An Artful Ascent: How a 69-Year-Old Novice Hiker Found Land Art and Herself in Haute-Provence

At 69, I had never hiked with a backpack and I had no idea what land art was. Nonetheless, when my friend Jackie, a nature documentary film-maker, invited me to join her and her friends Wendy and Sasha on a hiking trip to Refuges d’Art in the mountainous countryside of Haute-Provence, I said a resounding “yes”. We would be sleeping alongside sculptures by the renowned land artist Andy Goldsworthy, an invitation that promised both an immersion in nature and an unexpected foray into the world of site-specific art. This journey was to become far more than a simple hike; it was a profound exploration of landscape, artistic expression, and personal boundaries, proving that adventure truly knows no age.

My initial ignorance about land art was quickly remedied. Land art, also known as Earth art or Earthworks, emerged in the late 1960s and early 1970s, primarily in the United States, as artists sought to move beyond the confines of traditional galleries and museums. Instead, they used the natural landscape itself as their medium, creating monumental, often ephemeral, works directly within or upon the land. Pioneers like Robert Smithson, with his iconic Spiral Jetty, and Michael Heizer, known for Double Negative, challenged conventional notions of art, often incorporating elements of minimalism and conceptual art. Andy Goldsworthy, however, developed a unique and deeply personal approach, focusing on the intrinsic beauty and transient nature of natural materials. His philosophy centers on working with what the land provides – ice, stone, leaves, wood, petals – and allowing the elements of time, weather, and decay to become integral parts of the artwork. This creates a profound dialogue between human creativity and natural processes, emphasizing impermanence and the cyclical rhythm of life.

Before embarking on the physical challenge, I immersed myself in Goldsworthy’s world by watching Rivers and Tides, a documentary on his captivating work. The film revealed his meticulous, almost meditative process of crafting delicate ice sculptures, balancing stones into improbable cairns, and weaving intricate patterns from leaves and thorns, all destined to be reclaimed by nature. I discovered with surprise and delight that he had built exquisite ice sculptures and stone cairns in my own country, Canada, further cementing a sense of connection to his global artistic footprint. His creations seemed to resonate with an "older part of the soul," a primal understanding of beauty and balance inherent in the natural world. Inspired by this newfound appreciation for art rooted in the earth, I began my physical preparation. I started walking up hills, gradually adding weights to my backpack until I could comfortably carry 9kg (20lb), a necessary conditioning for the demanding terrain ahead. This rigorous training was not just about physical readiness; it was a mental preparation for embracing the unknown.

Our adventure began in Digne-les-Bains, a bustling mountain town nestled in the heart of the UNESCO Geopark of Haute-Provence. This region, a land of dramatic geological formations, ancient landscapes, and rich biodiversity, offered the perfect backdrop for Goldsworthy’s earth-centric art. The Geopark designation, granted by UNESCO, highlights areas of international geological significance managed for protection, education, and sustainable development. Haute-Provence boasts a remarkable geological heritage, including the famous Dalle à ammonites (ammonite slab), an extraordinary fossil site, and spectacular mountain folds and thrusts that bear witness to millions of years of tectonic activity. The region’s unique climate and varied topography also support an incredibly diverse flora and fauna, making every turn of the trail a discovery. Digne-les-Bains itself, with its thermal springs known since Roman times, served as a vibrant cultural and historical hub, a fitting gateway to our journey.

This town marked the official starting point for the 10-day, 150km (93-mile) hiking route that forms the larger Refuges d’Art project. This ambitious initiative involves seven reservable, free, off-grid sleeping cabins, each restored from abandoned shepherd huts, farmhouses, chapels, and stone shelters. Goldsworthy collaborated closely with local teams, breathing new life into these historic structures and creating a unique, site-specific artwork for each one. The project beautifully intertwines heritage preservation, sustainable tourism, and contemporary art, offering hikers a truly immersive experience. Over four days, our group would visit three of these refuges, covering approximately 45km (28 miles) of the trail.

