April 19 2010
Johnny Redhead crossed to the brink of the abyss, staring out over the winding gorge of the Lasset far below. Scarlett and J.B. slid down the scree behind me as I paused to catch my breath, slowly taking in my surroundings.
The trail leading back down towards the village through the tangled thickets of box and scrub myrtle looked almost as forbidding as the way forward, a barely distinguishable path, seemingly more suited to animals than to mere mortals such as ourselves, that threaded its course steadily higher up the beetling cliffs. We'd gone too far for turning back to be a viable option. The only way left to go was up...
Scrambling hand over hand up a bare rockface wasn't what we'd had in mind that morning, but it came naturally to Johnny Redhead. Johnny had founded the free climbing movement on Montserrat back in the day and was no stranger to the haute Pyrenee's. This was his third visit to Montsegur. He'd had plenty of time to scope out the terrain and now the early spring weather finally provided us with the perfect window of opportunity.
We first heard the rumours about the secret path up the sheer side of the pog during the shooting of 'The Secret Glory' in the summer of 1998. Indeed such rumours are hard to miss, repeated, as they are, in virtually every guide book and work of history or 'pseudohistory' to mention the castle's siege. The basic story has it that after holding out for ten months against the crusaders, the fortress fell to treachery. Accounts tend to differ as to who sold them out, but the basic consensus seems to be that a shepherd, possibly from the village of Camon, guided a group of variously described as 'Gascon mercenaries', or 'Teutonic knights accustomed to the alpine conditions', up the sheer side of the mountain via a precipitous 'secret path'. The defenders were caught off guard and either killed or wounded before being flung to their deaths from the top of the cliff. A chronicler relates that at sunrise the raiding party looked down in horror at the dizzying drop and swore that they never would have made the ascent by daylight. The route that they had taken was 'far too terrifying'...It is widely believed that Pierre Roger de Mirepoix saved the treasures of the castle by hiding four parfaits in a crack in the rocks, and that during the night of the 15th of March, the very eve of the castle's capitulation, they were lowered down the sheer cliff face by ropes and made good their escape. There is little or no historical documentation however to support this popular account which made its first appearance in Napoleon Peyrat's 'Histoire des Albigeoise', 1870. Peyrat was a visionary, Protestant pastor who descended from a long line of religious dissedents that seemed to have held an multi-generational grudge against the Catholic church (see previous blog 'Secrets of the Oppidum') and who apparently saw the events happen in a dream. Despite it's shaky roots, this fable has formed the roots of any number of conspiracy theories from 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' (Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh, 1982) to Colonel Howard Buchner's 'Emerald Cup – Ark of Gold', 1991, and is believed by some to have inspired certain elements of Lawrence Kasden's screenplay, 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'.
Above: Self with ballista ammunition from the crusader catapults (catalogued and numbered by the GRAME -Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs), pictured during an initial survey of the pog's eastern flank - circa 1998 ( photograph courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )
Unsurprisingly, the matter of whether or not the secret paths actually existed has been a matter of some debate here at Shadow Theatre HQ. Long-term Irregular, James 'J.B.' Bourne, and myself made our first attempts to pick up the trail back in the mid nineties. Although well intentioned, our early efforts were thwarted time and again. Every trail that we followed seemed to disappear into the rocks and the cliffs, forcing us to turn back crest fallen and empty-handed. At this stage of the game, some fifteen years further down the pike, it was pretty much a matter of do or die.
Gritting our collective teeth we followed Johnny Redhead up the narrow incline towards the waiting cliffs. It was already close to mid-day and the best part of the climb was still ahead of us.
“This is definitely a path.” He called back confidently.
“Yeah. But was it made by humans or animals?” I craned my neck upwards, doing my best to follow his eye line.
Something crashed heavily through the bushes far below.
“Probably a wild boar that we scared off.” J.B. offered in response to our questioning faces.
“I can understand why men climb mountains. But animals?”
“Didn't Thierre say to watch out for vipers?” interjected Miss Scarlett “That they've just woken up and are at their hungriest and deadliest this time of year..”
“Yeah. But why do animals climb bloody mountains?”
