Pic de Monne: a cautionary tale

Derek Collins

I had not had a day out for several weeks so Pic de Monne, a few miles south of Lourdes, seemed a good idea. From the roadhead I followed a path marked on the map. Nobody had told me about paths in the Pyrenees and I could not understand why the path was so faint and why there was no one around in mid-August. In fact when I approached a nasty looking snake lying on the path it was a bit peeved at being disturbed. I clambered up off the path!

Effectively the route was up a very steep field which became scree. The track almost disappeared and the scree became large boiler plates but I was able to scramble up gullies and began to feel lonely. After a bit, a scrambly line to the ridge could be made out. I felt better as I was fairly confident there would be a ski-station at the top. I clambered towards the ridge looking back to ensure I could reverse the lot if required and after a few moves up a little chimney, popped out onto the ridge.

To my horror the other side was overhanging, then vertical, going down for miles to my car. Uhm! I thought and started scrambling up the ridge. Three large vultures wheeled nearby demoralising me still further. The tiny exposed top of Pic de Monne – 2724 m, harboured no ski-station or cairn or fitter just a few vultures overhead. I opened my rations, two mars bars and 0.5 litres of water. By the way I was wearing shorts, no sweater and a hghtweight cagoule. After all I was out on a quick few hours bash, I even had a date with my wife and others in the Brancardiers bar in Lourdes in a few hours.

The ridge ahead was spiky in best Skye style except it was a lot bigger and the gaps were impassable. I fiddled about for a long time -Brashers are not good rock boots -and finally got down into a combe in which, according to my map, there were ski trails. No doubt there are in winter. At this juncture I looked at my map very carefully and did some serious prioritising. My wife was with a group who had the clout to get out the French Army so I even had to face that possibility – consider the embarrassment!

The worst forty minutes of my mountaineering life ensued. I went at a 500 ft, steep slippy scree slope like a headless chicken and felt poorly at the top, another col. However, there were two tiny tarns just like the map said and the ski paths cut through the main ridge and down to the car. No problem I thought! Even getting to the first gap required two or three attempts. ‘Good luck’ I thought to any skier going down there. The next gap looked better, there was even a tiny locked hut. I clambered down hanging onto a waste pipe and finally got onto steep grass. The marmots and choughs mocked as I sat there thinking. After this it was an interminable walk down dusty roads gouged out for the winter skiers.

I made it for the beer, lots of it and nobody knew any different!

A cautionary tale? Leave your timing flexible when making dates.