Walking with systems: learning point 3 - Grande Traversée des Alpes part II - 2023
June 2023: I resume my walk at Landry in the Tarentaise valley, where I had stopped the previous year. I got off to a slow start, beginning my days early and gradually increasing the distance and pace. The end of the days in the heatwave are intense, but my body keeps up. And the Parc de la Vanoise is fabulous. I walk almost alone below the immense glaciers, meet lots of marmots and even spot some recently reintroduced Bearded Vultures.
On the fourth day, I could feel the machine starting to go. I pushed on further than planned and reached a refuge after a nine-hour walk. The hot shower and meal felt good. The next day the weather turned cloudy and it was a steep climb. I get overtaken by a guy who becomes my hare, so I speed up. For an hour I followed him up the rocks, nearly slipping several times. During a break in a huge wooden refuge that had just been built, I hear that a walker has just been taken away by helicopter, having broken his nose when he slipped. I set off again at a good pace, even though I'd lost the hare. I slip on a rock on the way down. The image of the walker comes back to me like a warning. If I don't want to break my nose, I have to slow down. There's no hurry, I'm ahead of schedule. At 2pm, I decide to stop for lunch, a wash and a nap. I'll look for a place to sleep later.
The shepherd has been watching me for several hours from the top of his rock. When I pass his flock looking for a place to sleep, he calls out to me and asks where I'm going. I join him on his rock, where he turns out to be a shepherdess. She offers to let me pitch my tent next to her chalet. We start chatting about her job and her life bringing in the flock. The conversation continues in the chalet over a goat's tomme and a beer. I've always been fascinated by the life of a shepherd. Shepherds have returned in recent years, at the same time as the wolves. The shepherdess is there to protect her eight hundred ewes from the wolves. At night, she surrounds them with an electrified fence. If she hears a wolf, she cranks up the music and lights firecrackers to scare it away. After that, it's the dog's job. It's impossible to know whether the sheepdog will attack and who will win. Every night, she's afraid of losing a sheep. What does she think about the return of the wolves? That's just the way it is. To each his own. The wolf eats the animals, the shepherds protect the ewes, they give milk and maintain the landscape, the hikers go for walks. She feels like she belongs here, doing her bit.
Her blend of commitment and wisdom amazes me. Once I started walking again, a third learning curve gradually took shape. A system is a movement. There's not always much you can do about it. I've changed elements of my system, I've learnt a key lesson through pain, but I'm still capable of losing sight of all that and making the same mistakes again. The walker with the broken nose was a wake-up call and a reminder of what I've learnt. But next time I'll walk too much, I'll get lost, and I'll be in a bad way. I've realised that despite all the safeguards I've put in place, I'm still fundamentally powerless in the face of change. And that's not such a bad thing. It won't stop me from enjoying this ride. It's a weight off my shoulders, a relief.
For Donnella Meadows, once all the levers have been activated to change a system, the most powerful thing is to let go and accept our limited power in the face of the complexity of systems. To let go of the ultimate paradigm, which consists of believing that we can change a system by knowing it. You can't control a system or understand it. But you can dance with it.
On my hiking trail, rather than trying to understand the system, all I had to do was to walk.
Thanks to Elodie for her support and Bertrand for the bits of GR together.
Walking with systems: learning curve 2 - Grande Traversée des Alpes part I - 2022
On the strength of this first solo experience, I'm setting myself a new challenge: crossing the Alps from north to south. I plan to walk the GR5 from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean ten days a year for three years.
I've learnt a lot from the previous year: a short first stage with little climbing, a much lighter rucksack, I've found out about the snow conditions and I've put on my crampons. The first two days went well. The cautious pace I'd set allowed me to get lost a few times without getting stressed, and to enjoy the view of Lake Geneva, which I got further away from on the way up.
On the third morning, I had a coffee with a Swiss man who had just finished his studies. He was planning to do the GR5 in three weeks. As I set off again, I could feel myself starting to walk a little faster. On the fourth morning, the coffee break was with a 50-year-old Frenchman. He's planning more than a month for the GR. He's walking slowly, but I'm keeping my distance. I'm feeling fit, I've planned to walk for seven hours, maybe eight, to a bivouac at the foot of a waterfall.
After an intense start, I stop for lunch by a river and stop off in a village for a beer on the terrace. As I set off again, the sun began to heat up and the beer turned my head a little. Just as I'm about to rejoin the GR, I come across a walker I'd seen in the morning, heading in the opposite direction. It's hard to find the GR markings, the sun is stifling. After a GPS point, I start to walk along a main road. Five, ten, twenty minutes go by. Big doubt. I went back to the GPS and realised I'd gone in the wrong direction. The walker was right, it was me who was wrong. I was furious with myself.
There was no way I was going to give up the bivouac, so I pushed on. The afternoon sun is burning, and so are my feet. My right heel was starting to hurt but I wasn't letting go of my goal. When I reached the famous waterfall, I couldn't find the bivouac area. It must be further on. I limped back up, still no bivouac. I end up pitching my tent by the side of the path between two switchbacks when night falls. After washing up in a stream, phoning my family and eating a nice plate of pasta, I take stock. What's happened?
Looking at the map again, I realised that the bivouac was before the waterfall. I was so tired that I didn't look at the map and made a second mistake. With what I'd learnt the previous year, I thought I'd understood everything. I applied them well at first, but at some point things got out of hand. Out of stubbornness and pride, I ignored all the signals telling me to be careful, to slow down. The result is that I'm furious, I've had a terrible day and I'm not even sure I'll be able to finish the walk with my heel out of joint. I had promised myself to enjoy the scenery, to be reasonable. Instead I wanted to go as far as I could, even though I'd already lost two hours. I was so tired that I'd lost my ability to pay attention to the signs that I thought I'd acquired last year. Why did this happen?
