Refuge de Manganu - Refuge de Petra Piana

The morning air was cold, and I snuggled like a burrito inside my sleeping bag. Woke up 10 min before the alarm, a sure sign that a new routine is setting in! Big day today according to Paddy. I was braced for a Monte Cintu follow-up, carrying full water capacity and revving myself up mentally.

Off I went into the purple morning. It was hard walking right off the bat, a stony path leap upwards, swept eight steps across a grassy flat, then scrambled over boulders. Somewhere up on the intimidating crest ahead lay Bocca a e Porte. Soon I was half-climbing. But today was my day. I felt raw power in my legs, a good rhythm to each explosive step. I climbed through indigo-hued crags, grabbing onto all available rock with my hands since trekking poles would slip. I rammed up, then over and into the light. A splash of sunshine coated everything, the sunrise dead ahead. Going down was terribly slow and involved some of the hardest scrambles so far. My heart was racing, I clung to walls of massive rock muttering “Fuckfuckfuck” and held onto the heavy chains for dear life. Down from the ridge & a few grey hairs later, I brunched with adorable newlyweds from Sheffield (only 1 year my seniors, help). Determined to make the most of my good game, I plugged in my playlist “Wilder” and bulldozed through a boulder field.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of hiking on your best ultragear. Charging forward like a war horse, trusting every step to hold. Arms like hardwire paddles, forward motion aiding more forward motion. It’s like the friction in the air lessens. Nothing would be harder than to stop, because you’re flying. Elated smile and soaring tunes, you are a part of everything.

Mountains lined the horizons, but nothing seemed too far, too hard. At this rate I gaped in astonishment as I pummelled myself over a second Bocca and almost fell down to Refuge de Petra Piana. I confess myself almost disappointed. Was this it? Hell, I could have done another stretch! I picked my way down nimbly and double checked the sign above the door that it was in fact Petra Piana I’d arrived at. After claiming a secluded tent spot in the bushes, I looked at my phone. A 7hr stretch completed in 4hrs! Hah! Smashed you, Paddy!

Not much to do but sit and wait… I sat down to convo with a nice young Dutchman, who dug my frustrations with the French. Soon we were joined by a pair of obnoxiously handsome German men in their early 30s. Think Bradley Cooper in The Hangover.

I’d seen them at Ascu and at Manganu last night. They walked around shirtless a lot, showing off their Calvin Klein underwear. (Now guys, if you wanna impress hiker ladies, go with merino wool. Doesn’t smell as bad.)

They were fun enough to talk to, the younger one was particularly interested in the details of my trip. He was handsome enough that his pushiness didn’t annoy me; broad-shouldered with a mop of messy chestnut curls. I’m not a total spinster.

Michael and Lizzie arrived in the heat of the afternoon, looking tired but all smiles. “We matched Paddy today!” beamed Michael. “We only took 1,5 hours from the… what’s it called again... Bocca Mozzarella?”. “Bocca Muzella?” I smiled. Michael threw up his hands. “Bocca whatever! Boccas galore! We are killing it!”. It was SO hard to not crack up at the marvellous Britishness of those two. They picked a tent spot next to the water source – a funky contraption sometimes just trickling water, then suddenly exploding in a series of feisty squirts which sent water gushing out several meters (and giving you all sorts of connotations). Michael eyed it calculatingly for a moment before concluding “It’s got attitude. I like it!”.

Hours ticked on into the evening. Lizzie, Michael and I were chilling in the slither of shade provided by the refuge porch. Every time the Handsome German Guy walked by, he’d pointedly stare in my direction, groan dramatically, and loudly proclaim that he needed a back massage. Anyone available? I burst out laughing and teased back after the third round of his teenage coquetry. Michael, not taking his eyes off his Steinbeck, grinned slyly. “It’s all take, take, take these days isn’t it, only girl in the mountains?”. True enough. When A finally arrived in camp, he beamed at me with some great news: “I found a tent spot right next to you, Kristin!”. …did you now. This would be my last day in the company of my north section friends, as I’d double-stage tomorrow into Vizzavona. After dinner and a highly uncivilised game of cards, it was time to say goodbye. I’d been uncomfortable around A ever since day 4 and was glad to have the last hug over with. I’d miss Michael and Lizzie, but would hopefully catch them around London!

Later, I was sitting in my tent arranging gear for a swift start tomorrow by the light of my headlamp. Suddenly I heard a loud noise like an animal crashing through the bushes. “Kristiiiina…!”

No way. Before I could kill the light and pretend to be asleep, A literally fell onto his hands and knees in the tiny space between my tent and the bushes. “Kristin, I so sad to see you go… write to me? I will maybe see you in Vizzavona?” Over my dead body, Casanova. The only girl in the goddamn wilderness. “Trail families are temporary you know!” I chirped, seething inside. Go away! Of all the privacy-invading… “Open the tent”, he pouted, looking all sad and puppy-like. Open your mother’s tent, I thought as I stonily unzipped the mesh a few inches. “One last kiss” he pleaded. I smacked my head against the side of his in a double Italian, trying to grit my teeth loudly in his ears. “GOODBYE NOW!”.

I shook my head in exasperation as he trudged away in the dark. A didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but he was immune to my rejections. I just want to be by myself! What a collection the GR20 had presented so far…