The invitation, coming at a time when many might consider slowing down, felt like a summons to an unforeseen adventure. My prior experience with art was largely confined to museums, and the concept of "land art" – art created in nature, with natural materials, often ephemeral – was entirely new. Andy Goldsworthy, I would soon learn, was a master of this genre, known for his site-specific works that respond intimately to their environment, crafted from leaves, ice, stones, and mud, and often left to the elements. To prepare for this unique journey, I first delved into his world by watching "Rivers and Tides," a documentary that vividly portrays Goldsworthy’s meticulous process and philosophical approach. I discovered his exquisite ice sculptures and carefully balanced stone cairns built in my own country, Canada, and across the globe. His art, deeply rooted in the cycles of nature, seemed to resonate with an ancient, primal part of the human spirit, suggesting a connection to landscapes that transcends time. This initial exposure ignited a curiosity that fuelled my physical preparation. I began a regimen of walking up hills, gradually increasing the weight in my backpack, aiming to comfortably carry 9kg (20lb) – a seemingly modest but crucial load for multi-day treks. This systematic training was vital, transforming a sedentary lifestyle into one capable of tackling the rugged trails of the French Alps. Our expedition began in Digne-les-Bains, a bustling mountain town nestled in the heart of the UNESCO Geopark of Haute-Provence. This region is celebrated not only for its dramatic landscapes – a testament to millions of years of geological history – but also for its rich biodiversity and cultural heritage. The Geopark, encompassing a vast area of the Southern French Alps, is a living museum of geological phenomena, from ancient ammonite fossils to impressive mountain formations sculpted by millennia of erosion and tectonic shifts. Digne-les-Bains serves as the official starting point for the 10-day, 150km (93-mile) hiking route known as the "Sentier d’Art," or Art Trail, which encompasses the Refuges d’Art. This ambitious project, initiated by the local authorities in collaboration with Andy Goldsworthy, aimed to revitalize abandoned shepherd huts, farmhouses, a chapel, and other stone shelters scattered across the remote valleys. Goldsworthy, working alongside local teams, meticulously restored these structures, transforming them into seven reservable, free, off-grid sleeping cabins, each featuring a unique, site-specific artwork. Our plan was to tackle a challenging 45km (28 miles) segment of this trail over four days, visiting three of these extraordinary refuges. Our first stop in Digne-les-Bains was the Maison Alexandra David-Néel, a museum dedicated to the remarkable life of a woman whose adventurous spirit perfectly prefaced our own journey. Alexandra David-Néel (1868-1969) was an extraordinary French explorer, spiritualist, writer, and Buddhist. In 1924, at the age of 55, she achieved international fame by becoming the first Western woman to enter the Forbidden City of Lhasa in Tibet, disguised as a beggar. Her life was a testament to courage, intellectual curiosity, and an unwavering desire to explore the unknown, both geographically and spiritually. It was no coincidence that the keys to the Refuges d’Art are kept here, serving as a symbolic torch passing from one adventurer to the next, inspiring hikers with the promise of wild landscapes and profound discoveries. The initial leg of our hike unfolded on the first day, and it wasn’t long before we encountered one of Goldsworthy’s enigmatic "sentinels." These monumental cairns, standing between 2 to 3 meters (6.5 to 10 feet) tall, are crafted entirely without mortar or cement. Their stability relies solely on the precise arrangement of stones, each carefully selected for its shape and weight, a testament to Goldsworthy’s deep understanding of natural forces and structural integrity. They stand like ancient guardians, silent observers watching over the route, their rough-hewn forms echoing prehistoric monoliths and adding a layer of mystery to the landscape. Jackie, perhaps optimistically, had described the trail as "mostly flat." Indeed, we started on an even gravel path, the weight of our packs feeling manageable as we chatted and laughed, the excitement of the journey overriding any initial discomfort. After about 5km, she suggested we look for a path leading up a hill to our right. Consulting her satellite navigation, she pointed to what appeared to be little more than a goat path, scrambling straight up a rocky incline. A wave of panic washed over me; my backpack, which had felt so light moments before, suddenly seemed impossibly heavy. The thought of scaling such a steep, unmarked route filled me with dread. In a moment of inspired desperation, I scanned further down the road. To everyone’s immense relief, I spotted a path clearly marked with the distinctive white and red horizontal lines of a grande randonnée. This official French government certification signifies a long-distance hiking trail, well-maintained and reliably marked, offering a much more navigable, albeit still challenging, ascent. Our climb began in earnest, a steady upward journey through a landscape that quickly revealed its breathtaking beauty. We paused frequently, not just to catch our breath, but to photograph the fantastical flora: curlicued and wispy plants that seemed plucked from a Dr. Seuss illustration, vibrant yellow, scarlet, and blue wildflowers painting the hillsides, and an iridescent orange moth delicately perched on purple brush. The air was thick with the sweet, heady perfume of Spanish broom. Lifting our gaze from the immediate surroundings, we were met with panoramic vistas of multiple valleys and unique geological formations, sculpted over millennia. It was easy to imagine our ice-age ancestors traversing these very trails 15,000 years ago, navigating by instinct and the contours of the land. There was a profound gratification in travelling under our own steam, mirroring their ancient journeys, a tangible connection to the timeless rhythm of human movement through nature. As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain, we arrived at our first refuge, La Forest. The key, retrieved from Maison Alexandra David-Néel, felt heavy and significant in my hand as it unlocked the sturdy wooden door. Inside, the air was cold and still, carrying the scent of old stone and earth. Our eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. A simple wooden table and benches stood before us, inviting rest. To the left, a rustic stairway led to the sleeping platforms. To the right, a doorway opened into a dark, empty room. From its depths, an