Saint Jean-Pied-de-Port and a solar system of tiny Basque
villages. The Pyrenees jab the sky in soft greys and snow-capped peaks. We look into the
sun and see Spain in a series of blue layers. Uninvestigated towns nestle between green
hills and fill their pockets with the smoke of burning leaves. San Sebastian mirages in
the distant west. The sharp white teeth of higher summits complete the sight. Everything
retreats forever. La Rhune towers at the centre.
We’re high with exhaustion and lie contentedly in the ardent,
soothing sunlight. We’re alone with the exception of the telecommunications
lighthouse keeper. Soon other huffing hikers join us with sticks and dogs and spandex and
dress shoes. We’re having a picnic of yogurt and clementines and chewy pain
ancienne. Everyone stops and sucks in the view, then disappears behind the cluster of
buildings. As we prepare for our descent we discover the bar is open. We have
underestimated the French by assuming that just because the shutters are closed and the
train has stopped that the odd hiker might not want his degustation and cassoulet.
Rich is bloated with lemonade, forced to accept his beerless fate.
Down is easier than up, however the suspension of momentum uses all new
muscles. My legs are tight and my toes are squished and the vista is soft with the
descending light. The hills grow luminescent with the afternoon. The ponies clink their
bell necklaces with the scratch of an itch. Their hides are matted and shabby, their
hooves are clumped with mud. Atmosphere hovers on the hillside.
Dusk casts a lilac to peach gradation over Biarritz. The coastal resort
illuminates with the sinking sun. Grass glows with dew’s destiny.
Alfi greets us in time for darkness. An old, smelly dogs receives us at
the trailend. He jumps and nuzzles and wags, and then attempts to herd us in the petit
train parking lot. We drive the serpentine road towards my waiting bathtub.
