We’re grateful to still be putting distance between us and normal life, in which routine elbows exploration aside, society orders nature off the premises, and sedentary work pins physical fitness to the floor.

We’ve been hiking in the Alps since mid-June. We’ve remained injury free, rainy spells have been brief, and we’re disciplined about keeping down-time (shopping, driving, resting, etc.) to a minimum. So we’ve actually hiked most of that four-and-a-half months. In summer, we hiked six days a week. Fall weather and shorter days have recently reduced our average to four or five days a week. Of the 135 days we’ve now been here, we’ve spent approximately 108 days on the trail.

This has been our Endless Summer. The classic film of that title follows surfers on their quest for primo waves rolling toward exotic beaches. Our quest has been for fascinating trails probing sensational mountains. We’re fulfilling a dream. We’re not at home, living a relatively normal, work-constantly, hike-when-possible life. We’re traveling, living a highly unusual, hike-constantly, work-when-possible life.

We have and will continue to blog about our sojourn. Our chief goal—certainly in our books, but even in our blog—is to inspire others to hike and guide them on especially rewarding trails. But  during this endless summer of hiking we’re also exploring metaphysical terrain. The terrain to which we turned our attention when we wrote the book titled Heading Outdoors Eventually Leads Within. It’s this terrain we’re compelled to write about now.

Hiking constantly—far and fast—limits human contact. In summer, on some trails, yes, we crossed paths with many hikers. But even then, we were alone most of the time. Now it’s fall, and we’re inching southward, toward the Med, away from the big, famous peaks. We’re encountering few hikers. When we do meet others—on the trail, or in towns—they’re French. We speak little of their language, they little of ours, so discourse is usually simplistic and fleeting. We don’t have a cell phone. We get internet access rarely—perhaps once a week—in places where we can’t or don’t want to linger long. So communication with friends, family or business affiliates is minimal. Plus, the way we’re traveling—driving a campervan, free-camping in the loneliest, quietest spots we can find, usually at or near trailheads—also limits human contact.

This near-constant state of solitude is conducive to frequent, penetrating introspection.

During a recent spate of rain, for example, when we’d declined to hike for a couple days, we were holed-up in our van, writing. A quiet backroad allowed us to tuck into the forest beside a stream. The trails had been ours alone on our previous two dayhikes. Nobody drove or walked by our van that day in the rain. It was quiet, save for the water music. Fat clouds waddled slowly among the treetops. Fog slithered through the forest. I became aware of how isolated we were were at that moment, how we’ve always isolated ourselves even at home in North America, and how this summer—despite being in heavily populated Europe—we’ve been especially isolated.

I said to Kath, “I feel like we’re in a very small sailboat, far out at sea, on a trans-ocean voyage.”

“I know,” she said. “I feel the same.”

A long discussion ensued, punctuated by several realizations:

• It’s not the hiking that’s difficult for us. Ever. It’s when we’re off the trail, between trailheads—that’s when our life doesn’t always flow smoothly. During those lulls, we’re in a kind of limbo. Like those couple days we were hunkered in the forest, sitting out the rain. That’s when we get antsy. That’s when our minds sometimes become infested with conventional thought: “Should we be doing this? What are we doing? It’s been four and a half months, isn’t that enough? Maybe we should end the trip, go home. Wouldn’t it be better if we had some friends with us? I wish I could be with my family right now. Maybe instead of hiking, gathering info for a future book that might not be profitable, we should be at our desks, marketing our current books.” And on, and on, and on.

• When hiking, we’re immune to all that monkey-mind stuff. On the trail, we’re almost always relaxed and content. We feel very present, fully alive, completely engaged. We never question why were doing it. It feels absolutely right. When hiking, we feel we’re being our true selves. Just as some people have a meditation practice, or a yoga practice, we have a hiking practice. Doing yoga frees the body from tension. Meditating frees the mind from aimless wandering. Hiking frees us from uncertainty and anxiety.

• We’re now engaged in our hiking practice with the same level of devotion as are those for whom meditation or yoga is central to their lives. When getting ready for a hike, we don’t think about the getting ready. We don’t question if we should go hiking or not, if we’ll enjoy it or not, if the trail we chose is the optimal one for that day, if the weather will cooperate… and so on. Mindfully, but without mental static, we simply prepare, then set out. Pre-hike, it’s as if we’re propelled not consciously, but subconsciously. We’ve come to believe that the adventure ahead is more apt go smoothly if, before setting out, we’re calmly focused rather than frantic and anxious.

