Day four

The first light of day entering the building woke me up. Even though I pulled my shirt over my eyes to remain in complete darkness, I could feel that it was slowly time to leave. After stretching my muscles and simply enjoying the fact that I had spent the night in an abandoned hotel, I quietly stood up, careful not to wake Émilie, and began packing my things. "Are you going to leave?" she asked, opening her eyes while remaining nestled inside her sleeping bag. "Yes." "I wish you good luck. Have fun." "You too. Enjoy your day at the waterfalls." With that, she closed her eyes once more and settled back into her sleeping bag, resting her head on the bundle of clothes that had served as a pillow. I put on the shirt I had hung on a rope the previous evening. The other guest of the abandoned Grand Hôtel was also packing his belongings, preparing to leave. As he stood up, he finally noticed me. We exchanged a brief smile before quickly leaving the building, each following his own path. Outside, the area was already beginning to buzz with hikers from the nearby campsites, all eager to press on.

The trail soon narrowed beneath the pines before climbing steeply, and the gentle forest floor gradually gave way to bare granite rock. The stream running alongside the path quickly transformed into a lively mountain torrent, tumbling over countless waterfalls and carving deep, crystal-clear pools into the massive granite — the famous Cascade des Anglais. I could easily picture Émilie spending the day there, reading a book, occasionally taking a refreshing bath before warming herself once again on the sun-baked stone. I almost envied her. But as my body and mind enjoyed the challenging climb, I was reminded that I had come here for hiking. Being curious once more about what lay ahead, the thought of taking a bath myself soon vanished. I did, however, allow my thoughts to wander while filling up my flasks. I pictured myself slipping into one of the cold pools while my arms rested on the warm granite. How the day could have been if I had decided to rest instead of climbing up. That much, at least, I permitted myself.

I soon left the torrent behind, and silence took over as I headed towards the top. There, the mountain pass was already crowded with other hikers, and the air was filled with their chatter. I decided to also have a short halt, eating some bread and cheese while drinking water from the flasks I had just filled. It was especially warm today and, with temperatures not having reached their peak yet, I was aware that I would have to be prudent with my water reserves. But I knew that the Refuge de l'Onda was down in the valley below, and that I'd be able to refill my flasks there. While watching hikers coming and going, I was quite annoyed by a group of young people, fully equipped with trail running gear, one of them putting pressure on another who was still making his way to the top. "Allez, allez, a bit faster now. We won't make it in time if you don't pick up the pace." This remark was followed by him analysing his sports watch and comparing his pace to that of his friend. "Well, we'll have a short break of 10 minutes maximum, and then we need to go. We need to leave soon with the current pace we have" No one in the group replied to that. At that moment, I asked him where in France they were from, to which he replied, "Paris." I was not surprised. I could not imagine someone from a rural area putting such pressure on others while being in nature. I tried to exchange a few words, but, realising that the young man was either not the best of listeners or simply not interested in talking to me, I soon gave up, packed my things, and pressed on. The way down was surprisingly easy, as that side of the mountain was covered with thick soil and grass. I ran down with much joy, and soon enough I found myself at the very bottom of the valley. Yet I was confused. I couldn't spot the refuge, even though it should have been very close. I walked farther down the valley and still couldn't find it. Not only that, I soon lost sight of the GR 20 and didn't manage to find it again. I did, however, spot two hikers coming from a rocky trail that led up the mountain on the opposite side from the one I had just descended. With temperatures rising and feeling neither hungry nor tired, I decided to walk in their direction. As I crossed paths with them, I asked whether this was the continuation of the GR 20. "Yes, it's the trail towards Refuge de Petra Piana," they told me. I thanked them and pressed on. It was hard to walk fast, as the ground was slippery due to the blanket of small rocks covering the steep mountain flank. It was now truly hot and, with