“I dunno. Maybe the boars get together to play poker in the keep”
We worked our way slowly higher, eyes fixed on a gap in the ridge ahead. We hit more dense scrub which we had to crawl through and then bare rock. It was a tough call which one was more difficult. The scrub clawed at our clothes and faces whilst on the rock we could only pray for hand and foot holds. We inched our way up the south eastern wall of the pog in a rising traverse, ascending cautiously from ledge to ledge, trying not to look down.
As above, so below: UP! ( photographs courtesy of Scarlett Amaris and James Bourne )
Sadly we didn't get any pics of the climb itself as we were all too busy hanging on for dear life to bother taking happysnaps.
Slowly the landscape took on a different aspect as unseen crests, troughs and valleys opened beneath us. A few hundred meters higher Scarlett missed a foothold, sliding abruptly downwards only to catch herself at the last moment. J.B. winced hearing the fearful sound of the pebbles dislodged by her feet trickling away into the gulfs below.
“You're a good little scamperer.” commented Johnny, plainly in his element.
“How much further to the top?” Ashen faced Miss Scarlett heaved herself over the lip of the spur.
“It's so close that I can smell it!” Johnny grinned, sniffing the warm, sweet breeze that blew down from the pog.
“Up...” I grunted, following him as he began to climb once more, not knowing exactly why, only knowing that I had to. Vertigo coursed through me but there was something within me that was stronger than fear that only seemed to deepen as I climbed, the desire to solve the mountain's riddle and penetrate to a still deeper layer of the enigma, to somehow find my way back through the maze to the good lady's side and wherever the hell it was I really belonged, my limbs going through the motions of an built in ritual that kept them moving long after the pilot had taken his hands from the joystick.
As above, so below: Spring colors on the south eastern face of the pog ( photographs courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )
“Damn. That's perfect...” I exclaimed, eyes focussing on the foliage that ringed the cliff top. “The mountain's crowned by wild roses.”
“Yeah. I just put my f****n' hand on one of 'em” Miss Scarlett shrugged, displaying her punctured palm.
We stopped for a minute letting the realization sink in that we had made it.
We were finally standing upright on the summit of the pog. Large, alpine fir trees stood majestically towards the sunshine. This was a part of the mountain that none of us had ever been to before and the territory was wild, virginal and untouched, with the castle no where in sight.
It didn't take long to come across a trebuchet ball, a large one fired by the crusaders so long ago, still lying on the forest floor. Evidently a fierce battle had been fought here during the closing days of the siege.
Johnny paused, hackles rising.“The hell is this place ?”
Up ahead the path dipped into a shadowy hollow between two huge, moss encrusted boulders.“The place between two stones...” I muttered.“I think it was mentioned in one of the inquisition records. There's a brief but puzzling reference to how when Arnaud Narbona de Carol was was mortally injured they took him 'dans la grotte de ce chateau' although its said this might not have been a cave at all but only a “place between two stones”.
“There's something down here all right.” Johnny raised his arm, short hairs standing on end as if divining something just beyond the limit of our senses.
“This feels like the oldest part of the mountain,” whispered Miss Scarlett, dipping her voice as if we had just entered a place of worship, and, in a way, we had.
“Older than the castle?”
She nodded, eyes scanning the sky line beyond the treetops as she slowly got her bearings. “It's the same feeling I had at Morenci. Like the two places are connected somehow. Aligned. Like the sun and the moon...”
I started forward into the shadows, recalling a story about another place between two stones. The crack in the rocks where Pierre Roger de Mirepoix was supposed to have hidden those fleeing holy men and their sacred treasure. But that was surely a myth, the dream of a deranged 19th century pastor yet the silent, shadowy aisle of stones at the head of the path seemed to fit that myth's murky outlines only too comfortably.
As we searched the maze of ancient boulders it became more evident that parts of this eldritch sanctuary had been apparently been shaped by human hands, smaller stones stacked over the larger ones, creating unusual shapes and alcoves. The rock seemed strangely porous, and the ground was so damp and soft that my stick sunk in a good two feet at one point. I hesitated, skin tingling despite the warmth of the afternoon, knowing I had come to the edge of something I could scarcely comprehend.
Before us a dark cavity gaped amidst the maw of the rocks. Falling to my hands and knees in the deep, rich mulch of the forest floor I squirmed forward, getting my head and shoulders through the gap. It was about as far as I could go but it was enough. There was an oddly shaped hollow within the bosom of the stone through which the sun's rays streamed and for a moment it was as if I were staring into the heart of the mountain itself.
