BEAUTIFUL BEAST
GR20
Kristin Thue takes on possibly the toughest trail in Europe
“I leant over my trekking poles and looked towards the pale sunrise touching the tip of Corsica’s highest mountain. I’m dying, I thought.”
THE MONTE CINTO crest rose above me, so high I had to crane my neck to see its uppermost crags. No doubt I would be stuck with this mountain for a whole day. I could hardly distinguish the trail from the surrounding crags, and frequently got lost in the loose scree. Fervently chewing wine gums and gulping down electrolyte water, I heaved myself upwards into the sunrise. Thick chains were bolted into the mountainside where the path became pure cliff face, and hikers had to pull themselves up using pure muscle force. I leant over my trekking poles between two massive boulders and looked towards the pale sunrise touching the 2562 metre (8405 feet) tip of Corsica’s highest mountain.
I’m dying, I thought.
The GR 20 was a rather spontaneous adventure for me. I prefer sunshine-filled hikes, and the Mediterranean island in August had lots of it. My guidebook ominously referred to the first day as a “baptism of fire”. After four excruciating hours of climbing up from Calenzana into the mountains in searing heat, I understood why. Burned branches poked into the path as the scenery changed from green coastal shrubbery to rocky outcrops tracing mountainsides towards the first camp. A host of tents lay scattered on a grassy hillside facing straight into the sunset. I felt a rush of love for this newfound wild place as I set up my tent in the golden light. This was looking like an adventure already. Jagged pink mountains shot into the sky like canine teeth, plummeting hundreds of metres into shadowy gorges.
Day two brought a series of scrambles through narrow gaps in the rock, only occasionally aided by chains – “an extra tough part of the GR 20” according to the guidebook. Understatement of the year. The pitches were grotesquely steep. I was genuinely afraid as I inched my way on all fours and almost speared a poor lizard with my trekking pole. More than anything, I felt grateful for my climbing experience as I clung to the rock holds for dear life. It suddenly made sense why most people chose to carry light day packs. My beloved 65L Osprey threatened to tip me onto my face at every turn. Trekking poles dangling from my wrists, I inched my way to Punta Ghialla, where I collapsed in a pile of relief. Of all the trails I have ever done, that passage was probably the hardest found on any of them!
GOOD AND BAD COMPANY
Solitude-seeking trekkers might find the GR 20 a little too crowded in the high season. There were typically 40+ hikers at every refuge, and latecomers struggled to find secluded tent spots. On the upside, we formed trail families instantly, and spent long hours sharing beers and lentils in the sunset. UK couple Michael and Lizzie were rookies, but wildly funny and game for anything the trail threw at them. Lizzie’s countless falls left her covered in bruises, to the point where people were starting to give Michael the odd suspicious look. They took their time and often arrived at camp late. At Petra Piana refuge they ended
up having to sleep right next to the water source – a feisty contraption squirting water everywhere like a geyser on acid. Never one to be disheartened, Michael eyed the water source calculatingly before concluding “It’s got attitude. I like it!”
As with the hikers themselves, each refuge had its own personality. Some bustled with day hiker activity while others lay on lonely outcrops beneath the shadow of a mountain crest, giving you the feeling of being perched on the roof of the world. We could only marvel at this roller-coaster ride of a trek. I was falling for the GR 20 in all its untamed, magnificent ruggedness.
It quickly became clear that the GR 20 had more in store for me than sunburn and sweaty ascents. I was one of very few solo female hikers, and we were, apparently, a hot commodity in the mountains.
My encounters ranged from the inappropriate to the absurd. There was the shirtless German who would walk by, pointedly stare in my direction, and loudly announce his need for a back massage. Then there was Marco, who – upon hearing that I was a feminist – sighed regretfully that I was not the woman for him. Indeed. And the cowboy camper who chatted happily to my bum sticking out of my tent as I tried to pack up and leave... Where was I from? Going to? TONIGHT? Away from all you nagging guys, I thought. No amore for me, thank you. My tent smelled bad enough with only me inside.
