There is a little corner of paradise in France where the cowboy is king : Saint Jean Montclar and the surrounding countryside in the Alpes de Haute Provence. The plateau de la Chau lies at the altitude of 1500m, overlooking the lake of Serre-Ponçon and it is dominated by the Dormillouse. The plateau is bordered with larch, fir, rowan, silver birch, walnut trees… We have walked, horse riding, cycling, driving a four-wheel car, rafting, paragliding or followed a donkey from Provence (with a black St Andrew cross on its back). The donkey is a very rustic and very intelligent animal. The true story of the dunce’s cap, the “donkey’s cap” in French, is that the dunce was made to wear such a cap by the teacher in the hope that it would make him more intelligent.

 I am going to tell you about a recent hike with my lifelong companion, a cowgirl to the core, Rosemonde, and a she-ass named Princess, hired from a neighbour. Princess had a very important role to fulfil : she was to carry the luggage. The problem was that she had never carried any luggage before and she was used to walking on  flat ground. We started in the morning, following the ski runs, and after a few hundred metres, Princess discovered that making physical efforts high in the mountains made you hot. Hence the French phrase “to sweat and puff like an ass”. We tried everything we could to make her move on. It wasn’t a good start, we let her recover and get used to these new sensations. After  slow progress, we reached the plateau of the Chau, the marmots’ favourite habitat. Looking back on the way we had just climbed up we saw a miniature Saint Jean Montclar, the lake of Serre-Ponçon winding its way between the Grand Morgon and the other mountains of the Alpine range as far as the eye can reach.

We took a path linking several forts together that used to be followed by soldiers in olden times. This path will take us to the other side of the mountain. It is midday, the sun shines fiercely on the stones which reflect the heat. This is when our old cowboy hats are very useful. We sit down on a big stone in the shade of a fir tree to drink some of the famous Montclar spring water, and this is when Princess delicately puts her heavy head on my thigh and listens to a tune I play on my harmonica. I have always enjoyed playing this instrument since a very young age when resting. The sunny spots enliven so much the landscape that the most refined fragrances caress our sense of smell. On the other hand, the shady parts provide us with blackberries, raspberries and slightly acid strawberries which are full of vitamins. If blueberries have your favour, you will have to wait until the end of August and go higher in the mountains. Before going over the pass -le Col Bas- we cast a gaze full of wonder on the Blanche valley, making out the mont Ventoux, a mountain which we used to climb on our bicycles with our friends when we were teenagers.

On our right, we can see the Pic Saint Bernardez, with its proud wooden cross, and further up, l’Aiguillette with its forbidden last two hundred metres. Straight ahead, the Grande and the Petite Séolane in the shape of a dome of light-coloured rock whose colour changes according to the time of the day. My favourite colour appears in the evening, it is a shade of pink with a tinge of orange contrasting with the mountain lower down already covered by its cape of night. It is midday now and the two peaks are bright white. We settle down in the shade of a lonesome pine, as if a landscape gardener had been at work here to welcome hikers who cannot take any other way but the one between two roughly cubical rocks like a door into paradise. The grass is so rich and thick, that our bodies seem lighter when our feet touch the ground. On our left, we can see on the mountain slope, a huge flock of sheep with their bells tinkling and that, in the distance, look like white grubs.

It is five o’clock, we are near the Lac du Milieu. Having left behind, on our left, the black lake because a passage on a smooth slanting rock would not have been possible for Princess. Anyway, she would have refused to try it, especially with her shaky load. All lakes have different colours in the mountains due to their environment. There is even a lake that is called ‘lac des Neuf Couleurs’ (Lake of Nine Colours). A brook is meandering, murmuring in a unique way, among blue and yellow flowers, flowing around pebbles shared by tree frogs and thousands of grass-hoppers which dance about us as we’re walking on to wish us welcome. Our four-legged companion at last condescends to drink some water in these friendly surroundings.

We walk across another large meadow with springy grass, peppered with holes, a metre and a half deep, full of a water so clear that we feel like splashing about in it, but it is too cold and we are too hot. Once at the edge of the lake, which becomes visible only at the last moment, carefully hidden by a ring of fir trees, we take a photo of this heavenly spot with its shores jagged by reeds reflected in a water the colour of the sky, the blue sky of Provence naturally!

Near the lake, on the soft ground, we set up the tent in five minutes and go looking for dead wood to make our fire, between four stones, more or less in the shape of a cube. Princess is groomed and well looked after, the rich grass is her favourite food. Tied to a tree with a long tether, she is ready for the night, checking all our moves with a protecting eye. The Dormillouse is 2500m above us, its reflection at our feet.

