Day 1 - The Call

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

Day 2 - Self-Inflicted

Refuge d’Ortu di u Piobbu - Refuge de Carozzu

It could have been the first day of school judging by the gusto with which I awoke and packed up camp. I hate cooking in the morning, so I grabbed some of yesterday’s dinner and a madeleine cake on the go.

Seeing as I had no toilet paper, I had to go hunting for leaves. Sometimes I wonder if guys I’ve dated read this blog, and what they must think of my savagery! My camp-dismantling skills were a little rusty, but I was off in the cold morning haze at 07.

There was no warmup, the rocky trail shot straight up to trace a cliff shoulder. I passed the Italian hikers from the night before with a friendly wave. Michael and Lizzie next. I tried my best to get into a good groove despite my heavy pack, and pumped it up a massive ascent over a bush-clad rockface. The rock was so worn from a hundred thousand pairs of boots that my trekking poles had little or no traction. They kept slipping, sending me flying forwards. I’ve come to rely so heavily on my second pair of legs that I felt severely handicapped now. But “still I rise”. I crept into the sunrise, crossed the edge of Bocca Piccaia to a stunning view of pink craggy peaks all around. They stuck up like canine teeth, jagged edges of rough rock plummeting straight down hundreds of metres. I pulled out the Cicerone guidebook, which read “Those who reach Bocca Piccaia after 2,5 hrs are doing well”. I’d done it in only 2! Awesome stuff, Paddy! Amazonian queen points.

The book described a series of scrambles considered to be “an extra tough part of the GR20”. Understatement of the year. If I was to describe that section, I’d generously go for “extreme” and “borderline dangerous”. More than anything, I was grateful for my climbing experience. Scrambling up and down where the path twisted through the crags, I held onto the small holds for dear life. Manoeuvring my large backpack through the narrow gaps was an extreme sport in itself. Fucketyfuckfuck! At the next bocca I collapsed onto the open space and made myself a coffee out of desperation for a break. The trail spiralled downwards towards the valley where the next refuge lay deep below. Going downhill was almost harder than going up, now I had to brace with my quads and knees for every step too.

The two Italian guys - M & P - who’d gifted me the box of matches caught up to me. They seemed intent on keeping me company, exchanging way more than the usual niceties. Each step demanded my complete concentration, and I wished they’d move on so I didn’t have to talk. But they were all “ladies first”, so I elegantly fell twice within a few minutes. My legs were shaking and my whole lower half felt like rubber by the time we dipped below the treeline to refill our water bottles. …where I discovered to my despair that my filter was gone. My brand new, expensive Katadyn filter (which you can see hanging precariously out of my pack’s mesh pocket on the banner photo). Well, fuck me. Not only did I lose my water quality guarantee that would have given me access to all sources – I’d also cut my carrying capacity to a dangerously low 1,5L. Now that I wasn’t preoccupied with tumbling down a mountain, I also felt like I’d pulled a muscle in my back. I was cramping and miserable.

Refuge de Carozzu was like a village. The place was packed with day hikers in addition to the GR20 high season trekkers. Sleeping with my tent vestibules open would be risky business, as the only spot left was basically in the middle of the main square. M & P, who despite their friendliness were now getting on my nerves, inspected my tent thoroughly, fondling every inch of it. M, the youngest, had a boyish pout and kept asking me to have beer or wine with him. I wasn’t inclined to accept anything more than those matches and ambled away to find a nearby swimming hole. I swam fully clad and spent the afternoon napping and reading.

Evening rolled around, and all the hikers from the previous refuge gathered around. Lizzie, Michael and I, M & P, two other Italians named Leonardo and A (also anonymous here), and a young Dutch couple. I arrived to overhear Leonardo describe how the Norwegian girl had passed him like a train. “Hey, the flying girl!” he called as I approached. I felt utterly smashed, but “flying girl” I could live with. We talked trail and trash as the sun set, until it was just me, the Dutch couple and M & P remaining.

Dinner: lentils, quinoa, fajita spice and olive hummous. Sad & yummy.

The Dutch girl stood up to grab something from her tent, and M dropped a raunchy comment about her ass when she was out of earshot. I stared at him in disgust. Really? This is how you treat your female hiker pals? Glad I didn’t accept any alcohol from you! And I was equally disappointed in the Dutch boyfriend, who instead of snapping back to defend his girlfriend, bantered along with M. What a letdown, bro. If you ever read this, I hope you will reconsider where your loyalties lie. And to any male hikers who might be reading this: female hikers aren’t on the trail for your visual entertainment. Please refrain from dropping objectifying or sexualised comments about us – even when we’re not there to hear it. I retired to my tent shortly after, curtly rejecting another offer of beer. Tomorrow I’ll be going solo for sure.

