"Behind the Col de Rousset begins the Midi", I had been told. This is the climatic border. Thus, this pass is something like the Gotthard pass in Switzerland. After the Gotthard, you reach the Ticino, Switzerland's sub-mediterranian sun chamber. And after the Col de Rousset begins the deep south of France. With the lavender fields and the pine trees.
This expectation was indeed alluring. After a day and a night with endless rain, there was not a dry stitch on me or a dry hair on Gamin. We had stayed overnight in a ghostly abandoned ski resort on the top of the pass. And now we had to find a footpath across. The tunnel for cars was almost two kilometres long and out of the question for us.
Farewell from the ski resort, the mists are lifting.
The rain had stopped, the sun came through and gave Gamin an extremely good temper. He swiftly followed me through the enchanted forest and on the mountain trail. When the forest got thinner, a breathtaking view became visible on the mountaintop:
But immediately afterwards followed the horror: The trail now led steeply down, along the bottomless depth. It was narrow, sloping, full of rocks, as difficult as the horrible GR near Bouvante, only much higher, more risky and even more dangerous.
My stomach lurched. Vertigo again.
But now I had to take a decision. Shall we take this path, or shall we turn around? Which would mean: to Vassieux. There is no way through the road tunnel. Turn back to Vassieux? SUCH a long way back, everything in vain. And then? Which direction to take?
No, it had to be done.
Slowly, step by step. I felt for each of them, used a stick to hold on to, ordered myself to only look down on the ground, and never - NEVER - around me.
Soon there came a rock ledge that was so steep that Gamin did not want to continue. I therefore unloaded him, carefully placing the luggage on the tiny space on the ground, and lead the almost totally unburdened donkey down. I left him 100 metres below, climbed up again and brough the luggage down. This is how we fought our way ahead, 100 metres, and again 100 metres.
But then - we were already far down - the damned trail degenerated into a sea of gravel, like a petrified avalanche. A hardly discernible "path" meandered through it. The stability of each rock was highly questionable; as soon as a stone was stepped on, the whole slope was set into motion. I doubted that Gamin would follow me, but he did. Millimetre by millimetre we advanced. Again and again, stones slipped and crashed down into the chasm.
How have I ended up here? In a situation I never wanted to experience. The image of all my fears had materialised, so real that it was unreal.
Finally we had managed the gravel path. But now I needed to go back once more to get the luggage. Up again, slipping, trying to find stability.
I now moved the four heavy duffel bags, also millimetre after millimetre. At first I found a foothold, then I pulled the bags after me. The stones slipped and fell. Suddenly the whole slope seemed to become unstable, everything under my hands and feet was set in motion. A quick prayer to Aldo. The slope stabilised again.
Below me, I heard shouts. Against my intent I dared to look down.
A couple of people stood on a viewing platform that could be reached by car. They pointed up towards me and were highly amused about the spectacle high above them in the rocks.
I became angry - old-school gentlemen would now have climbed up to HELP.
But then I suddenly realised: They don't come up because they *can not*.
They have dragged their lazy arses onto the platform by car, and now, from a secure vantage point, they take photographs of the magnificent mountain scenery. I was simply an additional attraction.
It is said that pilgrimages lead to self-awareness. This was such a moment.
I realised that it is a perfect reflection of my life: to climb a path that nobody else walks. At best I am greeted with amused smiles by others. But not because I am inferior - as I always thought - but because I am different.
Now I was not afraid any more, because this was my path. I had not just "ended up" there. I was there because I was able to walk this path, unlike the onlookers below.
Finally I arrived there. I loaded Gamin again. The onlookers from the platform came closer, eyeing me. I was just able to hear one of them saying to another: "I don't like donkeys, they look daft."
Now I had to walk down the mountain road, which was 15 staggering, meandering kilometres long. Down from the Vercor. After every hairpin bend, the trees became greener, the first pine trees appeared, a promising hint of the Mediterranean was in the air. Yes, it was true, we were now approaching the Midi.
The village of Chamaloc is typical for the south of France. With cypress trees and cicadas and a large lavender field.
I asked around and finally found a family who let me camp in their garden.
Gamin in the garden
I look back onto the Vercor that is now behind me. After all, I had my "Gotthard", the mystical transition from the north to the south.
I look back with gratitude. Vercor, you wild, dangerous fortress of stone and rock. The days with you were hard, very hard, but you opened my inner boundaries wide and exposed a potential I would never have believed to be there. You have given me strength and self-confidence. Never allow yourself to be tamed by humankind!
I was unable to take photos on the steep trail, but later, further down, I could document the place. The upper arrow points to the gravel path, the lower one to the viewing platform.
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