Living on the Edge

The day didn’t start edgy. Truly. It began as a perfect example of what has become the routine around here. Adults up first; Bob trekking down the hill to pick up our daily delivery of baguettes and croissants; breakfast; check email; read a bit. Kids arise later. Much later.

Today’s plan called for the Oreo Express to journey west, this time to Villefranche, an ancient walled town buried in the foothills of the Pyrenees. There we would pick up Le Train Jaune (the yellow train) which would whisk us away closer to Andorra and then return. That was the plan.

But, things happen. The Yellow Train looked great. Like something Charlie Chaplin might have ridden. Maybe W.C. fields. It reeked of Disney. It came complete with an open air car that seemed perfect for optimal viewing as we steamed through the countryside. But, sadly, this train was not the engine that could. Barely a mile or two out of the station, it quit. Finito. We returned to the station, got our money back and drove on. And, this is when it got interesting.

Just last night we talked about the possibility of riding the train for an hour or so, getting off, having a couple of beers, and then riding back. Simple enough. Certainly pleasurable. But, no, we couldn’t leave well enough alone. Instead of the beer, we drove to the Gorges de Carança where we were promised “death defying” footpaths. The hike up was steep, very rocky, and, at times, very challenging. But, then, just when the path leveled off, we knew why people come here. Certainly for Americans it was something you would never, ever find in our country because the liability concerns would be overwhelming; indeed, prohibitive. What we came upon was a narrow path, maybe 3 feet or so across that was literally etched into the side of a cliff several hundred feet above the valley below. And, there was no guardrail! The path was devilishly uneven with large rocks making certain you would never be entirely comfortable with your footing. All that kept you from running away screaming was a cable bolted into the side of the cliff that gave you a degree of confidence you would not hurtle to your doom with one slight misstep. Some of us gripped the cable as a drowning man might grip a life preserver thrown his way. We proceeded, our group of twelve, perhaps gaining a measure of confidence borne out of some weird sense of shared insanity.

As if to taunt us, the gods whipped up a breeze and rain, and, finally, flashes of lightning to fan the flames of our increasing doubts. While a few of us wanted to venture onward if only to see what madness might lurk around the next bend in the mountain, cooler heads prevailed and we headed down the ridiculously steep and rock-filled paths now increasingly slippery from the rain.

Exhilarating to be sure, but not what you might call a day at the beach.