I awoke in the night to be forced out of the tent with a full bladder. At first it seemed but a small consolation to know I had re-hydrated efficiently; that was before my faculties sharpened to a higher calling of nature which awaited. The rain had quit and the cloud cover gone, save that trapped in the sharply converging flanks which drained the valley eastward, where it hung opaquely in the inky depths. The diminished wind cut through the insufficient insulation my thermals offered and but for this, I was caught in the rapture of the moment. For high on the east flank of Vignemale, the light of a full moon shone brilliantly upon the crevassed ice-fall of the Pyrenees' biggest glacier, a transport of eternally shifting light and swirling shadows cast by the procession of ragged orographic cloud which hurried before a northeast wind.

  The next time I emerged from the tent, that same low cloud hung in the valley, and the higher cloud had thickened, still obscuring Vignemale's summit. A radiant gleaming focused my attention once more though; the early sun was rising beyond the cloud, and showed its presence by brilliantly gilding the fan of the upper Glacier d'Ossoue. The cause of the night's restlessness was confirmed by ice on the tent fly-sheet, stiff and crackling. I had noticed colder northerly winds over the last two days, but had not expected such an abrupt change in conditions, concluding that it was a localised effect of katabatic air rolling off the glacier. We had endured another highest yet camp at 2300m, and now we must get moving before we too stiffened with the cold. Karen_comments

  Some urgency was helpful to overcome the agony of putting damp clothes and boots back on; a trial left till the last possible minute. Then followed a frantic packing of the tent, heavy from all the collected moisture, before we got under way and the movement warmed us. The path traversed avalanche scoured rock slabs and unstable screes (from where, a glimpse of the lake), to sidle slimly around a protruding buttress before handing us over to easier terrain in the flat valley. There, about ½km before the lake, some movement caught my eye on the far side of the valley. Binoculars revealed the detail; a flock of about 20 vultures gathered around a carcass. That was quite a phenomena in itself, but how did these birds come to be in the valley depths when most self respecting vultures await the days first thermals from the security of a high craggy ridge? I suspected then that it must be a fresh kill which had lured them down and set out to investigate!

  Having searched for access I crossed the river, hopping boulders and viewing the mob occasionally. My approach had not been missed by their acute eyesight, and the more cautious were already backing off from the carcass, but how to escape? More and more lost nerve now as I became a real threat but their escape strategy was rather limited; an ungainly hop, walk and skip up the hillside, aided with wings part-spread. Finally when I was too close for comfort, they launched with difficulty, flapping more than they would normally do in a month to manage a level flight which took them along the valley.

  Now, I neared their 'feast' to realise the stark truth; these poor birds were desperate! The stench confirmed the carcass as being weeks old, and its hide was intact after some 'natural' death. Any kill left by a predator would have been helpfully ripped open but, this beast had only one small rip uncomfortably close to the anus; I imagined them yesterday, coming to the end of another hungry day.
  'Better go down to try old tough-hide again'.
  'But its been there for weeks and none of us has managed to tear that leather yet'.
  'Yeh, and there's the risk of getting caught without uplift down in that valley bottom'.
  'Well, you can go sit up on that safe ridge all night with an empty stomach if you want'.
  silent pause
  'OK lets give it a shot; seems like a lot of height to wind off though for that old dud!'.
  So, now I felt really guilty; not only were they still hungry, but they had spent valuable energy escaping my curiosity. I turned away to leave them in peace.

  Breakfast in the sun by Barrage d'Ossoue was sheer pleasure after all the dampness and cold we had suffered, but we did not dry out completely until we later reached the Cabane Sausse-dessus, where we halted for an hour, spreading clothes and tent out on the rocks. Karen enjoyed The Guardian donated by one of the journalists and then left it by the cabane fire. Our stop here would not normally be justifiable with so far to go in the day, but apart from getting dry, we were still gathering commitment for the variant connecting ridge of Pic de St-Andre. The description for this was not wholly encouraging, but Karen's protests were running thin since she had proved herself capable of every challenge so far.

  Nevertheless, we both thought it wise to take an alternative if the weather was against us; so there we sat by the cabane watching cloudbase rise and fall, rise, and rise again. By 1pm the cloud had lifted and all our kit was dry, so we set off optimistically. The lower ridge was not well defined so it was ad-lib past craggy outcrops, hummocks and marshy bowls taking animal 'trods' while convenient; this brought us to steep shales which finally led us to the ridge crest. Not initially as spectacular as Zazpignan of Pic d'Orhy, but with its own interest. Isards crossed ahead, and the ridge steepened; minutes later we looked back to see one silhouetted on the rocks where we had just stood.

