Calenzana - Refuge d’Ortu di u Piobbu

It was with no small amount of excitement I’d sett off on this trek. The GR20 was a last-minute substitute for Austria’s Adlerweg where the weather forecast had been miserable. I’d had very little time to plan, and only had a loose idea of where the trail actually was. Luckily I already had a guidebook to the trail, but I’d booked the plane tickets only a day and a half before arriving. Now if that isn’t a spontaneous adventure! The ferry from Nice to l’Ile Rousse was a boring ordeal, but better than the 60€ taxi I took to the small town of Calenzana where the trail begins.

I had never been to Corsica before, and at the Carrefour in Nice I’d been so overwhelmed by choice that I’d forgotten both matches and toilet paper. Now here I was, at 14.00 in the sweltering midday heat to begin the toughest long-distance trail in Europe. Great start. My guidebook (authored by Paddy Dillon, whom you will be better acquainted with soon) estimated 7hrs for this first stretch, and a sinking feeling of dread settled in my stomach at the thought of scarce water sources. I was all alone.

I started up the steep, rocky and dusty path. I felt small and badly prepared. Evergreen forest vistas rose up from the scorched but still lush valley where I plodded on. I rounded a ridge and could see the coastline behind me. I’m hiking again! Apart from short stints in Norway, the GR20 would be my first big thru-hike since the Te Araroa in early 2018. Here, at the foot of Corsica’s northern mountains, I felt so ready to get back into the wild life. I walked friskily in the shadow of a mountain, when suddenly a voice echoed down at me. It was screaming. A cross between a rhinoceros and a man being burnt alive, it was one of the most terrifying sounds I’d ever heard. I stopped dead in my tracks. What the hell? I couldn’t see anyone, the landscape was empty all around. There it was again! A long, hellish wail that made my stomach clench in fear. “Hello?” I called thinly. I knew there were wild pigs in Corsica, but surely pigs didn’t sound like that?

Trying to figure out smartphone tripod angles with moderate success…

Nothing to do but keep walking to the fading screams. The trail climbed through a burn area where blackened bushes stretched their sharp branches into the trail. I stabbed myself on one coming around a bend, and blood oozed down my leg. So this is what Paddy meant when he described the first day as “a baptism of fire”…

The heat was excruciating, my pack felt so heavy. I’m dying, I thought, thinking back to my first day on the John Muir Trail. Just like then, I now had to stop every two minutes to lean over my trekking poles and gasp for air. My legs felt like useless twigs on the steep gradient, my pack pulling me down, down. A French woman walking north passed me, her hair elegantly styled in a long bob. How did she do it? My own hair was matted into a clumpy nest on top of my head, and I was sweating my face off.

I passed a pack of goats and fought for every step until at last I reached Bocca a u Saltu in the afternoon sunshine. A guy dressed in full camouflage gear told me he was giving up the trail already. Seeing him disappear back down the mountain gave me a small boost of confidence. At least I was tougher than one other person… The views from Bocca a u Saltu were amazing, already the landscape was turning rugged. I had the lonely view all to myself. Traversing the mountainside to Bocca a u Bassiguellu gave a taste of what the GR20 is all about: chains bolted into the rockface because there is no trail, only scrambling over poor footholds. It takes forever. Using both hands and feet, I crawled over outcrops and slid on my butt down the other side. Reaching the next (fucking) bocca took 1,5 hrs. Apparently, Boccas are small openings in the mountains – not exactly a pass or a summit – but a passage to traverse crests.

Bocca a u Bassiguellu was slightly more civilised, the trail was an actual trail now. I could cruise freely, hurrying in the fading light towards the first camp at Refuge d’Ortu di u Piobbu. Coming around a hump on the mountain, I could see the refuge and scattered tents on the hillside opposite me. Yatzy! By the time I reached the refuge and found a spot of tent real estate, I felt like a million dollars. I’d nailed Paddy, taking 5 hrs instead of 7. Boding well for this beast of a trail!

My neighbours were a very sweet and very British couple named Lizzie and Michael. Both Oxford graduates, they helped me beg some matches from a pair of Italian hikers and were happy to talk trail. Seeing Lizzie leaf through a copy of the massive Shantaram, I figured they were rookies. They carried the Cicerone guidebook too, which they only referred fondly to as Paddy. (We will revisit these Italian dudes later, they’ll go under the names of M and P for privacy concerns.)

I felt sweet nostalgia as I set up my Duplex, blades of grass from Southland in New Zealand falling out of its matted creases. My gorgeous westward camp swallowed up the sunset. Arranging my few items around me felt unbelievably cozy and familiar.

Trail life can take you almost anywhere in the world, but the call to venture into the wild is always a familiar one. Snuggling into my perfectly temperate nook of the world, I could only smile with giddiness at being back in the wilderness. Places where you needn’t have been before to belong