I’m on the easiest part of one of the easiest legs of the GR20 (the toughest walk in Europe, in its own words), so naturally I’m alone here, lost in a cloud, with hands so cold I’m seriously considering peeing on them.
The guidebook advertised this as a short, flat day, only 10.2 miles (16.5 km) with 670 meters of ascent. I circled it as someone to be enjoyed. Maybe if the weather was warm, I would dive into Lac de Ninu and put out the fire in my calves. But when the hail fell and thorns added to the harsh wind and the thunder began to drum behind the empty gray horizon, I thought: “Better put on more layers than take off.” I struggle with zippers but find just about enough digital power without resorting to anything harmful to health.
The fog is complete on the high plain of Bocca a Reta; It extinguishes all vibration, muffles all sound, shrinks the world into an alien dome. A black salamander trembles on a divok. Bells ring softly from the necks of unknown beasts. I stand at the edge of my visible frontier as shadows gather, and soon a man comes into range. Drawing a map in a sandy hollow, he hurriedly gives directions. Finding the next refuge, Manganu, seems to depend on being able to see the lake. A disheveled young man comes towards us and greets us with a start. I wish them good courage and move forward.
Soon the fog clears enough for me to see the Corsican flag; This shows that I somehow took shelter, even though I didn’t see even a drop of lake. When I poke my head into the hut, I see an old man with a cloth hat covering half his face and a beard covering the rest. He sips his morning pastiche and stares at the fire filling the humid air with wood smoke. I stomp my feet and shake off the rain, but he still doesn’t return. This doesn’t feel right. I look at my guidebook and realize it’s not Manganu, it’s Vaccaghja Bergerie, a mile or so to the north. This is actually the stone living room of a shepherd named Noel. He has seen too much to surprise the stragglers. Every summer, since that beard is the beard of puberty, he does transhumance and brings goats to graze the mountain grass.
More than a hike, this is a 10-15 day body mobility challenge where one must crawl, climb, slide and slide on all kinds of rocks.
When I finally reach Manganu, I open the shelter door and feel the warmth of the gas stove. Wet stuff drips and steam comes out of each hook. There are people around me who have been walking with mugs or slices of sauce in their hands for the last few days. Miriam and Valentin caught my eye and shuffled over to a bench to make room. I met them the first night, in the eagle’s nest of the Ortu di u Piobbiu sanctuary. While I was busy watching the sun move away from the valley, the strong wind was also busy lifting my tent from its place. Just as the canvas began to tumble down the hill, I realized that I had caught it in a mad dash before it approached the cliff. When I returned to my campsite, Miriam and Valentin were waiting for me. They had watched the pantomime and took pity on me, teaching me how to shoot using rocks into the rings where the pegs would normally go, when pegs were not widely purchased. Here they are again offering a smile, a coffee and a biscuit. We look at the shaking windows and can’t help laughing: this was supposed to be an easy day.
GR20 long; It’s about 195 kilometers down Corsica’s spine between Calenzana and Conca – but it’s the painful altitude: 12,700 meters up and down unwelcoming mountains. Less walking, more of a 10-15 day mobility challenge. Especially in the first half, one has to crawl, climb, slide and glide over all kinds of rocks: half-molten bowls, huge flat boulders, sticks and gray and pink nuggets. Small holds are the only protection against endless falls. Everyone calls it the toughest walk in Europe; they have a meaning.
What’s the point? Beauty is part of it, of course, at least when the weather is good. These are places that can only be reached by walking or by hand, and contain all the visuals and brutality. Jagged peaks cut across the soft yellow sky. Waterfalls splash from the cliffs. Collar is rolled into steep-sided stone cauldrons deep enough to hide bandits for decades. But these are treasures equally or better known elsewhere. So why again?
Everyone is dirty and limping as we gather for the final descent. We smile when we make eye contact with each other. It was hard and we were tired but the main thing was the difficulty
I realized this on the morning of the last day. From the rocky plateau of the Paliri Refuge, I look up at the morning star hanging over the pines in a pristine sky. The sea, which has not been seen since the second day, is sleeping under a gray quilt. Soon the sun appears over the horizon and colors the clouds: purple, peach, a dreamy turquoise. I pull out my phone to take a photo, but the scanner doesn’t recognize my worn thumbs. I look at my injured knee, shaking in the cold, my dirty nails, and then at the people around me. Everyone is dirty and limping as we pack up the tents for the final descent. We smile when we make eye contact with each other. It’s been hard and we’re tired, but it’s clear now that the challenge was the point; Because now we know we can do hard things.
Even when the freezing wind is whipping the tent, the back is sore from a night on the rocks, the tendons are tight from yesterday, the stomach is torn from a sloppy stew, even when waking up in a hill station while the rain is making the rocks slippery and removing a fifth of the rocks. It is possible to walk up and down a mountain for eight hours – every step of the way. That the challenges of every day are solvable. All those mornings when the task seemed too much, we packed up, put our feet down, completed one step, then the next, and somehow made it to the top. It made the challenges of normal life seem manageable.
The essence of the story is journey and transformation. A hero enters the forest and overcomes a challenge, gaining some wisdom to bring home. Stories are told to excite and entertain, but also to explore aspects of human nature that normal life rarely reveals. Hard breaks work the same way. One leaves home with the trinkets that comfort and pamper, and devote all one’s energy to a struggle, leaving no one left to think about regrets or pursue petty grievances. In their place, vital facts emerge. Can say, “Oh, thank God, there’s toilet paper” and Definitely to mean. That the most ordinary bromide can contain the most beautiful truth. Happiness has nothing to do with new things, better clothes, a bigger house; nature and connection are much more valuable. That we are strong and can do impossible things. It’s like climbing mountains. Or just being happy. And we pack all this knowledge into our bags and take it down the mountain.