Le Refuge

   My husband and I decided to go on a short hiking vacation in the French Alps with another couple. Maurice has been hiking many times over the years and knew a beautiful area with great hiking trails and places to stay. He told me it would be a little basic but I thought, “How bad could it be?” I pictured a little building made of wood, planks for the flooring, maybe some showers like the ones I experienced in gym class–those stalls all lined up but with doors. To me, basic means no curtains on the windows. I was to learn that basic means something else to a French hiker. We set off early one morning from Paris heading south to Lyon and then east through Grenoble and into the French Alps. The roads got higher, narrower and more winding and rivers and streams could be seen far below. At times we had to stop to let cars pass which were coming from the other direction on the narrow road. Eventually, the road ended when we had come to the end of the world in a little village called La Berarde. We spent the night in a simple hotel there; the first in the area, it was built in 1909. We even took a short hike out into the valley, an hour each way, and saw the river up close and glaciers shining in the distance nestled on top of various mountains. It is not an area full of wild nightlife, and the altitude made us sleepy anyway, so we were in bed early. The next morning we each packed, as lightly as we could, the backpacks we would carry, including the ingredients for a picnic at the top. Up the trail we started, the end of which we would find a refuge, famous places all over the Alps for hikers and visitors to the mountains needing shelter and a place to sleep. The first part was hard going, all uphill and the trail was covered in all sizes of rocks left behind when a glacier, centuries ago, slid its way down the mountain making a valley and leaving behind a clutter of rocky debris. My backpack got heavier and heavier cutting into my shoulders. We reached a fairly flat area, crossed a stream a couple of times, walked in a green area with trees, which was pleasant. Waterfalls could be seen tumbling down the mountains that rose up on either side of us. Then it became difficult again–more rocks and all uphill. Eventually we could see the refuge up the mountain in the distance looking like something out of Lord of the Rings or maybe a labor camp, institutional in appearance. The men were losing patience with us women and finally left us behind in disgust and, scurrying up the boulders, got to the refuge first. They were waiting at a table outside in the sun, smiling, when we finally arrived, sweating, hot and with shaky legs. I had thought all the walking and stair climbing I’d done in Paris would prepare me for hiking. I was wrong. We sat there and had a nice picnic. Then I wandered inside to find the toilet. Imagine the horror of someone with burning thighs and weak knees when opening the stall door and seeing a Turkish toilet, a spider-web-covered black hole in the ground. Oh the trauma. I found the proprietor. “Where are the showers?” this innocent asked. “There aren’t any.” I began to understand what “basic” meant. I looked at a long sink beneath some windows. I realized that this was going to be where any cleaning up would be done. There was a sign in French that my friend translated into, “This sink is for personal cleaning purposes only. Any dishes must be washed outside in the torrent.” I was glad we hadn’t brought any dishes. I could see them being washed away in the fast-flowing stream down to the valley below. I remembered that I had forgotten to include a towel in my backpack. “Do you have any towels for rent, or that someone may have left behind?” “No.” “I don’t suppose there is any hot water?” “No, all the water comes straight down the mountain from the glacier.” The glacier could be seen high up on the mountain behind the refuge, melting in the summer heat. This meant that the water would be ice cold. It occurred to me that I could have left a whole change of clothes behind in the car and not have lugged them up the mountain on my back. I also found out that we had to haul our own garbage with us when we went back down. Had we known that, we would have had one of the sandwiches sold there and not made so much trash with our picnic. Then I went upstairs to check out the sleeping arrangements. My husband had told me that it would be a dorm set-up. I pictured rows of bunk beds. What I found was two giant bunk beds that ran from wall to wall with a row of mattresses all together where everyone would be “cheek and jowl” that night, rather like the beds I have seen in concentration camp movies. There were folded-up blankets, dirty looking mattress covers and pillows which, I discovered when I laid my head down that night, smelled. I don’t think they changed anything between visitors. I wonder if they only change the beds once a season? I wouldn’t be surprised. Luckily, the refuge wasn’t full that night but Maurice told me that he had been there before when they had been packed in that bed like sardines, having to turn as one or not at all. I feel fortunate that I didn’t have to spend the night between two strangers. Both my friend and I rushed to grab our places at the extreme corner walls, using our husbands as barriers from strange men. Later we sat outside, where the setting sun turned the clouds pink. We saw a small herd of chamois, a type of mountain goat, eating their way down the mountain. And a cute marmote, a type of badger, could be seen poking its head up and then waddling out to a rock, soon joined by its baby. Our dinner, surprisingly good, was served in a fairly dark room and…