Having a couple of guests staying with us (Geoff & Bernie) we decided on a day trip to Spain for a spot of gentle entertainment. Driving over the col de Mourtis to Spain only takes half an hour and the views are jaw dropping.
We were in search of some charming villages, but missed a turning and found only large new-looking towns (so there is money in Spain?) thus we headed back to the border for a spot of shopping. Carrying our booty (mostly rum and peanuts) we crossed the border and headed past a salubrious looking hotel and on up into the mountains.
This route took us through Melles, a small village perched precariously on the mountain side.
…until we reached the top.
There not being much snow around, we decided to carry on and use a shortcut through the mountain pass forest leading to our village.
We drove on until reaching the middle of the mountain pass. A little more snow here, but not enough to trouble my all powerful Nissan Qashqai with four wheel drive and snow tires.
The more observant of you may have noticed some fatal flaws in my reasoning. Firstly, the sun was going down. Not a good thing at any time of year in the mountains, let alone in winter. Secondly, the sun was behind us, this means that the amount of snow on the south side of the mountain, from whence we came, could be significantly less than on the next part of our journey, the North facing side…
And so it was.
On turning the next bend, we decended a short way in significantly thicker snow. No problem going down, but this was clearly the point of no return. The track was too narrow to turn on, and the car would not have gone up the slope even if we had been able to do so.
Now committed to go on, we drove for about twenty minutes whilst the snow gradually got deeper. There was a choice of two tracks. One down to our village, a steep dangerous track even in the summer, or along the side of the mountain to a ski resort. I took the latter, remembering it to be relatively level. My memory ain’t what it used to be.
For a further half hour or so, we tried to go up some gentle inclines, but this involved shrieking clutch and side slipping towards certain doom.
It was getting dark.
And so, we decided to leave our less than super car to the whim of the forest, and set out on foot.
So here we were, four people against adversity. Annick (recovering from surgery on her wrist), Bernie (recovering from knee surgery and a diabetic in need of food and drugs), Geoff (whose guts had chosen this time to revolt), and myself (with the last words of the doctor hanging in my ears “Don’t go out in the cold”).
The sounds of animals rang through the forest. Whether deer or bear, did not stop its chilling effect. There was something out there and it knew where we were.
We walked. There was, of course, no phone signal available. We walked on. It became dark. We walked on. It became pitch black. We walked on.
As our physical strength ebbed, we managed to find a signal and got through to the hero of the night, Greg the builder. He set off to rescue us in his ‘real’ car, a fully equipped Toyota Land Cruiser. After walking for well over an hour we arrived at the abandoned ski station with thoughts of imminent rescue, a warm fire and several beers.
It was not to be.
On meeting us, Greg said that we must rescue our car now incase of further snowfall.
Gulp.
We returned to the forest. With Greg’s beast of a car equipped with all-round flood lights, we penetrated the gloom of the forest at breakneck speed. This man knew how to drive in all conditions. He was trained in the foreign legion and ran a 4x4 club. We were, nevertheless, still scared shitless.
We arrived at our poor abandoned car (still well provisioned with rum and peanuts) and spent a good half hour digging it out and learning much of how to place snow and clear a path. Finally pulled away from the edge, we started on our way, Greg towing, me pissing myself.
It was not straightforward. On two occasions our car slid towards the edge of the precipice, pulling Greg’s car with us! We stopped a heartbeat away. More digging, more soiled pants.
Then the rest of the trip, three meters away from Gregs car at speed in ever thicker snow. It began to dawn on me why they put the ski station there…
We made it. We all gave Greg a big hug. We drove back to our village humbled and stinking of clutch plate, where some local friends had drinks ready, a warm fire, and casseroled wild boar. A perfect end to a less than perfect day.
Today I learned Respect for the mountains.
