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The Parpaillon saga

The tunnel - Alfeo Lotto CC No. 5650 - issue no. 41, 2013

At the end of the day, daylight, and freedom at last!

This legendary pass, a timeless pass that has attracted pilgrims of all ages for a century, has been a dream of mine ever since I first joined the brotherhood.

Jean Perret and I planned and arranged everything: the details of the tour, the month, the day, the hotel for one of us, the campsite for the other, the great weather and, the icing on the cake... the women agreed.

Well, almost everything: a week before, in Lescherraines, Jean broke his collarbone!

At this stage of the project, for me there's no question of giving up. Too bad for John the unfortunate, he will have to be patient and wait for better days.

On Friday 10 August 2012, my dream finally came true.

It's a cool 10°C out. On the tarmac, it's a steep climb from the start, but I'm pumped up and moving fast. The last sleepy hamlet is soon behind me. The glare of the low-angled sun, the beautiful switchbacks through the larches, the meadows lined with fireweed, and all this silence... what a joy to be here!

At the Cabane des Espagnols*, overlooking a small bridge, the tarmac stops, replaced by the piste. Going head to head with the slope then becomes a battle. In gullied areas, you have to zigzag between protruding stones and ruts. A few rare birdsongs interrupt the monotonous litany of crampons biting into the dusty gore. Here and there, the sand retains the volatile footprints of men and animals, mountain bike tyres, 4×4s... how many have passed through here?

The sound of an engine suddenly wakes me from my solitude... a vehicle slowly descends, the driver waving at me. The clearing forest lets the sun shine in abundantly. There's no respite on the slope, and more twists and turns, which I prefer to straight lines. The speedometer reads 5.2 km/h. I get off the bike and walk a few metres to relax a bit, but my speed immediately drops to 4 kph. I drink as I walk, feeling less asphyxiated. On the left, I finally caught sight of the vertiginous waterfall that had been rumbling for some time.

The sound of an engine... again! One, then two khaki 4×4s pass me at slow speed, the second with a British flag stuck to the back. They drag a cloud of grey dust behind them and I'm furious... they'd have been better off staying on their island and going to the Olympics!

I stop dead in my tracks, put down my rucksack and sit down on a low rock, just long enough for everything to calm down.

Ten minutes later, at the bend in the road, I meet up with the British, who have got out of their cars and are admiring the scenery. On this point, I agree with them, as do the marmots, it's sublime.

In the hollow of the valley with its short meadows, the stream flows surreptitiously between the white islands of fluffy cottongrass. Perched above the track, a small stone hut keeps watch over this alpine garden.

But happiness is fleeting... vehicles are approaching... it's the motorway!

Packed with tourists, two 4×4s each towing a trailer full of bikes and scooters with big motorbike wheels pass me. I don't know whether they're mocking or respectful, but I don't know what they're waving at!

I make a little round trip to grab a nearby pass on the right. At almost 2,500 metres, the 360-degree view is grandiose and from here I can finally see my goal!

Three hairpin bends up, photo stop, the previous pass clearly visible. The clear tinkling of cowbells reveals an unchanging herd of cows in a fold of the valley.

By the time I reached the tunnel, tourists on scooters were occupying the entire width of the track and the entrance platform. Without getting off my bike, I pass through this colourful, noisy, gesticulating cloud, hear a few waves and stop in front of the gaping black mouth.

The high metal doors, folded back, are covered with stickers and inscriptions of all kinds. A few photos to immortalise the event are in order.

Holding the dynamo lamp in one hand and the bike in the other, I plunged into anguish. A few steps further on, I'm plunged into an inky night, my heart making a hell of a racket. A few turns of the crank are needed for a trickle of light, but pushing the bike is very inconvenient. Unpredictable puddles force me to walk very close to the edge, the handlebar tips scrape the wall and it rains from the vault: <>
I have the sudden urge to turn around and get the hell out of this hole.

I passed a couple on foot who asked me if I was all right! Thanks, that's a nice touch. At the end of the day, daylight and freedom at last!

The south-facing slope is even sunnier, and the doors are also tagged. Four hikers are chatting and joking. From a little further away I can see the passage above the tunnel, where an enigmatic path climbs up the steep, rocky adret. This nasty climb doesn't tell me anything worthwhile, so much the worse for the geographical pass!

I set off back the way I came, but not without recharging the lamp. In the darkness, the trembling white eyes of two motorbikes startle me. All that's missing are rats! The thought haunts me... Not a cat on the north side, magnificent! Ideal for a break. Where I stop, I find a beautiful Petzl headlamp on the ground, in perfect working order. Why hadn't I found it before?

Blessed and liberated, I enjoy a slow descent, even catching up with the last few scooters lost in the dust and gravel.

For a long time to come, I'll be able to hear the horrible Parpaillon tunnel cackling behind my back.

*Between 27 January and 12 February 1939, around 500,000 Spanish civilians and soldiers fleeing Franco's regime arrived in France. The refugees were sent to camps. In the hamlet of La Chalp (the last hamlet in the story), a camp for Spaniards was set up in early summer 1939. They had been sent to work on the maintenance and repair of roads of military interest (including today's pass). The ‘Spanish hut’ was used as a shelter for the tools used on the site. The hostel and shelter were located at the bottom of the pass, to protect them from the inclement weather and to provide them with more space. These ‘volunteer’ workers remained locked up, separated from their families and under military guard. They were employed in a series of national interest tasks.
More info https://www.crevoux.fr/patrimoine-culturel/cabane-des-espagnols-crevoux/