4th to 8th/12/2004 In alphabetical order: Berta, Carles, Jaume, JoanManel, Manel, Peter, Ricard and Roger.
...al final teniu la piada que ha escrit en Peter Collins, thanks!!! No patiu: en Manel ha promès una traducció adaptada...
5 dies entre la Mongie, Caderoles, Aygües Cluses, Bareges i el Neuouvielle, amb bon temps, dormint en refugis i cabanes:
1er dia, +85Om; Artigues-La Mongie 1.350m - Ref. Campana de Cloutou 2.225m
2on dia, +750m / -825m; "els tres colls" Hourquette de Caderolles 2.495m - Col de Gourguet 2.405m - Col d'Aumar 2.385m - Ref. d'Aubert 2.150m.
3er dia, +1.050m / -1.050m; Col d'Aubert 2.498m - Estany Negre 2.200m - Pic de Madamete 2.657m - Cabana d'Aygües Cluses 2.150m.
4rt dia, +1.00m / -925m; Col de Bareges 2.450m - Pic d'Aygües Cluses 2.620m - Cabana - Hourquette Nere 2.465m - Lac de Bastan - Hourquette de Caderolles 2.495m - Ref. Campana de Cloutou 2.225m.
5è dia, -850m; Descens a Artigues 1.350m.
Escrit de Peter C.
Had you been driving up the tortuous road which leads from Artigues to La Mongie at 12 ‘0’ clock on Wednesday 8th December 2004 you would have been greeted with a curious sight. You would have seen seven unshaven men and one young woman in the process of stripping to their underwear, rubbing themselves down with wet towels, getting dressed again and then engaging in exercises reminiscent of Tai Chi or Yoga. They would all have been distinguished by a look of manic glee in their eyes. Strange as it may appear, these were not members of some strange religious cult despite the ecstatic look on their faces; they were in fact members of the Club Excursionista de Gracia returning from their most recent ski tour through the Parc Naturelle de Neouvielle.The expedition had begun in Barcelona the previous Friday and I, the sole English member of the Catalan group had driven up with Jaume, Berta and Roger to the Val d’Aran, whilst Ricard, Joan and Manel made their way separately. The group joined together and enjoyed Carles’ hospitality in Casarilh before heading off with him the next morning towards La Mongie. The drive through the foothills of the Pyrenees, though beautiful because of the autumnal trees that refused to accept the onset of winter, did not bode well. There was snow, but not much, in the mountains to the north. We wondered whether we would be able to make the traverse planned.
The hut, a simple tent-shaped structure, afforded us all we needed when we arrived in the late afternoon.We had collected water from the river earlier and the wood-burning stove in the centre of the hut provided warmth. Our first attempt at catering with the selection of camping cookers gave us a selection of gourmet dishes ranging from fideua to spaghetti and I distinguished myself by overturning Manel’s campstove and throwing most of the contents of my pan over the table and over him. I still have a lot to learn.
Our route for day two was a long one, needing countless skin changes. Our destination was the refuge by the Lac d’Aubert and we had to cross a landscape over cols, on snow -covered lakes, and down pine-clad slopes to get there. The first climb took us to the Hourquette de Caderolles at 2495 metres. The ski down was our first descent of the trip and the mixture of ice and crust saw us taking our first few turns with care and the adrenalin rush which comes from the uncertainty of the legs after a summer’s rest. The weather was stupendous and the views of the wide open valley helped to remove the fear. The next couple of hours took us across more than one snow-covered lake and over fields of powder glinting in the sun. There isn’t a way to describe effect of sun on snow that isn’t a cliché. The snow sparkled like diamonds – dammit! We wound our way around the western edge of the valley over two more cols before reaching the col d’Aumar on the southern edge at 2381m and dropping past the Lac D’Aumar to our final destination, the chilly, high-roofed hut beside the Lac D’Aubert at 2418m. As we arrived, the sun was setting and we settled in for a long, freezing evening, watching the temperatures recorded on Ricard’s thermometer confirming the cold registering on our rapidly cooling feet. The condensation of our breath curled up, merging with the steam from the boiling water in the pots. Even Manel struggled to find humour in the surroundings and we all retired to the bunks when our feet could stand it no longer. I think I was wearing more layers of clothing than during the day!We awoke to Jaume’s cries of ‘son las vuit’ and clung to our nests for as long as we could before struggling out and into the hut. The sun finally penetrated through the ice on the window, illuminating the word ‘Hola’ which some joker had traced in the ice the day before. Glad to be up and on our way again and in the morning sun, our route skirted around the eastern side of the lake, providing us with increasingly impressive views of Neouvielle, a trapezoid block soaring from the western edge of the lake. We could see the four members of a group from Avila retreating, insect-like from an attempt on the summit that they had started before the sun had risen. As we slid around to the north east of the lake to the Hourquette d’Aubert at 2498 we were rewarded with stunning views of a necklace of lakes dropping down the valley and the sheer mountain sides of the Posets in the far distance. A ski down the the Lac Nere followed and then a climb up to our first peak of the trip, the Pic de Madamete at 2657. We met a couple of Basques coming down at the col and we made the last 100 metres on foot. It was satisfying to have made our first ascent, and with the sky still blue, the evening’s hut visible in the valley below at the bottom of north facing slopes of enticing powder, and the 360 degree views of mountains we could enjoy it to the full.