All that monkey-mind stuff? The uncertainties and anxieties that bubble up when we’re between trailheads? That’s our conscious minds seeking distraction. Distraction from whatever is: the sound of rain dappling on the roof of our van, the difficulty or tedium of writing, the realization that we are utterly alone, etc. Often, whatever is, just doesn’t seem to be enough for the conscious mind. We think we want, need or deserve… something different than what is. Precisely what that difference actually is, we’re not sure, but our conscious minds insist that whatever is just isn’t satisfactory.

• Observing our conscious minds seeking distraction is a new insight for us. We’re now able to recognize the seeking of distraction for what it is, which allows us to let go of it, and settle back into contentment. This glimmer of understanding is one of many that have arisen during our endless summer in the Alps. They’re the result of our new level of dedication to our practice.

• We’ve also seen, with distilled clarity, how little we want. Health, each other, good food, deep sleep, agreeable weather, and wildlands to hike. That’s it. The swarm of concerns, the pile of possessions, the restricting obligations, and the frenetic busyness that seem to consume most people’s lives have, for us, fallen away. We’re completely comfortable—absolutely at home—alone in nature. Noise, crowds and urban bustle have become increasingly agitating. There’s a simplicity and focus to our present existence that’s immensely fulfilling. Wanting so little feels liberating.

• But questions now loom on our horizon: What happens when our endless summer ends? Will we be able to adjust to a life in which we cannot be as dedicated to our hiking practice as we are now? What would it take to indefinitely continue our present level of dedication to our hiking practice?

Meanwhile, our endless summer continues into fall. And each time we look back over our shoulders—at normal life, in which routine elbows exploration aside, society orders nature off the premises, and sedentary work pins physical fitness to the floor—we’re grateful we’re still putting distance between us and it.

Thanks for following us.

Internet access is rare for us while traveling in Europe. Purchasing a plan from Orange (the primary provider in France) was prohibitively expensive. So we snag free wifi when possible. Sometimes at French tourism offices. Occasionally at McDonalds, which we would otherwise never visit but is the one place that consistently offers free wifi in Europe. Most of the time, we’re either on the trail, or camping (free, in our campervan, usually near trailheads) in small, high-mountain villages, so we’re able to get online only occasionally, and then only briefly because we’re eager to get back into the mountains.

Today is gorgeous, the next summit beckons, so this post will be simply comprise some of our impressions from the 644 km (400 mi) we’ve hiked so far on our Hautes Alpes odyssey.

• The Alps are blazingly green. Meadows everywhere. More wildflowers (more colours, more varieties) than we’ve seen in any other mountain range. Many of the flowers strike us as extremely exotic: in particular the orchids that thrive above 1800 m (5904 ft).

• The Alps are more sharply vertical than North American mountain ranges. The valleys are narrower, tighter. The mountains have startling prominence. We’re constantly staring upward in amazement.

• More French hike than do Canadians or Americans. We see hikers here of all ages: from very young children, to seniors who appear to be quite old yet are clearly robust. The other day we met an 84-year-old man trekking alone. He was slow, but he maintained a consistent pace on a very steep trail. And he instantly understood when we told him we greatly respected him. He said he’d been hiking all his life. He loved it and was determined never to stop.

• Sometimes we see huge groups of 10 to 20 people hiking together. We’ve seen many seniors groups, ranging from age 60 to 80. A few women-only groups. Lots of families. And astonishingly young children (well equipped, thanks to their parents) who seem to be loving the experience. And we see all shapes, including the soft and portly, covering significant distances and gaining substantial elevation. We find this universal love of hiking to be very inspirational. Why is it that comparatively few of our fellow North Americans don’t hike?

• Nevertheless, we don’t find the trails here crowded. Sure, the most popular trailhead parking lots are frequently full. But there are no more cars parked at these trails than you’d find on a weekend at the most popular trailheads in U.S. or Canadian national parks. It’s a myth that all the trails in the Alps are crowded. Sure, the trails around Mont Blanc or the Matterhorn are very crowded. But for the most part, we are not among crowds. Frequently we’re alone on the trail, with few if any other hikers in sight. Often we reach our destination—a summit, col, a lake—and we’re the only ones there.