As above, so below: Sacre Coeur
We emerged, breathless and a little giddy, from the tree line below the stone terrace that Miss Scarlett had investigated only a few days previously in the company of our shaman friend. ( * see previous 'blog – 'Secrets of the Oppidum' ) Now we realized the terrace formed a convenient marker, pointing the way towards the stones beyond and the path that lead down the south eastern face of the pog, a trail we have decided to name 'La Route du Coeur'.
As above, so below: La Route du Coeur
There are many ways to climb the holy mountain some more difficult than others. A winding path, almost certainly used by the crusaders, ascends the northern slope, connecting the ford at Benaix to the Roc de la Tour, and there are persistent rumours concerning a hidden trail on the seemingly impassable western flank. Every time we gain some incremental insight into the mystery it is as if consensus reality is forced to concede for a moment, and we are handed another tiny piece of the puzzle. Slowly, bit by bit a larger, older truth begins to fall into place.
“I can't believe we finally did it!” J.B. Stretched out on the embankment beneath the castle wall, soaking up the sun and enjoying the sensation of being back on solid terra firma.”After all these years...”
“Yeah,” I inclined my head, looking down into the valley far below, watching the backs of the eagles turning over the soft green hills where Esclarmonde d'Alion once rode. “After all these years...”
“Sometimes all it takes is a li'l chance and a li'l will. That and the right company.” I nodded towards Johnny who stood on the edge of the cliff, gazing towards the dim, volcanic outline of Bugarach that rose tier upon Babelian tier on the easternmost rim of the earth, his head already aswim with thoughts of climbs to come and fresh trails to blaze.
“Some people say when you climb a mountain don't look down. But why not? The view is beautiful...” - Viktor Suvorov ( Soviet tank commander )
To be continued: -
Previously on 'Terra Umbra' – After twenty years of frustration and near misses, the team seems to be on the verge of finally cracking the mystery as free-climbing guru, Johnny Redhead, galvanizes efforts to find the secret path up the sheer face of the pog. Typically however, the solution to this long running riddle only leads to a further enigma ...
April 19 2010
Johnny Redhead crossed to the brink of the abyss, staring out over the winding gorge of the Lasset far below. Scarlett and J.B. slid down the scree behind me as I paused to catch my breath, slowly taking in my surroundings.
The trail leading back down towards the village through the tangled thickets of box and scrub myrtle looked almost as forbidding as the way forward, a barely distinguishable path, seemingly more suited to animals than to mere mortals such as ourselves, that threaded its course steadily higher up the beetling cliffs. We'd gone too far for turning back to be a viable option. The only way left to go was up...
Above: Master climber Johnny Redhead with village mascot 'Tiger IV'
Scrambling hand over hand up a bare rockface wasn't what we'd had in mind that morning, but it came naturally to Johnny Redhead. Johnny had founded the free climbing movement on Montserrat back in the day and was no stranger to the haute Pyrenee's. This was his third visit to Montsegur. He'd had plenty of time to scope out the terrain and now the early spring weather finally provided us with the perfect window of opportunity.
We first heard the rumours about the secret path up the sheer side of the pog during the shooting of 'The Secret Glory' in the summer of 1998. Indeed such rumours are hard to miss, repeated, as they are, in virtually every guide book and work of history or 'pseudohistory' to mention the castle's siege. The basic story has it that after holding out for ten months against the crusaders, the fortress fell to treachery. Accounts tend to differ as to who sold them out, but the basic consensus seems to be that a shepherd, possibly from the village of Camon, guided a group of variously described as 'Gascon mercenaries', or 'Teutonic knights accustomed to the alpine conditions', up the sheer side of the mountain via a precipitous 'secret path'. The defenders were caught off guard and either killed or wounded before being flung to their deaths from the top of the cliff. A chronicler relates that at sunrise the raiding party looked down in horror at the dizzying drop and swore that they never would have made the ascent by daylight. The route that they had taken was 'far too terrifying'...