This gorgeous landscape charms us in a silence that is a joy to listen to…Rosemonde is preparing the ritual pastis with roasted peanuts. The rosé wine bottles are put in the cold water to cool down, the fish seem a little bit surprised. They swim in luminous circles as if to tell us not to forget them and to throw them some crumbs. After playing a little tune on my harmonica by the fireside, it is time to sharpen my big knife on a stone in order to better cut the twigs on which we’ll skewer big sausages. Potatoes in aluminium foil baked over the campfire  will complete the menu. Suddenly, what a pleasure to see, a hundred metres away, a roe deer going back to its sleeping quarters after a drink in the pure water of the lake!

After drinking a traditional little drop of Armagnac, we can then look at the twinkling stars and our friend the moon, which calmly watches over us, the keeper of this place with its soft light. Shooting stars as well as long distance airplanes come and go, putting us in a mysterious atmosphere and making us dream of journeys past and future. The weariness of the day and the soothing effect of the little drop of alcohol (we indulge in this practise only in the evening and in small quantities to respect our health). Drinking alcohol in the daytime while making physical efforts in the heat would certainly be dangerous and must be strongly discouraged.

In the morning, I am the first to wake up, I open the zip of our little shelter. I am captivated by this huge screen showing me an image of incredible beauty. Princess goes ‘heehaw’ to greet me and to tell me that she is still there. Rosemonde wakes up slowly after hearing this affectionate call. Meanwhile, I put some water on the fire to prepare our breakfast : concentrated milk, coffee, and lots of cornflakes. I stroke Princess and see to her needs then we go for a little walk to an elevated spot from where we can look over the valley of the Ubaye, and further away, the town of Barcelonnette, still asleep.

These colours, pink, orange, white, grey, all these shades of blue and of green, shimmering on this smooth expanse, take us away with a soft power giving us a certain wisdom which helps us to overlook the meanness of our fellowmen. It is 11 o’clock. Once we have packed Princess with our stuff, we decide to go back down to the spring to refill our bottles. Then to the lake where a small house sheltered our family when the children were young. We used to go and see the shepherd and his big flock of sheep. We brought him some fresh bread, it was a happy moment. The stories told by the fireside left the children amazed. Then they fell asleep, feeling closer to the stars. This is when our friend the shepherd, pulling out his bottle of génépi, used to tell us about some misfortune in his life, his eyes full of tears. We lent him an attentive ear, uttered a few comforting words, played a tune on the harmonica and then went upstairs to sleep in our sleeping bags on the floor of the little house. The stairs are a shaky affair on the outside of the building. This little house has been extended, and is used as an altitude restaurant during the skiing season while it is partly used by a shepherdess in the summer.

Painting a landscape, cutting wood, heating spring water in the shepherd’s bowl to get washed, walking with the shepherd and his sheep, his dogs to other mountains where the grass is new, were the main activities we enjoyed during those days of freedom. Our friend the shepherd, a protector of Nature, started at 5 o’clock with his flock. It was a bit early for our little party, but we always managed to share our lunch with him and then had a nap. It was amazing to see how fast hundreds of  sheep move smoothly en masse towards the house near which they were penned in for the night. A little building made of dry stones sheltered the wounded or sick animals which were nursed by our friend, who took this opportunity to tell Rémy and Lydie, an eager audience, tales of sheep. Unfortunately this little ‘infirmary’ does not exist any longer. At bedtime, it was funny to watch our friends, angora dormice, black and white, with their shining little eyes visible between the planks forming the ceiling.

After a pause in this nostalgic place and after stocking spring water, we move on to the shores of the third lake which are steep and rocky. We find a tree, a little grassy spot, a perfect place for a picnic and a little nap. We take off the luggage from the back of our four-legged friend, we groom her and she eats and drinks her fill. And she keeps watching us with curiosity every time we get something out of the bag. Sometimes we even have to push away her powerful head.

I have always enjoyed playing the harmonica for myself and my family and friends when I find myself in these wonderful circumstances. It’s easier to understand why my eyes are closed when playing some particular melodies as they make me drift into the images of my memories of horse riding. As it is my wish to share our pleasure with all the people who are steeped in this cowboy atmosphere and state of mind, I am glad to announce that I founded and developed the Country and Western Altitude Festivals. We also have something here which is unheard of : a mass and the traditional blessing of livestock (cows, horses). Tell your friends!

Daniel Cahuzac