Vizzavona - Bergeries de Cappanelle

The original plan was to enjoy a full rest day in Corte and then double almost all stages in the south. But my knees were absolutely wrecked, and the weather forecast wasn’t looking as bright as before. So it was with a heavy heart that I gathered my new resupplies, left the air conditioned hotel room and took the train back to Vizzavona in the heat of midday. I’d never hiked for more than eight days without a rest day, and both my body and mind screamed to be back in bed. Despite my best efforts at bathtub laundry, my clothes smelled like acid. My reflection in the full-length mirror was definitely leaner, all that climbing had turned my arms to steel. That morning I had taped my feet up while simultaneously selecting modules for my MA at King’s. It felt pretty absurd to browse modules on counter-terrorism, critical geopolitics, and international criminal law whilst sorting out daily rations of energy bars.

Coming back to Vizzavonna was just… ugh. Too soon. I purchased an expensive sunscreen at the tiny store and walked towards the town refuge to ask for the water source. The old host looked at me through squinty eyes. “Water??” Don’t start with me, Grandpa, you know what water means. “For what?” I looked at him incredulously and replied “…for drinking?”, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Non, customers only”. Are you kidding me? It’s 36 degrees outside, and you’d rather see me die of dehydration because I didn’t pay you? Merci for nothing. I didn’t even bother to answer, I just stalked off. Could the French make any less effort than they had so far?

I set off into the woods. Give me mountains over forest any day, but it felt good to be under the cover of trees for a change. The forest was a lovely, very familiar beech – I could almost pretend to be back in New Zealand. My feet were grumpy. Podcast to the rescue, nothing like a bit of “The Savage Lovecast” to make dullness come alive. Hearing a familiar voice (even though I’ve never met Dan Savage of course) felt comforting. My mind was just drained. Don’t skimp on those rest days, people. No matter how much you love your job, you don’t say no thanks when the weekend comes. The days where you don’t want the trail to end are the best. But right from the moment my foot touched the GR20 South trail, I just wanted to get to camp. I felt so tired, sleepy even.

Once up and over the trees at Bocca Palmento, I heard distant thunder. The weather had changed from spotless to pressured. Gone was the dry, dusty feel of the north. Wisps of cloud swirled around the rocky outcrop where I stood, and I was glad to dip back inside the musty forest. The humidity was stifling, a thick mist settled down to engulf me and the trees. It was eerily quiet. I hadn’t seen another person since Vizzavona hours before. “Sing me a song of a lass that is gone…” I sang lamely. Coming around a bend, I looked up to see a large bull standing in the middle of the trail. There had been plenty of cows in the north, and so I walked steadily towards it, asking it to please get out of my way. But this guy wasn’t like those domesticated burgers-to-be. He looked me dead in the eye, snorted and took a step towards me. Holy shit! Getting mauled by a bull was not on my agenda for today. I backed off and tiptoed off trail, giving the bull a wide berth. Had he been an aggressive horse I would have shooed him off, but something tells me angry bulls don’t work the same way…

Today’s trail was super easy, a good fit for my low mood. I trudged into Bergeries de Cappanelle at sunset and rented a tent. No way I’d want to carry around my soggy Duplex in this condensation nightmare. The bergerie lay in a less-than-charming shallow quarry, where someone had seemingly built half a ski field before changing their minds. I was determined to still enjoy the trail, but accepted that today wasn’t my day. It felt odd to sit underneath the trees to write without my trail friends. The south felt completely different from the north. Not rugged at all, less populated, and extremely humid. I scanned my face in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth before bed. Under-eye circles, tousled hair made fluffy from the moisture, a galaxy of freckles, eyebrows singed blonde by the sun, and an outdoorsy-looking tan offset by some dirt streaks. Kinda wild. I gave my reflection a high five because no one else was there to do it.  

 Bergeries de Cappanelle - Refuge di Prati

The difference between the north and south couldn’t be more stark than on this stage. All the way from Bergeries de Cappanelle to Bocca di Verdi was pretty much flat cruising. Day hikers passing in bright t-shirts looked at me like I was a circus animal. I felt stinky and gross, and tried to pass everyone as quickly as possible. The feeling of eager semi-competitiveness (“it’s me against the trail”) was still absent. I was simply tired. Maybe it was the persistent humidity pushing my buttons. In addition, the uninspiring forest was unusually dank and musty today.

Low-hanging clouds acted like a lid on the pungent air, releasing fragrance from the dense vegetation. It felt like walking inside a cup of herbal tea. My armpits had developed sore, bleeding crusts from the constant sweating and rubbing of dirty fabric. I plodded through a burn area and saw a sandy rump lope through the naked trees. My instinct immediately screamed “MOUNTAIN LION!”, and I froze until I heard it moo. Lost calf. Right. We’re not in California now.

I reached Bocca di Verdi, a refuge by an actual road, at noon and ordered apple pie and a sandwich. When the latter was presented, I didn’t know whether to laugh or simply gape. It was the size of a Jack Russell terrier, my friend Tom would have described it as “ridonkulous”. Took me over half an hour to chew through the whole thing, and I needed some Savage Love to pull me up the mountain towards my home for the night afterwards. “Must have been an awkward Thanksgiving in the *** family after anti-gay Republican politician daddy was caught browsing for dick on Grindr…!”. Ah, no one says it like you Dan. Actually, I used the Savage Lovecast offer code to buy this website – so thanks!