The last of the sun’s rays were just climbing up the wall of the hut when we reached the Cabane d’Aygues Cluses at 2150m. Jaume had predicted that it would be the ‘pitjor’ of the four nights, a prospect that caused me some anxiety because it was difficult to imagine a more miserable hole than that of the previous night. The cabin was tiny, a raised platform covered with four roughly cut rectangles of foam to serve as bedding and a fireplace in the corner to provide warmth. We set off in two groups to collect wood and water and as night fell we retreated to the hut to cook and huddle around the fire. I don’t think anyone could have been untouched by the magic of the place. The fire we got going was huge and sent out waves of heat which filled the place and left a scent of pine cones. The socks hanging up to dry provided a Christmas note. The light of the fire, together with the few candles in bottles created a dance of yellow light and shade as we clambered over each other, preparing our dinner, trying not to upset the stoves. Ricard, the Ferran Adria of the mountains sat Buddha-like under the Estelada he had brought, sharing out his gourmet Pasta alla Putanesca whilst others chewed at embutidos and cheese. A steady stream of ( for me half-understood ) jokes emanated from the ever cheerful Manel, and when you went outside to pee and closed the door on the warmth behind you the cold and the number and brightness of stars in the winter sky quite simply took your breath away.
And then it was the last day and the descent to the cars. A good six inches of snow had fallen during the night, concealing the rocks and the holes into which we crashed and tumbled and against which we scraped and scarred our skis. We were lucky to come away unscathed because the treachery of the hidden obstacles was added to by the consistency of the snow which resembled quick drying cement and made turning almost impossible at times. However the descent through the trees was beautiful and when at times the mountains appeared through the whiteness of the mist and you could see the peaks and the sharp blue beyond, it sent your spirits soaring. We arrived at the road drenched with sweat and threw off our clothes with immense relief. Five days away from warm running water has its consequences.
The trip back to Barcelona was broken by quite excellent meal at ‘Er Occitan’ in Bossost in the Val d’Aran. What a privilege to be cooked for and served after four nights of pasta cooked on a camp stove. We ate very well.
Is the best of the tour like this the delight you experience when it is over? Certainly I was immensely relieved to have made it and I am appreciating the comforts of home. I think however that it is for the richness and the completeness of the experience that we put ourselves through the experience again and again. It isn’t any one thing: It is not just the meditative state you enter when climbing up or the thrill of skiing down. It is not only the ecstasy of the mountains, or even the real camaraderie (and I think this tour will remain in my memory as one in which the group worked outstandingly well together, providing solid mutual support, so essential in the mountains) It isn’t just the satisfaction of doing something physical all day when our lives are normally so cerebral. It is the mix. And when you look back you forget the blisters and the exhaustion and the fear and when the next tour is advertised you say to yourself ‘OK – It’ll be fun’























La muntanya més alta i atraient de la zona és el Cerro Tronador, de 3.554m. Però a l’agost el fred és molt viu i el dia massa curt per intentar-ho. Cal tenir en compte que en aquesta zona de la Patagònia, sense arribar als extrems del Parc Nacional del Paine, més al sud, el temps és molt canviant i ho fa molt ràpidament. Les travesses, amb molt bona xarxa de refugis, són recomanables més avançada la temporada als mesos de setembre i octubre.