  The air cooled with the ascent until we encountered lee-iced grass and thistles decorating the ground. The route was broadly determined by avoidance of craggy steps and other difficulties, ie. a bypass to one side or the other. That worked out OK so long as we could see what to avoid, but as we approached Pic de St-Andre (2609m), the cloudbase lowered, obscuring all features. I was not initially concerned, believing that the junction with the southeast ridge would be fairly evident, but confidence ebbed as we traversed ever more steeply, and finally found ourselves staring at the infranchissable limestone cliffs of an unknown peak. Out came the map to help us identify Soum blanc des Espécières (2671m). We must have come too far, but where to return to? Evidence from the altimeter, a small cairn, the odd bootprint, all told us that we remained on a well used passage, and must be in close proximity to our southeast descent.

  I believed that we could not have missed the ridge, and that it must therefore lie ahead and below; we started downwards. It was a compelling lie in fact, for the decision took us abruptly out of the icy wind and ease of descent on the screes felt like progress, but they speedily conveyed us into treacherous situations where they poured over broken cliffs. Time, patience and energy were running out, and it seemed we could easily end up in Spain; the compass finally confirmed this, we were headed too far south, meaning that we must have missed our ridge. A weighty resignation was delivered and we then back-tracked tediously to find safer screes and continued our descent, praying that the cloud would break soon to give us a clue. Karen_comments

  When it finally did, we saw before us a small lake with a pylon line crossing, incontrovertible evidence from which to re-establish bearings. Hmm, that would be the Lac de Sautaro then .... We breathed a sigh of relief; our course had never been more than ½km off track, and now we only needed to contour back to gain the ridge path. This proved to be more definite on grassy flanks, though longer than expected. We were tired on reaching Col de Boucharo (2270m), and soon also chilled by the cold northerly wind which funnelled through it.

  From there, a sign for the refuge directed us along a broad track beneath the beetling crags and hanging glacier of Le Taillon (3144m); the final steep rocky section was furnished with a fixed cable in proximity to a slippery cascade, but there was no glacier to cross as we had believed. On final approach to Ref Serradets we yet held a notion that we might camp in its vicinity, but the terrain was rocky and barren; the day was now dusky, and up above, the outline of Brèche de Roland was still visible, an hourquette on a grand scale. After lastnight's cold camping, we were glad to consider a refuge bunk, but would they have us? We were glad to step into the warmth and despite our arrival within 5min of dinner-time, the wardens welcomed us inside, 'Yes there's a bed, and of course you can have dinner!' The other guests at our table were not so hungry, and I took full advantage of the surplus soup and rice salad made with real tomatoes! An excellent demi-repas and good VFM. Karen_comments

  We had hoped to complete our meal by making up some rice pudding, but during the meal, murmurrings revealed that the refuge water supply had ceased to flow. It normally came from glacial melt-water, but near-zero temperatures had put a stop to that. In the back-rooms I was accosted by an American woman, with a 'desperate' request for water. Initially I mis-understood, and was willing to supply a genuine need, but as it turned out she had a ½l which she wished to conserve for drinking; the plea was for water with which to clean her teeth! We had only about ½l of clean water between us, so I left her to the dilemma of thirst or clean teeth; things can be tough in the mountains!

  Of all that we visited, this refuge held the strongest ambience and historic connection. Posters and photographs on the homely dining room walls described mountaineering history, much of it focusing on the Brèche de Roland. A coke fired stove kept us toasty warm, until lights went off at 10pm. Toilet ritual here was not so cosy, a cold windy 'sentry box' stood 50m away over a cliff edge; poor Karen found herself the victim of our low fibre diet in the most uncomfortable of circumstances, and returned from the darkness after too long muttering 'No more cheese and eggs for me!' The dormitory set-up on the other hand proved to be both compact and cosy; a triple set of shoe-box bunk shelves where guests slept shoulder to shoulder. We located numbers 11 and 12 and slid ourselves in feet first, trying not to disturb our neighbours. The day had been long, cold, and challenging, and we were grateful to accept our first full board in this characterful refuge.