An American Provence

9. Landscape Miscellanea

160 L a C h e v i L L e ( t h e A n k l e ) I n c I d e n t sections of the lower gorge and come out into a wider, flatter alcove-like section of the route. It was nearly flat on the clean rock, almost like a sidewalk in comparison with what we had been traversing. I started looking around at the massive stone walls above us on either side of the gorge instead of staring at my feet and where I was placing them. The path was nearly flat, but not quite. I did not see the one-inch rock lip under my feet that was parallel to the walk, and in an instant we both heard a loud crack that came from my left foot as I rolled my ankle on this meager little irregularity in the trail. Carole thought I had kicked one rock against another, but I assured her in fairly loud, profane terms that it was indeed my ankle that had made the Metal ladder used for ascending and descending during hikes in the gorges of the Vaucluse. 161 L a C h e v i L L e ( t h e A n k l e ) I n c I d e n t cracking sound, and I was pretty sure it was broken. I had never broken a bone before, but there was little doubt in my mind that I had done just that. The French celebrate Bastille Day with even more military exuberance than Americans celebrate July Fourth. There was no way anyone from the military or probably even the local gendarmerie was anywhere near here—they were all at parades and fêtes in the cities, towns, and villages a long way away from our little stone alleyway. I was not going to be heroically rescued by anyone official for some time. Not much choice but to try to walk out. We were about a mile and a half to two miles up the gorge and above those rock walls we had scaled with the help of the steel ladders. The trip out was going to be interesting. Like most people I know, I do not like pain very much. But also like most people, if you have no choice but to endure pain in an emergency situation, you endure it. I kept my shoe on to help keep the ankle from swelling too much; that would come later with a vengeance. A little digression here. Remember the Chaco factory in Paonia, mentioned in an earlier chapter? Well, I was not wearing rugged, ankle-high hiking boots or even an actual shoe during this trek. I was wearing a very nice pair of Chaco sports sandals—rugged soles with nylon straps but no ankle support whatever. I do not blame Chaco one iota. I was the one who did not want to carry those heavy hiking boots in my baggage on the trip from the United States. Most assuredly, I no longer wear sandals when hiking. I now leave them for the beach. Carole found some substantial-looking branches along the way to use as makeshift crutches, but they kept breaking and making the hike out even less pleasant than it already was. I now carry a high-tech walking stick with me on every hike. The only way down the rock walls and ladders was facing outward, away 162 L a C h e v i L L e ( t h e A n k l e ) I n c I d e n t from the rock, and scooting down on my good leg and buttocks. This was not a dignified sight, but it was unavoidable. By the time I had passed the most exciting of these rock shelves, holes had been rubbed into the seat of my pants. The trip out took about twice as long as the trip in, but I thought we made great time under the circumstances. Even an encounter with a snake across the path did not slow us down too much. We were told by other hikers coming up the trail that the snake was not poisonous , but it was big—at least four feet long as it crossed just in front of us. Luckily it ignored us. It was just before noon when we reached the mouth of the gorge. After...