To wander: to ramble without a definite purpose or objective; roam, rove or stray
To wonder: to think or speculate curiously: to be filled with admiration, amazement, or awe; marvel
Before we set out on our hike across the Pyrénées, a lot of people asked us why we were going. 900km is a long way to walk, after all, and hiking through the wilderness for weeks on end is certainly not for everybody. The question always left me a little stumped: it was not very easy to put into words exactly why we decided to leave our lives behind and set out on what seemed like an impossible journey. We didn't actually have a particular objective for our hike, other than our vague plan to follow the GR10 (a trans-Pyreneen footpath, that starts at the Atlantic and finishes at the Mediterranean, traversing more than 850km of the Pyreneen mountains). It wasn't for charity, we certainly weren't the first people to ever do it and even in terms of our own sense of challenge, there was no race against time, or even any real obligation to actually make it all the way across – we had no idea before we started if we would actually make it that far. For me, the only answer I had to the question of why we were going wasn't really an answer at all, but a feeling. Having realised that the GR10 existed and that I could set off and spend a summer walking over those mountains, I couldn’t not go. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, this lack of definite purpose or objective meant that I wasn’t just setting off for a hike, I was going wandering.
The idea of not having a purpose or objective for two months or more is quite an unthinkable notion in our goal-driven culture. Time is money they say, so you had better be using your time purposefully. Every second counts. Achieve, achieve, achieve! This is all for good reason of course. After all, if you don’t have goals, how will you know what to do everyday? How will you know if you’ve accomplished anything with your days and weeks when you look back if you didn’t have a target in mind to begin with? Humans like objectives – they help us to measure our lives. And truthfully my own lack of purpose and the resultant sense of uncertainty was more than a little unsettling in the days and weeks before we set off. Indeed, I made a concerted effort to quash my sense of aimlessness before it had even began, formulating a detailed plan for the first week of our hike with daily mileage objectives and a definitive list of reservations at various places on the way. But then I fell ill on the day that we were supposed to set off, which delayed us by a day and rendered the whole plan useless. I had no choice but to embrace the aimlessness of the wanderer.
This was the first time I had ever actively been without a definite purpose or objective. And it turned out to be exactly what I needed. Sometimes, your mind needs a break from the endless pursuit of goals and objectives. I know mine did. In 2013 I completed a PhD after three and half years of long hard work and although I wouldn’t admit it at the time, not even to myself, it had led to almost total mental burnout. It is not uncommon for this to happen, nor is it surprising: after all, writing a thesis is not just about writing 90,000 words, its an ongoing game of mental ping-pong that involves managing countless mini projects – there are relentless deadlines, an unending list of articles and books to read, a huge amount of pressure to publish, and the overwhelming paranoia that at any time, you will discover that somebody else has already published almost exactly the same idea as you have spent the last three years obsessing over. So when I woke up one day and realised that all this was, in fact, behind me, I felt totally lost. I had achieved all the objectives required of a doctorate and I had the certificate to prove it, but what lay in front of me now was a bewildering series of choices, each one leading to new sets of goals and objectives. Pick a purpose, any purpose, pick a purpose now, my brain kept telling me. But I couldn’t. I felt stuck. The only thing that made sense to me was the feeling I had about the mountains – that I couldn’t not go. And so, off I went into the mountains, not really knowing why I was going or what was in store for me.
What I discovered as I roamed is that wandering is not just a state without definite purpose: it is a mode of being that is slow and contemplative. When you wander, there is time and space to really think. Or to not think: to let you thoughts fall by the wayside as your mind relaxes into the rhythm that your body drums out. And this is when we get to the wondering aspect of our hike. The truly remarkable thing about crossing a mountain range on foot is that you are constantly in a state of wonder. Every single thing you see inspires curiosity: it is impossible not to be filled with admiration, amazement, and awe at all that befalls you. Wild animals appear at the edge of your vision, rare and shy, yet curious. The sky turns colours that you’ve only seen in paintings or photographs and the light shines through clouds or treetops in such a way that the scene in front of you looks entirely unreal. There is an abundance of flowers in every colour, shape and fragrance, impossibly old fossils littering the path, views of craggy rocky mountains whose very presence seem to defy gravity and a whole other array of natural phenomena that cause you to stop and marvel every hundred metres or so. And that is just the world outside your head.