limited water supplies while sweating heavily, I soon realised that I had to slow down if I wanted to prevent dehydration. As I reached the mountain ridge, I granted myself a brief halt, and while I drank carefully from my flask as I looked back, I could spot the Refuge de l'Onda in the distance. I understood that I had missed it because it had been hidden by a slope separating it from the path I had taken on my way down. Being focused on running, I had missed it, as I was mostly looking at the ground. I sighed, knowing now that I would not be able to taste the lasagne that hikers had recommended to me. What I didn't know was that this, perhaps, was the work of my guardian angel. It was only later that I read about many hikers falling ill around the time I passed this part of the trail, for they had stopped at the refuge and drunk its water, which back then was contaminated. I was therefore spared diarrhoea, and worse, by sheer luck. Oh Fortuna, I thank you! As I took a quick look at the map, I realised that I was on yet another variant, one that took me over the Pointe de la Pinzi Corbini instead of heading west, down the valley, before eventually turning east again towards Petra Piana. I grinned as I saw the two water sources marked on the map along the normal route. None of that for me. I would have to press on until I reached the refuge. And with that, I drank the last sip that remained in my flask. I slowed my pace, tried not to sweat, and enjoyed the rocky terrain, which required all four limbs in certain sections. I crossed only five more hikers. One of them, a middle-aged woman whose outfit reminded me of Indiana Jones, was accompanied by her dog, who seemed to enjoy the hike even though he was panting heavily due to the heat and the demanding terrain. I saw that she was carrying a rope around her shoulder, and I wondered whether she had used it already to help her companion across some of the more difficult sections. It didn't take much longer for me to spot the refuge which lay at the end of the mountains flank. And just like the others, it was surrounded by an armada of white tents. I was now very thirsty and looking forward to taking a refreshing sip. Leaving the rocky ground behind me and entering the refuge's grounds, I soon came upon a stream from which I filled my flasks and took several hearty gulps with my hands. I wetted my bandana and walked over to the main building where I hoped to find a spot in the shade. I ordered some pasta with tomato sauce, herbs, and an Orangina, which had started to become my regular drink at lunchtime. I took a seat at one of the tables while savouring the landscape. To the north lay Monte Rotondo, hidden from sight, but one could sense what lay behind the cliffs embracing the refuge. The west was also hidden, even though it was not very far to the mountain pass. Beyond it lay the Guagno valley, which I would come to see as I pursued my hike towards Punta Muzzella to the northwest. To the east lay the Gialgo Ravine, which the normal route of the GR 20 followed, and one could spot the Bergerie de Gialgo in the near distance. Its basin was covered with trees through which a river flowed. To the south lay the high point of Pinzi Corbini and its rocky, dry flanks, the alternative path from which I had just come. The refuge itself consisted of several buildings and even had a concrete platform on which stood four wooden huts that served as dry toilets for the guests; one had to operate a mechanical pedal so that one's belongings would eventually disappear on a rolling belt. Mules roamed freely, and it occasionally happened that they would poke their heads into the A-frame dormitory before someone eventually pushed them away. I was also lucky that some Corsicans happened to be at the refuge. They were doing a day hike and, having already consumed a few beers, one of them grabbed a guitar and started playing a melody to which he and his companions began singing in Corsican. "One more, but then we really do have to go back down," said the one playing the guitar as the others asked him to play yet another song. He ended up playing for another half an hour until, finally looking at the sky, he decided that it was now or never to head back down the valley. I appreciated their relaxed attitude, carrying little and clearly drunk, yet determined to head back, where I assumed someone would drive them home by car despite him not being entirely sober. As they left, I decided to lie down on the grass near the A-frame building and have a wee nap before resuming my journey, for the next section seemed challenging, and I wanted my mind to be fully rested so that it could focus entirely on what lay ahead.

