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The Parpaillon saga

À l'assaut du Parpaillon - Michel and Cathia Descombe
CC nos. 1412 and 4999 Arvert (Charente-Maritime) - review no. 30, 2002

End of August, last day of holidays in the Alps.
Over the course of almost three weeks, we covered a thousand kilometres and crossed around forty mountain passes, first in the Vercors to acclimatise to the mountains, then in the Queyras, where the gradients were more pronounced.
Il nous reste un objectif à atteindre : le mythique col du Parpaillon (2637 m) et ses neuf ultimes kilomètres de piste muletière.

Après plusieurs jours de grand beau temps, l’orage de la nuit a brouillé le ciel de nuages qui s’accrochent aux flancs des montagnes. Mais la météo annonce le retour du soleil sur la région ; alors, pas d’hésitation, c’est le moment d’y aller !

Once the bikes had been secured to the gallery, we headed for Saint-André-d'Embrun, a quiet little village we'd spotted the day before when climbing the Col de la Coche. With the car parked in the church square, in the shade of a superb lime tree, the bikes prepared and the water bottles filled at the nearby fountain, we set off just before 10am on our bikes for a climb of almost 25 kilometres and 1700 metres of ascent. «We won't reach the summit before noon, that's for sure!»

Barely a few hundred metres in and we've already placed the chain on the very small plateau: it won't have much of a chance to climb back up the 42 teeth, as the slope offers little respite.

A short stop to admire the view of the town of Embrun in the Durance valley, and off we go again. Once through the hamlet of Villard, a gentle descent allows us to recover a little before crossing the Crévoux torrent. We took the opportunity to take off our jerseys, as the Michelin map indicated a higher percentage and, no mistake, the pace slowed and we began to sweat more, especially as the sun began to break through the cloud cover that prevented us from seeing the surrounding peaks.

From Praveyral onwards, we recover from our exertions as we continue on to the village of Crévoux, where we have a welcome break for a snack at the fountain. At the top of the little village, there's a mini-market where we can buy a few groceries and postcards. But it was time to set off again, and instead of heading back down to La Chalp, we took the mountain bike route that caught up with the D39 on a stony track, giving us the chance to try out another activity well known to cycling enthusiasts: walking! We took the opportunity to take our first photos of the day, capturing the slopes of the Saint-André and Chabrières peaks on film.

The return to tarmac is welcome, as the narrow road rises through the forest and the climb becomes more severe. However, the obstacle is overcome thanks to the smallest development, when the trickiest section to negotiate comes along: the mule track.

From there, our progress slows down even more, as we have to avoid stones, pebbles, sandy streaks and gullies caused by the rain, so we usually take the far edge of the track, passing from one side to the other to choose the best rolling surface. In this sometimes acrobatic exercise, we are not hindered by the traffic; we are alone up there, even motor vehicles are rare, and we don't complain about it. The coniferous forest clears out and, at a bend in the winding path, we discover an imposing panorama of the Parpaillon mountain, which rises to 3000 metres right in front of us. On the left, a grassy platform welcomes us for a well-earned break, during which we can admire the course of the torrent glistening deep in the ravine as the sun becomes increasingly generous.

Then, alternating between pedalling and pushing, we continue to climb among the mountain pastures where a few herds of cattle graze. Soon we heard the first whistles from spectators intrigued by a foreign presence, and we spotted a large number of marmots scurrying across the grass, crossing the track or standing motionless on the lookout. We made a number of stops to observe these friendly rodents through binoculars and take photos of the splendid landscape before our eyes, as inhabitants of the plains far from the mountain ranges.

Tout doucement notre but approche et nous arrivons enfin au pied des grands lacets où il vaut mieux prendre les virages à l’extérieur en slalomant entre les pierres éparpillées sur le sol. Nous apercevons l’entrée du tunnel à seulement quelques centaines de mètres et dans un dernier effort, nous terminons cette rude ascension pour aboutir sur une vaste plateforme où souffle un vent glacial. Nous sortons les appareils photo afin de fixer l’événement pour la postérité, enfilons rapidement maillot et « Goretex », puis essayons d’apercevoir l’autre extrémité du tunnel et inscrivons sur l’un des autocollants apposés sur la grande porte, notre nom, celui de notre groupe cyclo, sans oublier de mentionner notre appartenance au Club des Cent Cols !

Now we have to find a place to have a picnic, because we're getting hungry; to do this, we have to start the descent slowly, sometimes on foot, until we reach a shepherd's hut where, protected from the wind and facing the sun, we can finally have something to eat with our provisions from the handlebar bag. The peace and quiet of the area is interrupted by the regular passage of half a dozen 4×4s as they climb the pass, raising a cloud of dust.

After this long break, we can once again admire the beauty of this mineral landscape with its remaining patches of snow. We got back on our bikes and set off cautiously, brakes applied, on the road home. From time to time, we walk a couple of hundred metres to stretch our strained hands and wrists.

As we return to the tarmac, we pick up speed, but we have to remain vigilant, as the road is narrow, bumpy and steeply sloping: «it's not surprising that this morning, in the opposite direction, it was particularly difficult to get through! From La Chalp onwards, the road widens, the surface improves and visibility becomes perfect, as we're out of the forest. Two or three more stops to soak up the wildness of the surrounding walls and ridges, then we let ourselves be carried away by the slope, negotiating the last few bends as best we could.

We met up in the Place de Saint-André, as quiet as ever on this late summer afternoon. After a light snack and a well-deserved refreshment, with the women on the bike racks, we headed back to the Guillestre municipal campsite, tired but satisfied with another mountain bike outing, and looking forward to more adventures at over two thousand metres next year.