Wandering also begets the other kind of wondering, which is focused inwards on the self. I am certain that there really is no better way to achieve a meditative state than to climb a very steep mountain. Not because the breathtaking views will transform your thoughts into new age mantras and fill you with awe (although, as noted above, this may well be a nice side effect), but because the point of mediation – at least, as I understand it – is to clear your mind of all extraneous thoughts and to focus entirely on the present moment. Nothing will force you to do this more efficiently than climbing a rocky, steep, sweat-inducing path. Your attention to the present moment must be absolute: every deep breath you take to refill your lungs is purposeful, every footstep has to be carefully considered so as to minimise your chances of slipping or falling or twisting your ankle, whilst all the while maximising your efficiency as you push yourself onwards and upwards. You may well find yourself in a state of acute physical discomfort: your muscles and joints may ache, your lungs will burn, and sweat will form a steady stream down your face. The physical effort involved will ensure that all worries, cares and thoughts that are not directly related to the mountainside in front of you are utterly irrelevant and you will achieve a state of now-ness in which fears and worries melt away like the beads of sweat on your forehead. It might not feel like nirvana and it may not bring immediate enlightenment, but you cannot fail to notice that you are a living, breathing being when you climb a mountain. And when you have the time to really pay attention to that living, breathing being, you might be amazed at what you discover.
A funny thing happened to my thoughts as we wandered and wondered along. As the hours turned to days and the days turned to weeks, my lack of purpose was no longer a problem that needed to be resolved, but rather a liberating state of potential. The screaming voices in my head telling me that I had to decide what I was going to do with the rest of my life right now or else face certain doom began to quiet themselves as we went about the daily business of rambling along. I found a new perspective in my head that looked around, and looked at myself and was full of wonder. Uncertainty stopped being terrifying and instead became really rather marvellous. We usually didn’t know exactly where we would be sleeping that night, but that was okay: we were prepared for different eventualities, had studied the map and would find somewhere suitable to pitch the tent in due course. Every day unfurled differently, but the not-knowing what would happen meant that every moment contained the possibility of a wonderful surprise if only we were open to it. The very idea of progress was entirely unimportant – it was not about how many kilometres we had walked but the moments we had spent along the way; the deserted valleys that we had all to ourselves all as the sun sank in the sky, the kindness of strangers we had encountered and the wisdom they had shared with us. There was more meaning to be found in those mountains as we wandered, aimless and free, than in any other arbitrary goal I’ve ever achieved. I’ve never felt a stronger sense of being in the right place at the right time. And I began to trust in the process and to see the greater lesson that was being revealed to me. Wandering and wondering across the Pyrénées taught me, in a very real way, that it was okay to be without a definite objective and that a curious, open outlook is worth much much more than steadfast certainty.
Of course that is all very well when you’re off having adventures. The hardest part comes at the end – the questions begin again and its suddenly a lot harder to trust in the limitless potential of uncertainty. Honestly, I still have no definite answers or set objectives but I’m trying to remember that that is okay for now. All I can do is take little steps to wherever it is that I am going, try my hardest and enjoy the little moments of wonder along the way.
I'll finish with a quote by the great John Muir, a man who not only understood the value of wandering and wondering in his own life, but wrote passionately about it in the hopes of encouraging others to set aside time in their busy lives for aimlessness and speculation. He sums it up much more succinctly than I can. I urge you too to follow his advice; to follow your feet and see where they will take you. It might be the most important thing you ever do.
"Wander […] a whole summer, if you can. Thousands of […] wild blessings will search you and soak you as if you were a sponge, and the big days will go by uncounted. If you are business-tangled, and so burdened by duty that only weeks can be got out of the heavy-laden year ... give a month at least to this precious reserve. The time will not be taken from the sum of your life. Instead of shortening, it will indefinitely lengthen it and make you truly immortal."
