A relaxing weekend in the country

So, there I was: right hand tightly clutching a thicket of grass growing out of the cliff face, left hand holding a small bump in the rock, left foot on the only dry foothold to be seen, and right foot hanging in the air. I knew that if I could move my right foot into the groove my left foot was currently occupying, delicately slide my left foot out and stretch it further along the rock face, and then support my weight as much as possible with my left arm, I just might be able to reach a better hold with my right hand and thus pull myself to a more secure spot on the rock. I'd seen three people do just that, and now they were safely past the narrow ledge and waiting for me on the river bank a few yards further down. There were only a few small problems with this plan: if either of my feet slipped, or if my strength failed, I would undoubtedly end up dropping about 4 or 5 feet down from the rocks into the freezing cold river below, potentially losing or ruining my phone, camera, passport, and wallet. Second, I have a terrible fear of narrow ledges which means that my hands were sweating and that I was trembling with fear. And, finally, my feet were just too big for me to get both shoes into the same small hole. I thought seriously about turning back and just taking the (very) long way back to the house, but that wasn't possible either as I'd already passed through a couple of similar ledges that would have been extremely difficult to recross, due to the aforementioned trembling. How did I get into this situation?

Ardèche is a department in south-central France known for its Mediterranean-esque climate and rural lifestyle. Thanks to his extensive mob ties and secret Swiss gold, Serge is a co-owner of a country home in the middle of Ardèche. As he and Amalia were planning on spending some time there this weekend, he invited me along. He also invited a couple good friends of his, Jose and Alexia, who were traveling there from Geneva. Traveling by plane. Private plane. That Jose flew. And I got to be co-pilot!

Fig. 1: Since I got to sit in the front, technically I was the first officer. I tried to "Make it so" a couple of times, but to no avail.

Those of you who've seen earlier posts will think you recognize this plane, but you'd be wrong. This is actually the twin brother of the plane posted below, and it lives in an airport in Bellegarde, France, half an hour by car from Geneva. So, Friday afternoon, I left work, walked to the metro, took the metro to Renens, caught the train to Geneva, took a tram to the suburb of Carouge, met Jose and Alexia in their car, drove to Bellegarde, then flew to Ardèche. Planes, trains, and automobiles, indeed.

The trip to Ardeche is about three and a half hours by car, but only an hour by plane. The flight path heads south along the Rhone river, passes west of Grenoble, then lands in Ruoms. Which, of course, is pronounced "Ruonce." Serge met us at the Aerodrome and drove us to the house, which was about five minutes away.

Fig. 2: No one wants to see my photos of Château Serge. Still, it's a pretty bad-ass place.

As the house was built eons ago, it has some unusual architectural characteristics. First, all of the original doorways were clearly designed for Smurfs. I know that people were smaller back in the day, but you also have to figure that they were just more used to ducking as they went through doorways. Fortunately the doorways were so low that were almost below my sight line and thus easily avoided. The outer walls, and the original inner walls, were made of very thick stone and no particular emphasis was placed on right angles. The house was also built on a hill, so it has three separate dungeon-esque basements and two floors of living space above those. As crazy as it was, it was pretty much par for the course in that area; the house next door looked like a medieval castle, tower included.

Fig. 3: Another entry in the long-standing series, "Paul and the ridiculously low doorways of Europe."

The plan for the weekend was thus: eat fondue, drink wine, do some light gardening, maybe take a nice stroll through the surrounding area, and just take it easy. The fondue was excellent, the yard work was fun (more on that in a later post, hopefully) and Sunday afternoon we set out for a nice stroll. Serge's house is a couple of miles from the beautiful Ardèche river, so we decided to wander in its general direction and check out the beautiful canyon it has created. After walking along paved roads for a while, we finally took a narrow path which meandered down a forested slope to the river below. Secretly, I was hoping that we would run into a pack of wild pigs (sangliers), as sangliers feature prominently in Asterix comic books and I was hoping for a picture. I'd heard that they can be vicious, but it would definitely have been worth it for a good photo.