I was awakened by one of the mules, who wouldn't stop sniffing at my face and giving me a slight push. I tried to nudge him away, but as he kept coming back, I soon gave up on extending my nap. I had some good rest, though, having drifted away from the physical world for a few minutes as I had pulled my shirt over my face, leaving me in complete darkness and giving me an illusionary sense of safety. "You know you're annoying," I said to the mule as I stood up, my eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness of the day. He, of course, didn't reply, while seeming to enjoy me fondling his forehead. I heard some other young hikers discussing whether to take the alternative or the normal route. I told them about the path I had taken, and they listened intently. I asked them whether they wanted to stay at the Refuge de l'Onda that night, to which they nodded. "I wish you good luck on your path then, and enjoy the lasagne. I unfortunately missed it as I lost sight of the track while running down the mountain." "Ah, so where did you start this morning?" "Vizzavona, around 7:30 in the morning." "And you intend to stay here, or are you going to continue further today?" "Well, I did have some sleep until the mule woke me up. I'm now rested, filled up, and ready to go. How is the next section until the Refuge de Manganu?" "It's challenging, but for you surely not a hurdle. There is a bit of snow, though, and it does go up and down quite a bit." "Thanks. I wish you good luck. And what is your name?" "Thibaud, with a 'd'." "Well, good luck, Thibaud. Wishes, Thibault with an 'lt'." He smiled at the remark and then asked in how many days I planned to finish the hike. "I'm not sure, but if I continue like this, I may finish it all in five days." "Five days! Not bad! We intend to finish it in seven days, but we're not sure if we'll make it. Then good luck to you, and enjoy the northern section!" "You too, and thank you." And so they left, heading for the Pointe de la Pinzi Corbini. I packed my things at one of the nearby tables and drank plenty of water from the source before pressing on. The next stretch reared up sharply, leading me to the mountain pass of Bocca Muzella before dropping down the other side towards the small and large lakes of Rinosso. I hadn't been misled: large patches of snow did remain, covering several sections of the trail. It was such a surprise, and such a contrast to everything I had experienced on the track so far, that I was reluctant to leave this small high valley behind as I crossed the Col di Rinosso. Beyond lay the larger lakes of Melu and Capitellu, remarkably round in shape. I enjoyed leaping from one rock to the next, as the slope was strewn with large boulders. The path zigzagged down until it reached the western ridge of Bocca a Sciglias. There, I did miss the bend and was forced to take out my map for a closer look. The trail was narrow and treacherous, with parts of the underlying rock jutting out vertically. I met two more hikers, equipped with Leki trekking poles and trail running bags, and we exchanged a quick "bonsoir." Before leaving the ridge and pressing on towards the final pass of the day, I paused briefly to eat some peanuts and take hearty gulps of water from my flasks, preparing myself for the climb. The lake of Capitellu looked beautiful at that hour, and I loved the tranquility of the place. With nothing obliging me to continue, I considered staying the night by the lake, finding a flat granite slab and unrolling my mattress on it. But then the sun reminded me that it was not yet time. So, as the whole area lay wrapped in absolute silence, I breathed in and out deeply and tried my best to engrave the moment in my memory. I succeeded as the sensations remain vivid even now, as I pin down these lines. So I took the rocky path instead. This stretch truly stood out: I had to use my hands constantly, testing each hold before pulling myself up. With no one else on the trail, I could savour the climb at my own pace, never having to wait behind anyone. I soon reached the top, almost sad that it was already over, and took one last look over the valley. To me it was the most beautiful of the entire GR 20, its raw beauty unmistakable. From the high point of Bocca alle Porte, the descent began with a technical section, where the loose scree gradually gave way to grass and the familiar granite boulders. On the grassy plain near the source of the Cascade de Filiccioni, the path turned right, heading north. Trees made a shy entrance, sparsely dotting the narrow valley, and the trail followed a mountain stream tumbling down on my left. The Refuge de Manganu stood on a gentle rocky hill on the other side, so I crossed a wooden bridge to reach it. After ordering a Pietra, I walked over to a patch of grass next to the main terrace, where hikers were enjoying pasta prepared with local herbs and a rich tomato sauce - similar to what I had for lunch. To the north stretched the scenic, wide and lush valley of Pianu di Camputile, its gentle flanks in stark contrast to the valley I had just left behind. And so I sat there, taking occasional sips of my beer while enjoying the nearby chatter and the occasional breeze caressing the hill. It was in that moment of complete serenity that one of the hikers came over and asked whether I would like some of their pasta and her dessert. They had too much and preferred giving it to someone rather than throwing it away. Pulled out of my meditative state, I was surprised by the offer but gladly accepted, thanking her for her kind gesture while taking the plate of pasta and dessert. It then occurred to me that others might be in a similar situation, so I asked the staff for a large metal bowl and wandered between the tables, politely asking whether I could take any pasta they no longer needed. Everyone happily filled it, and I even collected two more desserts. What a royal feast, I thought to myself: dining like a king while spending like a vagabond. After washing the bowl, plate, cutlery and handing them back to the kitchen staff, I felt ready to walk towards the valley and find a suitable spot for the night. I soon reached the spongy peat bogs and grasslands known as pozzines, crisscrossed by countless streams. Horses roamed the area, along with cattle. The sky was now covered with clouds and I could only guess whether the sun was already gone behind the mountain. I hoped to see a beautiful interplay of colours, with the occasional ponds reflecting the vivid hues of an evening sky. None of that today. After crossing this flat stretch of land, I reached the Bergerie de Vaccaghja which lay on the opposite side from where I had come. There, I filled my flasks at a small spring before taking the bend leading to the Lake of Ninu. As the landscape gradually darkened, I decided to halt. Before looking for a suitable spot to spend the night, I bathed in one of the natural pools carved by the river. The water was cold, but I didn't mind: my body had plenty of calories to burn after all I had eaten that evening. It was only once I had had my fill of watching the grey sky while floating on the water, that I decided it was time to sleep. Wanting to remain hidden from view, I spread my reusable rescue blanket on a patch of grass behind a thick bush, over which I laid the rest of my gear. I hoped the blanket would protect me from the dew that would form as the air cooled rapidly around the lush grass. It did not, and soon my sleeping bag was covered in fine droplets. Having learned my lesson, I wasted no time and hastily carried my belongings to a nearby granite slab. It turned out to be right next to the GR 20. Never mind the hikers passing through the next morning, seeing me sleep in the wild. For what harm was there in resting on hard stone? And besides, I am a student in geology; if not me, who has the right to spend the night on rocky ground? With those final thoughts, I looked up at the sky, which was slowly clearing, and savoured the still-warm granite as I stretched out my arms. Watching the clouds drift on their nocturnal wander, with a full belly, a refreshing bath behind me and tired limbs, I did not take long to fall asleep.

Published on 22/09/26 | Updated on 06/10/26