Fort l’Ecluse, France
The weatherman had
promised unusual sun but all we got was a fog that deepened and thickened
throughout the day. We still drove to Fort l’Ecluse as planned though, a
trunk full of ski helmets, harnesses and the springy lanyards which are
supposed to keep us firmly attached to the mountain. Close to the quaint French village of Collonges, Fort L'Ecluse was built in the 19th century by the Duke of Savoy to command the Rhone. The lower fort consists of a narrow tower staircase embedded into the mountain and leads to the larger, upper fort which overlooks the river. The parking lot was empty except for one man with two dogs and a pet sheep. From the car, it was only a few minutes hike to the start of the Via Ferrata.
Via Ferrata is
italian for “iron road” and it means what it says. Mainly found in Europe, they
are constructed paths of steel steps, rings, ladders and ropes for an easy
ascent to heights that normally would only be attempted by superhuman climbers.
Made easy for the body but not the mind. Most people have the stamina and
strength to do it: psychological limits are tougher to overcome. All your
senses will bombard you with panic and flare guns. “Don’t do this!” your eyes
will scream as you stare at the thousand-meter drop, the slanted rocks, unable
to calculate how much farther you have to go, and how far you would fall. You
have to have faith in the metal clips connected to steel rope connected to
anchors drilled into rock, which together keep you from dropping from the
mountain.
At first the climb
was straightforward: the steel rungs made a neat vertical line up the cliff. The
steel was cold and wet, which made my step a little more hesitant and my hands
aching for waterproof gloves. A little further and the fog had swallowed us whole.
Other than the immediate rocks and tufts of trees, we couldn’t see anything
beyond the mist. We knew there were the castle walls and secret staircase, we
knew there was a river somewhere and hundreds of meters of elevation, but we
saw nothing but gray. It was a dewy and comforting blanket, which dampened my
fears since I couldn’t perceive the depth of falling should a hand or rope
fail.
Somewhere in the
middle, the climb became more difficult with wider steps, scrambling up rock
edges, calling on upper body strength I didn’t have. One section has you
stepping on nails over sheer nothing to get from one chunk of mountain to the
other and a sharp overhang that needs a broad swing of the arm to get back to
vertical. In the fractured seconds I allowed myself to look down, I was amazed
at how one toe on a tiny steel nail was the only thing between me and the
ravine. Friends laughed at me when I raced up the tough spots, not giving
myself any time to think, to build fear, and then crumbled to a whiny girl at
some muddy slopes on the easy walk to the bridge.
Before arriving at
the bridge, we first had to cross a wooden beam without handrails, which had me
muttering, I don’t like this at all, why
the hell did I want to do this, never again, I like the idea of adventure, less the actual doing... Then the monkey bridge
came into view. The word “bridge” is used liberally here as it is nothing more
than two steel wires, one for hands and one for feet, stretched across to the
fort. The incessant wobbling and acute feeling of being naked in the air was
unsettling at first, but soon I found it an easy slide over.
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While the fog was
close and personal during the climb, opened up at the fort, it was a billowing
mass, rolling over the crumbling turrets, pouring through the narrow windows,
lining the wet grassy paths. The stone walls, already softened by
history, were now blotted and dimmed to a fantasy. Did we accidentally climb
into another world? Chocolate and dried mangos revived my cold fingertips, made
a damp fire in my chest, while we walked between the gray walls with flecks of
white, stepping on weeds and grass hardened by autumn, passing under the
tragedy of vines and blackened moss.
Of course M and T
had to find a way inside the iron-locked fort and with some scrambling up a
hill and squeezing through a window, they managed. Inside, they said, the fog
was filling and filling the vast loneliness of the castle. There was an
entrance to the long staircase down the mountain but they knew the exit would
be locked. Instead, we took the hiking path down, a conventional loveliness of
fall leaves and dewy spider webs, leaving the ghosts behind us with every muddy
step.
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Travel Tips
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Where:
Fort L’Ecluse is a 30min drive from Geneva, makes for an easy day trip. See
map.
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Duration:
Ascent is about 1hr 30min, hike down another 30min
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Bring:
Helmet (climbing or ski), harness, lanyard, climbing gloves (especially if
it’s cold), sneakers or hiking boots not
climbing shoes
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Links:
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Finally finished The White Tiger at 1am the other night. Isn’t midnight the best time to read? The world is so quiet then, if only there wasn’t work the next day. Well, Aravind Adiga made my sluggish morning worth it. His book was dark, funny, disturbing, unexpected - sometimes all within one sentence. I especially liked how it’s structured as a letter to the Chinese Premier. Though of a very different style, it reminded me a bit of Lolita in how the reader accompanies the narrator through his growing insanity until you start questioning the reality being presented to you.
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