• One reason why hiking is so popular here, and why the trails we’re hiking are generally uncrowded, is because there are so many trails: far more options than you’ll find in any North American mountain range. Typically, from one trailhead you’ll find a couple trails surmounting a peak, a couple more running up or down valley. A couple more traversing various ridges. In the Hautes Alpes, the trails don’t stop; they spiderweb throughout the range. Except when confronted with a glacier, we never reach “trail’s end.” There seems to be no such place. We turn around out of choice, not necessity. This vast trail network gives people the opportunity to spread out. To us, it’s constantly exciting. Frustrating, too, because it requires us to study maps diligently to ensure we’re devoting our time and energy on the most rewarding trails. So our campervan is now a mobile library. We’re transporting enough maps and guidebooks to fill a suitcase. (No “Don’t Waste Your Time” guidebooks on the Hautes Alpes—yet.)

• The trails here are in great shape. Most seem to be well maintained. Some appear to be little used. Many deserve engineering awards. Here, far more often than in North America, we’re hiking on routes that forge clever, wily, cunning passages through seemingly impassably steep terrain.

• Do we yearn for North American wilderness? Actually, no, we don’t. Genuine wilderness has a unique atmosphere, to be sure. And we’ve yet to find it here, but we don’t miss it. The scenery in the Hautes Alpes is so consistently fantastic, amazing, startling, gorgeous, awesome, ______________ (choose whatever superlative you wish, they all apply) that we don’t mind passing a herd of goats, or a few shepherds and their flock of sheep, or some grazing cattle, or the occasional (usually abandoned) stone hut, or even the odd, high-mountain road. These, too, are atmospheric in their own way. Suggestive of an ancient way of life that seems to us rather romantic. The myth is that civilization has destroyed the Alps. The truth is that this has not and will never happen. Yes, we’ve seen mountainsides strewn with ski lifts. But for the most part, we’re hiking through unspeakably beautiful, absolutely unspoiled wildlands. Wilderness? No. But wild enough to keep us enraptured. As for wildlife, on yesterday’s hike we saw numerous chamois. A few days ago, we watched two, male ibex in cliff-edge combat: staring one another down, coiling their muscles, then exploding into each other, their tremendous horns clacking so loud it seemed both animals would be knocked out cold. And marmots? We hear their shrill cry in every hanging valley, and we often see them scurrying across meadows and diving into their burrows.

Thanks for checking in with us. We’ll post more about the Hautes Alpes as soon as possible.

La Meije, from Tete le Maye. Parc National des Ecrins, Hautes Alpes, France.

“Find what is for you a river of infinite, meaningful fascination. Dive into it, and keep swimming.”

That thought came to me today, while hiking in Parc National des Ecrins, in the Hautes Alpes of southeast France. It struck me as an apt summary of how to make life as rewarding an experience as possible. It also summarizes why Kath and I are now in the French Alps instead of the Canadian Rockies.

For us, the the river of infinite, meaningful fascination is hiking the Earth. We dove into that river in 1989, when we moved to Calgary, Alberta—ostensibly because of a job offer but really so we could devote weekends and vacation time to hiking the nearby Canadian Rocky Mountain National Parks. From then on, where and when we would hike has been a central consideration in every major decision we’ve made. As a result, hiking soon became—and still remains—not just our passion but the basis for our livelihood.

And when your passion and livelihood are aligned, you’re no longer swimming upstream through life. You’re going in the right direction: pulled along by a strong, if often unseen, current, because you had the foresight, courage, or just good fortune to dive into your river of infinite, meaningful fascination.

This is where “opportunities” arise that to others might appear to be pure luck but are in fact the result of the life-changing decision you made to dive in. You’re looking for these opportunities and are able to recognize them because your attention is focused rather than fractured as it is for most people. You’re not just seeking these opportunities, you’re instinctively—and sometimes laboriously—doing what’s necessary to create them.

So, while it was logical for us to return to the Canadian Rockies this summer after working all winter in Utah canyon country, what we really wanted to do was spend this summer hiking the Alps. We assumed we were heading back to Canada for the summer, and that’s what we told friends, but we’d long been sleuthing out ways to comfortably yet affordably resume exploring the Alps, researching a future book.

