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Voices for the World
Ordesa Canyon
Discovering a UNESCO World Heritage Site: Ordesa Canyon remains one of the best preserved tracts of wilderness in all of western Europe.
By Gabriel Frayne Jr.
Posted on Oct 24, 2002 |
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| View of Ordesa Canyon from the Faja de Pelay, photo by Gabriel Frayne Jr. / |
Imagine the floor of Yosemite Valley crowned by the cliffs of the Grand Canyon and you’ll have a rough approximation of the lay of the land in Spain’s Parque Nacional de Cañon Ordesa y Monte Perdido. On a continent better known for its wines than its wilderness, this mind-blowing gash of rock, water, and coniferous forest extending six miles into the high Pyrenees mountains doesn’t exactly bring to mind the court of Philip II. That’s a good thing, of course; green politics not-withstanding, Europe’s wilderness ethic occasionally leaves one feeling bereft, even in the rugged Pyrenees, where ski resorts depressingly outnumber national parks.
Fortunately, Ordesa Canyon remains one of the best preserved tracts of wilderness in all of western Europe. Would one expect anything less of a geological wonder born a mere 200 million years ago? At around that time, according to British author Douglas Streatfeild-James, “a huge slow-motion crash between the Iberian Peninsula and the rest of Europe” began the uplift that is now the Pyrenees mountains, a 300-mile long chain of formidable peaks extending from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean which today forms a perfect natural boundary between France and Spain. Over the centuries glacial action and heavy precipitation carved out dozens of U-shaped valleys, of which Ordesa Canyon is probably the most famous, although two nearby canyons within the region known as “The Three Sisters” also draw many visitors. In 1918 the Spanish government designated Ordesa Canyon and Monte Perdido–the Pyrenees’ third highest peak at around 10,500 ft.–a national park, and in 1997 the park was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
When I stepped off the bus in Ordesa Canyon’s car park (no private vehicles are allowed in the canyon during the peak summer season), I already knew that these mountains are wet. The thought made me smile as I glanced upwards and saw no signs of trouble, only a blanched vanilla half moon hovering in the deep blue sky above the canyon’s south rim. The itinerary I’d worked out for this moderately rigorous day hike was simple and basic: up the canyon on the north side of the Río Arazas, lunch at the Circo de Soasa–the bottom of the U of this U-shaped valley–and then back to the start along the Faja de Pelay, a trail about two thirds the way up the canyon’s south wall.
Following a gaggle of tourists, including many families with young children, I made my way along the gently ascending trail beside the river, which even in mid-summer was an exuberant torrent of ice-cold water (no need to bring your swim suits, folks). The morning sun lit up a profusion of brilliant wild flowers on the river’s banks, a tableau of pink dianthus, royal blue irises, lavender-hued thistles, and a white, yarrow-like flower that the French call “Thousand-Leaf Achilles.” What struck me was how many species, or sub-species, I saw here that are common on the west coast of the United States as well; elsewhere in the Pyrenees I had also seen foxglove, azaleas, and evening primrose. How they got from one place to the other is anyone’s guess.
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| Wild flowers beside the Rio Arazas, photo by Gabriel Frayne Jr.
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After an hour or so the path began climbing a bit more steeply as it went up a series of natural grades, each one forming a luminous blue-green pool in the
Río Arazas. At this point the walls of the canyon are barely visible as thick groves of pine and larch form a canopy of shade and filtered sunlight reflects jitterbugging conifers off the moving water. But before long the canopy ends abruptly and the enormous rock amphitheater known as the Circo de Soasa comes into view. I looked around at the massive cliffs with Monte Perdido looming in the distance and estimated another twenty minutes til lunchtime. Twenty minutes later I was still staring up at the massive cliffs and feeling like I was at the wrong end of one of those airport walking floors. Easily another half hour had passed before I finally arrived at the end of the valley.
And a fine lunch venue it was. I picked a spot on the rocks just above and to the side of the magnificent Cola de Caballo (horse tail) waterfall, a graceful, eerily symmetrical cascade that begins high in the surrounding massif. I gulped down a few bites of hard dried sausage and fresh Spanish bread while I amused myself watching any number of clueless Euro-trekkers groping their way through the rocks with expensive aluminum walking sticks in each hand, apparently convinced that skiing across this dry terrain is easier than walking. After I finished eating I looked up at the western sky and saw the edge of a dark, low bank of clouds on the horizon. Alas, there goes the perfect weather, I told myself, but nature is kind today.