Refuge de Prati would have been beautiful in the sunshine. It lay a short walk beneath a ridge, on an exposed plateau at 1820 m. Fog was seeping in, engulfing the mountain in light rain. I rented a tent again and was given the runt of the litter, a squat green cave so tight I had to twist myself into a pretzel to fit inside. Finally it was cool enough to take that midday nap I’d dreamt of for ten days. I woke up to the pitter-patter of rain intensifying. Like, really intensifying. It sounded like someone was pelting the tents with a shotgun. I peaked outside to see hail the size of my fingernails assaulting the camp. A loud crack of thunder echoed through the mist. I shuddered and curled up like a shrimp in my nylon cave. Puddles began to form around the tents. There was a deep breath of sudden silence before I was blinded by white light. The same second, the sky exploded in thunder so loud I hid under my sleeping bag, clutched my ears and pressed myself into the ground. Screams sounded from the other tents, the ground was shaking.

I couldn’t care less about thunder in my regular life, but being trapped on an exposed hillside in the midst of a storm with nothing but a tent for shelter is an entirely different ordeal. It was like experiencing the blitz. What would it feel like to have my bones charred to ash in a second? The hut at Refuge de Prati was new because the old one had burned down after a lightning strike... Another massive clap of thunder sent my ears ringing. It was right overhead! I was terrified as white flashes and booms seemed to tear the mountain apart. Another explosion crashed down on us, I whimpered and heard desperate cries to my right.

For two hours the fierce storm ravaged the mountain. Since you are reading this, you can tell that I lived. When the last black cloud withdrew, people emerged with pale faces and shrank together to find solace in the confirmation of their fears. A woman who’d arrived at the refuge in the middle of the storm sat on the porch crying hysterically. The hut warden’s weather forecast was disastrous: more storms, all day every day. I looked despairingly up at the mountain I was meant to traverse tomorrow. I wouldn’t be under the cover of trees for two days. Going forward into storms like the one we’d just witnessed wouldn’t be folly – it would be a death wish. To the south lay Conca, my destination, at the same time closer and further away than ever.

Hushed conversations pervaded Refuge de Prati that evening. Everyone scanned the horizons, willing it to be different. Several people asked me for advice, I could only say “there is more to it than tomorrow”. This was after all an ideal place to turn around, Bocca di Verdi and the road to civilisation lay only 2 hrs from here. Once you ventured further south there was no easy escape. I wanted to keep going as much as anyone, but no trail is worth the ultimate sacrifice. There was only the slim hope that somehow the weather would turn around. Now I suddenly had to wonder whether this was my last night in the wild. When would my next hike be? For once, I had no idea. Was I ready to go back? I wanted to continue on so badly. Had this trail taught me something the way its predecessors had?

I gazed at the darkening skies and southbound trail with the same sense of naked, hopeful vulnerability with which we meet new lovers for the first time. Will you have me? Will you?

 Refuge di Prati - Bocca di Verdi

The morning was less than blissful in my tiny, cramped tent. I woke up tired, sticky, and sick to death of smelling myself. Got up and out to see hikers huddled on the refuge porch, all looking tensely at the dark purple mass hanging over the ocean. Streaks of lightening pierced the distant clouds, accompanied by booms of thunder. A thick film of rain loomed over the ridge towards the southern trail. I knew it was over. There would be no more GR20 for me, no victorious arrival in Conca. The thunderstorms posed too great a risk on the exposed mountains, the rain would make the rocks slippery and dangerous. A few young men strapped on their backpacks and strode off south towards Refuge d’Usciolu where I was also supposed to go. The remaining hikers shook their heads in dismay.

I went to stand with a weather-beaten older French guy whom I’d exchanged a few words with the night before. He smiled grimly at me and pointed at the storms converging all around us. “La vie c’est… more importante than GR20”. Yessir. Hikers trickled out back northwards. The warden cleared the common room until only a young German couple I’d seen on the north stretch and I remained. They were arguing softly about which direction to take. She made the case for turning back, he wanted to push on. I felt sorry for them as I gathered my gear and laced up my boots. Someone has got to give. Before I left, I turned around to address them both. Looking into their eyes – hers pleading, his defiant – I reminded them of what all hikers ought to remember: “The mountains are indifferent to your survival.”

Retracing my steps down to Bocca di Verdi, I faced my own demons of crushing disappointment. I’d been robbed of the finish line, the moment of glory. I’d had a spectacular hike in the north, but I wanted to complete so badly. To thru-hike. I numbly picked my way down between the rocks, floating by hikers wearing resigned expressions. Of all the hardships I’d encountered on Europe’s toughest long-distance trail, leaving it was the worst. My thoughts drifted to the epic finishes of my other thru-hikes. The yellow sign at Bluff, technically not much more than a landmark in a carpark next to a seafood restaurant – yet so symbolic it’s become an icon of the TA. Or standing atop Mount Whitney at 4500 m, arms reached out towards the sky, ending as a queen of the Sierra.

All serious hikers must come to terms with the fact that you sometimes have to quit, to turn around, to miss out. Nature is wild and unforgiving, and you don’t want to end up a death statistic. But it’s a tough pill to swallow no matter what. I pondered the situation while sitting in the passenger seat of a trail running policeman from Toulouse who’d given me a hitch out to the coast. Was there any way to accept this new reality with grace? Had I done the right thing, and did I really accomplish something?

True enough, there wasn’t much elation to my departure from the GR20. But as I write this from the pearly shores of Palombaggia beach in Porto Vecchio, I do feel a flickering sense of pride. My feet carried me over some of the toughest trekking terrain in Europe, and I think they’re happy to be nestled in the soft sand here. It feels so strange to be surrounded by hundreds of people that I won’t ever know. The days of “Bonjour, are you walking south or north?” are over. But the water here is magical. Not just because it is clear as glass and 29°C. But the feeling of weightlessness is so splendidly different from hauling a heavy backpack up a mountain that I laughed out loud as I floated around like a kid. Nothing more to do than enjoy this last day in paradise. Tomorrow a ferry will carry me home across the sea, now that I have finished my own cirque de la solitude.