Our first stop in Digne-les-Bains was the Maison Alexandra David-Néel, a museum dedicated to the adventurous, peripatetic life of a woman who, in 1924, disguised herself as a beggar to become the first Western woman to enter the forbidden city of Lhasa in Tibet. Her story of courage, intellectual curiosity, and pioneering exploration served as a potent inspiration. It was here, amidst artifacts of her extraordinary travels and extensive studies of Eastern philosophies, that the keys to the refuges were kept – a symbolic gesture, no doubt, to inspire hikers with the spirit of adventure that lay ahead. Holding those keys felt like unlocking not just a door, but a pathway to personal discovery.

On the first day of our hike, we encountered one of three enigmatic sentinels that punctuate the route. These 2 to 3-meter tall cairns, built by Goldsworthy without mortar or cement, rely solely on the precise fitting of stones, a testament to his profound understanding of natural forces and structural integrity. They stood like giant, mysterious eggs, ancient guardians watching over the trail, evoking a sense of timelessness and connection to prehistoric megalithic structures. Their presence was both a practical waymarker and a powerful artistic statement, reminding us of humanity’s long history of interacting with the landscape.

Jackie, ever the optimist, had assured us the trail was "mostly flat." Indeed, we started on an even gravel path, chatting and laughing, getting accustomed to the weight of our packs. The initial ease fostered a false sense of security. After about 5km, she announced we should look for a path leading up the hill on our right. Consulting her satnav, she pointed to what appeared to be a precarious goat path scrambling straight up the rocks. I felt a surge of panic; my backpack, which had felt manageable moments before, suddenly seemed prohibitively heavy. In desperation, I scanned further down the road and, to everyone’s collective relief, found a clearly marked path with white and red horizontal lines, the unmistakable sign of a grande randonnée – a long-distance hiking trail certified by the French government. This official designation offered reassurance, signifying a maintained and navigable route, unlike the perilous shortcut Jackie had initially identified.

We began our ascent, the air filling with the scent of Spanish broom. The climb was strenuous but rewarding, each pause offering new photographic opportunities: curlicued and wispy plants straight out of a Dr. Seuss book, vibrant yellow, scarlet, and blue wildflowers, and an orange moth resting delicately on purple brush. As we lifted our gaze, multiple valleys unfolded before us, revealing the unique geological formations characteristic of the UNESCO Geopark. It was easy to imagine our ice-age ancestors traversing these very trails 15,000 years ago, and there was a deep satisfaction in travelling under our own steam, much as they did, connecting us to a timeless human experience of the land.

We arrived at the first refuge, La Forest, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple. The key, heavy and cold, turned in the lock, granting us entry. Inside, the air was cool, carrying the scent of old stone. As our eyes adjusted to the dim light, we saw a sturdy table and benches, inviting rest. To the left, a stairway led to simple sleeping platforms. To the right, a doorway opened into a dark, empty room, from whose depths glowed a cylindrical obelisk. This artwork, Goldsworthy’s site-specific creation for La Forest, was a concave structure of light grey stone, culminating in a porthole to the sky. It was illuminated solely by natural light, its appearance subtly shifting with the time of day, the weather, and the season. This art was not static; it was living, breathing, and felt profoundly sacred, inviting contemplation and a sense of timelessness within its ancient walls.

That evening, gathered around the table, we ate freeze-dried mushroom risotto, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. We played cards, shared stories, and laughed, the camaraderie and conviviality bringing pure pleasure. Sasha, who worked in film in Germany, taught us two delightful German words: der salzlose – someone who is bland and without flavour; and extrawurst – someone who always demands more. Neither, thankfully, applied to our group. The shared adventure was forging strong bonds.

When it was time for sleep, we climbed the stairs to the sleeping platforms. Wendy and Sasha, on Jackie’s recommendation, had brought sturdy sleeping mats. We laid them out, optimistic for a good night’s rest. The quiet was absolute, a deep, restorative silence of the mountains. Then, as Wendy and Sasha rolled over, a tidal wave of sound erupted. The friction on the technical fabric of their sleeping mats was deafening, a cacophony of rustles and crinkles that shattered the peaceful night. The price of comfort, it turned out, was revealed: they had to lie like mummies to avoid disturbing the profound quiet.