John Muir - Our National Parks (1901), Chapter 1
Waking up before sunrise as excited as if it were Christmas for one last day of hiking and hoping to beat the storm that was due in the afternoon, packing up our bags and heading out into glorious views of the mountains still mantled in the clouds that slunk in last night, heading into sunny woods and up through a forest to a ridge which we went up and down and up and down repeatedly over the morning, the mountains lining up behind us like a goodbye salute, feeling so lucky for such a good last day but then dealing with the usual crappy stony paths that trip you and make you slide and being glad the end was almost in sight, meeting a friendly NZ couple who just set off from East to West (good luck!), persistent cloud due east that veiled the views of the Mediterranean until the last col when suddenly it appeared below in the blue haze, one last tiny frog, a huge furry caterpillar, a fly by raven and a hot and long descent that went up far too many times through aromatic herbs, cacti, vineyards and olive trees with Banyuls growing bigger all the time, finally arriving at sea level, passing a ceramic tile painting that celebrates the path, dipping our toes in the med, and checking into our hotel just as the first claps of thunder erupted and the storm to end all storms got started (an epic end to an epic journey ), sipping champagne and reflecting on our adventures... so it's goodbye GR10 - you were tricksy, sometimes a bit too steep, always full of surprises and ultimately a beautiful path through an awesome mountain range. Pyrénées forever!! And for this adventure at least... The End.
Waking up in Colin the tent for probably the last time this trip, eating a huge chocolate marble cake for brekkie, getting immediately bamboozled by the GR10 which had apparently been rerouted since the guide was published (and definitely since the map got printed- we somehow got sold a version printed in 1993 so it is pretty obselete. good thing its only for a small section!), heading up forest tracks where sheep roamed in a confused lost sort of way, past allotments where pumpkins of all shapes and sizes were piled high, blue skies and sandy paths, scents of lavender, thyme and and unknown herb that smelt like men's aftershave filling the air, passing ruins and a huge fortress, arriving at Col de Perthus, a weird Spanish bordertown full of discount outlet shops, duty free emporiums and vast supermarkets selling ginormous bottles of cheap booze and finding a cute café that made omelette sandwiches, heading out under a huge autoroute into the afternoon sun where the air had turned heavy and sticky and butterflies whirled about in frantic pairs, trudging up dry trails and rocky paths as the mountains behind bathed in a haze of cloudy mist, a bull blocking the way, cows ushering a teeny tiny new calf who was all legs off the path, turning into a slightly cooler woods and finding first a single four leaf clover that had been nibbled into lace by a hungry insect and then a patch of at least 11 more and many five leaf clovers too, the path careering madly uphill through scrubby bushes and yellow flowers, turning around to discover a magical cloud sea had been busy rolling in behind and below us, filling the valleys back west with thick white waves and turning mountain peaks into impossible hazy islands in the sky, a last jaunt through a beech wood, then a sweet chestnut wood where the floor was crunchy with leaves and arriving at the col where we are staying at a gîte d'étape and have roasted all the chestnuts we've been busy gathering the last couple of days...
Today mostly involved getting inadvertently adopted by two animals: firstly by a campsite cat that followed us to our tent last night, charmed us, became a purring machine and then refused to leave no matter how many times we put her out. So it was a cosy night in Colin, in which the cat took up much of the foot room and totally ignored the meaning of a two man tent; secondly by a very friendly dog of ambiguous ownership who followed/led us out of town and onto the GR10 and refused all attempts to be parted from us for over 3 hours. We didn't encourage him at all and were really worried but he definitely knew where he was going and had no ID. Then we met a lady who owned the local gîte d'étape who recognised him and said lots of stray dogs in the area do the same thing with hikers. She tried to lead him back to town on a lead but he escaped and carried on with us so she told us to look out for a lady at the next col who could help – and sure enough we found her and she immediately started calling up friends to see if it was their dog (it wasn't) so she took him in to either return him to his owner if she could find them or to take him back to town and investigate further. He liked her a lot and we were happy that he had someone to look after him – definitely no space in Colin for a huge white dog no matter how friendly! Then there was a tiny frog, many many sweet chestnuts ripe for foraging, a convoy of hunters driving down the track with their bloodhounds and two dead deer in their truck which made me so sad and angry :( steep paths in the sad woods, wind rustling through the trees sending down golden confetti flake leaves as the forest glowed in the late afternoon light, good views of Canigou and rows of mountains fading into the hazy horizon, a perfect red spotty toadstool, conflicting feelings about being almost finished (I can't wait to reach the sea. I don't want the adventures to end), lots of careering down helterskelter hills, many cols and a march along a D road at the end as the light faded and we reached a free camping spot where an owl hooted and all the village dogs howled as we dined.
***
The vital statistics:
Total hiking time: 10h 44
Peak: 1414m
Total ascent: 2025m
Total descent: 1772m
Having our minds made up about whether or not to have a rest day by booming crashes of thunder ricocheting around the mountains waking us before our alarms went off, rain pouring heavily for hours to confirm our decision, popping into town for a last batch of supplies, the sun coming out to dry our laundry (hooray!), and we're off to do our usual two nights in a row in the only restaurant in town after exploring the pretty old streets.
