La cabane

When I explain to people here what I’m studying, French literature and geology, one of two things always happens. Either I get a confused look and a “well, that’s different” response, or they block out one or the other and ask me either what type of literature I’m studying or if I rock climb. French students register in universities that are focused either in sciences or humanities or engineering… never a mixture. I’m enrolled in two universities. It’s a little complicated sometimes, but totally worth it.

The reason I bring this up is because, well, one, it’s silly and happens faultlessly one way or the other, but also because today I had a literature day. Outdoors.

Today was a literature day not because I read some great book or wrote some paper I was really proud of. Instead, it was a literature day because of how each event seemed to roll into the next, building on some story that has yet to unfold.

It hit me on the ride home when I finally got the full story behind the various people we had met that evening.

Felix and Tony, brothers, both very successful students and artists, are building this cabin because their parents moved away from the mountains and they couldn’t bring themselves to leave. They’ve dropped school, evaded rent, dumpster dive at the local swanky market, design cd labels for friends’ bands, work on the cabin, practice music and circus-ry for their intermittent jobs at local ski stations where they perform spectacles and are lodged and fed at the station for free. Fascinating kids. I spent most of the evening sunk deeply into the big soft sofa blissfully listening to them jam on guitar and accordion. Their music was so unique and extraordinarily beautiful. For me it was one of those moments where it hits me how random life can be. Who would have ever thought even just a few months ago that I would be in a half-built cabin sitting around a wood-burning stove with the friends of my roomate’s cousin on a Sunday evening listening to a beautiful accordion/guitar duo? Life.

So why a literature day? For me, literature is something you read into deeply, analyze. Every word and every scene in a literary work was chosen carefully by the author, and placed equally as thoughtfully.

Every event today felt like it was trying to tell me something. Every word I said or heard seemed so carefully placed and expressed. Every scene planned perfectly to unfold the story in such a way, to set up for whatever is to come next. I had the feeling that it all made sense, but not yet. I must be somewhere towards the end of the beginning – where all the setup is in place and the story is finally ready to begin. Funny, that’s where I usually get bored with books and stop reading them.

The day started early, which I love (though not when I’m in the painful process of waking up). Gael and I arrived at his godparents’ beautiful house in the hills at 9:30am, visited over a cup of tea, and after a good hour were on our way up to the cabin higher in the hills to scope it out for Gael’s New Year’s party. We found our way to the cabin fairly quickly, arranged the wood pile so it would be nice and dry for when they come at the end of December, and set off to climb the peak behind the cabin.

We went as far as we could on the trail until it disappeared and then oriented ourselves toward the cliff face and started climbing. Scrambling on hands-and-knees most of the way, dodging under branches and over blackberry plants, we picked our way to the base of the cliffs where we had planned to traverse until we got to the best place to climb through. We had picked out a place that looked passable by foot, but we still had a bit of traversing to do before we could really assess.

Skipping, hopping and sliding along the base of the rocks we saw many traces of chamois traffic, and profited quite well from the little steps they seemed to have also used. The chamois are a very interesting alpine mammal, somewhere between a deer and a gazelle, with a fuzzy black (in winter) coat adapted to the alpine cold. Awesome animals – and my goodness do they know the mountains. At one point we saw a whole herd of them sprinting across the hill we were so un-elegantly crossing at at least a tenth their speed.

We finally arrived at the base of our chosen pass, and deeming it indeed passable, started climbing. After some decent 5th class climbing (about 2 meters with a good soft landing), lunch in a cave, and another bout of 4th/5th scrambling, we found ourselves at the top of the mountain looking at the ski station where Gael learned to ski. No snow yet.

We explored some of the caves around (read: really deep random holes in the ground with signs posted and planks laid so you don’t fall in them), then broke out in a run following the trail on the arête (the soft grass, moist soil, and rolling hills were all too inviting for a little run). Started our decent, also running most of the way, though with a little bit of intermittent and unexpected skiing on the steep, muddy, leaf-covered trail…

Four hours and about 1000m of altitude change later, we found ourselves back at Gael’s godparents sipping hot chocolate, munching warm apple tarts, and chatting with his family again. I love this country.

Gael’s cousin came downstairs and we took off down the hill to his friends place. Me and my terrible night vision crossed the creek cautiously, guided by the dim light of the cabin. We rounded the corner into a clearing – and I could almost hear the film rolling in the camera over my right shoulder. It was so perfect. The soft voices, laughing, a guitar and accordion practicing a waltz, the single bare light bulb lighting the attic, illuming the rooms and the deck, inviting you to come inside where it’s dry and wonderfully warm.

Maybe it’s time to go pick up all those books I put down after a mere 100 pages back in the day…