Shepherd dwellings.

Yesterday, Monsieur J and I set out for a hike in the Pyrénées. I'd picked this one out because of the orris -shepherds' dwellings used as early as the 1300s. Not only did we see the ruins, but cows and sheep galore -evidence that these mountain pastures are still alive and well.

We parked just above the lake at Soulcem and set out for the valley where we immediately saw not just one or two cabins, but several. A sign explained the complexity of the arrangements; the huts weren't used exclusively for shepherds, but for their flocks, milking, cheese production, etc...

We picnicked in the valley before climbing up to a little pond nestled in the mountains.

Pic Cagire.

Last weekend, Monsieur J and I set out for the Pyrénées. After an hour and a half, we arrived at the parking lot for the hike we'd planned to go on: pic Cagire. The information we'd found on the internet warned that the hike was steep, but well worth it for the beautiful views.

I can now confirm that this is an accurate description, though we added a detour.


Unfortunately, we got a little confused by the signage and turned left. This path seemed to wind around the mountain rather than climb up it, ooops. We were a little disappointed but still had lovely views to enjoy and lots of wildlife to take in.


It wasn't until about 2 hours later that we ran into a race. We asked the organizers how to get to the top of the peak and they recommended we turn right and follow the "runners." They weren't actually running, but were muscly creatures moving at quite a clip as they had to pace themselves for the 48 kilometer trek covering three peaks that they had signed up for.

We followed them until we arrived at a refuge, a set of two cabins intended for shepherds and hikers. The runners may have continued on past this checkpoint, but we stopped for sandwiches, cherries and a much needed break.


We asked the man recording the runners' times at the checkpoint how to get from the refuge back to the parking lot. He was curious to know how we'd gotten this far. When we explained the path we'd taken he stared at us in disbelief and bellowing of laughter said, "you turned left out of the parking lot? Do you realize that you added an extra 9 kilometers to your hike?"

He kindly explained that if we continued to follow the runners up to the peak and then down the mountain we would eventually reach the parking lot. Whew. What he failed to mention is that you need to be part mountain goat to reach the top.

The difference in elevation between the parking lot and the summit is somewhere in the neighborhood of 3280 feet; there was still snow on the ground. Translation: this probably wasn't the best idea for our first hike of the season, but I don't regret it.


My legs may have been sore several days afterwards but it's pretty hard to beat a beautiful hike in the mountains.

Honeymoon's over.

Not to worry, we're still getting along.

I'm here to talk about two unlikely things: dish soap and vacation.

This week I realized that the dish soap we bought while honeymooning in the Pyrénées is down to the last squeeze.

I usually go for some sort of eco-friendly, sensitive skin product -you would too if you didn't have a dishwasher. But since we were in a ski resort town, Monsieur J just picked up a bottle of the cheapest stuff he could find. The man may be French, but he shares some key traits with the Schnell clan.


Not only was it bright blue, but it also had a strong cleanser smell to it. We used it to keep our kitchenette clean during our stay and packed it with us when it was time to go. Now, whenever I wash the dishes, the aroma reminds me of our time in the mountains. Simple, but strange.

And though my hands are happy to get back to the old standby, I think I'll secretly miss the soap that made dishwashing transport me to the Pyrénées. Who knew that something as basic as soap could evoke cross-country skiing, soaking in hot springs, fondue, tartiflette and cassoulet all in one?

Mountain Magic.

So I left out a major moment from the week at the farm, and it was the most memorable one too. Monsieur J proposed! In all honesty, we've gone about this whole idea of marriage in a very roundabout way, especially from an American's standpoint. In the U.S. there are fairly standard rules: boy meets girl; boy and girl fall in love; boy speaks to girl's father; boy buys ring; boy proposes; and wedding planning ensues.

In France, the path to marriage isn't quite so linear. As a result, we ended up taking a twisty windy bi-cultural approach to the whole affair. First we talked about it for a while, then we started mentioning it to our friends and family. We didn't waste too much time before gathering all of the necessary paperwork [birth certificates, sworn affidavits from the consulate to prove that I am a. single and b. not a polygamist, multiple forms of photo ID, etc...]. Somtime in early December he wrote a letter to my dad. Just before Christmas we picked out an engagement ring that Monsieur J was nice enough to let me wear to show friends and family at home before I left to go back to France. In mid-January we handed in the marriage file at city hall and only THEN, 5 days later did he pop the question and manage to surprise me at that! How?

Suffice it to say that when you're covered in mud, pig slop, and who knows what else, you don't necessarily expect your chéri to ask for your hand in marriage. And at the same time, watching the sun set behind the Pyrénées without a soul in sight, I couldn't possibly think of anything I'd prefer. It was pure magic -the setting, the weekend, the promise.