RETURN TO FRANCE
demanded payment in women — and 37 war elephants with their Indian handlers, my force was less formidable. Besides Fiona, my wife, there was Francois Lombard, a former climbing world champion — lean, sinewy, exactly my height and embarrassingly 15kg lighter — his girlfriend Cathy (also a top climber), and my old varsity friend Beesley, whose modest mountaineering prowess was offset by a house and car in Geneva.
We spent the night in L’Argentière-laBessée, where most of the residents — like Francois — were alpine guides.
SOLDIERS OF THE SADDLE
Over dinner, Francois and Cathy inducted us in local customs such as scooping ice cream with two heated spoons, slicing blue cheese without offending the hosts and maintaining eye contact while toasting “Salut”, thereby avoiding seven years’ bad sex.
Early the next morning, we collected our rental cycles. If Hannibal could lead 37 elephants over the Alps, I reckoned we should be able to take five bicycles. Besides, these weren’t everyday urban trundlers, but electric-mountain bikes, with fat knobbly tyres, front suspension and powerful booster packs.
With the bikes loaded aboard, we drove up the Combe du Queyres, a precipitous gorge offering sporadic glimpses of the Guil River’s torrents far below. According to some historians, Hannibal had intended crossing into Italy via the mellow Montgenèvre pass, 30km to the northwest, but was led up the Combe du Queyras instead by treacherous guides from the local Gaul tribe, who planned to attack his column.
INTO AN AMBUSH
Once Hannibal’s army was crammed in the narrow defile, the Gauls rolled down logs and rocks from the slopes above.
We make it through unscathed to Château Queyras, a 13th-century castle perched on a large, bare, white rock. Historians championing the Col de Traversette theory say this is the same rock referred to in the earliest account of Hannibal’s feat (written 70 years after the event by the Greek historian Polybius), where the Carthaginian army regrouped after the ambush. Having lost his supply train, with winter setting in and retreat cut off by hostile Gauls, Hannibal’s only option was to press on.
We also continued up the valley, for 20km, to the end of the road at L’Echalp.
Here, we mounted our e-bikes and set off along a broad, gravel track, zipping effortlessly past irritated hikers — with Francois looking slightly incongruous with an ice axe strapped to his pack.
After 6km, the gravel track ended at Belvédère du Viso, and we were confronted by a rocky rise leading up to a rutted trail. Francois surmounted this obstacle with panache; the rest of us didn’t, to the delight of some picnickers who watched on with spiteful interest.
Though the e-bikes were designed precisely for this terrain, we weren’t accustomed to the sudden spurts of acceleration that caused them to rear up like elephants on their hindquarters. Halfway up, Beesley’s bike leapt into the air, performed an alarming 180° spin and set off down the hill as if running amok. Just when it looked like he was heading into the river, he skidded to a halt.
UP AND OVER AND DOWN AGAIN
With some pushing and a few mishaps, we reached a large, grassy plateau at 2 500m, where recent digs have unearthed ancient horse and, possibly, elephant dung — though no Carthaginian armour to seal the debate.
Above here, painted rocks and cairns mark the route, which zigzags up loose scree and occasional patches of snow. Mindful of the hefty deposits, we decided to stow our bikes. While Francois seemed genuinely sorry to leave his, the rest of us — sporting cuts, bruises and mental scars — were delighted.
Proceeding on foot, we clambered up the steepening slope till we reached a narrow notch in the ridge, with a sign proclaiming “Colle delle Traversette 2 980m”.
As we arrived, the clouds conveniently cleared to give us views down the Po River valley into Italy — which, according to Polybius, Hannibal used to spur on his faltering soldiers.
THE ALPINE SLAUGHTERHOUSE
To Hannibal — who, as a child, swore an oath of life-long enmity to Rome — it might have been a welcome sight, but it’s not clear how enthused his troops would have felt, especially on seeing the precipitous descent.
It took his army four days to get down, with thousands of men and horses plunging to their deaths, though allegedly all of the elephants survived.
Clambering down the icy rocks on all fours, we were greatly relieved we hadn’t brought our bikes and — assuming they had come this way — marvelled at the elephants’ dextrous footing.
A few hundred metres down, we found the entrance to a small foot tunnel, built in the
15th century so travellers could avoid the snowbound col. Fumbling through the dark passage, we emerged back in France, stomped down to our bikes, rattled back to the car and were in L’Argentière-la-Bessée for dinner.
Admittedly, we hadn’t decisively proved whether Hannibal had crossed the Col de la Traversette, or even got our bicycles over it, but we felt we deserved our red wine and tartiflette.
As for Hannibal, after he’d crossed the Alps, his journey wasn’t so straightforward. Despite his winning three major battles, he never took Rome and, in the meantime, he lost an eye, two brothers and all his elephants, who succumbed to the cold and a pachyderm version of athlete’s foot.
When, after 16 years of war, Carthage surrendered, Hannibal fought on as a mercenary till he was 64, committing suicide to avoid being captured.
After all, you don’t get to be remembered for 2 200 years just for leaving a bicycle halfway up a hill.
L