Excitement for the last day of the BIG triad pulled us from sleeping bags at 7am. The weather was misty with a hint of drizzle, but warm. Our ex-pat friend had already been sent back to bed by the warden; his ascent of Aneto would have to wait, but not our stage. No, we were seasoned trekkers by this point and besides, this mist could just be a bit of inversion cloud. It is true that I had yesterday noted mare's tail cirrus, telltale signals an approaching front, but on the other hand, the warden at Ref Portillon had said that good conditions would last for several days and we counted on him having inside knowledge.

  On setting out, we felt the drizzle more definitely and were glad that the descent path was well made, for visibility was reduced to 100m. We lost height quickly and soon came to the eastward branch which leads a grassy traverse of the hill flank arriving at the expansive flats of Pllan des Aigualluts. There, the abrupt appearance of the river was explained by a gawping gouffre; the whole swirling flow fed from glaciers high on Aneto's flank is swallowed with ease by this Trou del Toro. To end up where?

  The great cave explorer Norbert Casteret attempted to answer this question in 1931 by emptying a quantity of dye into the draining water; witnesses stationed in diverse parts then awaited its emergence. The surprise result was that it does not all end up somewhere further down the valley towards Benasque. Beyond the mountain chain which rears 500m to the northwest, but 600m lower down in the Artiga valley, observers witnessed colouration of streams which feed into the Garonne, thus proving a dual source for this important river. That revelation was prophetic to our day's experiences; apparent impermeability will not prevent water seeping to many parts! After skirting the hole by its eastern side, we continued next to the river and its tributaries on easy level ground. This brought us to the southeast corner of the flats, where the Rio de Escaleta tumbles down some rocky steps and the path mounts steeply next to it.

  At this point we had been on the trail for over an hour, and augmenting rain announced very definately, frontal precipitation. It was no fun to be out in, and navigation would prove problematic in the clinging mists, so we turned about and discussed options available. Today would use up provisions and we had suspected the need to re-supply at Ref Vielha (at the end of the next stage) by hitching through the tunnel; this might use up half a day. It therefore seemed sensible to re-supply now, so that we could trek right through to Salardu or beyond without further break. We settled on Benasque as our best stage-post, and since it was a long way on a metalled surface, we would attempt to hitch.

  Our sodden state argued justification for ignoring an order of restoracion; this would seem to facilitate a speedy return, but the polished slabs and greasy boulders comprising the river bank hampered progress and we regretted abusing the Parque Naturale efforts to restore eroded terrain. By the time we reached the parking lot, rain was trickling in at our collars and ankles. We were just warm enough but miserable, and I craved a turtle faculty to withdraw into a shell. My muesli pot was clearly not spacious enough to substitute in this fashion, but did offer an immediate comfort with its tasty contents; Karen soon joined me to share breakfast sitting beneath a little shelter thoughtfully provided for travellers. Three army cadets approached to share the shelter, two men and a woman; they deposited their sacs next to us and then relocated to have a smoke behind.

  In pausing there, I suddenly realised that we were at the head of a dead end road to which few tourists would travel in such poor conditions, and pointed out to Karen (who would be the better at dialogue) that since lifts would be few and far between, perhaps it would be better to accost drivers with supplication, rather than stand humbly by while they ignored our oustretched thumbs! No sooner said, I noticed that one of the very few cars present was preparing to depart and urged Karen to quit her breakfast and talk with the occupants. She saw sense in this and the Italian people (who spoke reasonable english!) quickly agreed to rescue us; we rallied urgently to accept the offer and impede their departure minimally. My last quick glance back at our bench saw our space clear, adjacent to the green packs of the army boys; good! We settled in to chat with our hosts and humour them if possible, satisfied at the good fortune which had resulted from quick acting and thinking!

  In no time at all we had reached the ouskirts of the town (a 19km journey) where we thanked the couple profusely and made our way to the closed tourist office; there to huddle beneath the dripping gutters in avoidance of the rain which was now torrential. Advice from office staff was traded for that from a shop proprietor, and so we discovered Hostal Solana. I at first found this establishment to be a rather dubious as it was adjunct to a busy bar, but the other reccomended option presented itself similarly. Furthermore, the room offered was a bit tacky, but it had a bed, two chairs, a mirror and a door which locked; it was hardly a long term commitment and we had no will to step back into the rain. We were thus settled in, changed and dry soon after mid-day, and Karen quickly found that the bed was comfortable enough to induce drowsiness!

