Climbing into Vallon-Pont-d’Arc
Note to self: if you’re on a trail and you don’t have a solid plan, go back, go back.
On the walk to the replica of Caverne du Pont d’Arc, a trail through the trees entices me with its views of canyons in the hills across the valley. Looking at the GPS map on my phone, it appears to loop around to the road. It is a relief to surround myself with trees as the trail winds deep into the dark forest. Too soon, it ends. I must either return the way I came or go up the hill in the direction of the road. Sense or sensibility. Reluctant to leave the woods, I turn to the left and make my way up the steep hill, grasping shrub branches along the way, and soon find myself in a field of loose rock that becomes steeper and steeper as I climb. I look up. I look down. There’s no good choice, no secure footing. How did I get into this situation? I decide to take a moment to strap my bag to my waist so that it doesn’t tumble irretrievably down into the chasm below. And if I tumble irretrievably? It’s so quiet and remote, who would know? Who would find me?
Perhaps this is the end of the story. After a lifetime fleeing to France, my bones rest undiscovered in the French countryside of the Ardèche. A fitting final flight.
I push the thought away with force. No. As pointless as I sometimes feel, as much as I’m in the way or make things more difficult for others, I do want to live.
I climb and scrape, cutting my hand on some thorns in the brush. The surprise jolts me and I almost lose my footing and fall. I decide to rest a minute before continuing, so I turn around and look. The limestone hills across the way are so beautiful and there are gape-mouthed caves yawning here and there. The peace of perspective. Could one of the caves be la Grotte Chauvet?
The place I’m visiting today is not the actual cave, but the meticulous model of la Grotte Chauvet, a cave system with preserved art drawings believed to be 36,000 years old. The archaeologists who discovered the cave and its treasures in 1994 decided the best way to continue to protect the art was to go through the painstaking process of creating a replica that people could visit. Although there is no way a copy could replace the sense of being in the real cave where actual people lived and created, I respect the desire to keep the remarkable find from harm. We humans certainly do have a destructive habit of overrunning things, regretting it later.
It makes sense that the real cave would be near its stand-in, so I rest against the almost vertical side of the hill to calm myself and wonder. I pull my phone out of the bag to make a photograph. It could be the last photograph I ever make, which is a strangely calm thought, or it could be a reminder of the choice and responsibility of being alive.
Ready to continue, I turn back around and look for hand and foot holds to pull myself up until, at last, it’s possible to stand and then to walk and then there is a broad trail leading right back to D4, the main road.
I’m at Caverne du Pont d’Arc just in time for the 11:30 am guided tour, all in French. The guide walks us through an elaborate park with different information sites along the pathway that I decide to return to later. The replica is an enormous circular structure made to resemble rocks with a gray, jagged look on the outside. Within, all of the replicated cave art, stalagmites, stalactites, animal fossils, and animal prints are to scale. Driven by the desire for preservation, all of the trees removed to create the site were successfully transplanted.
We circle around the cave replica and enter. That it doesn’t feel, smell or sound like a cave is very noticeable because it looks so accurate that my other senses are surprised, like how my body reacts when unknowingly drinking decaffeinated coffee. Soon, however, it doesn’t matter. Stunning detailed sketches that look like they were made with charcoal appear on the walls of the cave. Lion, tiger, bear, mammoth, bison, rhinoceros, horse, deer. 36,000 years later, I don’t have to be told what kinds of animals they are. I recognize them and most remain in similar form and detail today. How little has changed in 36,000 years.
The discovery in 1994 turned things on their head because the concept of the “primitive caveman,” who only had time to do what was needed to survive and had no leisure for creativity didn’t fit anymore. The art is sophisticated. The tools and techniques show ingenuity.
Breath and bone were used to make negative prints of hands by blowing paint through hollowed out bones. Soufflage is the French word for this kind of art.
Palms of hands were used to make large dots with paint so that from a bit of a distance you can see a bear or other animal. To me, this seems a little like impressionism. Perhaps humans have always been interested in the molecules of things and how those tiny pieces fit into the big picture. The dabbing technique is called tamponnage in French.
L’estompe is the term for stump-drawing. Charcoal was carefully prepared to make the detailed images and fingers were used for shading. Many of these drawings look like they are in motion and I can even see the breath of the horses as they run, imagining the sound they make thanks to these Aurignacian artists.
Aurignacian is a new word for me. It’s a period of early modern human life in Europe, the Middle East, and Africa from 43,000 to 26,000 years ago.
As I look at the way the animals are drawn, their heads seeming to turn and progressively move, it crosses my mind that the Aurignacians could have used their torches to make the animals appear to move. Was this a precursor to animation and motion pictures from 36,000 years ago? Possible.
