Iparla: Losing Our Bearings in 93-Degree Heat
In Basque, Iparla means “north.” An odd direction to follow when it’s already 82°F, the grade hits 18 percent, and you’ve got a baby on your back. At 3,425 feet, Iparla Peak runs along a knife-edge ridge on the French-Spanish border. It’s a demanding hike, one that requires as much balance as leg strength. You’ll see what I mean.
In Bidarray, legend has it that the laminak—small creatures from Basque mythology—built the village bridge in a single night. It’s the kind of story that gives the Basque Country its particular sense of depth, as though every stone has something to tell you. The story waiting for us that morning is less mythical. It’s physical.
It’s barely 9 a.m. when we push through the first gate on the farm. And yes, that’s how Iparla begins: through a farmer’s field, opening a metal gate and carefully closing it behind you. Once we start moving again, it’s time to catch our breath. One kilometer in, the thermometer is already reading 82°F, and an 18 percent grade is staring us down. With my daughter on my back, it feels like taking the stairs up a 12-story building.
Merino Heat
We drive our knees up and enter the woods. The beech forest is steep, nearly vertical in places. Under the canopy, the air is hot and thick.
To make the whole thing feel even more enclosed, I’m wearing an Odlo Cubic Merino T-shirt, dark blue with a slightly oversized cut. Merino wool in this heat? Might as well wipe the sweat off with nettles, right? Turns out, no. Thanks to the fabric blend, it almost feels like I headed out wearing a bathrobe. Through some surprisingly pleasant alchemy, the wool and polyamide work well together. The fabric absorbs moisture without giving you that soaked-cotton feeling that sticks to your skin. I’m sweating a lot, obviously, but the shirt stays breathable and, once damp, even feels a little cool. Somehow, it’s enough to keep me climbing while singing “Pirouette, cacahuète,” a French nursery rhyme.
Once we leave the forest, a few switchbacks are waiting for us. It’s time for a break beside one of the few shrubs around. Getting going again means zigzagging through the rocks until the trail finally reaches the ridge. Then the landscape suddenly opens up, and walking becomes something else entirely. That’s really what Iparla is about: a narrow ridge running toward Spain, with slopes dropping away on either side. The pottoks, the small native Basque ponies, stick to it like magnets on a refrigerator. We’re having a harder time. My daughter is asleep, her head leaning to the right. I shift my weight to the left. You work with the balance you’ve got, and I have to admit, it comes in handy. We keep moving through the silence above the drop.
It’s usually when you stop singing nursery rhymes that you become aware of your body again. As plenty of mountaineers will tell you, sometimes you only really know what you’re doing while you’re doing it. And right now, believe me, I’m focused on every step. I have no interest in taking the biggest fall of my life. It’s also when you start noticing your gear.
My Odlo shorts, a loose-fitting polyamide-and-elastane pair, move easily through long steps and awkward changes in position. On a ridge where every foot placement comes with exposure, freedom of movement matters more than you might think. I start personifying my gear a little. Odlo feels like a pretty good hiking partner. Pocketknife in the left pocket, car keys in the right? No problem. The fabric stretches.
Sentimental Strides
Then the vultures appear. Two at first, then around ten, gliding above the ridge without a single flap of their wings. They ignore us, naturally indifferent to anything that doesn’t look like a carcass. So we stop and watch. Maybe that pause is part of what the old French tradition of pyrénéisme—the culture of exploring, climbing, and writing about the Pyrenees—was always about: a hike interrupted by the landscape, the effort disappearing for a few seconds behind a silhouette in the sky. Henri Beraldi summed up that relationship with the Pyrenees in three verbs: “climb, write, and feel.” Our hikes give us plenty of chances to think about that lyrical trio. But first, you have to stop long enough to look at the ground you’re walking across.
For centuries, these ridges served a purpose very different from carrying families with child carriers. Iparla was one of the natural smuggling corridors between France and Spain. Men crossed here at night carrying alcohol, tobacco, or fabric in one direction or the other, depending on the taxes at the time. In the valleys, some people still acknowledge that smuggling was “a very lucrative activity” for villages made up of small farms on steep land.
Today, hikers have replaced smugglers. The terrain hasn’t changed.
At the summit, after nearly 4,000 feet of elevation gain, the first thing to take in is the ridge itself. It once separated two countries, two languages, and two tax systems. France on one side. Navarre on the other. The two sides fall away differently. On the French side, forest and the valleys of the Nive wind toward Cambo-les-Bains. On the Spanish side, the plains are drier and broader. It was a line Basque smugglers crossed with remarkably little concern for borders. Then comes the descent. As is often the case on steep terrain, this is where Iparla shows how unforgiving it can be. As I get closer to 40, I increasingly think of moments like this as small, unavoidable blows to the ego. Soon enough, my daughter will be sprinting downhill while every bend of my knees has me mentally spelling out the word “prosthesis.”
For now, some sections are so steep that they have fixed ropes, something you almost never see in the Pyrenees. We grab them with both hands and descend facing the slope, our feet searching for holds in the rock. With 29 pounds on my back, my center of gravity is not exactly where nature intended it to be.
This is where the Hoka Speedgoat 7s do their job. Their thick soles absorb the impact on smoother sections, and the rubber grips dry rock well enough. The shoes feel reassuring and sometimes even give me a little more precision when I need to place a foot on a small foothold or work through an awkward move. They’re not climbing shoes. They’re shoes that save your legs when a hike turns into a long negotiation with the terrain.
At the bottom: Bidarray and the Nive. My legs feel a little hollowed out. Freed from the carrier straps, my daughter takes off at a full sprint. I check that the car keys haven’t somehow vanished during my increasingly tired internal monologue.
Iparla is not a hike I’d recommend to everyone. The ridges are exposed, the fixed-rope sections demand attention, and the heat can quickly turn a serious outing into an ordeal. With a child on your back, caution takes up even more space. You have to be willing to slow down, stop, and turn around. Three verbs that sound like doing nothing. Maybe that’s exactly where some of the poetry comes from.
Practical information: Start from the parking area in Bidarray. The out-and-back to Iparla Peak takes about four hours, with close to 4,000 feet of elevation gain depending on the route. Expect exposed ridges and fixed-rope sections that are especially demanding when carrying extra weight. Dogs must be leashed, and gates should always be closed behind you.
Hoka SpeedGoat 7, €156.90 Odlo Cubic Mérinos, €99.95 Odlo Essential Cargo Baggy, €99.95