Day 3 - Sanctuary

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.

Day 4 - Ascension

Ascu Stagnu - Auberge U Vallone

How do I even begin to describe this insane day? I’d had a fitful sleep and felt fatigued right from the get-go. The power I usually feel pulsating in my legs simply wasn’t there. I started out from Ascu at dawn, my body feeling sluggish and uncoordinated. Looking up at the Monte Cinto crest, I felt my stomach dropping down to my feet. It was SO far, SO high. I couldn’t even see the top of it, only mean-looking crags poking at the sky. I’d be stuck with this mountain for hours. I passed hikers and was passed in return. Fervently chewed sour gummy worms and drank gross electrolyte water to not die. Had to pull myself up vertical walls using chains so thick and heavy I could barely lift them. Next: giant boulders, more rockface and slippery scree where I had to throw myself upwards to fight the downward pull of the loose rocks.

Not even half way up. And yes, you climb the top crags.

To my surprise, I found Michael and Lizzie perched on a small plateau in the sunshine. We exchanged our customary morning report and complained of the gradient. The plateau, however, was merely an outpost as the climb continued. Up, up, up. Two hours. Three. Gummies, water, groan. Why do I do this again? I though back to other hideous ascents and descents I’d encountered during my trail days. Glen Pass and Travers Saddle seemed like cutesy hills compared to Monte Cinto Monster. Every ounce of my determination was working to full capacity. Please, I begged in my mind. Let it end!

And there, at last, after 3,5 hrs of climbing up to 2700 m. The divide. Jesus wept. I sank down to remove my shoes and socks and indulged in a proper tortilla/ham/hummous lunch. Lizzie and Michael popped over the edge after only a few minutes, to their triumph not far behind me. Mountains beckoned us on from the south. To the north lay the coastline, where people were lounging on beaches, eating ice cream and not dreaming of our hardships. Coming down the south side was gentler, but I longed to stretch my legs. This trail is so mentally challenging because every moment is one of complete concentration. You can’t let your feet or your mind soar because every step needs to be carefully calculated – or you will tumble down the mountain and die.

Down the scree, over Bocca Crucetta, descending into an alpine valley so beautiful that I switched to saunter mode and picked my way down gingerly. No more rushing today, I’d earned some lax. I could see Refuge de Tighjettu below and heard a cascading river on my left. The sun shone pleasantly warm on my skin, casting off the white rock and illuminating everything in a white haze. Pools began to appear in the river. Thru-hiker speed instinct aside, I want to do this trail right. I picked a pool, soaked my dead-beat feet and leaned against my backpack to read a good 40 pages of The Glass Castle. Refuge de Tighjettu just didn’t give me good vibes when I arrived, so I guiltily settled for emptying my menstrual cup in the squat toilets and hiked on. A large “Closed” sign pointed to Cirque de la Solitude, an old section of trail where a massive landslide killed seven hikers in 2015. Beyond the sign was nothing but eerie quiet, looming mountains with no intent of giving up their secrets.

On my way to the next refuge, Auberge U Vallone, I found what I’d been looking for all along: a wild camp spot. Double Yatzy! And just below lay a deep green crystal pool which I had all to myself. The GR20 delivered today. I swam naked in the pool, showered in the waterfall and lay exposed on the rocks while butterflies fluttered around my legs. Embracing solitude with gusto, I marvelled at this roller-coaster ride of a trek. I was falling for the GR20 in all its untamed, magnificent ruggedness. A walked by my tent in the afternoon, stopping for a lengthy talk and asked if he could come back later. I tried discouraging him gently, to little avail.

A returned despite my articulated indifference (read: rejection). Evening had come around, and I was nesting in my tent reading. It felt too rude keeping the mesh entirely closed, so I allowed a small gap between us. His shaky English limited our topics of conversation to the immediate. I felt we were scraping the bottom of the bucket after five minutes. “You have such nice blue eyes” he started. “Pretty much all Norwegians have blue eyes!” I countered – desperate to cut that line of thinking.

He just wouldn’t leave, even as the first stars popped into the night sky. However, my ears practically pricked to the sound of plastic wrapping being crinkled. Did he? Sigh. He brought Milka chocolate. Dirty played. I didn’t stand a chance against this superior bargaining tool. I guess I could entertain him for a while longer.