It is widely believed that Pierre Roger de Mirepoix saved the treasures of the castle by hiding four parfaits in a crack in the rocks, and that during the night of the 15th of March, the very eve of the castle's capitulation, they were lowered down the sheer cliff face by ropes and made good their escape. There is little or no historical documentation however to support this popular account which made its first appearance in Napoleon Peyrat's 'Histoire des Albigeoise', 1870. Peyrat was a visionary, Protestant pastor who descended from a long line of religious dissedents that seemed to have held an multi-generational grudge against the Catholic church (see previous blog 'Secrets of the Oppidum') and who apparently saw the events happen in a dream. Despite it's shaky roots, this fable has formed the roots of any number of conspiracy theories from 'The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail' (Lincoln, Baigent and Leigh, 1982) to Colonel Howard Buchner's 'Emerald Cup – Ark of Gold', 1991, and is believed by some to have inspired certain elements of Lawrence Kasden's screenplay, 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'.
Above: Self with ballista ammunition from the crusader catapults (catalogued and numbered by the GRAME -Groupe de Recherches Archeologiques de Montsegur et Environs), pictured during an initial survey of the pog's eastern flank - circa 1998 ( photograph courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )
Unsurprisingly, the matter of whether or not the secret paths actually existed has been a matter of some debate here at Shadow Theatre HQ. Long-term Irregular, James 'J.B.' Bourne, and myself made our first attempts to pick up the trail back in the mid nineties. Although well intentioned, our early efforts were thwarted time and again. Every trail that we followed seemed to disappear into the rocks and the cliffs, forcing us to turn back crest fallen and empty-handed. At this stage of the game, some fifteen years further down the pike, it was pretty much a matter of do or die.
Gritting our collective teeth we followed Johnny Redhead up the narrow incline towards the waiting cliffs. It was already close to mid-day and the best part of the climb was still ahead of us.
“This is definitely a path.” He called back confidently.
“Yeah. But was it made by humans or animals?” I craned my neck upwards, doing my best to follow his eye line.
Something crashed heavily through the bushes far below.
“Probably a wild boar that we scared off.” J.B. offered in response to our questioning faces.
“I can understand why men climb mountains. But animals?”
“Didn't Thierre say to watch out for vipers?” interjected Miss Scarlett “That they've just woken up and are at their hungriest and deadliest this time of year..”
“Yeah. But why do animals climb bloody mountains?”
“I dunno. Maybe the boars get together to play poker in the keep”
We worked our way slowly higher, eyes fixed on a gap in the ridge ahead. We hit more dense scrub which we had to crawl through and then bare rock. It was a tough call which one was more difficult. The scrub clawed at our clothes and faces whilst on the rock we could only pray for hand and foot holds. We inched our way up the south eastern wall of the pog in a rising traverse, ascending cautiously from ledge to ledge, trying not to look down.
As above, so below: UP! ( photographs courtesy of Scarlett Amaris and James Bourne )
Sadly we didn't get any pics of the climb itself as we were all too busy hanging on for dear life to bother taking happysnaps.
Slowly the landscape took on a different aspect as unseen crests, troughs and valleys opened beneath us. A few hundred meters higher Scarlett missed a foothold, sliding abruptly downwards only to catch herself at the last moment. J.B. winced hearing the fearful sound of the pebbles dislodged by her feet trickling away into the gulfs below.
“You're a good little scamperer.” commented Johnny, plainly in his element.
“How much further to the top?” Ashen faced Miss Scarlett heaved herself over the lip of the spur.
“It's so close that I can smell it!” Johnny grinned, sniffing the warm, sweet breeze that blew down from the pog.
“Up...” I grunted, following him as he began to climb once more, not knowing exactly why, only knowing that I had to. Vertigo coursed through me but there was something within me that was stronger than fear that only seemed to deepen as I climbed, the desire to solve the mountain's riddle and penetrate to a still deeper layer of the enigma, to somehow find my way back through the maze to the good lady's side and wherever the hell it was I really belonged, my limbs going through the motions of an built in ritual that kept them moving long after the pilot had taken his hands from the joystick.
As above, so below: Spring colors on the south eastern face of the pog ( photographs courtesy of James 'J.B.' Bourne )
“Damn. That's perfect...” I exclaimed, eyes focussing on the foliage that ringed the cliff top. “The mountain's crowned by wild roses.”
“Yeah. I just put my f****n' hand on one of 'em” Miss Scarlett shrugged, displaying her punctured palm.
