If you have never driven over one of the passes in the Pyrenees, you have never driven. The roads are narrow, winding—two cars have to slow to pass each other. I glance over at the GPS and the road unfolds like a lazy piece of twine, the turns at near right angles. Add to this that you share the road with cows, lamas and sheep and it’s downright treacherous.

We wind up the col du Tourmalet, a pass famous in the grueling tour de France, passing many cyclists. Some look fit, others are wobbling they are barely moving forward; all are sweating, breathing heavily. Two years ago my brother-in-law Olivier and I had bicycled up the shorter but still steep Col d’Aspin on bicycles I’d given to Becky and Olivier as wedding gifts. That makes them 25 years old. Every kilometer there are signs that tell you the steepness of the grade (10% starts to really hurt). But the signs encouraged me, setting my sites on the next sign, a kilometer away.

But today, we’re in a car. Every year we take at least one day to venture into the mountains, which we see outlined in the distance from Estampes. It’s always a longer drive than I’d like (over an hour), but with great stops along the way, particularly at the good bakery in Tournay (great pain au chocolate). We journey up the vallée de l’Adour that cuts south of Bagnères, and zip over the col du Tourmalet to park at the trailhead, the pont de la Gaubie, at 1,538 meters. We’re not alone. The parking area is full. This is often the case in the Pyrenees, the prettier trails brimming with hikers. We make our way up a wide path, the white and red marked GR10, which soon narrows as we pass sheep grazing, cows with their clanking bells.