The Faja de Pelay begins steeply but then levels off to a very comfortable grade. During the first hour of the return hike I noticed two things: first, there were far fewer hikers now, most having elected to go back by the less strenuous north trail, and second, the sky was growing darker by the minute. At this point the latter issue mainly concerned the aperture setting on my camera, but I knew from experience that getting caught in a storm in the mountains can be a harrowing affair.
On the other hand, a forecast is just a state of mind, isn’t it? I took some comfort in Thoreau’s admonition that “nature puts no question and answers none which we mortals seek.” As the afternoon wore on I slowly became aware of a phenomenon that nature definitely could not answer for. Though the Faja de Pelay was now almost completely level, I seemed to be climbing higher and higher. This tromp l’oeil is created by the gradually descending valley floor below, and the overall effect is such that even hikers who have never smoked anything stronger than a Gauloise might easily experience the sensation of, well, floating. In alternating states of anxiety and euphoria I put one foot in front of the other for the next several hours, passing above dense conifer groves laden with the aroma of pine tar. To my right the Río Arazas disappeared from view and dizzyingly steep cliffs topped by glacially striated mountains reorganized my perception of height and depth. A tiny roe deer grazing up the slope glanced at me cautiously, bright red and purple wild flowers appeared out of nowhere, peals of thunder ripped across the sky. I felt like Frodo in Lord of the Rings.
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| The Breach of Roland, photo by Gabriel Frayne Jr. |
When I reached about the halfway point in the faja I looked across the canyon and saw a large gap in the soaring ridge that forms the border between Spain and France. This was the fabled Breach of Roland. Although the medieval Song of Roland has only a tenuous connection with history, it was here, supposedly, that Charlemagne’s dashing young knight was ambushed and killed upon his return from doing battle with the Moors. One version of the legend has it that Roland, cut off from the rest of Charlemagne’s army, pulled out his mighty sword and carved a gap in the mountains to allow the rearguard to pass through. It is still possible to hike from Spain into France (or vice versa) by way of the Breach of Roland, but this is definitely not recommended for the weak of heart or wobbly-kneed.
The remainder of the hike was a race against the impending deluge. I quickened my pace, took note of the first few raindrops, and yet, almost involuntarily, every so often found myself stopped in my tracks and gazing out over the canyon. The faja seemed to go on forever, much longer than the morning’s hike, which I was starting to find a bit exasperating under the circumstances. At just before 6:00 PM the trail finally reached a dilapidated stone refuge from which I could see the car park down below, a mere trip to the mailbox as the crow flies but for non-feathered creatures a considerably longer trek.
The descent to the canyon floor might best be described as a heavy date with gravity. A long series of switchbacks enables one to negotiate this nearly vertical 1700-ft. slope without going splat, but the knees and feet will definitely feel the pain. In fact, as I discovered, actually running down the trail is probably the best way to minimize wear and tear on the lower extremities. As I was heading down I encountered, incredibly enough, a fair number of hikers on their way up. I wasn’t exactly sure why anyone would want to be walking on the edge of 300-ft. cliffs in the rain after dark, but I was greatly relieved that at least it wouldn’t be me. It was half past six when the switchbacks gave way to a beech-covered meadow leading to a bridge across the river and in due course I arrived back at the car park all in one piece and the clouds parted with a giant yawn and the mountains seemed to be saying whadaya so worried about anyway?
Ordesa Canyon is the destination of relatively few Americans, possibly for two reasons: the United States has many natural wonders of its own (a poor excuse!), and it is not a convenient place to get to from the usual tourist destinations (an even poorer excuse). For me, the only real travel option was renting a car in the French city of Tarbes and then driving the nearly three hours of mountain roads into the Spanish village of Torla, which mainly exists to service the park. But whether you get there by car, bus, motorcycle, bicycle, mule, stage coach, hot air balloon, or even on foot, don’t pass up any opportunity to see this master work of creation in a unique and sublime corner of the earth.
Copyright2002 by Gabriel Frayne Jr.
Gabriel Frayne Jr. is a political scientist and teacher. He lives and writes from Northern California.
© Copyright 2000-2004 by West By Northwest.org
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