by beth kohn

Give me shelter

POTENTIAL ENCOUNTERS WITH large, unfriendly animals and questionable navigation skills had always dissuaded me from backpacking alone. Who wants to end up lost and strapped to a pack full of freeze-dried bear bait? Leave it to the French to make backpacking more civilized. In the mountainous region of southwestern France's Parc National des Pyrénées, trekking shelters let the timid, untested, or easily tired hike through the wilderness all day, stay in a rustic cabin, and have someone else do the cooking – no tent, sleeping bag, or flavorless camping food required.

With its perennially snow-capped mountaintops, clear blue alpine lakes, and gushing summer waterways, the Parc National des Pyrénées echoes the topography and serenity of California's High Sierra. Here, though, 13 staffed lodges, known as refuges, emancipate trekkers from the evils of bulging packs and aching backs. For an easy two-day circuit including a stay at a 90-year-old lodge called the Refuge Wallon Marcadau, you only need a day pack.

The core of the park is a pristine area sheltering populations of izard (mountain antelope), marmots, lammergeiers (bearded vultures), and the severely endangered Pyrenean brown bear. Make sure to pack the zoom lens. At the Pont d'Espagne trailhead near the town of Cauterets, a pounding waterfall hints at the spectacular tributaries to come. A well-marked trail winds through the Vallée du Marcadau, a deep green grassland with a swift brook running through it. Photogenic cows graze in lowland spots, clanging bulky Swiss-style bells. The path follows evergreens as they creep up the mountainside, and waterfalls surge from all directions.

In the previous century, the soaring Pyrenean terrain proved an important passageway for populations facing political strife. Toward the end of the Spanish civil war, many Republicans in Aragon and Catalonia migrated north, fearing retribution after Franco's nationalists took Barcelona. A southern exodus occurred during World War II, when the less-guarded high passes became crucial escape routes for Jews and Allied soldiers fleeing Nazi-occupied France.

The gray stone Refuge Wallon Marcadau straddles a lush meadow crisscrossed by serpentine streams. On a visit in early fall, as I lumbered through a foyer lined with shelves of muddy boots, greetings sounded off in English, French, and Spanish. Most of the other lodgers, all Europeans, were midway through one- or two-week trips, but I garnered some credibility as the only woman traveling solo.

When you're accustomed to subsisting on MRE rations and scrubbing cold metal pots in the dark, a four-course meal without dish-washing duty epitomizes staggering luxury. Plowing through a family-style dinner at long wooden tables, hikers traded stories over glasses of red wine. Aching muscles and full bellies tend to foster instant camaraderie. Two Belgian college students without rain gear told a pathetic tale of trying to dry out hopelessly waterlogged clothes. A Scottish couple recounted how they'd camped near ominous 10-foot-high grizzly scratchings in Wyoming, and I silently gave thanks that I hadn't bumped into any toothy surprises so far. A group of Brits gossiped about a mountaineering pariah who sounded suspiciously similar to the rope-cutter from Touching the Void.

Tucked under the attic's skylighted eaves, the dormitory accommodations are basic but comfortable, with an ample stash of blankets to ward off the freezing night air. Thankfully, no one angled for the bunkhouse snoring championship. The next morning, lingering over a steaming bowl of strong coffee, I read entries from the refuge journal and watched groups load up and disappear from sight.

From the Wallon Marcadau, a trail passes a modest chapel and ascends toward a series of small mirror lakes. Lime green lichen speckles weathered slabs of rock, and tufts of deep pink heather shoot out in brilliant contrast. Mushrooms burst through the damp earth, and towering snow markers linger as an incongruous reminder of winter's stern command. A steep cairn-marked track leads to the blue bowl of Lac du Pourtet: at 7,940 feet, the highest point on the hike. After a scramble up a prominent scree-covered hill, Vignemale appears in the distance, its moody black crags defending its claim to being the tallest peak in the French Pyrenees. Shrouded in menacing storm clouds, it is a mysterious and gothic vision.

Amid the blanched and rutted peaks, high above the tree line, it was easy to feel like an astronaut exploring a hushed lunar landscape. The still surface of the lake reflected grass-dusted hills of chiseled white granite until a cool breeze created languid ripples. I wasn't lost, I hadn't become bear prey, and I was wonderfully alone.

Beth Kohn is a freelance writer who enjoys getting lost at home in San Francisco. Reach her at fiercesf@igc.org.

Trip planner

Walking tour The Pont d'Espagne trailhead is six miles south of the resort town Cauterets. Map IGN 1647 OT Vignemale (1:25,000 scale) covers this area of the park. www.parc-pyrenees.com.

Refuge The park operates half of the refuges. The rest, including Wallon Marcadau, are run by the Fédération des Clubs Alpins Français. Refuges are staffed from mid-May through the end of October, as well as on various winter weekends and holidays. Reservations are required in summer but highly recommended at all times. The refuge provides beds and blankets, but you must bring your own sleeping sack or sheet. Dormitory lodging with dinner and breakfast is 33 euros ($43 at current rates). Bag lunches are available. From the United States call (011-33) 5-61-85-93-43 or (011-33) 5-62-92-64-28, fax (011-33) 5-62-36-93-23, or go to www.clubalpin.com (in French only).

FYI In January, the French minister of the environment announced plans to introduce more bears into the Pyrenees, so you may want to attach some bear bells to that day pack.