Zero expedition: Pyrenees

This wasn’t RADL’s first expedition. You could say it belonged to the “zero expeditions” — the early ones that helped us test the first prototypes out in the field.

This time, the RADL team — Dani and Joan — headed to the Pyrenees, specifically to the Cerdanya Valley, one of the passes that connect Spain and France.

The area felt strange at that time of year — off-season. The expedition took place between the two high seasons: winter, when skiers invade every corner of the valley, and summer, filled with families and sports tourism. On an off-season Sunday afternoon, the place takes on a twilight mood.

Music, conversation, and the buzz of preparing in the car made up for the cold atmosphere awaiting us. We drove past empty villages, shuttered supermarkets, and out-of-service gas stations. At the first stop along the way, the temperature had dropped — we layered up a bit.

The Mountain and the Views

A quick stop in the village of Font-Romeu — coffee and a sandwich to bring us back to life. Then we took the road that climbs up to La Calme. We slowed down every time wild horses appeared by the roadside. We pulled over near the ski resort. Old chairlifts swayed in the wind.

Now it was time to climb to what seemed like the highest point. We loaded our backpacks — maybe too much — thinking we might eat up there if we found a good spot. And we began the ascent.

The trail was narrow; shrubs scratched our jackets, branches left beautiful marks on our packs. The slope was steep, and we soon felt the altitude — breathless already. We stopped by a stream to catch our breath. From time to time, we looked back at the panorama. The sky seemed to threaten rain, though the radar had said otherwise.

Eventually, we reached what looked like the highest point — or maybe not. Other similar peaks lined the ridge. A marmot whistled in the distance, and Joan said, “They’re telling us to leave.” So we did.

The Sunset. The village was empty — except for a place called “the casino.” There, we had something warm to drink while the locals placed bets on the horse races playing on TV. From time to time, they glanced at us — they knew we were outsiders. Going to remote places is always an exercise in empathy: imagining what it would be like to live there, to understand the world from a place far removed from your own. Maybe these people are a reflection of ourselves. Maybe not.

We walked a bit to stretch our legs, then drove on — this time toward the valley on the French side of the region. Snow covered almost everything when we arrived.

We hiked one of the paths skirting the mountain. Bit by bit, darkness settled in. With our backpacks strapped tight, we barely felt their weight — though our legs were heavy from the walk.

We grew quiet again, and once more we heard animals — as if reminding us it was time to head back.

Little Canada. A sunny morning. We set out toward a forest near Lake des Bouillouses. Passing through the village of Cabanasse, we saw French soldiers doing morning exercises.

We left the car and followed a path lined with fir trees that bordered a campground. Before long, we got lost — following the hypnotic sound of water, the flow of a beautiful river.

Sometimes we walked together, sometimes along opposite banks. The landscape truly felt like a Canadian forest — only we were in France. The river widened and there was no way to reconnect.

For a while, it didn’t matter. We each disappeared into our own thoughts. Dani sat on a branch, and we took a quiet break before finally reuniting at a narrower bend in the river.

We stopped for a snack and took some notes about the backpack. Then the sun began to vanish behind the clouds, and we headed back.

For a while, it didn’t matter. We each disappeared into our own thoughts".

The Shift

Around midday, we were hungry and decided to head toward Matemale, planning to stop for something to eat at a small village boulangerie.

But something felt off — or maybe I only realized it later. Dani got a broken-up phone call from his sister, telling him there had been a major blackout in Barcelona and the power was out. Soon after, the mobile signal disappeared, leaving us confused. Some messages got through. It seemed the outage had spread across Spain and Portugal. Communications were down.

We passed through villages looking for lights in windows — nothing. We tuned into a local radio app, and soon conspiracy theories started to build tension. Maybe we’d watched too many movies. Maybe that’s why we started imagining worst-case scenarios. We stopped for gas. It seemed the blackout hadn’t reached southern France — though the information was unclear.

Then the rain came, steadily at first, then harder. When we arrived in Matemale, we decided to test the backpacks in the rain and took a walk in the forest nearby, our minds still on the blackout.

We set up the tent quickly and rested, in silence, shielded from the rain and the unanswered questions. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” I said out loud.

After a short rest, we talked about what might be happening — imagining ourselves as the protagonists of some zombie apocalypse. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” The backpacks held up perfectly in the rain. Whether they’d hold up against a horde of the undead — who knows.

News. Back in the car, we finally got news from our families. Our doomsday speculations dissolved — what we were witnessing was more like a cultural response to a technical failure. People had filled the streets, holding spontaneous concerts, sharing cold meals, telling stories. Coming together.

I felt moved by that Mediterranean spirit — that instinct to share, to laugh in the face of adversity. For once, maybe what united us was stronger than what divided us.

Then I thought — or hoped — that this wasn’t just something local. Maybe it was something human. Maybe there’s still hope. Rage against the dying of the light, yes.

Night fell in the south of France. We drove toward a trail overlooking the stunning mountains to the east. That’s where we’d camp for the night.

As darkness took hold, I slowed the car — deer were crossing the road. Were they trying to tell us something? Or had I just eaten too many cereal bars — a nut-fueled hallucination born of exhaustion?

We reached a wide clearing and walked into the dark until we found a quieter, more hidden spot. We’d become fast at setting up camp — in minutes, we were inside the tent.

I’ve always been fascinated by the strange feeling of safety a thin layer of fabric can give. We didn’t talk much. We were exhausted. I fell asleep, waking several times, startled by distant noises in the night.

All the fatigue and worry vanished within hours. The first rays of sun came through, and the scene was spectacular — snow-covered peaks glowing, the sky reflected in every surface, the green more vivid than ever, and infinite views in every direction.

We brewed some tea to warm our spirits, packed our bags in no time, and took a few photos. Looking at the pictures, we realized something: we weren’t the same people who had left home just a few days earlier.

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Zero expedition: Pyrenees