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The Parpaillon saga

Brevet Cyclo des Hautes Altitudes - Robert del Medico CC N° 17 Chambéry - magazine n°2, 1974

It was an article in «Le Dauphiné» and the very nice medal that persuaded me to sign up for the B.C.H.A. (Brevet Cyclo des Hautes Altitudes) organised by the Compagnons du Pignon Fixe.

It was on 1 July that I pedalled energetically to the outskirts of Barcelonnette over a very hilly route in scorching heat.

In the evening, I sleep in a shed belonging to the mayor of a small village near Barcelonnette: Les Thuiles.

2 July: early in the morning, I hop on my bike and head for the Col d'Allos. Barely a year ago, this was the second stage of my «Tour de France Randonneur», and I was certainly happy, but mostly worried, doubting that I'd be able to complete this fantastic solo ride. Today I'm in no hurry, I'll be able to enjoy the scenery at my leisure and it's well worth it.

You may think it's ridiculous, but I can't remain indifferent in front of a mountain landscape, even if I've seen it a dozen times already. Each time I climb, I discover a detail that I've never noticed before, sometimes even insignificant, but which nonetheless has the power to move me, and I go into raptures as if it were «the first time».

It's true, I love the mountains, perhaps too much, I love them with all my being.

Later, it's refreshment time in the village of Allos. I dutifully fill my rucksack because I'm going to have to cross the Col de la Petite Cayolle, a mule track that joins the road to the Col de la Cayolle.

On a narrow, steep road (according to the Michelin map «at 15 %») I climb, lulled by the fresh, invigorating air of a dense fir forest, to the splendid Lac d'Allos. Here I leave the cycle path and the refuge, where I've been able to get the «control stamp», and embark on a winding mountain trail. First it crosses a forest, then huge pastures and finally ends on a mountainside completely devoid of vegetation.

I was amazed and astonished to see there, between large stones heated to white by the hot sun, marvellous and delicate little flowers that I'd never seen before. How could they have grown there? And yet nobody planted them or watered them. And yet here they are, marvellously coloured and delicate, so frail, so fragrant, so... This is one of the thousand and one things that make me love the mountains.

I move forward carefully, placing my foot delicately and taking care not to crush any. This time the path weaves its way through pebbles and huge snowflakes, which I cross with extreme caution, my bike slung over my shoulder even though it's heavily laden.

Suddenly, after crossing a ridge, I was astonished to discover a wonderful little lake, the Lac de la Petite Cayolle; the snow was caressing the edges of the water, which was as clear and transparent as a mirror.

The summit of the pass is just above, around 500 metres further on.

I can't resist taking a few photos. As soon as I reach the summit, I can see the last twists and turns of the Col de la Cayolle road in the background, and in the distance, almost in front of me, I can see the summit of La Bonette, which I recognise from the cars' windscreens shining in the sunlight, and many other marvellous sights. I take long strides down the slope that leads me to the road, over stones and meadows. Some motorists see me coming, amazed, the bike on my right shoulder, and wonder where I've come from. They question me eagerly, wanting to know everything, down to the smallest detail, and some even take photos of me like a film celebrity.

Annoyed, not liking this kind of situation, I got dressed for the descent and ran away from the crowd of onlookers.

A little later, in Valberg, I was treated to a terrible hailstorm. Large hailstones, shattering like little balls as they hit the asphalt, fell on me, hurting badly. I continued to climb, unperturbed. At the top of the pass, all sore, I hurriedly looked for a hotel.

The next day, having recovered from the previous day's emotions, I set off again.

It wasn't until 11.30 am, after the Cols de Sainte-Anne and de la Couillole, that I reached Saint-Etienne de Tinée; the very large Bonette was already looming in the background. It will take me almost three hours to conquer the giant of the Alpes Maritimes.

After a «pilgrimage» to the summit of La Bonette, I embark on a particularly twisting and dangerous descent at breakneck speed, slowed in extremis by an endless procession of sheep. Another transhumance heading up towards the fat pastures of Restefond.

Some time later, I arrive at La Condamine-Châtelard, at the foot of the Parpaillon (almost a mule track). I ask the villagers about the possibility of stopping for the night on the track leading to the pass.