We were prepared. To make it possible, we’d even gone so far as to sell our home in Canmore, Alberta, before heading south to Utah for the winter. We loved that home. But we knew we could rent an apartment, or live in our trailer, upon returning to Canada. Moreover, we knew that the freedom to hike when and where we wanted required complete—particularly financial—flexibility. That’s how committed we are to our river of infinite, meaningful fascination. Swimming downstream isn’t necessarily easy. Staying in the current sometimes requires extraordinary devotion.

Our sleuthing focused on buying a used campervan in Europe. On our last trip to the Alps, we rented a car and camped in our tent for months. Occasionally we abandoned the car and backpacked, or hiked hut to hut. Prior to that, we’d hiked in the Alps while relying solely on public transport. This time, we wanted to be more comfortable, particularly because we’d be working: writing, managing photography, and conducting business when not hiking.

We eventually learned, however, that non-E.U. residents cannot legally register and insure a vehicle in Europe. Yes, there are companies—mostly in Holland—that sell used campervans to non E.U. residents. They do it by registering and insuring the van for you, in their company’s name. They even promise you a “guaranteed buy-back.” But insurance companies are expert at finding reasons not to pay claims. A wrecked campervan owned by a non-E.U. resident but insured by a Dutch auto dealership is sure to spark suspicion. It’s easy to see how you could end up impoverished, slogging through debt the rest of your life if you had a major collision while driving a campervan purchased from a sly, Dutch salesman.

Next we looked into renting a campervan. We were unable to find one we could afford that was big enough to comfortably live and work in for months. So, we were off to Canada… until we connected with France Motorhome Hire (www.francemotorhomehire.com). We’ll tell you more about them in a future blog post, but within a few days of corresponding with Hannah—who owns and runs France Motorhome Hire along with her husband, Phil—we made a u-turn and were on our way to France. Hannah understood and appreciated our hiking/writing project and offered us a long-term rental that was within reach for us.

I’m writing this blog while sitting comfortably at the table inside our “Sky 20” motorhome, parked next to a roaring, glacial stream, in Parc National des Ecrins, in the Hautes Alpes of France. We summitted a minor peak here today: Tete le Maye. The culminating panorama was dazzling. We stayed up there for a couple hours, gazing at massive peaks and glaciers in every direction.

So most of our blog posts for the next few months will be about hiking in the Alps. We hope they inspire you to hike here. When that time comes, we hope you’ll find our suggestions helpful.

And… if you haven’t yet found your river of infinite, meaningful fascination, we hope you do.

Hiking in the mountains along the Mediterranean coast this winter (see previous posts) has reminded us that North Americans cling to a uniquely narrow definition of hiking.

In the U.S. and Canada, hikers expect to depart civilization at the trailhead and remain severed from it for the duration of their hike. Anything less than pristine wilderness, they believe, sullies the experience. In Europe, civilization is often integral to hiking. European hikers don’t expect to always leave civilization behind; they know they’ll encounter it at least occasionally. This doesn’t disappoint them; they appreciate it.

The majority of European hiking trails are historic. Outside the high Alps, many trails are on terraces held in place by ancient stone walls. Others are cobbled for long distances. European trails frequently pass, or grant views of, villages, castles, and myriad structures that are either still used or are now in ruins. Sometimes European trails briefly merge with roads, even paved roads. At higher elevations, most trails link huts or refuges, where hikers who’ve reserved ahead will have everything they need waiting for them: a hearty meal, a comfortable bed, and perhaps a hot shower.

So is hiking inferior in Europe? In our opinion, no. We love hiking here. The European definition of “hiking,” which embraces rather than spurns civilization, allows far more opportunities to hike. It can even make hiking more intriguing and rewarding. Spiderwebbing networks of trails in Europe allow you to tailor each trip to your circumstances, sometimes on the fly. Loops, in which you never retrace a step, are frequently possible. Here, trailheads disperse rather than funnel hikers.

North America and Europe are as different—geographically, historically, culturally—as they are distant. North America, with its vast tracts of wilderness, allows hikers the luxury of insisting that civilization and hiking be mutually exclusive. And many European hikers travel to North America to immerse themselves in “pure nature.” But relatively few hikers from North America reciprocate. They wince at the thought of hiking in “crowded Europe.” We believe their assumptions of Europe are inaccurate, and their view of hiking is blinkered.