We leave the cave and return to the stark white light of the gray day. There is a restaurant nearby called La Terrasse, so I go inside and join the group clustering around the cafeteria food area, pull up a sliding tray, get some silverware, select from among the choices, and pay the cashier who tallies things up at the end of the route. The seats are next to big windows looking out to the surrounding hills and woods, so I sit where I can enjoy the view and the food turns out to be very good as does the little demi bottle of red wine. Alive. For all of this. To learn, to explore, to create another day.
I ponder the sorts of life or death experiences the Aurignacians faced, most probably with wild animals, the invigorating victory when they survived, and the inevitable passing of the torch to another generation. We live, we create, we survive, we die in cycles. Do we progress? Does the next wave of humanity move something, anything forward? And if forward, forward to what? It seems to take us a lifetime to even understand the discoveries of the great thinkers before us. Most of us come right back around to where we started. What is really new? Can there truly be anything new under the sun? The biggest difference seems to be in the complexity, but not necessarily in the quality, of life. The indefatigable force of ingenuity and creativity has always been with us and has never left us in all these layers of time.
I walk the wooded paths to a place near the entrance called the Aurignacian Gallery, which is basically a historic museum of the cave. There is a film to watch and it exits to the big hall where I can explore the hands-on exhibits.
Late in the afternoon, I return to the road and walk the hills, cross the bridge over water that is so clear it looks like the definition of fresh. It’s a tributary of the Ardèche River called l’Ibie.
I return to the lovely vineyard-encircled town of Vallon-Pont-d’Arc with its mottled cottages and stone church. I walk toward its main street, pass la mairie l’hôtel de ville, and stop at the bakery I saw in the morning. Relieved it’s still open, I order a baguette and a blueberry tarte, now that I know the word for blueberry. Continuing toward the hotel, the Charcuterie is still open and I’m drawn in by the intriguing deli items and end up getting a mushroom salad. A feast for dinner tonight!
I arrived last night after taking a train from Avignon to Montélimar and a very comfortable bus ride from there to Vallon-Pont-d’Arc. There were a couple hours between the train arrival and the bus departure, so I was able to walk into Montélimar for the surprise of a park, pond, and zoo right next to the train station with some truly intriguing animals including dwarf goats, a white horse, and peacocks. An unexpected delight! It was dark by the time the bus made it into the little town and it pulled into a big parking lot in front of the Office de Tourisme and Gare Routière where I got off. I made my way past the hospital and up the hill to the main street that I have come to love, Boulevard Peschaire Alizon, to the lovely hotel I found online when I was in Sète: Le Clos Charmant. There are many little, family hotels that start “Le Clos” which means “the closure” and gives you the expectation of a restful retreat. Le Clos Charmant lived up to its name as a place of quiet and peace. And the cost for such serenity? 282,04 Euros for four nights plus breakfast. That’s 70.41 Euros per night. If you’re wondering how I find places to stay, I use the map on my phone to see what is near my arrival point and what I’ll be doing and look for affordable, interesting, and friendly possibilities. I rely heavily on reviews and have gotten good at knowing when a place is a gem. This is one of them.
Once I was settled into the room, I ventured a little bit down the street to Le Chelsea for dinner. It is a small, wonderful restaurant with a very friendly staff that was kind to a single diner. There were large parties of families and friends engaged in hours of deep conversation, as is the tradition of France. Sitting at my little table nearby, I soaked in the camaraderie. When I thanked the waitress for her patience with my French, she said that she knew what it was like to be an outsider with a bad accent. She was originally from Switzerland.
I’m tempted to eat at Le Chelsea again, but I need some time to relax and work from my room and I’ve already got bread and mushroom salad planned. Perhaps I could go back on the last night.
I pass an intriguing shop that isn’t open with a big wooden latch door, big enough for horses, and a cloth overhang that says: “Artisanat, Pat et Co, Carpe Diem,” and on the door a sign with the words: “Codrans Solaire.” What is that? I’m very intrigued.
There’s even a Christmas Store! It looks like it’s about to close, so I don’t go in this time. And a Computer Store next to it. And an Optical Store. And a Kayaking/Outdoor Adventure Store. And a hair styling place. And there’s a pub sort of bar with a long room of table games including foosball. And another hair styling place. There’s a little grocery store with bare essentials. Everything you could possibly need is right here on this street.
There’s even a school to the right just before the tree-lined part of the road that leads to the hotel. I walk the path to the front door and there is Sophie, the woman who checked me in the night before, and she asks how my day has been and listens carefully for the answer. I’m so excited by her kindness that I can’t figure out how to share anything meaningful. She gives me a pencil with the hotel’s name on it: Hôtel Le Clos Charmant.
