Things started like they usually do - long plane rides, noise, cities, and quite a bit of waiting. I arrived in Paris on the afternoon of August 31st. The air was crisp, and I could tell I was in Europe. Last time I was here I was tramping along the Camino De Santiago with a brief stay in Paris to begin the trip.

This time though - I came for the clarity, adventure, and unknown. I could go on and on about the minute details of the 16 days, but I’d like to focus solely on the GR20 (Grande Randonée 20) in Corsica.

The logistics of this trip proved to be hefty, and laborious. I knew this coming into, and realized the planning would be the most stout I’ve done in quite some time. Train -> Plane -> Plane -> Train -> Train -> Plane -> Train -> Taxi I finally made it to Calenzana, the starting point of the GR20.

September 1st, I prepared my bag and laid out everything I had, everything I needed. I planned to leave my duffle bag with supplies and gear for the rest of my journey, onwards to Turkey and remaining days in France in the town of Bastia but with timing I missed my window to find my hostel, drop the bag, and catch the train to Calenzana. The windows were tighter than I thought - little working knowledge of French and convoluted timetables for public transportation in the northern city hampered my efficiency. Before I knew it - I hopped the train to Calvi, the main stop over town before a taxi to Calenzana. I hopped on the next ride as sunset fell to Calenzana with a few girls from Norway whom were making there way to the GR20 start point as well.

Shorts, socks (2), shirt (2), poles, nutrition, light jacket, sleeping bag liner. My provisions laid out in front of me, noticeably absent was a warm jacket, pants, thick socks, a sleeping bag, utensils, toiletries, and food. I chose to rely on the local towns, economy, and generosity for anything I wasn’t carrying. I chose speed over comfort, unknown over safe.

I get the best sleep I get the next week. Wake up to an early start, paid the 5 Euro for breakfast which included bread, a croissant, and some coffee. Anxious, I take off and throw my bag on. It’s heavy, but not the backpacking heavy. The I’m-used-to-running-shirtless heavy. I get going - things get steep immediately. I was giddy, excited, and oddly nervous.

I don’t usually get nervous for travel, let alone running in the mountains. The feeling seemed to be different - this seemed to be something with so many variables, twist, turns, and potential for failure that I had an appetite consistent with someone doing something for the first time.

About 3 miles in, and 1600ft of climbing, I approached a standard switch-back. The trail went sharp left, but I kept going right. This was the beginning of the scariest day I’ve had in a long time.

4 hours later - I found myself dehydrated, scared, staring down vertiginous cliffs that would lead to no where. I had gone completely off the GR20 and gotten myself to a point I wasn’t sure of the return. I yelled out and to no avail did I hear anyone. “I surely have to see someone walking by soon”, “They have to hear me, someone will.” I kept telling myself I didn’t get off trail this early into my 120 mile fast-pack, but finally, it was the truth. I followed the cairns on this mountain/ridge top but they were scattered, and inconsistent.

I felt so small, yet I knew that probably 20-30 other people started the trail this morning with me. “Where were they all?” I thought to myself. Once I accepted that I was truly off the GR20, and on some side path my rational brain was able to slow things down and begin to reasonably think “How do I get out of this?” By now, its 1pm and the sun is beating down on me. Unfamiliar with the landscape and area, I was suffering from the humidity and exposure of frantically running/hiking around a mountain top which lead to no where. I began back-tracking the trail I thought I took, takin numerous falls at this point with delirious movements. I finally made it back to what was the sub-trail I followed, and was brought back to the main trail. I was able to see my fatal wrong turn, and the flash of red/white paint which marked the GR20. How did I not see this flash? A small, yet crucial mistake blew up my day, and the next 3 days. I realized, with a 18 mile day still ahead of me this late that there was no way I would reasonably make up time and get to my planned accommodation for the night at the refugo. I headed down the trail - back to the starting point in the town of Calenzana, found a street corner with a ledge, sat down and cried. Bloodied, dirty, and exhausted I moved to the cafe near by and ordered a croque moisture and soda.

Two days later, 2 trains, a bus, and a taxi ride, I made it to Vizzavona, a small village in the middle of the trail. This was the only real location near any public transportation one could successfully begin or end the GR20 without doing the entire 120 miles. I check in to the hotel, nearly lose my key at the bar/pub down the street with other GR20 hikers, accomplished and weary. I drank a few beers, said cheers to myself and headed to sleep. This proved to be a terrible sleep, not falling down until 2am due to bats flooding my room and making a racket. Note to self: close the window when you’re in the mountains of Corsica.

I woke up - began hiking with a renewed sense of self. I had an immediate and deep confirmation with myself the past 48 hours that has shown me the toil, and real consequence of being out on your own, in a place you don’t quite know too well, attempting to do something few will.

The miles went down and I started to gain confidence again. I felt fast, I felt light. I recalled my races this summer, and the 1000+ miles I put in running the past 6 months. Indirectly I felt I had been training for this all year, although I didn’t really plan for it to work out that way. Here I was finally on the trail I had heard so much about years past, the stories, the mystic experiences, and the reward of covering the well trodden path deep in the mediterranean region of Europe.

I made it to Capenelle in 3 hours, and then to my refugio for the night (Boca de Verdi) in 5:58. I was relived to make it to the accommodation and felt like the wheels were back on.

The night was cool, maybe in the high 40s. Accommodation was basic, usually a bed with small mattress, or a cot. No blankets or pillows or electricity. I made it through my first night, and expected to just get throuh the next couple.

The next three nights I hiked/ran 14-19 miles each day gaining about 5,000ft of vertical through rough trails, mountains, valleys, and unique aguilles. Each night ended at a long table, with strangers, sharing a meal with wine talking about the day, where we were from, and the things we wanted to do when we got home. It felt a bit like the Camino, but more rugged. I enjoyed the company, and was finally meeting people who spoke English and I could relate too. The sleeps were terrible - I couldn’t sleep and was incredible cold. Two nights it got down to the 30’s, and I had no pants, or no sleeping bag/blankets. I often wrapped my buff, jacket around my legs, wear my two shirts, and squeeze the sleeping liner over me.

One night it was so bad, after shivering from 8pm to 2am, I finally tore down the shower curtain hanging in the old, musty bathroom and wrapped it around me. I fell asleep shortly after and caught a cool 4 hours of sleep. This may have been the second low the of trip - the extreme cold at night. I didn’t expect it, nor did I suspect it would drop like this in early September on an island in the Mediterranean.

On day 7, I made it to the town of Conca, in the south of Corsica which marked the end of the GR20 Sud. All in all, I covered 63 miles and 21,000ft of climbing on the trail in 4 days. The trail led onto to a paved road after a 2000ft decent which had signs luring hikers into food and drinks as well as accommodation. I ran down the paved road, passed a woman walking her down, and a few cyclist who asked if I had bike tools. I certainly did not. The ending felt uneventful and humdrum.

I rounded the corner and hit an intersection with cars, and a sign that in french seemed to translate into “You’ve reached the end of the GR20.” The pub next to the intersection saw older men outside smoking cigarettes, arguing about soccer, and a lonely bartender staring out. I walked in and ordered a beer and drank it in about 45 seconds. I paid 6 Euros since it was the bigger beer, maybe 18 ounces. I felt dignified and relived, elated that the end was here and puzzled at the same time that this really was the end. I read in the guidebook I chance bought and downloaded onto my defunct kindle before I came on this journey that “Folks in Conca don’t give a damn that you just finished the GR20, so don’t go around telling everyone you’re grandiose story on the trail.”

The author couldn’t have been more right.