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The Parpaillon saga

Parpaillon 78 - Abel Lequien CC n° 1810 Willencourt (Pas-de-Calais) - review n° 22, 1994

Cyclo-mountaineers are familiar with the Parpaillon, an exceptionally difficult pass whose name is closely linked to the history of cycle tourism. It links the Ubaye and Durance valleys, connecting Embrun and Barcelonnette. Climbed from Embrun, i.e. from the west and north-west slopes, this obstacle represents an elevation gain of 1,775 m in 27 km (average 6.55 %), while the south and south-east slopes correspond to an elevation gain of 1,340 m in 17 km (average 7.9 %). But at many points the gradient exceeds 10 and even 13 %.
(Extract from the cycle workbooks, LES COLS DURS).

La route et le tunnel du Parpaillon, altitude 2650 m, furent achevés en 1901. Paul de Vivie (VELOCIO) franchit ce col en 1903 et y retourna en 1909. Dès 1930, le groupe montagnard Parisien lança une « campagne du Parpaillon » qui porta ses fruits puisque 29 cyclotouristes allèrent découvrir ce col en 1930, et 54 en 1931. C’est de cette époque que date « la légende du Parpaillon »… mais ce n’est qu’en 1970 qu’un Auxilois eut la curiosité d’aller à la découverte de ce col magnifique !

I've been lucky enough to climb the Parpaillon five times since 1970: three times on the Ubaye side from La Condamine-Chatelard and twice on the Crévoux side. I prefer the Ubaye side.

At the start, the small paved road rises steeply towards the hamlet of Sainte-Anne, the last inhabited place before Crévoux, between the two villages 25 km, 20 of which is rocky and sometimes difficult to drive on. But it's all there: first there's a beautiful larch forest crossed by torrents that you cross on wooden bridges, then immense pastures populated by herds of sheep (and marmots too), finally at around 2000 m the scenery becomes arid, desert-like, the domain of rock, then you reach the long, dark tunnel that you have to cross, usually on foot to avoid breaking a wheel in one of the many potholes...

On the Crévoux side, we find more or less the same scenery, although less attractive in my opinion, and of course in reverse order. Having given a brief presentation of the Parpaillon, I'd now like to tell you about the adventure that happened to us in 1978, when we travelled from Albertville to Gap, crossing some of the «monuments» of the Alps. Judge for yourself: Cormet de Roselend, Iseran, Télégraphe, Galibier, route de la Bérarde, Lautaret, Izoard, Vars and... Parpaillon.

That year, the snow came late and the major cols were opened just a few days before our visit at the beginning of July. Iseran, Roselend and Galibier were crossed between imposing walls of snow and the spectacle was a permanent enchantment.

When we set off from La Condamine to climb the Parpaillon, we didn't know whether the pass was open or closed, and as it was of no interest to the average tourist due to the state of the road, there was every reason to believe that the second option was the right one (so to speak).

Mais notre enthousiasme est sans limite : montons toujours, nous verrons bien !… Le passage du Parpaillon que je fais découvrir à mes trois compagnons de route constitue le point d’orgue de ce voyage et grande serait notre déception si nous devions faire demi-tour.

At Sainte-Anne, we overtook a very well-equipped walker, who was also heading for the pass. We had no idea at the time that a few hours later his help would be crucial in getting us through the tunnel...

This is the fountain, which in warm years is the last point of water before Crévoux, but in 1978, with the recent snowfall and the delay in melting, there was water everywhere. Our progress was slow, but we were still able to use our machines normally until we emerged from the forest, which was bathed in beautiful sunshine. Higher up, in the stony terrain, we become walkers, the path is broken up and collapsed, with large boulders blocking the way. In the grandiose setting of the Parpaillon mountain, we feel very small, isolated in absolute calm, broken from time to time by the sound of a waterfall, the cry of a bird or a marmot.

