Refuge de Carozzu - Ascu Stagnu

People on this trail are truly terrified of heat. By 05.30 most of the tents were already gone. I’ve never felt like I was late for something at 06 AM before! And WHY do I keep forgetting that my period exists on the trail? Ever since my lucky escape on the JMT, I’ve sort of assumed that it will just stay away for the duration of my hikes. It didn’t. I woke up to a massacre in my already ruined sleeping bag liner. Luckily I’d had the wits to pack my menstrual cup, but with no toilet paper in the refuge toilets I was in for another round of leaves. Oh happy day.

Today felt marginally hotter than yesterday, but I still had pep in my step as I started up the slabs of Spasimata. Today’s mileage was only 6 km, but estimated to take over 5 hrs. My footsteps eating up the ground, I passed several hikers on my way up the massive wall of rock into the blue morning sky.

The ascents and descents on the GR20 seem endless. No other trail I’ve done has been so perpetually relentless. My closest comparison is perhaps the Richmond Ranges on the Te Araroa. I reached a devastating fake summit, drops of sweat dripping into my eyes. It took all morning to reach yet another (fucking) bocca. I was nauseous from the exertion and shoved down madeleines for fuel.

Once up and over the bocca, the trail plummeted into pitches so grotesque I was genuinely scared. Fear gripped me as I inched my way on all fours through crevasses. My backpack threatened to tip me forward and break my face on the rocks below. Merde! I stuck out my trekking pole to brace myself so fiercely that I almost speared a poor lizard fleeing for its life. Relief flooded through me when I reached the second bocca in a burst of sunlight – and I could see Ascu ski resort way down at the valley floor! Salvation would be mine before noon. On the way down I got talking to Shane, a 17-year-old doing the trail in seven days with a friend. Seven days! And here I had been thinking myself the coolest cat in town… Shane asked me about my motivation for hiking the GR20, and suddenly I was at a loss for words. I always knew that hiking the Te Araroa would be the crown jewel of my existence, and this was the first thru-hike I’d completed without any existential motivation. I guess I’m out here because… I like hiking? I feel super cool taking on famous trails all by myself? I feel like I own this realm, that it’s become more of a lifestyle than a hobby? Or something of the sort.

Knowing that sweet reward lay below, I took my time to saunter down - smelling the fragrant pines and closing my eyes towards the sun to make my eyelids glow orange.

Arriving at Ascu was heavenly. I grabbed a sheltered nook for my tent before indulging in iced tea and a foot-long panini. Full phone reception allowed for a check-in with the outside world.

There was nothing to do except wash my clothes in the river, have a real shower and dry my hair on the hot sunny rocks. The small store at the hotel took credit cards, and I could buy toilet paper! Best 1,5€ I ever spent.

The other hikers trickled steadily in. I had a shaky convo with A, the big friendly (and v-e-r-y slow) Italian from yesterday’s table. He kept referring to me as “the flying girl”, he sure knew how to make me purr. His feet were terribly blistered, it looked like someone had taken a bite out of both heels. A joked about having to sleep in the river to cool them down – maybe not the worst idea. M & P joined in, and steered the conversation alarmingly close to the forbidden subjects: politics and religion. We briefly touched upon the role of women, and I lightly aired my opinions. M looked at me defeatedly. “So you’re a feminist?”. “Yes of course (which part of rights and freedoms wouldn’t appeal to me?)”, I eyed him steadily. He looked away and declared “You’re not the woman for me”. I though back to last night and smirked. You’re damn right I’m not, mister. Solo female hikers of the toughest trail in Europe typically don’t do very well as kitchen slaves I imagine.

Salted macademia toffee coffee. Because decadence is life.

Tomorrow will be a big day. The biggest, in fact. Facing up the Monte Cinto crest, the highest mountain in Corsica, I was humbled but determined. I was crushing it so far. And Ascu was such a sanctuary to enjoy simple trail comforts in the company of great people. I could barely keep a straight face watching Michael interact with the French waiting staff at the restaurant where we’d ordered steak hache with fries. “Do you have any tabasco?”, he asked in his Queen’s English. “Tabásco? Non…non, tabásco..”. Then, seeing all our cocked eyebrows: “Ooooh, Tabascóooo! Oui oui!”. Seriously? There is such a thing as being too French, you know. It’s levioooosa, not leviosaaaa! Du-uh.