  This retreat had come almost exactly half-way through the trek and I set my mind to communication, as we had spotted a cyber-cafe; I would create a small feature to circulate amongst friends entitled 'HRP on hold; rain stops play (at half time)'. The outline was sketched, so I left Karen slumbering, booked in and logged on with minor difficulties at the single computer which was fortunately free for me to use. The typing went well and I saved my incomplete work as the hour drew to its close, expecting to resume shortly; 'Una otra hora por favor?' I thrust forward the change to supplement faltering speech.
  'There's a queue and you can't go back on because some-one else is waiting'.
  I looked round suspiciously; although there were many folk in the bar, none were taking any interest, and certainly no-one had been breathing down my neck. 'When can I come back on then?' I asked.
  Quick consultation followed ... 'Sorry, there's a problem and we can't get back on-line'. Strange that, it worked till the last minute of my hour, till just 5min previous! This time, the staff stuck to their story; 'Yes, there's a storm and the lines are down; you might find another computer out on the east side of the town'. I left, baffled and bemused.

  The other cyber-cafe proved to be quite superior in both systems and presentation, allowing me to complete my endeavours for just 3 Euros per hour. Then I retrieved Karen to check-out the town and perform our ravitaillement co-operatively; there was a lot to be agreed upon! It was on the way to the supermercado, that our day suddenly and silently took a turn for the worse. Ironically, we were just discussing how the last 300 Euros of our kitty had vanished when we passed a man with some trekking poles. The man was innocent enough and his posession of poles was not extraordinary, but Karen started. 'What's up love?' I asked.
  'My poles, I've lost my poles!'
  'Oh merde! when did you have them last?'
  'Well I certainly had them when we set out this morning ...'
  'The car, were they down in the boot?'
  'No, I remember checking for everything then. I think I left them at the shelter in the parking lot'.
  'But I checked our space there as we left ... you must have had them'. silence
  'I think I propped them against the pack of a soldier when I was getting comfortable for breakfast'.
  That then explained how I had missed them. Should we buy some more? Would her knees be OK without them? How could we ensure she held onto a new pair? Its not so easy fronting up 160 Euros for goods which slip so easily through the fingers, and she had owned them for just one month; they had only been used in the first half of this trek. We slowly discovered a straw to clutch at, one which would postpone expenditure; the soldiers might be honest folk and we would be returning to the shelter tomorrow, the poles might still be there in the morning! If not, Karen would test her knees during the next stage; easier terrain was coming subsequently.

  The grocery shopping proceded in silence and then we went to browse the big outdoor supplier Galleria Barrabes; an incredible range of brands and product lines on four floors, as good as any UK shop, but no cut price trekking poles, alas! Numerous other outdoor suppliers and guiding enterprises confirm Benasque to be the capital of the Aragonese if not the Spanish recreational scene; mountaineering, ski-ing, para-gliding, canyoning, rafting and horse-riding are all promoted and supported around here. Despite which, we failed to find Rando Editions No.22, the map which covers the new HRP stages after Ref Vielha; Spanish maps were more freely available. Perhaps we could get through using the guidebook alone? In fact, we still hadn't decided whether to go through Salardu or bypass it; speculation and argument over route choice was rife!

  We returned to the hostal loaded with provisions for supper, and probably enough for five days trekking. As ever shunning the variable restaurant meals which seem to cost a lot and satisfy little, we 'set to' cooking up on the gas burner in the hotel room. We did this with an almost clear conscience as the management had not mentioned any fire regulations. The main concern then remaining was whether the garlic would give us away, for the room if not the corridor would surely reek of it after cooking! The worry was never so great as to discourage us from using it though and it seasoned a pan full of potatoes wonderfully. So, we filled our stomachs and ruminated ... in digestion and discussion. The weather forecast had promised 'improvement' ahead; 'Just one more day please to get us past Aneto!' Things would surely get easier after completion of the great triad.