ethereal glow emanated, revealing a cylindrical obelisk. Light fell gently on a single, large stone within the structure, a natural seat for contemplation. This artwork was concave, constructed of light grey stone, culminating in a porthole that framed a sliver of the sky. It was illuminated solely by natural light, its appearance subtly shifting with the time of day, the weather, and the season. This was not static art; it was living, breathing, and imbued with a sense of the sacred. That evening, gathered around the table, we dined on freeze-dried mushroom risotto, a surprisingly satisfying meal given our remote location. In the flickering candlelight, we played cards, shared stories, and laughed, the camaraderie deepening with each passing hour. Sasha, who works in film in Germany, enriched our vocabulary with two delightful German words: der salzlose – someone bland and without flavour; and extrawurst – someone who always demands more. We unanimously agreed that neither applied to our group; the conviviality and shared experience were a source of pure pleasure. Eventually, we climbed the stairs to the sleeping platforms. Wendy and Sasha, following Jackie’s advice, had brought sturdy sleeping mats. As they unrolled them, a deafening sound erupted – the friction of the technical fabric against the wooden platform created a peculiar, loud squeak with every shift of weight. The price of comfort, we discovered, was remaining perfectly still, like mummies, to avoid waking the entire refuge. The next day, we began our descent, the downhill trek offering a different kind of challenge to our leg muscles. We picnicked by a pristine river, enjoying crackers, avocados, and cheese – a simple feast made luxurious by the stunning surroundings. Then, it was time to climb again. Sasha and I found common ground in our subversive agreement: it was psychologically better to be told a hike would be hard and find it easier, rather than the other way around. I continued to console myself with the thought that climbing with a backpack was excellent for bone density and infinitely more engaging than lifting weights in a gym. The natural world offered a far more compelling workout. Our destination that day was Le Vieil Esclangon, a refuge nestled in a magnificent mountain-top meadow. From this vantage point, a majestic fan of lifted rock formations shimmered across the wide valley, a geological marvel that dominated the horizon. Everywhere we turned, more mountains and valleys stretched into the distance, a panorama of rugged beauty. The refuge itself was a testament to rustic charm and Goldsworthy’s vision. The first floor featured a large, dark room divided by a massive, central fireplace, promising warmth against the mountain chill. Upstairs, the sleeping platforms offered expansive views onto a sunlit verge, connecting us directly with the sweeping landscape. Across from the grand fireplace, Goldsworthy’s artwork here was a tall, serpentine shape crafted from dried mud, looping back and forth like a meandering river, its organic form culminating at the top, representing the river’s source. As evening approached, the wind picked up, and the temperature dropped sharply. We gathered wood and lit a fire, its flickering orange light transforming the interior of the refuge. The mud sculpture seemed to come alive, its undulations casting dancing shadows, evoking an almost primordial sense of form, like one of Plato’s eternal archetypes. We ate our freeze-dried pad thai, a modern convenience amidst ancient stones, acutely aware of the transient nature of both the art and our presence within it, yet profoundly connected in that warm, cosy moment. Later, we drifted to sleep to the sounds of wind and rain lashing against the refuge, only to be momentarily woken by what could only be described as a "mouse rave" in the middle of the night – a reminder of the wild, untamed life that coexisted with us in these remote shelters. On our third day, we arrived at the final refuge of our journey, La Ferme Belon, in time for a late lunch. This refuge held perhaps the most dramatic of Goldsworthy’s installations. In the basement, huge, interlinked semicircular stone arches curved through the earth, creating a powerful, almost mythological impression. They looked, as I observed, like a dragon’s body swimming through the very fabric of the earth, a primal force made manifest in stone. Upstairs, the sleeping platforms were inviting and comfortable, save for one small, unexpected detail: a colony of bats hanging quietly from the rafters. While I could feign nonchalance, I knew Wendy, with her quiet competence, would undoubtedly find us a delightful B&B for the night, offering a welcome respite from the rustic, and sometimes wild, realities of off-grid living. Over a celebratory pizza and cold rosé in the comfort of a local inn, Sasha and I finally confessed to Jackie that we would have preferred to know the true challenging nature of the hikes upfront. With a knowing twinkle in her eye, she simply replied, “But you wouldn’t have come if I’d told you.” Her mischievous honesty perfectly encapsulated the spirit of the trip – a leap of faith that ultimately yielded immense rewards. Andy Goldsworthy himself once articulated the unique power of the Refuges d’Art: “To me there is a tremendous difference between works of art that we observe in a museum just for a few minutes and works of art in which we live for a short while, in which we sleep. To sleep in a sculpture is a wonderful idea.” His words resonated deeply with our experience. This was not passive appreciation; it was active engagement, an intimate cohabitation with art that transformed our understanding of both art and ourselves. Our adventure concluded back in Digne-les-Bains. We returned the keys to the Maison Alexandra David-Néel, feeling a sense of accomplishment and gratitude. Our bodies, stronger and more resilient, yearned for the soothing embrace of the town’s natural hot springs, a perfect therapeutic end to days of strenuous hiking. The journey had been transformative, pushing physical and mental boundaries, fostering deep camaraderie, and opening my eyes to an entirely new dimension of art and nature. My initial apprehension had given way to exhilaration, and my comfort zone had expanded significantly. The taste of adventure, once foreign, was now exhilarating. In fact, we had already said a resounding “yes” to Jackie’s next adventure, sight unseen – a testament to the profound and lasting impact of our extraordinary journey through the Refuges d’Art. Claudia Casper’s novel The Mercy Journals won the Philip K Dick award for distinguished science fiction in 2017 (Arsenal Pulp Press). Post navigation 10 of the best mountain huts in Europe: bunkrooms, bothies and bonhomie