Day 5 - The Only Girl in the Mountains

Auberge U Vallone - Castel de Vergio

How could this day possibly start the same way that yesterday ended? I slept in to 06.30, stretching like a cat, sooo ready to embark on an easier day. Coming out of my tent, I noticed a guy who’d cowboy camped only a few metres away. Strange… He coincidentally got up when I got out and ambled over. How my scrunched-up morning face, hair nest and dirty glasses didn’t deter him is beyond my understanding. He turned out to be Austrian. And he wanted to talk. And talk more. In the end, he was talking to my butt sticking out of my tent as I tried to gather my belongings and leave. I was well aware of the newly acquired hole in my hiking shorts. Where was I from? Going to? Tonight? The heck away from all you nagging guys, I wanted to reply. Give me strength! When at last I had all my stuff packed up and heaved my backpack on, he looked surprised that I was actually leaving. “Yes, I’M GOING NOW. BYE!”. He heaved a sigh of remorse, “I could have stayed here talking to you all day”. Yeah mate, that sure seems to be the common denominator around here. Happy traaaaiiiils…!

Sometimes you’d think I was the only girl out here. My blue eyes and I just want to go hiking. Turns out my wild camp wasn’t so wild after all, though. 50 m round a bend in the trail lay Auberge u Vallone. Ops… Oh well, still saved me the 7€ camp fee!

I set off into the woods, impatiently waiting to pass a we-don’t-believe-in-contraception-sized German family. At long last, the track was rated fast. This was my turf. The sun scorched me through the trees, but I powered up the trail. Today was mine. I goddamn ran up that morning’s bocca. My eyelashes were crusted white with salt and sweat was pouring off me, but with music plugged in I could heave myself up the rockface to the great grassy valleytop above.

And there, up on the rims of the bowl surrounding a massive green valley, lay my territory. I whooped out loud. Finally I could give it my all, stretch my legs, run into the world. Past Refuge de Ciottulu di I Mori, I was flying.

“Tell me what you need, oh, you look so free

Don't let it get you down, you're the best thing I've seen…»

Round the rim, up to the sky, down into the valley. My pack and I felt like the same organism. Every leap perfectly balanced on my four legs. I recall realising that I must be in the shape of my life now. I stuck out my trekking poles to dance as I raced. This was the epitome of freedom! And as if the day wasn’t already perfect, I found the emerald pool, complete with waterfall and white slabs of rock. I threw off my clothes and dived right in. The icy water shocked me as I swam under, but this is the stuff of life! Of all the places I could possibly be right now, I was here to submerge in these wonders. Lying on the warm rocks, hair fanned out to dry. How I love closing my eyes towards the sun, seeing that fuzzy orange glow through my eyelids. Tears pooled underneath them as I lay there saturated with happiness.

“Oh, you and all your vibrant youth
How could anything bad ever happen to you?
You make a fool of death with your beauty, and for a moment
I forget to worry”

I kept running on a high all the way to Castel de Vergio. People looked at me weirdly as I BONJOUR’ed everyone with way more enthusiasm than called for. Shane’s (the 17 yr-old doing the trail in seven days) hiking partner caught up to me at the next swimming hole, panting “I try to catch you, but you are so fast!”. Haha my friend, this is what I do! “And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free…” ever onwards through the pines and twice across the river.

I was completely drunk post-high by the time I rambled into the hotel at Castel de Vergio. Paid for a spot at the – possibly – ugliest campground I’ve ever seen. Paddy warned strangely to hang food, as the fence would “keep out large pigs, but not foxes and small pigs”. Ehm, okay..? I could indulge all I wanted at the camp store. Peaches, ice cream, drinks, Internet, and crunchy sandwiches.

On this trail I was a veteran hiker. People asked me for advice on gear, breaks, hydration, shoe-lacing techniques, you name it. But today I was happy to take my own advice and savour the experience for all it was worth.

A hobbled into camp on shredded feet, while I had an appropriately humongous dinner with Michael and Lizzie in the fancy hotel dining room. Michael told me wide-eyed “I saw the creepiest thing at Refuge de Tighjettu last night, one of the toilet drains was drenched in blood!” I wondered if he could see the scarlet letter on my face as I thought back to emptying my menstrual cup in that very drain. Hehe, my bad.

Day 6 - Transcendence

Castel de Vergio - Refuge de Manganu

Sometimes you just need to do that Sunday morning justice. When my alarm rang at 06, I thought to hell with it. I was snug as a bug in my mummy bag. Didn’t I deserve to sleep in just a little? Disregard the fact that I hardly knew if it was Sunday or not, when you’re on the trail those things don’t matter. It’s just day 6, or 21, or 54.

