Refuge de Petra Piana - Vizzavona via Refuge de l’Onda

My shrill alarm pierced the quiet at 05.30. I immediately felt gripped by a strange feeling out here: stress. Today was going to be a whopper. Paddy estimated the mileage to take over ten hours. There was no time to lose, just throw in a magnesium pill and an energy bar by the light halo of my headlamp. The mountains shone pink in the pale pre-dawn light. Farewell to the temperamental water source, farewell to the north. But there, at the turnoff towards the southbound trail, stood A like a guardian. Bleeding Christ. I looked at my feet and sped by him, literally dodging his embrace. The trail was mine now, all the lonely purple and gold stretch of it. Bring me that horizon!

I lurched onto the high-level route to Refuge de l’Onda. Double yellow stripe markings led the way into rocky gullies, through prickly brush and onto an exposed ridge walk. Lo and behold, the most stunning sunrise I have ever seen on any trail (and I have seen every single one of them on all my hikes).

Scrambling was familiar now, and I was pumping to the time pressure. Everything was bathed in golden light, I felt like I was walking inside the sunrise. Up, down, repeat. I guess I must have looked kind of dumb spinning along at racing pace over the mountains, but no one was there to see it.

On the last ridge peak I could spot Refuge de l’Onda basking in the morning sun below. A large paddock held tents and five mules. I trotted down the long grassy slope towards the refuge, stopping about six times to remove pebbles from my boots. L’Onda was deserted except for the pack animals.

I shared the water source with a dainty grey mare and popped by the WC – squatties again. I thought amused about Michaels reaction when he saw them. He’d made a point of refusing to go on the squat toilets like the one at Petra Piana and now here. No way he’d be able to hold it until Vizzavona… There were only snacks available at l’Onda, and I set off with a Lion bar, a bag of peanuts, and a full water supply.

Looking back towards the high route from Petra Piana, yesterday’s boccas lining the crest.

Upon leaving the refuge and climbing back up the valley walls, I was crippled by the heat. I dragged myself up on leaden legs, feeling increasingly desperate. I needed to move fast. The train from Vizzavona to my resupply in Corte wouldn’t wait. Music turned to white noise in my ears. I had so little water, and the sun was merciless. Yesterday’s raw power had evaporated along with my focus. Blinded by the heat and effort, I felt my pulse roar in my ears, nausea dragging me down. Please. At least the Monte Cinto climb was done before the heat of the day. This was completely different, I was being roasted.

Up to Punta Moratello, but no relief at the top. Just wobble over and down on the white slabs on the south side. Not a breath of wind, just more dizzying heat and white light.

Hours ticked by. The sun burned me even through my longsleeve top. My ankles and knees felt like they were hanging by their sinews. Every step hurt like hell after 8 days of bracing against hard rock at unforgiving angles.

Once through the treeline, pools began appearing in the river. I found a secluded one, mechanically removed every item of clothing, and sunk down. The icy water numbed me instantly, it was so cold I couldn’t bear to linger. The forest trail was rocky and mangled by roots. Paddy’s warning that this stretch wasn’t easy echoed through my cottony head. Of course, Paddy. How could I possibly believe this trail would cut me some slack for even half an hour.

A French guy strolled up to me and asked if the trail was hard. Hard? Do you think I normally look like a dying animal? “Is it too hard for my kids to hike up to the waterfall?” I stared at him with what must have been blank disgust. I don’t know how fucking fit your kids are, monsieur. Now get out of my way, I’m dying!

Increasing amounts of tourists dotted the trail. Fat families in Hawaiian shirts and sandals. They certainly couldn’t have walked far by the looks of them. Where was Vizzavona goddamnit! My feet felt broken. I staggered down like a drunk, looking wildly around for the sign to town, arms and trekking poles flailing like a windmill. People gave me a wide berth, I probably looked insane and stank to high heaven.

I almost fell into Vizzavona. Only a small cluster of buildings, it was still buzzing with activity. I sank down in a chair at the restaurant and ordered a burger that tasted sweet no matter how much I salted it. I was beyond hunger and thirst. Only an exhausted numbness crept into every crease of my dirt-lined body. I don’t think I’d been this smashed since my longest day on the TA. I had only sympathy for the poor guy who had to sit next to me on the tiny train winding through the mountains to Corte, but I was too tired to care about anything except a shower. My overpriced hotel room was quickly converted to a hiker nest of dirty gear. There wasn’t an ounce of energy left in me to pursue dinner, so I spread out like a starfish on my bed in a sea of groceries. Some clothing items would have to retire after this trip. My knees made a crunching sound when I sat down on the *real* toilet to pee. Vitamin I and peaches were my dessert. The GR20 north was a beautiful beast. I could only hope the south would fare gentler on me.