A night in an unstaffed hut at Aoulhet: sharing without sprawling

An unstaffed hut is not a free room in the mountains. You may find a roof, a stove and a place to sleep. For everything else, you make do with what is there and with the people already settled in. At Aoulhet, on Tuesday 27 September 2022, there were three of us sharing the place.

I had set off alone for two days, with no summit to tick off and no ascent time to beat. My wife knew my route and that I planned to be back the next day. My plan fitted into a few words: walk, eat something hot, sleep, then head back down at an easy pace.

I had planned for the possibility of sharing the hut. I had simply pictured myself there alone.

A short distance, but plenty of climbing

Setting off from Peyras, near the Bethléem monastery, I tightened my rucksack straps under a sky still heavy with cloud. The morning’s rain had left the leaves glistening. Drops were still falling from the branches as I started up, in the early afternoon.

The tourist office gives about 2 hours’ walking, 3 km (about 1.9 miles) and 760 m of ascent to the hut [2]. The distance looks modest. The gradient, for its part, keeps your legs busy enough.

I took the climb steadily, with one stop for a drink and another to take off a layer. Under the beech trees, I mostly heard my own footsteps and the dripping water. That was exactly what I wanted: to keep going without having to answer to anyone.

Enlarge photo

Where the forest ended, banks of mist were drifting across the pastures. The hut would appear, then lose its outline again. I did not linger to look around it: the grass was soaking, and I had already put my jacket back on.

Enlarge photo

Outside the door, two pairs of shoes were waiting under cover. I knocked, then pushed the door ajar.

‘How many of you are there?’

The question came from inside, in English.

‘Just me. Is there any room left?’

One of the two men waved towards the stairs. Yes, plenty. We spent most of the evening talking in English.

I had asked permission to walk into a hut that is open to everyone. At the time, it had seemed perfectly normal.

Settling in without spreading out

The two occupants were Danish friends on holiday in the Pyrenees. They had laid out their sleeping things on part of the mezzanine. Downstairs, a jacket hung away from the stove and their food took up one end of the table.

Nothing intrusive, but enough belongings to make me feel I was arriving at someone’s home.

I asked where to put my rucksack. One of them moved his own to clear a way through. Then I did the same with my walking poles, which were already threatening to block the entrance.

At 1,165 m, the Aoulhet hut has a large shared room with a wood-burning stove. The tourist office describes a mezzanine with six sleeping places, free access all year round and no booking [2]. So the six places listed are not six places you can reserve before setting off up.

That evening, we had room to spare. I still kept my things together: someone else could yet turn up.

I took my dry top, socks and warm layer out of the dry bag. My damp clothes joined the others, without hogging the space. The feeling of pulling on dry clothes already made up for a good part of the climb.

A few plates and utensils were there to use, but I had brought my own cook set and cutlery. I also had my sleeping bag, a compact sleeping mat, food and the means to cook it, my head torch and a small tent. Not forgetting earplugs, tucked into a pocket I could find easily.

I did not know exactly what I would find there, or how many of us there would be. The tourist office in fact advises bringing a tent depending on how busy it is, and points out that wild camping in the nature reserve is only allowed between 8pm and 8am [2, 3]. That night, my tent stayed at the bottom of my rucksack.

Fetching water, and seeing what is there

Before unpacking dinner, I saw to the water. The hut has a drinking water point, which is closed in winter to stop it freezing [2].

That evening, it was running. I filled my filter bottle there and came back with the bottoms of my trousers wet from the grass.

Next time, I would check this again before setting off. A water point in a description is no guarantee that it will be working on the day you arrive.

Inside, the stove had already been going when I came in, and I had appreciated its warmth before even taking off my jacket. There were a few logs that evening, but I had not counted on finding any to stay warm overnight.

One of the Danes pointed to a door at the side. He wondered whether there were other things behind it. We looked at the description I had saved: the western part is kept for pastoral farming [2]. We left it alone.

I had settled in for a holiday evening in a building that was also a place of work, and that closed door was a reminder of it.