We stopped for a minute letting the realization sink in that we had made it.
We were finally standing upright on the summit of the pog. Large, alpine fir trees stood majestically towards the sunshine. This was a part of the mountain that none of us had ever been to before and the territory was wild, virginal and untouched, with the castle no where in sight.
It didn't take long to come across a trebuchet ball, a large one fired by the crusaders so long ago, still lying on the forest floor. Evidently a fierce battle had been fought here during the closing days of the siege.
Johnny paused, hackles rising.“The hell is this place ?”
Up ahead the path dipped into a shadowy hollow between two huge, moss encrusted boulders.“The place between two stones...” I muttered.“I think it was mentioned in one of the inquisition records. There's a brief but puzzling reference to how when Arnaud Narbona de Carol was was mortally injured they took him 'dans la grotte de ce chateau' although its said this might not have been a cave at all but only a “place between two stones”.
“There's something down here all right.” Johnny raised his arm, short hairs standing on end as if divining something just beyond the limit of our senses.
“This feels like the oldest part of the mountain,” whispered Miss Scarlett, dipping her voice as if we had just entered a place of worship, and, in a way, we had.
“Older than the castle?”
She nodded, eyes scanning the sky line beyond the treetops as she slowly got her bearings. “It's the same feeling I had at Morenci. Like the two places are connected somehow. Aligned. Like the sun and the moon...”
I started forward into the shadows, recalling a story about another place between two stones. The crack in the rocks where Pierre Roger de Mirepoix was supposed to have hidden those fleeing holy men and their sacred treasure. But that was surely a myth, the dream of a deranged 19th century pastor yet the silent, shadowy aisle of stones at the head of the path seemed to fit that myth's murky outlines only too comfortably.
As we searched the maze of ancient boulders it became more evident that parts of this eldritch sanctuary had been apparently been shaped by human hands, smaller stones stacked over the larger ones, creating unusual shapes and alcoves. The rock seemed strangely porous, and the ground was so damp and soft that my stick sunk in a good two feet at one point. I hesitated, skin tingling despite the warmth of the afternoon, knowing I had come to the edge of something I could scarcely comprehend.
Before us a dark cavity gaped amidst the maw of the rocks. Falling to my hands and knees in the deep, rich mulch of the forest floor I squirmed forward, getting my head and shoulders through the gap. It was about as far as I could go but it was enough. There was an oddly shaped hollow within the bosom of the stone through which the sun's rays streamed and for a moment it was as if I were staring into the heart of the mountain itself.
As above, so below: Sacre Coeur
We emerged, breathless and a little giddy, from the tree line below the stone terrace that Miss Scarlett had investigated only a few days previously in the company of our shaman friend. ( * see previous 'blog – 'Secrets of the Oppidum' ) Now we realized the terrace formed a convenient marker, pointing the way towards the stones beyond and the path that lead down the south eastern face of the pog, a trail we have decided to name 'La Route du Coeur'.
As above, so below: La Route du Coeur
There are many ways to climb the holy mountain some more difficult than others. A winding path, almost certainly used by the crusaders, ascends the northern slope, connecting the ford at Benaix to the Roc de la Tour, and there are persistent rumours concerning a hidden trail on the seemingly impassable western flank. Every time we gain some incremental insight into the mystery it is as if consensus reality is forced to concede for a moment, and we are handed another tiny piece of the puzzle. Slowly, bit by bit a larger, older truth begins to fall into place.
“I can't believe we finally did it!” J.B. Stretched out on the embankment beneath the castle wall, soaking up the sun and enjoying the sensation of being back on solid terra firma.”After all these years...”
“Yeah,” I inclined my head, looking down into the valley far below, watching the backs of the eagles turning over the soft green hills where Esclarmonde d'Alion once rode. “After all these years...”
“Sometimes all it takes is a li'l chance and a li'l will. That and the right company.” I nodded towards Johnny who stood on the edge of the cliff, gazing towards the dim, volcanic outline of Bugarach that rose tier upon Babelian tier on the easternmost rim of the earth, his head already aswim with thoughts of climbs to come and fresh trails to blaze.
“Some people say when you climb a mountain don't look down. But why not? The view is beautiful...” - Viktor Suvorov ( Soviet tank commander )
To be continued: -
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