Leaving our prison outhouse (we realised as we left that it had prison bars on the window)/mountain "refuge" and setting off onto paths with spectacular views of the valleys below and snowy Canigou looking as awesome as a mountain ever has above, spending most of the day descending (2100m altogether) which, on the GR10 also means a lot of climbing because just like George Michael said "you gotta get up to get down", finding an old plane crash site where the wreckage has melded with the rockface, crossing many waterfalls and bouldery bits, a weirdo in a turtleneck following us for ages with a camera – no matter how slow or fast we went he was there right behind us like a freaky shadow –, the path switching between thoroughly reasonable underfoot to goblin paths of slippery rocky hell on and off all day, a kestrel hovering, choughs zooming by, a huge toad making me jump as he jumped, red leafy trees, another closed "refuge" where patou dogs literally surrounded us as we ate our lunch, a hippy telling us about a magical tipi around the corner but not having time to stop and investigate, the landscape changing dramatically over the day from wintry snow peaks to vivid damp multicoloured autumnal forests to Mediterraneanesque rocks of pale sandy colours, eggshell blue lichen, palest green shrubs, pink heath and pine trees, our knees and feet getting totally ruined by the incessant descent, a baffling amount of rain, a slap up dinner which was much needed as we have eaten all our food again and realising the end is in sight... but not yet here. We must march onwards!
***
In Arles-sur-Tech we camped at the Camping du Riuferrer which was very quiet – not that surprising given the fact that it was now October. There was a separate section for hikers in a little glade. The sanitaires were clean and the campsite peacefully situated near a river. It was about ten minutes walk into the small town of Arles.
In Arles we found another excellent local restaurant, Les Caves Mouragues where we feasted on huge homemade pizzas and treated ourselves to some well earned digestifs. If you are hiking the GR10 West to East I advise you to go and get yourselves a meal here.
The vital statistics:
Total hiking time: 8h20
Peak: 2185m
Total ascent: 270m
Total descent: 2186m
Setting off under blue skies and an autumnal wonderland, speeding up excellent hillpaths through a forest where a tiny leat ran parallel to the path, reaching a closed refuge and heading on through forest with views of mount Canigou who is already wearing his snowy winter coat at the peak, arriving at a river and meeting a lovely Polish lady who pointed out that the path crossed the river only there was no bridge or stepping stones and it was ten metres wide and quite deep so taking off our boots and wading across, the rain starting as soon as we parted ways with our new friend, turning to hail, the path getting wetter and leading us over bouldery avanlanche paths that the guide described as chaos (an apt choice of words), three isards leaping about majestically, a late lunch then absolutely storming up to one last col – our last jaunt over 2000m and thank goodness for that because it actually started snowing –, heading down past a lake to the refuge where we were "welcomed" by being put in the outhouse rather than the main bit with all the other hikers (really unsure why-official reason is because we are cooking our own food. Questionable reasoning) but actually it's better in here (albeit a bit reminiscent of Father Ted) because we have our own fire place and it is blazing. Only a few crappy photos for this update because my phone has decided to corrupt almost all the ones i took today (so many epic pics of snowy peaks, one of us taken together by the nice Polish woman and so many glorious autumn leaves. and such a cute tiny baby cow. booo hiss. Please imagine gloriousness and hope the phone gods fix things...)
***
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| Glorious snowy Canigou |
We stayed in the Refuge de Cortalets which was the worst experience of hospitality that we had along the GR10 - the gardien was downright rude, unprofessional and irresponsible. If you can avoid staying there, then I’d really advise it.
The gardien claimed that we had to stay in the outhouse/prison because we wanted to cook with a gas cooker. This did not make sense. We could have cooked in the outhouse and stayed in the main building with everybody else. I don’t know about you, but for me the word “refuge” suggests a welcoming, friendly shelter from the elements, not a freezing cold outhouse, a rude “welcome” and basically being treated like a second-class citizen just because you’re not one of the gardien’s mates.
Anyway, all’s well that ends well… we lit a huge fire, feasted, eventually got some sleep huddled up in the weird dank building and the next day we were on our way. I hope never to return to refuge "prison"!
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| Refuge prison |
The vital statistics:
Total hiking time: 9h21
Peak: 2269m
Total ascent: 1852m
Total descent: 730m