The next morning after le petit déjeuner in the salle à manager downstairs where Sophie prepared a special spot for me among the tables, I set out on a long hike once again. This time, in the other direction, to the south along the Ardèche River to the geologic arch bridge called Pont d’Arc. It is a day of curving streets over water and tunnels with nesting birds and bats and caves everywhere and dripping water and towering cliffs and fall leaves. The beauty is stunning with so many color contrasts. It’s the off season, so I feel as if I am a lone survivor exploring a land that just weeks before was teeming with people and life.
Unfortunately, the restaurant I planned for lunch is closed. My mind is taken off food quite easily by the rocks jutting up all around and again I wonder where the real Grotte Chauvet might be. The Aurignacian Museum gave the idea that it was pretty close to the Pont d’Arc rock bridge. I see an old, dirt road that is chained off and a sign forbidding entry and my gut tells me that this is the way to the cave.
Pont d’Arc itself is magnificent and I feel like I could look at it all day, even without food. I go around Pont d’Arc to get the view from the other side and climb down near the river. In the summer, Sophie tells me, the beaches of the river are crowded with swimmers and sun bathers. I try to imagine what it is like with so many people and feel glad to be there enjoying it in the quiet.
After a day of climbing around, I return to Vallon-Pont-d’Arc late in the afternoon, the wrong time of day for food. Thankfully, the bakery that is always open does not fail and I am able to find une fougage de olives et une tarte de myrtilles and I eat them sitting in the little town square in front of l’hôtel de ville or, perhaps more accurately because of its size, la mairie. Hôtel de Ville is written on the building itself, so I’ll go with that.
I return to the hotel to rest and work. Sophie is eager to hear about my day and she is curious about what comes next. I’ve been to the Caverne. I’ve been to Pont d’Arc. What happens tomorrow? I tell her that it is a day to walk around Vallon-Pont-d’Arc itself and take it easy.
And so it is. I go into l’Hôtel de Ville to see its Armistice Day display. So many, many people were lost in the war. Coming from Alaska, I don’t have a reference point for this. It’s unimaginable. The display is also a way to search for relatives who were in the war and had never been found.
I take déjeuner at the Tom Pulce restaurant across from l’Hôtel de Ville. I order the Formula meal and my choices are l’omelette natural, la salade tomate avec thun, olives, et moutarde de Dijon, et la crème brulée. C’est un très bon repas.
When I leave the next day, Sophie gives me the French goodbye with three check kisses. I thank her, sad to leave, wondering if there is any way I could teach at the school or give tours of the Caverne in English, yet somehow never asking, and I walk the street that feels like home realizing that I didn’t utter an English word in Vallon-Pont-d’Arc.
La Grotte Chauvet-Pont d’Arc
What light broke
into that susurrous cave
36,000 years ago?
Bone and breath,
divine desire,
the tools to create
live within us.
Soufflage
et souffrance
We suffer the earth
with our breath.
Breath through bone
blasting pigment
over aurignacian hands,
the first negatives.
My hand
would fit in there.
Paint on palms
to daub dots,
the red molecules of a bear,
the first impressionism.
What did they know
about atoms?
Charcoal stumps,
black and sharp,
etch horses,
bison, lions,
sketch their motion,
wave the torch,
the first animation.
I can almost hear
the breath
of those galloping horses.
Soufflage
et souffrance
Breathing
and suffering
What is it
that makes us
feel foreign
on home soil?
What is it
that makes us
knead our hands
all over this rock,
to change it,
fix it,
destroy it?
What is it
that makes us
suffer the earth
with our
bone and breath?
SOURCES:
Chauvet-Pont d’Arc Cave Ardèche.
Desdemaines-Hugon, Christine. Stepping-Stones: A Journey Through the Ice Age Caves of the Dordogne. Yale Publishers Press. 2012.
Next Two Months in France: On ne peut jamais revenir à Antibes
This is #18 in a series of stories: Two Months in France. Follow the links below to read the other parts of the series starting with the first:
1. Santa Fe Depot Departure
2. Return to the Great Lady
3. Shakespeare and Company Bookstore
4. Paris Stroll
5. Paris – des heures exquises
6. Train to Thonon-les-Bains
7. Château de Ripaille
8. Getting up with the Birds: Lac Léman to Lyon to Lille
9. Navigating to Avignon
10. In the Walled City of Avignon
11. Inside the Rich Ochre of Roussillon
12. Up the Steep Calades to Gordes
13. Retraversant à Fontaine-de-Vaucluse
14. Diving Deep in the Closed Valley
15. Défense de marcher sur l’eau
16. Tout Seul in Carcassonne
17. Théâtre de Poche in Sète