Anyway, after an hour or so, the trail hit the river. Due to some weird geology, the walls of the river gorge are striated and awesome. It reminded me a lot of the Desolation Wilderness in California -- the striation and awesomeness, not the river, particularly.

Fig. 4: Later in the day, I had serious concerns that this would be my "last known photo." If that were the case, I would have expected all of you to get it airbrushed onto t-shirts in memorium.

It was at this point that things took a decided turn for the worse. Jose, being an adventurer at heart, decided that it would be a great idea to forget about the trail (we would probably have retrace our steps if we wanted to take the trail back to the house) and follow the river. Serge, being a masochist at heart, decided it was a great idea, and Alexia and I ended up going along for the ride. Let it be noted in the record that I voiced my opinion against this folly, sagely pointing out that rarely in hiking does one leave one trail only to stumble across a better trail. My Cassandra-like warning went unheeded, and we ventured off into the wilderness. As there was, of course, no trail, Jose grabbed a decently shaped stick and began wielding it like a machete to make a path, clearly enjoying himself way too much in the process.

Fig. 5: Amazonian jungle or French countryside? You decide.

The plan was to follow along the bank of the river, next to the cliff face, until we hit the next small town. Eventually, the cliff face rejoined the river, and we were left with a choice. Should we attempt to walk along the extremely narrow ledges on the cliff face and keep following the river, or should we just turn around and cross the river back were we first met it? It goes without saying what my vote was, as it is pretty much one of my biggest fears in life to be hanging onto a cliff face with no safe direction to go. But, as what was visible of the cliff looked passable, we decided to press on. My exact comment at this juncture were, "Mark my words, at least one of us is ending up in the river." Although I was concentrating a lot on breathing and staying calm, I did manage to take some nice photos.

Fig. 6: Serge being way too smug.

Predictably, the path along the cliff face did not end up as easy as we hoped. At numerous points, the "ledge" we were following disappeared and we were forced to grab onto plants, protrusions, and whatever would support you. Of course, Jose and Serge moved like f-ing chamois over the rocky terrain and frequently yelled things like, "it's not that bad," and "it's much easier further ahead." At no point were either of these statements true. The rocks were often slippery, the hand holds were largely non-existent, and frequently one would have to grab onto thorny vines in order to have a firm grip on something. I learned to hate Jose and Serge for the ease at which they danced along the rocks and I fantasized about pushing them both into the drink for getting me into this mess. It had been a rough afternoon.

Fig. 7: Figuratively, it felt like I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Literally, I was stuck between a rock and a very wet and cold place.

After a long time, and quite a few breathers, I finally managed to make it within sight of the "end." At this point, there was really only one tricky section between me and safety, but it was by far the trickiest yet. Even with Serge and Jose trying to guide me and help me out, I just found that I did not have the coordination or faith in my balance to make the leap that would get me through to safety, or more likely, send me flailing into the water. I couldn't retrace my steps either, as the way back was almost as bad as the way forward, and as I had no hope of climbing the high rock face, I was left with exactly one option. If you've just eaten, I would probably wait a little while before continuing reading; it gets ugly.

Fig. 8: Our intrepid hero prepares to plunge into the icy abyss. Serge remains smug, as always.

Fig. 9: My blood was kept from freezing in my veins by the fiery passion of my hatred for Serge and Jose.

The water wasn't nearly as cold as it looked; I'd say it was at least 50. After a few yards, I wasn't hyperventilating anymore, and I almost enjoyed the rest of the swim. The water was nice and the fish kept their distance.

From that point, we still had a couple of miles left to go, but thankfully it wasn't too long before we hit the village of Labeaume, had a quick drink at the cafe, and then took the 1 km path back to Serge's house. We had a quick lunch, packed up, and finally headed to the airport and back to civilization.

On balance, it was a nice trip. Really, 99% of the time was spent relaxing and spending time with my friends, so it's unfair to harp on the 1% that was spent in abject terror for my very life. I certainly look forward to going back to Ardeche (the olives should be ready to harvest in November), and I think as long as I can avoid any more pleasant strolls, it should be a lot of fun.