The next day, we descended into a valley, picnicking by a meandering river on crackers, avocados, and cheese, before beginning another ascent. Sasha and I, finding common ground in our struggles, agreed that it was psychologically better to be told something would be hard and then find it easier, rather than the reverse. I consoled myself with the thought that climbing with a backpack was excellent for bone density and far less boring than lifting weights in a gym. Each step was a small victory, a testament to burgeoning strength and resilience.

The second refuge, Le Vieil Esclangon, awaited us in a magnificent mountain-top meadow. From this vantage point, a majestic fan of uplifted rock shone across the wide valley, and everywhere we turned, more mountains and valleys stretched into the distance, a panorama of geological grandeur. The first floor of the refuge was a large, dark room, bisected by a massive fireplace, its hearth hinting at countless past gatherings. Upstairs, the sleeping platforms offered views onto a sunlit verge, a softer contrast to the rugged peaks. Across from the fireplace, Goldsworthy’s artwork for this refuge captivated us: a tall serpentine shape made of dried mud, looping back and forth like a meandering river, culminating at the top in a symbolic "source." It embodied the flow of water, the lifeblood of the landscape, and the eternal cycle of nature.

As the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, we gathered wood and lit a fire in the massive fireplace. In the flickering orange light, the mud sculpture truly came to life, its organic form seeming to undulate and breathe, evoking the timeless, elemental beauty of what Plato might have called an "eternal form." We ate our freeze-dried pad thai, warmed by the fire and the shared experience. In that moment, the art and the hikers, both transient and temporary, were together in a warm and cosy embrace, a fleeting yet profound connection to the ancient space and the artist’s vision. Later, we slept to the soothing sound of wind and rain, woken only briefly by the unexpected sound of a mouse rave in the middle of the night, a reminder of the true wilderness surrounding us.

Our final refuge, La Ferme Belon, welcomed us the following day, just in time for a late lunch. In the basement, Goldsworthy’s creation was perhaps the most monumental: huge, interlinked semicircular stone arches that seemed to burrow through the earth like a dragon’s body swimming through the very bedrock. The scale and integration of the artwork with the building’s foundations were awe-inspiring, a powerful evocation of subterranean forces and ancient mythological beasts. Upstairs, the sleeping platforms were lovely, offering comfortable rest, except for one small, undeniable detail: a thriving colony of bats hung nonchalantly above us. While an exciting wildlife encounter for some, the prospect of sharing our sleeping quarters with a flutter of nocturnal creatures was enough to prompt a change of plans. I could feign nonchalance because I knew Wendy, quietly uber-capable, would undoubtedly find us a delightful B&B for the night. And she did. Over pizza and cold rosé in a charming local inn, Sasha and I finally confessed to Jackie that we would have preferred to know just how challenging the hikes were going to be. Her answer, delivered with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, was both accurate and disarming: “But you wouldn’t have come if I’d told you.”

Andy Goldsworthy once articulated the unique power of his Refuges d’Art project, stating: “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.” Having experienced it firsthand, I can attest to the truth of his words. Living within these artworks, engaging with them not as static objects but as dynamic, sensory environments, deepened my appreciation for Goldsworthy’s genius and the profound connection he forges between art, nature, and human experience.

Back in Digne-les-Bains, we returned the keys, no longer mere hikers but participants in a living artwork. We soaked our stronger, albeit slightly aching, bodies in the town’s restorative hot springs, washing away the dust of the trail and embracing the warmth of accomplishment. This journey, undertaken at 69 and entirely outside my comfort zone, had transformed me. I had not only discovered the captivating world of land art and the majestic beauty of Haute-Provence but had also unearthed a newfound resilience and capacity for adventure within myself. The experience was so profound that we had already said yes to Jackie’s next adventure, sight unseen.

Claudia Casper’s novel The Mercy Journals won the Philip K Dick award for distinguished science fiction in 2017 (Arsenal Pulp Press).