We’ve devoted our lives to hiking. The wilds of North America are our natural habitat. Our home in the Canadian Rockies backs onto a mountainside frequented by grizzly bears, cougars, and elk. Yet the months we’ve hiked in Europe—ascending mule tracks through olive groves and medieval hamlets to mountaintops crowned with shrines, frequently greeting our fellow hikers en route—and the months we’ve backpacked in North America—through remote mountains and obscure canyons where we were utterly alone—have been equally joyful.

Travelers often yearn for friends and family to ask stimulating, thoughtful questions. It rarely happens. When it does, it’s a gift. It helps travelers better understand their own motivations and articulate the deeper meaning of the experiences they’ve had en route.

The standard questions… What place did you enjoy most? Where was the best food?… are briefly tolerable but soon wearisome. When asking them, people don’t realize they’re short-changing themselves. More probing, challenging questions elicit more surprising, entertaining, revealing answers.

How do you know if it’s a “good” question? You’ll feel it’s daring of you to ask it. Or you’ll hesitate before answering, because the question demands reflection. Good questions are personal. Contemplation is necessary to think of good questions, as well as to answer them. A good question discloses something about the person asking it. Good questions are the ones you wish someone would ask you. The result of a good question is that both people know each other better and feel closer to one another.

A great friend of ours, with whom we’ve traveled and hiked in the Canadian Rockies, New Zealand, and the French Alps, recently emailed us several good questions about our experiences this winter in the mountains along the Mediterranean. He’s pondering a long, adventurous journey himself and wants it to be soul-enriching, not just a sight-seeing trip. Here’s what he asked and how we answered:

Q: What do you find challenging about your work hiking/traveling?

A: Balancing how much we take with how much we give. We don’t want hiking/traveling to be entirely selfish, which it can easily become. We want to use what we experience to heighten our contribution to others through our books and website blog. We want hiking/travel to make us wiser and more compassionate. What we learn, we can share through our writing. Compassion is a welcome gift in any human exchange.

Q: What meaning did you get from Liguria as opposed to the Costa Blanca?

A: We’re in Liguria now, just inland from the Italian Riviera. The true meaning of a travel experience takes time to bubble up through the soul into the conscious mind. We think it’s yet to do that. We could, of course, offer several answers to that question now. But the real answer will probably emerge later.

Q: What did France’s maritime alps say to you, and what did Italy’s Alpi Apuane say to you?

A: France said “You’re here rather early for hiking.” Italy is saying, “Just in case you didn’t understand it in French, I’ll repeat it in Italian: ‘You’re here rather early for hiking.’”

Q: Why did you choose, or what feelings led you, to go to Liguria?

A: We came to Liguria for the same reasons that have motivated all our European journeys. It feels as if our mental/emotional tank, with regard to Europe, was barely a quarter full. We want to fill up. Our desire to see Europe’s architectural and natural beauty remains intense. Because European society is ancient, there are trails everywhere. More trails per square kilometer here than anywhere. We’re hikers, so how can we resist the Continent of a Million Trails? The reason we came this winter is that we wanted to escape the vastly harsher winter weather at home, in the Canadian Rockies.

Q: How did the feelings generated in Liguria inspire or contribute to your next choice of destination?

A: On the simplest level, we’re compelled to return to these mountains in summer to take full advantage of all the high-elevation hiking trails that are inaccessible to us in winter. On a deeper level, our experience here is nudging our gaze back to North America, specifically to Utah, where we want to build a home in the high-desert canyon country, where the infinite canyons invite endless exploration, and where our souls resonate most vibrantly with the land.

Q: Do you get a sense for local people when hiking in Europe?

A: Yes, but not the present-day locals. We rarely meet anyone hiking here in winter. But we get a strong sense for the Europeans who built the ancient trails. These people are no longer physically present, of course, but we sense them nonetheless. We not only see their handiwork, we use it, much as they did. The trails they built are not just functional, they’re art. Beautiful, earthen art. The terraces they constructed are marvels of patience, engineering, craftsmanship. The trees they cultivated are gorgeous. These people obviously had a profound relationship with the land. We can’t help but begin to see the world through those people’s eyes and to feel kinship with them. And through them, we deepen our relationship with the Earth.

