Almost Nine Hundred Years Later-The Same Path to the Same Grandeur

We took the last sips of our coffee at the Auberge des Deux Mondes. Monsieur Michel drove the car across the old bridge over the River Guiers. We turned sharp left and climbed steadily in first gear toward the cleft in the granite wall towering above us. We were heading toward the same valley of peace as were Hugues and Bruno with their six companions almost nine hundred years before.

The cleft has been widened by blasting out a rock ledge for the road above the white-foamed river. The sign at the entrance pointed upward: Route de la Forêt Domaniale–Saint-Pierre-de-Chartreuse. The road turned and twisted blindly. It rose sharply. Our engine whined in low gear. The cliffs seemed to be leaning over us. On our right, there was a sheer drop into the gorge of the tumbling river. On our left the cliff stepped forward and blocked our way. The road tunneled through it. A right-angle bend. Another small tunnel. Fifty yards of sunlight. A third tunnel. A hairpin bend. One more tunnel. As soon as we were through the narrow Porte de la Fourvoirie, the rock walls opened out and we were in a forest of old beeches (many must have been almost a hundred and fifty feet high), brown, green, red and yellow. My ears were suddenly alert to every sound. My nose was aware of the essences of the earth. The scene was dominated by the orchestra of life and movement among the trees. From the gorge below there came the bass roll of rushing water. Above, the treble voices of the birds. They seemed unconcerned with our intrusion.