GR20, a Five-Part Story

--GR20, a five-part Story

July 27, 2008, Corsica, France

My alarm went off at 3 something a.m. so I could catch a plane from London to Nice, on the mainland just north of the Mediterranean island of Corsica. My plan was to hike the GR20 on Corsica, billed as the “toughest trek in Europe.” The hike can take as many as 20 days but most do it in 15 or so. Some, unfortunately, don’t finish, either because of the steep mountains or tough terrain. Sadly, the trail takes a life or two each year. This year, I was told that four or five had already died.

Part 1: Why do the French have to be so French? The GR20’s hardest stage is getting to the island.

”Bonjour. Pardon. I don’t speak French, but I’m wondering where the ferry is that’s headed to Conca,” I asked the ticket agent at Nice’s port.
“Over there,” he replied in perfect English, pointing to a ferry heading out to sea.
”But that ferry left. And my ticket says it’s supposed to leave in 30 minutes,” I replied.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” he said.
“Ok. Thank you. But I’m confused. My ticket says….”
“Yes, I know. But you need to be here early. I’m sorry,” he said.
“Huh? What? I am here early! It’s not supposed to leave for another 30 minutes,” I said, obviously frustrated that all he could do was apologize.
“You need to be here earlier,” he said, pointing to what he felt was an obvious flaw in my comments. Then he pointed to the ferry. “See?”
“Earlier than what the ticket says? Ugh.” I grumbled.
“Earlier than when the ferry leaves,” he said with all seriousness.
“How do I get to Conca?” I said. Conca is about 20 kilometers from the start of the GR20.
“Come back tomorrow, or you can catch the next ferry to Bastia, which is leaving today,” he said. Bastia is on the northeast side of the island and Conca is on the northwest side.
“Is that ferry leaving early today too,” I asked, trying to be as obnoxious as possible.
“Yes,” he said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes. And I’m sorry. You better hurry because it leaves in any minute. You should run,” he said.

The ticket agent showed no sign at all that any of our conversation had been odd. So off I went, sprinting across the Port de Nice to catch a ferry to a town that I didn’t even want to get to. I’d have to catch a train the next day to Conca. The French ferry incident put my plans back a full day.

Part 2: Basecamp. “Where the hell is everybody?”

After a day of travels from Bastia to Conca, I arrived late in the afternoon to Calenzana, the start of the GR20. At least 100 hikers were preparing dinner, looking at maps, setting up tents, arriving by bus and taxi. The atmosphere was serious. Routes were being planned. Questions were being asked. People were comparing tents and stoves and food. At least 50 tents dotted the campsite. Everyone was on a mission. I didn’t quite get it. I’d just spent the past 8 years in an office staring at computer screens. I was giddy with excitement. I was going to spend the next two weeks in the Corsican mountains, essentially away from civilization, hiking 5 to 12 hours a day. I cooked up some rice, made a salad and downed two Corsican beers, which had more than 6% alcohol content. I was psyched - and probably drunk. I headed for bed. I was asleep in minutes.

At 7 a.m., my alarm went off. I got out of my bivy and looked around. The campsite was almost empty. I stood looking around in shock. There were two tents standing compared with 50 the night before.

”Where the hell is everybody?!” I said aloud.

Nobody answered. What did everybody else know that I didn’t, I thought.

I packed up, cooked some breakfast and made some tea in record time, at least for me. I was on the trail at 8. Within 5 minutes of hiking with a 40-pound backpack and a fast clip, it occurred to me why everyone had left so early. At sea level in the Mediterranean in the middle of the summer, Mother Nature turns the heat up to about 90 degrees Fahrenheit by 8 a.m. Later I was to find out that most people were on the trail by 6 a.m.

Thankfully, I beat the heat, at least some of it with a fast pace.

Part 3: Cirque de la Solitude.

The first four days on the GR 20 are like the first four days of school. People are serious. Unsolicited advice is given from “experts,” who have never even been on the trail before, but have studied guidebooks. Everyone asks a lot of questions about what they think might lie ahead. Who’s a good hiker? Who’s a fast hiker? Who to stay away from? A group of French hikers, who carried juggling batons and a guitar, hiked twice as fast as anyone else. The three French girls were fast -- and also the hottest and friendliest on the trail. The Dutch family, a father and his two kids both about 10 years old, and their uncle, moved at an impressive clip. The conversation always turned back to the Cirque de la Solitude, which I had never even heard of before the first day. Everyone spoke about it as if it was a visit to the school disciplinarian. “People die on the Cirque every year,” I heard more than once in the first few days.

On day four, the day of the Cirque, I woke up at 5 a.m. to beat the crowds up to the top of the col. Even 5 a.m. was too late a start. I was destined to be known as a slacker on the trail. By the time I arrived at the lip of the cirque, even after I’d passed a dozen people, there was a crowd of about 20 people peering into the valley below. Protective chains leading down the cirque rattled and clinked against the rock as others descended. My plan was to do two stages today to pick up some time. Off I went. I didn’t want to get stuck behind any of the slower groups, which would turn a one-hour traverse into three hours. The Cirque was definitely the most adrenaline-inducing day of the GR20. The descent entailed negotiating a half-dozen 30-foot cliffs. The chains helped the descent and my pack made it a bit more cumbersome. But the hardest part was keeping my eyes on the trail because the views were stunning.

Part 4: How do you say “Giddy Up” in French?

If there’s anyone out there who speaks French and is reading this, please let me know how to say “giddy up” in French. Countless times I saw the Corsican cowboys give their horses a swift kick and yell something to get them on the move. But whatever they said was incomprehensible to me.

Part 5: Horse breath

Part of the charm of the GR20 is the culture on the trail. I hiked through local ranches that made their own sausage, or what the French call saucisson. They also sell cow, sheep and goat cheeses, as well as other supplies. After tiring of pre-packaged soups and risotto and pasta, the home-made meats and cheeses were a welcome change. There is no wild camping allowed on the GR20 so hikers can only stay in huts or at designated campsites at the huts or the ranches, called bergeries. Farm animals grazed on the hillsides and occasionally wandered down to the hut for food and attention after getting bored of the Corsican mountains.

With just a few stages left before the finish of the GR20, I arrived at the Refuge d’Asinau and found a campsite. Pigs and horses wandered through the site. I fried some locally made ham with an onion and added it to a pot of lentils. About a half hour later I sucked the soup down in minutes and like most nights I was in my sleeping bag before 9 p.m. And like most nights, the sky was clear and the stars were some of the brightest I’ve ever seen. I drifted off into a deep sleep as the moon began to rise and glow in the distance.

A few hours later I was awakened by a strange noise and a gust of hot smelly air. I gasped and possibly even shrieked, though I can’t be sure the latter came from me or my intruder. I sat up and staring me in the face was a horse. I could see his bright white eyes and not-so-white teeth in the moonlight for a split second. I’m not sure which of us was more shocked. I stayed put, but he ran and gasped louder than I just did. He also let out a terrified whinny. It could have turned into a horrific situation - a horse scared by my bed head - running rampant through a campsite in the middle of the night.

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