À partir de 2000 mètres environ la neige occupe une partie du sentier, et c’est alors que nous allons vivre une aventure peu banale, une épopée qui compte dans la carrière d’un cyclotouriste… Quelques passages neigeux franchis sans difficultés, nous nous trouvons devant un névé que nous franchissons tant bien que mal avec les chaussures cyclistes qui ne demandent qu’à glisser et les vélos chargés de bagage pesant chacun 25 kg. Au bout d’une heure à traîner ou porter notre matériel, nous rencontrons une pente de neige d’au moins 150 mètres, très inclinée et parsemée de rochers, le découragement nous envahit, que faire, retourner et refaire en sens inverse un chemin sur lequel nous avons tant peiné ou continuer en prenant le risque que notre voyage se termine en tragédie.

C’est alors que survient le marcheur providentiel rencontré à Sainte-Anne. Notre aventure l’amuse un peu, il nous offre gentiment de faire une trace la plus large possible à l’aide de ses lourdes chaussures qu’il enfonce profondément à chaque pas. Après de nombreux efforts et un temps qui nous semble interminable, notre « guide » nous annonce qu’il aperçoit le tunnel, ou plutôt le sommet du tunnel car il se trouve presque entièrement enseveli sous la neige. Nouveau moment d’angoisse. Avons-nous fait ce difficile parcours pour rien, faudra-t-il que nous fassions demi-tour ?

We approached the tunnel to find that the door was closed but that we could still get in through a gate. We'll have to lower the bikes using a rope belonging to our dedicated walker. No sooner said than done... and we took the same route. We entered this black hole, dimly lit by one of our torches. We made cautious progress over the ice, which soon gave way under our weight with a sinister cracking sound, and we waded through 30 to 40 cm of icy water in our cycling shoes and white socks, which the situation made ridiculous, feeling the impact of the thick blocks of ice against our painfully bruised calves and ankles.

Tout en progressant lentement, péniblement, un doute affreux nous envahit : et si l’autre portillon était condamné, si le passage s’avérait impossible, il nous faudrait faire demi-tour, nous nous serions donné tout ce mal pour rien ? La longueur du tunnel doit être de 5 à 600 mètres, il faudra bien 15 à 20 minutes pour en atteindre l’extrémité.

Enfin nous y sommes. Il était temps car une angoisse proche de la panique commençait à nous dominer dans cette galerie obscure et glacée. Un trait de lumière nous redonne espoir, le portillon est entrouvert mais insuffisamment pour laisser passer les bicyclettes. Le piolet de notre ami permet de dégager cette petite porte coincée dans la glace tandis que l’un d’entre nous, s’arc-boutant contre la paroi, pousse de toutes ses forces avec les pieds. Puis nous hissons le matériel au sommet du mur de neige et de glace et quittons définitivement et sans regret ce tunnel. Alors, dans l’immense montagne toute blanche, sous la chaleur du soleil retrouvé, les nerfs se décrispent et le comique de la situation prend le dessus… Des marcheurs nous observent de loin, ahuris sans doute de voir des gens, et surtout des cyclistes émerger brusquement au milieu du champ de neige… De l’endroit où ils se trouvent le tunnel est invisible !

The rest of the trip turned into a bit of a laugh, with some of us sliding down the snowy slopes on our bikes, and some of us getting on our bikes and sinking 10 centimetres into the ground, an exercise in which some of us were particularly brilliant.

We soon found the path that took us to Crévoux, where this crazy adventure could finally be recorded in the Parpaillon «visitors» book". We owe most of the credit for this achievement to the friendly hiker who happened to be on our route, and to whom we would like to say a big thank you.

The photos and film I brought back from this wonderful trip have taken pride of place in our cycle-touring archives. In the years that followed, I was given the opportunity on two occasions to cross the Parpaillon again, but under «normal» conditions, i.e. on a dry road leading to an open, perfectly clear tunnel.

However, the beauty of the scenery in all its wildness no longer captivated my attention as it had on my first visits. My mind was elsewhere, lost in the snows of 1978. Last March, the ARTE television channel broadcast a film about the ascent of the Parpaillon by a group of cyclists.
More comedians than cyclists, the «actors» had a field day with a succession of gags and funny scenes.

But above all, the route over the pass and the very well-presented landscapes from Embrun to the tunnel brought back many fond memories.