I learn that there is a hotel at Sainte-Anne, but after ........ there is nothing. A farmer turns up just then and tells me that halfway up the pass is the Grand Parpaillon shepherds' hut. He didn't know if the shepherd was there. I try to get there anyway.

As far as Sainte-Anne, the road is tarmac but extremely steep. I see the hotel that the good people of the village have pointed out to me, but I don't stop because I've decided to carry on. A few more metres and then, after the chapel of Sainte-Anne, I leave the civilised world and the tarmac road for a winding, stony track. I crossed one or two wooden bridges and then, suddenly, after crossing the «Parpaillon» torrent, I fell; stuck in the mud caused by the overflowing waters of the torrent during the last rains, I couldn't keep my balance and ended up with my buttocks in the sticky mud. I got up, shouting abuse.

I regain my composure and my place on the rump of «Marguerite» (that's my bike). I'm worried... Will I find the shepherd? Will I have to spend the night under the stars? The nights are still chilly, especially as I'm almost 2,000 metres above sea level. Suddenly I see sheep dung on the ground!

I breathe in. A few minutes later, I'm greeted by the cheerful tinkling of bells. As I leave the forest, I finally catch sight of the refuge, perched on the top of a small hill. How welcoming it looks!

The shepherd is there. I walk up to him and ask for his hospitality. He looks embarrassed. He explains that he lives there alone and that the inside of the house is not very clean. However, he admits that he is very happy to have some company. However, he refuses to let me inside the cottage until he's done a bit of tidying up. In the meantime, I admire the extraordinary landscape around me.

Imagine: a silent torrent gently sloping down, an astonishingly deep valley made all the more beautiful by the multitude of colours that only appear at dusk, and on either side, two gigantic walls rising up in a V-shape, so high they touch the sky and disappear into the horizon.

To complete the picture, a silence. A silence so deep it's almost frightening.
From time to time, a bleating sound and the gentle tinkling of bells can be heard in the distance.
I am interrupted in my contemplation by the loud, cavernous voice of the shepherd. Having finished his work, he invites me in. He welcomes me into his home with a large glass of local wine. In the evening, we get to know each other over a big plate of hot soup.
At dawn, the shepherd is up and about. After gathering his flock, which had been scattered throughout the night, he joined me. In the meantime, I had prepared some coffee (we'd become like two buddies by now).

As soon as I saw the sun rise above the mountains, I left my great friend with a strong handshake, full of gratitude and also a little regret at not being able to stay. An hour later, I was at the entrance to the Col du Parpaillon tunnel. I crossed it with difficulty, as the passage was partly blocked by a landslide. On the other side, the cries of marmots startled me. I try to take a photo of them...... too late, they've already disappeared.

After many difficulties, I finally reach Crévoux, the last checkpoint of the tour. While I was quenching my thirst, the owner of the hostel suggested I have a look at the visitors« book where all the names of the cyclists who'd passed through there are listed. Interested, I accept. The bar owner disappeared into a nearby room and returned a moment later with a bulky, dusty book. After leafing through a hundred or so pages, I discovered, on the date of 8 August 1968, a small note signed by Jean-Claude Chaberty and Pageon, two cyclists from Chambéry whom I know well. What a pleasant surprise! Now it's my turn to write my impressions.

By 12:30 I'm in Chorges; I have to be in Chambéry that evening. I don't have enough time to cycle back. So I decided to take the train to Grenoble.
At 6.50pm I arrived at the station in the capital of Dauphiné.
At 9pm, I was finally able to return home, tired but extremely happy.
Where will my next hike take me?
What new adventure will she lead us on?

NOTA

Iome 7 or 8 years ago, in the back of a garage, I discovered a young mechanic who shyly asked me for some information about cycle touring..
Today, you have just read his passion, and I have just officially presented him, on behalf of the F.F.C.T., with the diploma of federal merit, which amply rewards the services rendered by this young man to the cause we know so well.
See how the role of leader can sometimes be a good one.

Second pretext: last autumn, Robert DEL MEDICO was crossing a mule-tracking pass in Savoie with a young girl when he fell several dozen metres, dragging his companion and bicycles with him; the companion was quite seriously injured and an acrobatic expedition was made to recover the bicycles, which were in a very poor state.
May this parenthesis remind you how important it is to go through these difficult times with caution and with all the necessary guarantees.
Jean PERDOUX