I’m back at my desk after hiking the length of the Pyrenees, from Atlantic to Mediterranean: just under 800 km, with 51,000 metres of elevation gain and descent, in 35 days.
I wanted to do this high traverse as a sort of farewell-to-Europe after 15 years living on the continent, six of them in Malta and the rest in Berlin. To get to know one particular mountain range intimately, at walking speed.
I followed the Pyrenean Haute Route (HRP). Unlike the well-marked and heavily travelled trails that run either side of the Pyrenees — the French GR 10 and Spanish GR 11 — the HRP is more of an ethos than an officially designated path. It straddles the border using a mix of existing trails, local trails, and cross-country navigation to stay as close as possible to the main ridge of the Pyrenees the entire time. It’s said to be the toughest route in the range, and one of the toughest in Europe, and I can understand why.
My maps for this hike weighed more than my tent; I sliced them into sections to cut the weight. My tent is an MSR Freelite, at 890 grams the lightest semi-self-supporting tent I could find. It stood up well to two storms with wind gusts approaching 70kph.
My base pack weight was 8.5 kg, and close to 12 kg after a full five-day food resupply. Water was plentiful in the mountains, so I only carried a litre at a time, refilling as needed from streams and lakes with my Sawyer Squeeze filter.
I didn’t take a stove or pot in order to cut weight, just a little plastic container to cold-soak oatmeal in the mornings and plain couscous flavoured with a dusting of soup powder at night. I got the bulk of my daytime calories from dense foods like nuts, dried fruit, energy bars and a little chocolate, and made up for the lack of variety by gorging on burgers in resupply towns, and buying the odd omelette if I passed a mountain hut.
My long walk began in Hendaye on the Atlantic coast of France, next to the border of Spain.
I found the first day’s steep trudge up La Rhune in the heat very difficult, and wondered if I was up for this, but I got my hiking legs in the Basque country as I set out each dawn wrapped in morning mist and slowly climbed above the clouds.
The Basque region was a pastoral world of domestic herds: sheep, cattle, and stout horses which are apparently sent to Japan for meat. Church bells tolled in tidy little villages of whitewashed houses trimmed with rust-red, and lonely shepherd’s huts occupied the high pastures where, when I was lucky, I could buy a hunk of sheep’s cheese.
The higher peaks teemed with frightened marmots, gravity-defying isard, yellow and black salamanders, and soaring vultures, kites, and kestrels. There are a few bears in the range, but I’ve never heard of anyone seeing one.
I knew I was finally entering the high peaks when I struggled up the summit of Pic d’Orhy. I didn’t expect the landscape to change so dramatically. Crossing one col could open entirely new geographical worlds. It happened again and again.
The next day, I passed through an incredible waterless karst wilderness near the Pic d’Anie that looked and felt like another planet.
From there it was into the high mountains. Over the Col de Pau, past Pic du Midi d’Ossau, across the Passage d’Orteig — a sheer cliff with an abyss on one side and steel cable bolted to the rock — and then up a boulder field to the Port du Lavedan (2615m), across an unstable scree slope, up to the wrong gap and down by an improvised climb that was stupid and dangerous.
It gave me a taste of what to expect in the next few days.
The highest passes of my route were bleak and intimidating, with steep snow fields approaching the Col Inferieur de Literole (2983m), and then a very steep descent on sliding scree to a chaotic granite wilderness where landmarks went out the window. Walking was tough on endless boulder fields, and navigation a challenge.
Crossing those snow fields, buffeted by bitter gusts that cut through my fleece and wind jacket, I remember thinking how easy it would be to die up there. All it would take is a slip in a boulder field and a broken ankle, and then the cold sets in…
Beyond the high passes, I entered a more remote stretch of wilderness that skirted through the intensely beautiful top of Andorra. It was sparsely inhabited and seldom travelled by European standards, with long, level walks on steep slopes and a memorably vertical climb to a col.
I knew I’d reached the final stretch when I climbed the steep scree slope of Pic Carlit after drinking a slug of olive oil from the bottle for energy.