My troubles culminated in the last evening of the north. Sitting in my tent at night, I was startled by the sound of
something heavy crashing through the bushes. “Kristiiinaaa!” Before I could kill my headlamp and pretend to be asleep, the clingy Pedro literally fell to his hands and knees in front of me. A
stream of words came out, something about beautiful blue eyes and exchanging emails. This man was completely immune to my rejections. When he asked for a goodbye kiss, I stonily unzipped my tent mesh and smacked my head against his in a double Italian – while gritting my teeth loudly in his ears.
EMERALD POOLS
The first days on the trail required enormous concentration to navigate.
Not only was it a physical challenge to either heave myself upward or brace against the pull of gravity going down, it was mentally exhausting to calculate every step. Thousands of boots had worn down the surfaces of the Spasimata Slabs and other ascents, leaving a precipitous and polished surface of white rock.
But at last, after four days of roller coaster scrambles, the trail finally allowed me to stretch my legs. The viewpoint at Bocca di Foggiale revealed a sandy track tracing the rim of the vast Cascades de Radules valley like a silver snake. I was racing along the track, laughing at my new-found freedom when I spotted the most beautiful swimming hole I have ever seen. Crystal clear and emerald green between white slabs of rock, complete with a private waterfall… I could not jump in fast enough! After a soak in the refreshingly cold river, I lay on the rock to dry while green butterflies fluttered around my toes. Cattle grazed peacefully beside the trail as I continued my journey down the lush valley of cascading waterfalls encircled by wild mountains.
Two such days in a row felt like pure luxury. Getting to camp early at Refuge de Manganu was heavenly after a baking hot day. Glass-clear pools formed in the river overlooking the vast grassy valley below. I could enjoy my book in the cool shadows while Lizzie nursed her sore feet in the water. For all its wild mountains and hard walking, the GR 20 also provided quiet solace at the end a long day. Snuggling into my sleeping bag in this perfectly temperate nook of the world felt like home. In fact, despite walking solo in a foreign country surrounded by strangers, I did not feel lonely once. In the wilderness, solitude can be the ultimate freedom.
AN EVENTFUL ENDING
After a rushed resupply in Corte, a short train ride from the sleepy mid-point of Vizzavona, I was once again plodding down the southward trail on crunchy knees. Thick birch forest lined the path, encapsulating the heat and the moisture rising from small streams. I felt like I was walking in a cup of herbal tea. After the wild north, the south almost felt anticlimactic. All the way from Bergeries de Cappanelle to Bocca di Verdi through burnt forest was flat cruising. Fewer people passed by (those who did were in rather a hurry; I probably stank to high heaven).
Refuge di Prati lay just beyond a ridge, on an exposed plateau at 1820 metres
(5971 feet). Fog crept up the mountains, engulfing the refuge and surrounding tents in a light veil of rain – perfect weather for an afternoon nap. I woke to the sound of hail hitting my tent like shotgun bullets. There was a deep breath of sudden silence before I was blinded by white light.
A split second later, 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, and the ground was shaking. I was only too aware that Refuge di Prati was newly rebuilt after the previous one was destroyed by lightning,
The storm seemingly tore the mountain apart for two hours before we could shakily creep out of our tents. Hikers gathered on the hut porch, some crying hysterically.
The hut warden joined us and delivered grim news: the weather forecast predicted nothing but savage thunderstorms for a full week. I looked south towards Conca: my destination, at the same time closer and further away than ever. A weather-beaten Frenchman joined me as we gazed across the vast mountainscape utterly devoid of shelter. “La vie… is more important than GR 20”, he muttered. Truer words were never spoken.
Of all the challenges I faced on this trail, leaving it was the hardest. Days after turning back, I watched storms ravage the mountains from the white sand beaches of Porto Vecchio and knew I had done the right thing. One thing was for certain: the GR 20 was a beautiful beast of a trail.
“After a soak in the refreshingly cold river, I lay on the rock to dry while green butterflies fluttered around my toes.”