How I decided to hike — up, down and (almost) over the hill — on France’s newest long-distance walk

Not many people can afford a midlife crisis these days. Even fewer admit to having one. The very term, coined by Canadian psychoanalyst Elliott Jaques in 1965, feels anachronistic. When 50 is the new 40 and some 40-year-olds are only just setting out on the mission of motherhood or staying resolutely single and giving themselves permission to be who they are, it’s no wonder the phrase, now so much harder to define, has dropped out of common parlance. It’s cringe. Embarrassing. Definitely awkward.

I didn’t want to admit it either. But tell me then, what do you call it when you feel impelled to challenge yourself, to break out of the comfort zone that is home ownership, an established career and grown-up children, to do something totally different with your life? How do you explain that urge to abandon all responsibility save for the duty to put one foot in front of another and, day after day, to head out into the great unknown? Travel? Yes. Adventure? Certainly. But more than that. Giving up the UGGs for hiking boots and surrendering the down duvet and mattress protector for a sleeping bag and a rolled-up puffer jacket was far more than that. To some friends it seemed like madness. To me and my partner James, it sounded like freedom.

The driving force behind my decision to push aside the ephemera of the everyday was nothing I could put my finger on. I was midway into my 50s, at the stage where doctors and police officers were looking far too young for such weighty responsibility. But I hadn’t recently battled through a bitter divorce or debilitating illness, my mother was still alive and kicking, a beloved cat had not sauntered over the rainbow bridge. On top of that, I had more than enough work as an architectural writer to keep the canis lupus from the door, and I lived in a country that was blessed with ample opportunity to get out into unspoiled wilderness. The truth is there was no catastrophe or catalyst to jumpstart my decision, rather a slow, creeping ennui. Simply, a restlessness to do something, to feel an intensity of emotion and experience I had only indistinct memories of. I was greedy for a life more lived.

James and I met in Carlisle in our early 20s at a time when I felt trapped astride two continents and forced to make the impossible choice between returning to live in my birthplace of post-apartheid South Africa or staying connected to my mother who, following her divorce, had returned to the bosom of a cold and dreary very north of England. For his part, James had just clambered out of a downward spiral that involved squatting in London, vodka for breakfast and anarchic protest (there was red paint and fur coats involved). He had taken up a pencil and a paintbrush rekindling a childhood passion and was pursuing a fine arts degree at the local college. I was working in the mini mart across from Mum’s house, lost in soul, shivering in a uniform that was five sizes too big, dodging cans of peas hurtled at me by hooligans who haunted the night shift.

We met, we hung out with mutual friends, we danced to Nirvana in a murky nightclub and played darts (me badly, but miraculously improved after a few pints of Newkie Brown). But we didn’t connect in the traditional boy/girl fashion until decades later when a mutual friend reintroduced us on Facebook. As is the way, at the end of that sad, confusing period where nothing made sense apart from chips and gravy dinners stolen on a midnight corner, a holiday to the bottom of the world to visit an aunt set me on a different trajectory altogether, taking me away from the cobbles and former cotton mills. The New Zealand government felt me worthy enough to grant me permanent residency. Aotearoa chose me. And for that I am grateful.

Thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, in our late 40s, James and I found each other again, virtually at first but then emotionally too. He loved to escape an unhappy marriage to the hills. I enjoyed the physical challenge and gentle companionship of multi-day walking with friends. After a couple of trips across the miles to ascertain that we weren’t inflicted by some form of online madness, James relocated to New Zealand. The spiritual connection became physical. We began to walk together.

The algorithm deities that delivered me the Hexatrek promotional campaign must have known what I was thinking. We were coming up for two years locked into Godzone country courtesy the global pandemic. It was purgatory in paradise. In New Zealand you could leave, for sure, yet the managed isolation quarantine system (MIQ), with thousands vying for a spot in specially designated hotels, created huge uncertainty about whether you’d be able to secure a place to return. Spaces were as highly contested as tickets to the men’s final at Wimbledon. There were charlatans who developed bots to boot out frustrated real-life humans who pressed refresh again and again on their computer screens — with little luck — and horror stories in the newspapers about Kiwi citizens wanting to come home to see dying relatives but not being able to secure a booking. It was a case of waiting it out.

While we were grateful for all that prime minister Jacinda Ardern and her government had done to save us from the devastation we’d witnessed in the rest of the world, I had itchy feet. Our initial plan had been to tackle the PCT (the long-distance trail up the west coast of America from Mexico to Canada) in 2021. The pandemic put paid to that idea while alarming news reports of the Californian wildfires and imagined Revenant-style encounters with bears left our enthusiasm flagging. New Zealand’s Te Araroa trail from the top of the north island to the blustery tip of the south island was also on the must-do list and many friends, seeing how stifled we felt at the continuous lockdowns, suggested it was the perfect moment for it. But we felt we wanted to keep that option in reserve for a time when we needed the safety net of home. With our mid-50s advancing apace, we were determined to take on another significant challenge before our get up and go, well, got up and went!

In 2018, we had climbed Kilimanjaro, pacing pole-pole (slowly slowly) up its snowy flanks for seven days as our guides sang in Swahili and in harmony to keep us on the move. Summit day, at 5895 metres, rests in my mind as the hardest physical challenge of my life. I trudged upwards for hours and hours as the blood pumped in my veins, the water froze in my camelback and icicles formed stiff shards in my hair. Time deliquesced into the darkness. At the top, cloud draped the mountain. Although I missed out on the spectacular view from this vantage point on the roof of Africa, it made an indelible impression. It was silent, white and beautiful.

Closer to home, we had completed most of New Zealand’s best-known trails including the world-renowned Milford Track, the last day splashing through a deluge and crossing streams roaring with rainfall that threatened to sweep us into the Arthur River. We had canoed down the moody, mystical Whanganui River — a 145km journey granted the honorary title of a ‘great walk’. Sleeping in simple Department of Conservation huts and, one night, on a marae where we were welcomed with a traditional powhiri, was a special immersion into landscape and culture.

Just before the pandemic stripped us of our ability to leave, a trip to Patagonia to wander the W Trek in Torres del Paine National Park, where we experienced the slow-growing camaraderie that blooms in a place suspended in such a natural state, was another highlight for the memory books.

So, when a crowdfunding campaign for the creation of a mobile application that would guide walkers on a thru hike in France popped into my Instagram feed, I at first scrolled through the information absentmindedly. As I began to read, I began to imagine. The Hexatrek is a 3034km journey it said (and the quirky exactness of that figure, made me sit up and take notice) with a route, divided into six stages, that crosses the mountains of France. It follows established GR pathways to connect 14 national parks and starts (or ends) at the border with Germany and traverses the Vosges, the Jura, the Alps and the Pyrenees. Hexatrek was created by a French hiker captured by the dream to link several mountainous routes that crossed this hexagon-shaped country into one awesome adventure. And 2022 was the year of pioneers. I could be one of the very first hikers to attempt to conquer this route. I was excited although, if I’m honest, the word ‘conquer’ didn’t enter my consciousness. I skipped over the mountainous part and imagined a grand tour involving villages, vines and gentle conversations with French people. I’d been studying the language for two years through the Alliance Francaise in Auckland and, with the Pacific Crest Trails off the cards due to meteorological and political mayhem, I was prepared to adapt. French immersion and a brand-new walk, right here in the palm of my hand? It must be a sign. A small thrill of excitement awakened butterflies in my stomach. This was our moment. I signed up to support the application and started to plan.

(The above is an excerpt from my book, Hiking the Hexa, published on Amazon.)