Downstairs, it is pleasantly warm. Upstairs is another matter

Late in the afternoon, we talked about their previous stages and our plans for the next day. I tried a few sentences in Norwegian. One of the two had worked in Norway; with him, it more or less flowed. With his friend, we soon went back to English.

We did not swap life stories: the paths, the weather and whatever would soon be cooking in our pans were more than enough to talk about.

Then one of them picked up a log. His friend raised a hand.

‘Wait. Have you been up to have a look?’

I was rather in favour of the extra wood. The clothes I had hung up to dry were still damp, and I felt comfortable by the table. I went up to fetch something from my rucksack.

On the mezzanine, the heat took me by surprise. I stayed there a few seconds, then came back down, pulling off my fleece.

We left the log where it was.

The one who was cold put on another layer. The other finished getting his bed ready. As for me, I moved my damp clothes to leave more room for theirs. A few metres apart, we clearly did not need the same amount of heat.

Dinner really begins with a spoonful

I had brought a single-serving pouch meal. Practical, compact, perfectly defensible when packing the rucksack. Once opened next to their pan, far less appealing.

They had pasta with a thick sauce and chunks of vegetables. One of them looked at my meal, then at his pan.

‘Would you like some?’

I accepted without pretending to hesitate.

I had some cheese and chocolate. I put them in the middle of the table, with my knife. We did not decide to pool all our food or to organise ourselves for the next day. Each of us kept our own things and our own plans, but the meal went on longer than expected.

We compared our walking habits. One liked to set off early. The other hated a rushed breakfast. I admitted that my solo meals sometimes looked more like refuelling than dinner.

Later, I got out my map to show them my route back to Peyras. A drawing by one of my twins fell out of the map case. It showed a mountain and a figure with arms far too long.

I explained. They asked how old the children were, then we picked up our conversation again.

The table was not large. Between the map, the bowls and the wrappers, something had to be moved whenever someone else wanted to rest their elbows. In the end, we cleared up before going up to bed.

At night, what you mostly hear is other people trying to sleep

I had got my things ready for the morning: water, warm layer and head torch within reach. I did not want to be emptying my rucksack first thing, over two sleeping people.

On the mezzanine, I left my sleeping bag half open. The warmth was more than enough for me.

Then the little noises started. A rustling mat. A zip. Someone turning over carefully, which takes twice as long and makes almost as much noise.

I made a point of moving gently, only to discover that my own bedding was anything but silent. I put my earplugs in.

I did not sleep straight through. A few awakenings, the need to shift position, the awareness of neighbours very close by. At one point, I heard rain against the building. I stayed where I was, very glad not to have to go outside.

Early in the morning, the first one up went quietly downstairs. I waited a little before joining him. Downstairs, we talked in low voices until the third appeared.

We had breakfast without hurrying. My two neighbours still had a few things to pack. For my part, all I had left to do was fold up my bedding and head back down the way I had come the day before.

One last look under the table

The two friends left before me. We exchanged a few words about our routes, then a handshake, with no promise to see each other again: we had had a good evening, and that was enough.

I finished my drink in a room that had suddenly gone very quiet.

Before shouldering my rucksack again, I cleaned my spot, put away what I had used and checked the mezzanine. The local municipality relies on everyone’s public spirit to keep the hut clean and pleasant [2].

I gave a quick sweep where we had left some mess, then looked around the table. My leftover cheese came away with me, along with all my wrappers.

Outside, the pastures were still wet. No glorious sunrise was waiting for me. I pulled my jacket tighter and checked that I had left nothing by the entrance.

Then I went back for one last look under the table.

There was a small scrap of wrapper, wedged against a table leg. Not mine, or at least I did not recognise it.

I slipped it into my rubbish bag and headed back down.

Alex Aubert

Water, campervans, wild camping and the Nordic countries

A Breton, Alex spends as much time outdoors as he can, preferably on the water: kayaking, paddleboarding, sailing, fishing. He also loves campervanning, wild camping and nights under the stars, and knows the Nordic countries well, speaking two of their languages.

All their articles