Europe continues wrestling with the most thuggish winter weather it’s seen in more than a decade. Most of the continent was head-dropped* in December, splashed* in January, and is now on the verge of tapping out.***

But we’ve stayed close to the Mediterranean for the past couple months: in Spain’s Costa Blanca Mountains, on the Spanish Island of Mallorca (south of Valencia), and now in France, on the Cote d’Azur. Though the weather has been unusually cold and rainy for this palm-fringed region, it has still allowed us to hike more days than not. And we’ve done it in relative comfort. Compared to a typical winter back home in the Canadian Rockies, it’s been luxurious here.

Our current abode is the ancient city of Vence, slightly inland from Cap d’Antibe, Cannes, and Nice. In a country rife with ancient villages and towns that are certifiably gorgeous, Vence is a gem. Our apartment is literally on the wall that once deterred would-be assailants from ransacking the original village. When we look out our window, we can peer up at the foothills of the Alpes Maritime rising immediately above us, or we can gaze down-valley toward the Med. We’re within a couple-minute walk of numerous pâtisseries and boulangeries d’artisan (pastry shops and artisan bakeries). We’re virtually next door to the cultural center, where we sat front row while a superb jazz quartet performed a brilliant homage to Antônio Jobim, the Grammy Award-winning Brazilian songwriter, composer, arranger, singer, and pianist/guitarist. And all around us, in every direction, are hiking trails. We are as happy as we can be, regardless of the weather.

If a winter hiking holiday appeals to you, we recommend Vence, France. You’ll find lots of accommodation options on www.homeaway.com. After arriving in Vence, go to one of the tabacs (small shops selling tabacco products, newspapers, magazines, etc.) and buy the IGN 1: 25 000 topo maps titled “ET 3642” and “ET 3643.” You’ll also find IGN topo maps at Carrefour hypermarkets along the Cote d’Azur.

Compared to Spain’s Costa Blanca and Mallorca’s Serra de Tramuntana, the mountains of the Cote d’Azur are more heavily treed, with less exposed rock, so they’re not as dramatic. But they’re beautiful and intriguing nonetheless. And they compensate by offering a vastly more extensive trail network, better maintained trails, and superior trail signage. Walking and hiking are more ingrained in French culture. And French tourism organizations understand that trails are a vital asset. As a result, you can expect to see excellent signage at trailheads and trail junctions, plus painted blazes en route. Hiking here can be physically challenging but is never a mental chore.

The following Cote d’Azur trails, all within easy reach of Vence, kept us striding eagerly. We’ve posted photos of several of them among the first 30 images under “France” on the Photos/Videos page of our website.

Circuit de Cavillore
2- to 3-hour loop gaining 300 m (984 ft)
Starting just above the beautiful perched village of Gourdon at 740 m (2427 ft), a well-constructed, switchbacking trail provides an easy, scenic introduction to the area.

Circuit du Castellet
3-hour loop gaining 450 m (1476 ft) including spur to summit
From St. Jeanette (a ten-minute drive from Vence), the trail ascends over the crag towering directly above the village. The summit overlooks a big swath of the Cote d’Azur.

Balcon du Loup
5- to 6.5-hour loop gaining 800 m (2624 ft)
After climbing above the village of Pont du Loup, the trail follows an ancient aqueduct traversing a valley wall. It allows you to hike comfortably and safely along sheer cliffs. You’ll also proceed through eight, long, dark tunnels, so don’t forget your headlamp.  The hike ends with a long, steep, switchbacking descent of Pic de Courmettes on a paved road.

Plateau de Calern
4-hour circuit gaining 250 m (820 ft)
Start near the Obervatoire du CERGA, northwest of Gourdon. Panoramic views are constant. Mt. Cheiron dominates the inland horizon. En route you’ll often pass remnants of ancient civilization, including wells, agricultural plots and, of course, walls.

