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The Parpaillon saga

Mon Parpaillon à moi - Noël Nominé CC No. 4681 - issue no. 47, 2019

The idea of climbing the Parpaillon had been in the back of my mind for several years, but the article in the last issue of the CCC magazine was the trigger for this crazy idea. Elisabeth and I were due to go by camper van near Embrun at the beginning of October. My mountain bike was already stowed in the hold. The weather was most clement at this time of year, and on 8 October we arrived in Crévoux, eleven kilometres from the famous Parpaillon and 1,100 metres from its tunnel!

The next morning, the weather was fine. The moment of departure for an exceptional event is always exciting. I gave myself three hours to complete the mythical 2,637m. In reality, two and a half hours would suffice. Two and a half hours for 11 km may not sound like a lot, but I have to remain modest. For me, the achievement is to succeed in my gamble, not to beat a record. Rather than give a linear description of this climb - others have done it long before me and much better than I can - I prefer to give a personal impression.

The Spanish and the army

I set off from Crévoux at 9am, and I'm alone, absolutely alone in this mineral world that even the marmots seem to have deserted to take up their winter quarters. Not a sound, not a wisp of wind. Silence surrounds me. From here I can hear the wind of disapproval for daring to set off alone into this inhospitable environment. The only evidence of past human activity is this rocky path on which I sometimes ride, sometimes push my horse. Sometimes I simply stop to soak up the majesty of the place and note the total absence of a network. As I pass the Spanish hut, I take the time to read the explanations given there; I imagine these Spanish refugees who deserted Franco's regime and whom the French army requisitioned to restore this path of strategic military interest.

After two hours I end up wondering where this tunnel could be hiding. It's only in the last few hectometres that it deigns to come into view, crushed by the Grand Parpaillon massif to the north and the Petit Parpaillon to the south. Then, like a child, I let my joy burst forth: - I've got it!

But no echo comes back to me. As if the Parpaillon had swallowed my voice. Naturally, my Olympus captures the moment in front of the tunnel entrance. The two leaves of the entrance portal are lined with stickers marking the many passages through this place, but there's no trace of the CCC; it's unthinkable that it's not there, yet I can't find it.

Despite the late morning sun, I'm still extremely chilled.

I did try to cross the 500 m length of the tunnel, but the loamy ground is full of potholes, each blacker than the last and full of water. My lighting doesn't tell me how deep they are. After a while, the puddles reflect back to me the inverted image of the end of the tunnel that I can make out in the distance. Despite the drought that has been raging for several months, water is constantly dripping from the ceiling, making the floor all the more slippery. So much for the view of the Ubaye valley that awaits me at the exit, I prefer to turn back, out of an abundance of caution.

Girabeau landscape

Filled with the wild beauty of the site, I start the descent, but with the intention of picking up the Col de Girabeau (05-2488b) on the way down and back, which seemed within pedal reach and easy to access from the Parpaillon. In reality, with my modest means, this is not the case, and pushing is often necessary. But the reward at the pass is the view of Lac de Serre-Ponçon, 1,700 m below.

It was on the way back that I discovered the zigzagging path up to the Col de Parpaillon, its tiny tunnel lost in the middle of this mineral desert and the blue of the sky. The epicurean in me savours the grandiose, silent panorama, which gives me a feeling of omnipotence.

I can imagine the path to the pass in the middle of summer, crowded with mountain bikers and hikers climbing the Parpaillon. I can also imagine this landscape in the middle of winter, snow-covered and immaculate, disturbed by a few hikers from Crévoux. I'm surprised not to see any ski lifts - haven't the winter sports resort developers managed to take over the site yet?

I'm going back the way I came, slowly, so that I can continue to enjoy this »mountain that is so beautiful», so beautifully sung by Ferrat, for as long as possible. I dream of stopping the inexorable passage of time to live these moments of happiness intensely, to remember them, to tell Elisabeth about them when I get back, but I know that it will be impossible for me to find the right words to describe the exhilaration of this climb.

Finally, I was back in the forest, back on the tarmac and a short time later... Elisabeth came to meet me.
- So? she asks me.
- Mission accomplished!