by I’m on the easiest part of one of the easiest legs of the GR20 – the hardest trek in Europe in my style – so naturally here I’m alone, lost in a cloud, with hands as cold as I seriously consider watching them.
In the guidebook, this was listed as a smooth, flat day, 10.2 miles (16.5km) and 670 meters of ascent. I had it circled as one to enjoy. Maybe if it was warm, I would have a swim in Lac de Ninu, put the fires in my calves. But when hail came, spiked with blowing wind, and thunder began to drum behind the gray horizon, I thought: “Better put on more layers than take off.” I struggle with the zips, but I’m good enough to find digital strength without resorting to anything unhealthy.
The fog on the high plain of Bocca a Reta is complete, snuffing out any flicker, muting any sound, shrinking the world into an alien dome. A black salamander shakes in a divot. Bells ringing softly from the necks of unknown beasts. I stop, just as shadows gather at the edge of my visible range, and soon a man swims into range. He rushes forward instructions, scratching a map in a log of sand. Access to the next sanctuary, Manganu, seems to depend on being able to see the lake. A bedraggled teenager heads towards the country and meets us with victory. I pray them good luck and march on.
Soon the fog lifts enough for me to see the Corsican flag, which would indicate that I have sheltered, despite not seeing a drop of lake. I poked my head inside the stake to see an old man with a cloth cap covering half his face, and a beard covering the rest. He is sipping his morning pastry and staring into a fire that fills the humid air with wood smoke. I stamp my feet and shake off some rain, but still it doesn’t turn around. This doesn’t feel right. I look at my guidebook and realize that this is not Manganu, but a little over a mile north at the Vaccaghja Bergerie. This is, in fact, a shepherd’s stone living room called Noel. He has seen too much for people to be distracted. Every summer, since that beard was a young stubble, he has been practicing cross-breeding, bringing goats up to graze on the mountain grass.
It’s less of a walk, more of a 10-15 day challenge of physical mobility, where one has to crawl, climb, slide and slither over rocks of all kinds
When I finally reach Manganu, I open the door to the shelter and feel the heat of the gas stove. Wet things are dripping and steaming from every hook. Around me are the ones I’ve been walking with for the past few days, trimming mugs or slicing the juice. Miriam and Valentine catch my eye and sit on a bench to make room. I met them the first night, up on the edge of the Ortu di u Piobbiu shelter. While I was busy watching the sun slide out of the valley, the fierce wind was busy lifting my tent from its mounting. I noticed, just as the canvas started cartwheeling down the hill, and in a furious dash he caught before he came close to a precipice. When I returned to my campsite, Miriam and Darbhre were waiting. They had seen the pantomime and, unfortunately, taught me how to park when pegs don’t get much purchase by using rocks to slide into the bends where the pegs would normally go. Here they are again, offering a smile, a coffee, a biscuit. We look at the shaking windows and can’t help but smile: this was supposed to be the easy day.
The GR20 is long – almost 125 miles winding down the Corsican ridge between Calenzana and Conca – but it’s the altitude that hurts: 12,700 meters up and down unwelcoming mountains. It’s less of a walk, more of a 10-15 day physical mobility challenge. During the first half in particular, one has to crawl, clamber, slide and slither over all kinds of rocks: half-melted bowls, huge flat boulders, sticks and gray and pink rocks. Small bulbs are one protection from endless falls. Everyone calls it the hardest ride in Europe; they have a point.
So why bother? Beauty is part of it, of course, at least when the weather behaves. These are places that can only be accessed by foot and hand, with all the spectacle and labor that implies. Rough peaks cut soft yellow skies. Waterfalls leap from cliffs. Cols fall into stone caves so deep and steep that they could hide a bandit for years. However, these are known treasures, equal or improved elsewhere. So again, why?
Everyone gets dirty and entertained as they gather for the final descent. When we catch each other’s eye, we smile. It is difficult, and we are tired, but the difficulty was the point
On the morning of the last day I take it out. I look up from the rocky plateau of Paliri Sanctuary to the morning star, hanging above the pine in a virgin sky. The sea, which has not been seen since day two, sleeps under a gray blanket. Soon the sun peeks over the horizon and paints color around the clouds: purple, peach, turquoise that belongs in a dream. I take out my phone for a photo, but the scanner doesn’t recognize my worn thumbs. I look at my scarred knee, shivering in the cold, and my grimy fingers, and then at those around. Everyone is dirty and having fun as they gather tents for the final descent. When we catch each other’s eye, we smile. It was difficult, and we are tired, but, it is clear now, the difficulty was the point – because now we know that we can do hard things.
Even when you wake up in a hill station with a freezing wind whipping the tent, back aching from a night on a rock, stiff tendons from yesterday, stomach in pieces from a porous stew, rain coming to slick the rocks, and scree touching the fifth part. from each step – that is eight hours walking up and down a mountain is possible. That every day’s challenges are solvable. All those mornings when the task seemed overwhelming, we packed up, put our feet on the floor, completed one step, then another, and somehow made it to the summit. He made the difficulties of everyday life seem manageable.
The essence of the story is journey and return. A main character goes into the woods and, to overcome a test, finds wisdom to take home. Stories are told to thrill and entertain, but also to explore aspects of human nature that ordinary life rarely reveals. Hard holidays work the same way. One leaves home, with its trinkets of comfort and contrast and, with all energy spent on challenge, no one is left to consider regrets, or harbor petty grievances. In their place, a vital truth emerges. That person can say the phrase, “Oh, thank God, they have toilet paper,” and fully it will mean. That the most banal bromide can hold the most beautiful truth. That happiness is not about new things, better clothes, a bigger house; it is worth much more than nature and connection. That we are strong and can do impossible things. Like walking up mountains. Or just be happy. And we put all that knowledge in our bags and take it down the mountain.