The route I’d come through was a bleak world of rugged mountain geography, but the way ahead was completely different. I had the feeling I’d left the high Pyrenees behind.
The final stretch after the summit of Canigou was an ordeal of heat, sweat, slimy skin, flies, painful climbs, and a murderous sun. The streams were dry, so I had to carry three litres of water. That’s three extra kilograms, in addition to food. It was the section I enjoyed the least.
I hiked some of my longest distances in those last two weeks: 29km one day, and 35km another.
My boots were falling apart by the end. There were holes on all sides where the stitching gave out, and the soles were peeling off in several places. Luckily I found a tube of crazy glue in a village shop and patched them up enough to see it through.
I came to appreciate a few things on this long traverse: cold drinks (I learned to never pass a mountain hut without buying one or two), dry tent mornings, camping beside water, and the lack of rain.
I was lucky with the weather throughout. I only got caught in one thunderstorm on the fifth day. I was climbing a steep grassy slope when lightning struck the col right above me and I had to descend very quickly. I had two big windstorms in the high peaks and two thunderstorms at night when I was snug in my tent, but that was all.
I thought I’d spend long solitary days reflecting on the years I’ve spent in Europe, what I ‘d hoped for them and how they played out, but there isn’t much time for idle thought on a route like this. When I wasn’t thinking about navigation or where to step, I was thinking about how sore my knees and feet were, and my insatiable desire for food.
My life was reduced to a simple routine: wake at five-thirty or six, eat my cold oatmeal, pack my bag and then my tent, and walk. At day’s end, the reverse: pitch my tent, prepare my cold soak couscous, rinse my socks and feet, filter water, eat, write my notes, and sleep by half past nine.
It felt like it’d go on forever, but kilometre by kilometre, it came to an end.
On the morning of my last mountain day, I sat on a minor peak looking down on the lights of the coast. I woke at 4am to climb up there with two guys — Ned and Declan — whose paths crossed mine repeatedly over the last several weeks. We went there to watch the sun rise over the Mediterranean for the last time.
That was an unexpected lesson of my traverse. I started this journey alone, but crossed paths with so many interesting people along the way: Engie the French medical student who was walking this route with her grandfather’s maps and compass, Marion of the heavy pack and hardware store tarp, the American father-son duo Joe and Wyatt, and the abrasive Dutchman who became a character in my mind (and who wasn’t really Dutch at all).
Sometimes it was just a short conversation on a random col. Others I walked with for a few hours or a few days. Ned and Declan played a larger role: we compared notes on water sources and bivouac spots, camped together many nights, and coordinated town resupplies so we could share a meal. I never expected to spend so many of my Pyrenees evenings talking about Shakespeare.
When the sun finally crested the horizon, it was time to walk the last 22 km to the sea. We walked alone, but agreed to meet at the edge of town to reach the sea together. I think that was a fitting way to end this.
The American father-son duo Joe and Wyatt were waiting for us by the beach at Banyuls-sur-Mer. They finished their hike the day before, and they brought a cooler bag with cold beers, cementing themselves as absolute legends in my world.
Where do you go from there, and how do you stop?
I dropped my pack on the pebbled shore, stripped to my underwear and waded into gentle saltwater waves. Every blister, cut and insect bite stung like hell, but the Mediterranean washed away the sweat and the grime and the toil, and I emerged renewed.
I also emerged a hell of a lot thinner than I was five weeks before, but I only lost 4kg. I thought it would be more, given the distance and those daily climbs.
It was impossible to get enough calories. I started losing muscle when there was no more fat to burn. My legs are ripped but my upper body looks like Che Guevara’s corpse. Hiking a route like this is the world’s best fat loss diet while eating the world’s worst diet.
And now I’m back at my desk, fighting post-hike exhaustion to work on the third draft of a book, and prepping new podcast interviews. That and rebuilding some muscle before I whither away.
I don’t know what my future holds, but I finally feel ready to move on. That was another gift of the mountains.
You can see more photos and videos of my hike by visiting my Personal Landscapes Substack site and my Instagram page.
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