It took a long time to muster the will to get up and stroll over to the abundant camp facilities. 2x salted macademia toffee coffees accompanied the sunrise. I knew today’s 17 km would be breezy, and after yesterday’s show there was nothing to prove to anyone. A sat down at my table and stole an Italian cheek-kiss before I could gather my wits. We were clearly upping the stakes.

The trail treated me to a pleasant woodland stroll. I left the track to pee (diuretic drinks + Mediterranean summer…) and turns out the trail suddenly swept off upwards – right to where I was. Ops! Lucky strike. Many hikers missed that turnoff.

The sandy white track undulated through boccas, over ridges where windswept trees slashed their roots through the trail. I half-heartedly plugged in music, but turned it off again. Yesterday had been the high-flying day. Today wasn’t for ultragear, but I was happy to stroll freely along and let my mind wander. To guys I’d been with, in their varying degrees of memorableness. There was one I always regretted not punching in the face. Others that I thought of with nothing but warmth. To London life and my upcoming MA, so close in time – but impossibly far away from this wild world.

I could feel myself sinking into rhythm of trail life without any fear of what I was missing. True, it hadn’t yet been a week, but these days had been hard enough. There was nothing about civilisation that I longed for. This trail was so demanding of all strength, grit and focus, but I was mastering it. I was so happy to be here alone, feeling centred in myself and confident that I have “so much to enjoy and to be and to do”. All winter and spring I chased validation, throwing myself at every embrace because I didn’t want to face the everyday alone. It was only this summer that I finally faced up to loneliness and was able to see the freedom in it – not just the emptiness. Here on the trail, nothing more than the immediate matters. I need a mint choc ice cream much more than I need a guy. And I thought back to what I realised on the TA: it is amongst other people that loneliness feels like a prison. Out here it is equal parts liberation.

I rounded a grassy mountain while chewing on some vanilla energy balls. Most vanilla-flavoured foods disappoint me because there is never enough vanilla in there. But my goodness, these ones were the bomb. I felt like I’d swallowed a scented candle. Coming over the mountain top, I stopped, stunned. To a backdrop of distant peaks, whitish-blue in the heat haze, lay a vast grassy plateau where herds of horses grazed next to a glittering blue lake. “Holy damn” I exclaimed. Such an ethereally perfect place, no one could have imagined it any better. Switzerland outside of Switzerland. I walked over to the horses and petted a scraggly old gelding before picking out a lunch spot. The small store at Castel de Vergio sold fresh bread, and I was only too greatful to be done with wraps. However, the peach jam I carried was such a pathetic lump of preservatives and gelatine that I had to laugh watching it quiver precariously on my piece of bread. Small pleasures.

Beyond the grasslands, the trail winded along like a pale grey snake. Groves of strangely lush trees popped up regularly, but it was unbelievably hot. The usual breeze was gone, and there was no water. Heat rose from the ground, and the sun burned relentlessly from a cloudless sky. My lips cracked, and I was positively wheezing by the time I reached Bergeries de Vaccaghja and the freshwater spring there.

A trio of horses grazed eagerly on the lush slopes, and I stuck out my hand to the handsome chestnut eyeing me curiously. Across a rock-strewn field lay my destination. I couldn’t believe how short today was! It wasn’t yet 13.00, all I had to do was amble over.

Refuge de Manganu was gorgeous, nestled against a mountainside next to a glass-clear river with pools to swim in. I walked the whole perimeter before deciding on a sheltered camp spot in a bushy grove. Today felt like such a holiday. I set up camp, did my laundry in the river, paid for a hot shower to wash my hair free of sunscreen and dried sweat, and splurged on an omelette and iced tea. The heat was still sweltering, so I retreated to a cool spot on a boulder in the river with my book.

Lizzie, Michael, and A arrived later in the afternoon to share my enthusiasm for the pools. Lizzie lent me some moisturiser, and I floated on a cloud of honeydew for the rest of the evening. For dinner I cooked up a final, shockingly large portion of lentils/quinoa/fajita spice – don’t ever want to taste either of those things again.

At dusk, I ran into A while I was coming out of the toilet to empty my menstrual cup. Both the cup and my hand where covered in blood, and I hastily hid them both behind my back as he began his usual chatter. “Blablabla, …do you want biscuits?”. Bugger. My clean hand held my toothbrush & toilet paper. I couldn’t exactly reach out my hideous bloody hand to take the biscuits. Sigh. Nothing is sadder than missed calories in this primal trail life.

Day 7 - Feeling a Moment

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…

Day 8 - Speed the Collapse

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.