Gorges de la Vesubie
4- to 5-hour round trip gaining 700 m (2296 ft)
This astounding trail is the one we’d recommend if you had but one day to hike near the Cote d’Azur. It’s an ancient mule path (much of it cobbled) allowing a highline traverse of the soaring, nearly vertical, 800-m (2624-ft) gorge wall between two villages: Le Cros d’Utelle and Utelle. Start at the tranquil hamlet of Le Cros d’Utelle. After a brief ascent, you’ll generally contour all the way to the slightly larger settlement of Utelle. A circuit is possible, but it entails significant elevation loss (which you must regain) and affords little new scenery; better to hike out and back. Afterward, drive road D19, on the gorge’s opposite wall, between St. Jean la Riviere and Levens. The road is an engineering marvel allowing you to fully appreciate the trail you just completed. We frequently stopped the car, got out, and stared in awe. If we hadn’t just hiked there, we wouldn’t believe it possible.

Mt. Lion
4- to 5-hour circuit gaining 450 m (1476 ft)
From the village of Gillette, high above the Var River Valley, hike around Mt. Lion. Time permitting, follow a short spur to the 1049-m (3441-ft) summit. Scenic highlights include a close perspective of 1550-m (5084-ft) Mt. Vial and an aerial view of the Esteron Valley. Before or after the hike, visit the perched village of Bonson.

Baou de l’Arc
3- to 4-hour loop gaining 630 m (2066 ft)
After sauntering through the meticulously maintained, ancient village of Cuebris, you’ll ascend past an impressive waterfall and top out on a lofty crag. On the descent, you’ll hop a stream just above where it careens into a defile and over a cliff. Just before returning to the village, you’ll cross a bridge over a creek roaring through a chasm. From Vence, the quickest way to reach Cuebris is via the N202 highway in the Var Valley, then the D17 through the lovely villages of Gillette and Roquesteron. After the hike, take the long way back to Vence by driving the D1 through the perched villages of Consegudes, Ferres, and Bouyon. Proceed southwest to Coursegoules, then follow the D2 back to Vence.

Brec d’Utelle
4- to 4.5-hour round trip gaining 810 m (2657 ft)
Many of the roads in the mountains of France are mind boggling, like this smoothly-paved lane climbing from the bottom of Vesubie Gorge all the way to the perched village of Utelle at 800 m (2624 ft). And the trails continuing beyond these French roads tend to be equally marvelous, like this one leading to a peaklet on the edge of the gorge. Views extend into the burly mountains of Parc National du Mercantour.

Mt. Cheiron
8- to 9-hour loop gaining 800 m (2624 ft)
Rising 1778 m (5832 ft), Mt. Cheiron is the highest Cote d’Azur peak within 30 km (19 mi) of the sea. Beneath the mountain’s south face are two quaint villages— Coursegoules and Greoleries—where you’ll find trails ascending to Cheiron’s summit ridge. There’s also a trail along the mountain’s 5-km (3 mi) spine, and a trail linking the villages, so it’s possible to hike Cheiron as a loop. Midwinter, however, the peak will likely retain too much snow to allow easy striding. If so, consider a short, three-hour roundtrip starting in Coursegoules at 1020 m (3346 ft) and gaining 480 m (1574 ft) to the ridgecrest at 1424 m (4671 ft).

Cap Ferrat
2-hour loop with negligible elevation gain
After ascending mountains or contending with chilly weather, this often-sunny seaside walk can be a welcome change. Start in Beaulieu sur Mer (immediately northeast of Nice) and follow the coastal path around Cap Ferrat. You’ll often be walking within a few meters of ocean swells crashing on the rocks. Just above, you’ll glimpse the massive holiday mansions of the obscenely wealthy. Be thankful France has a socially-minded government that keeps paths like this open to the public rather than allowing the local moguls to extend fences into the water. Two other coastal walks worth considering are at Cap d’Antibes and Cap d’Ail.

*A “head drop” is a pro wrestling move causing the victim to be dropped on his head, often resulting in an actual (as opposed to fake) injury, such as a concussion or even a broken neck. The intention is for the full force of the move to be absorbed in the victim’s upper back and shoulders, but a head drop always involves legitimate risk.

**A “splash” is any move involving a very large wrestler dropping his full weight across the body of a smaller opponent. It was originated by Big Daddy, a 1970s British pro wrestler whose signature move was the “Daddy Splash.”

***A “tap out” is when a wrestler taps on the mat to acknowledge submission. It means he is giving up due to the unbearable pain his opponent is inflicting on him.