I wanted to go too far. To finish in less days than planned, like last year. I overestimated myself, my pride was titillated by the Swiss who were too fast and the French who were too slow. I forgot why I set off walking: to set a speed record or to have a good time? By comparing myself to others and following my ego, I forgot the deeper reason for this walk. Performance took precedence over my original intention. This physically and emotionally painful moment forced me to ask myself the question and engrave the answer in my body and brain. I'm here to have a good time at my own pace, not to beat a record. I'm walking for the journey, not for the destination. I wasn't about to forget that.
The next day, after a coffee break beside a lake reflecting a huge rock, I stopped walking at 2pm beside a stream in a magical spot. I spend the afternoon reading and dozing. I'm just fine.
In systems theory, this is called change 2, or "double loop learning" in behavioural psychology. The previous year, I had adjusted certain parameters of my hiking system - the weight of my pack, the length of the stages, the equipment - by taking feedback into account. These Type 1 changes enabled me to 'maintain' the system, i.e. to continue my walk in good conditions. The following year, the system did not withstand the turbulence.
In a moment of crisis, I had to take my nose off the handlebars. I had to take a step to the side to understand what had happened and question my way of looking at this business. I became aware of the sequence that had been repeated: acceleration / fatigue / reduced vigilance / mistakes / fatigue / anger. This helped me to implement a new behaviour that was more virtuous and in line with my deepest desires. Slowing down allows me to better perceive the signs and to be aligned with my intention. Becoming aware of the underlying principles of the system (intention, objectives, sequences, etc.) has enabled me to make a more lasting change that is event-proof.
Walking with systems: learning experience 1
The most brilliant concepts can be very simple and yet difficult to assimilate. That's how I felt when I discovered the systems approach and the work of Donnella Meadows. Powerful but complex. It took me a long time and a lot of miles to understand.
Every summer since 2021, I've gone walking alone in the mountains. It sounds easy: no constraints, you decide everything on your own. In reality, it's merciless: you're face to face with yourself in nature and you have to deal with the consequences of your actions alone. Inevitably, it makes you think. This experience has enabled me to learn a lot about myself - often at my own expense - and to experience what it means to change a system.
Learning experience 1 - Tour du Mont Blanc 2021
Preparing for this walk looks simple: I did it with friends twenty years ago. All I have to do is buy a guidebook for the route, get the train tickets and complete my equipment (tent, duvet, mat, stove, etc.). As departure approached, I could feel the stress rising. I compulsively look at the Météo France app, worried about the idea of walking alone in bad weather. And I consult even more compulsively the list of 'red' regions from the Swiss Federal Office of Public Health, whose inhabitants are banned from the country during the COVID period. On the day of departure, Météo France forecasts fine weather for a week, but Paris remains hopelessly in the Swiss red list. I set off anyway - a little nervous - but we'll see!
On 11 June, I got off the train to join the GR "TMB" at Saint-Gervais in Haute-Savoie. I was soon confronted by external factors that sent my emotions into a serious tailspin. My fear of bad weather and the Swiss police made me underestimate a number of realities.
- The weather. The weather is magnificent but it's a heatwave. It wasn't the best idea in the world to start climbing at 35 degrees after a country-style pizza on the terrace. The first hour was brutal, and I decided to leave early the next few days to climb in the fresh air.
- The weight. After doubting the weight of my bag the day before I set off (17 kilos), I told myself that it would be fine. I didn't really see what I could have taken off. After an hour's walk with back and lung problems, I'm starting to get some ideas. The fear of running out made me take too much equipment, water and food.
- The snow. During an initial break, the Saint-Gervais guide office told me that there was two metres of snow at the top of the first summit pass. I hadn't even thought about it. I didn't even think to check the snow conditions. What do I do now? After a moment of panic, the Office de Haute Montagne in Chamonix reassured me by telling me on the phone that I could use crampons. I bought some the first evening before climbing the famous Croix du Bonhomme pass. I had a bad night in my little tent, fearing the climb in the snow. I decide to leave before sunrise to avoid slipping. I climbed in the cold on a path and then with my crampons in the deepening snow. It's a tough climb, but I stay in the shade and fear gives me wings. When I reach the pass, I can see the roof of a hut stuck in the snow. Victory!
- The water. I'm disappointed as I start the descent into the sun. The snow is starting to melt and my legs are tired, my stride unsteady. Impatient to reach the campsite after this second day, I run downhill and slip in a puddle of melted snow. It was a hard landing. The result: a broken pole and a bloody knee and elbow. I resumed the descent slowly with a patched-up stick. Not serious, but painful. And humiliating.
- The light. On the way down to Italy the next day, the sun's reflection off the snow burned my neck and calves so badly that I peeled for the rest of the trip. The next day, I met a hiker whose burns had degenerated into blisters on her face. I never let go of my tube of cream and my trousers.
In systems theory, these experiences are called Type 1 changes. My environment and my body have sent me information about my actions - feedback - which has led me to make changes to certain elements of my system: information, materials, supplies, rhythm, timetables. The feedback I received was 'negative' in the sense that it prompted me to adjust things downwards: fatigue, burns, loading, distance.... In behavioural psychology, this type of learning involving the detection and correction of an error is known as 'single loop learning'.
After crossing the Col Ferret into Switzerland, the end of the hike led me to another observation. Despite being 38 years old, the further I walked, the more my body got used to it and the easier it became. So much so that I swallowed two stages in one day and no longer felt the weight of my rucksack at the end of the tour. Systems theory refers to this as a positive feedback loop. By realising that I could go faster and further without damage, I had gone even faster and further.