Le Chemin de Stevenson

[Above photo: An evening view of Le Pont-de-Montverd and the Tarn River, the terminus of our hike.]

4 October 2025

Robert Louis Stevenson broke the trail in Travels With a Donkey in the Cevennes.  Maria and Tom created our Action Plan and led our troupe. Mme. Marie-Ange supplied the donkeys. Upio, Hashtag, and Bellou did the heavy lifting. The other 7 of us did our share of donkey duty and hiking.

From Langogne to Pont de Montvert we walked, some 8-14 miles per day, a group of pilgrims honoring not our lord but the charm of rolling hills and tiny valley towns, and always, local baked goods and pate. Sometimes we’d stay at a hotel, sometimes a gite, a more primitive accommodation. Often the latter lacked linens, so those of us with microfiber camping towels would shower, having slept in our own sleeping sacks underneath their blankets. Some used t-shirts or other clothing to dry after showers, depending on how desperately soiled they felt.

The food was variable, with an excess of sausages for supper and, in the Abby de Notre Dame, bread and coffee only for breakfast. The nuns were consistent with their stoicism, providing thin, narrow, scratchy toilet paper.  Since we’d come from lovely Lyon, the home of many Paul Bocuse establishments and the current centre gastronomique of France, the contrast with peasant fare was striking, although venison stew and wild boar pate complimented the wild cepe mushrooms foragers were bringing to each restaurant.  Cepe tarts are heaven embodied.

We’d rise at an agreed-up hour, depending on the length of the day’s hike, eat, assemble our belongings and prepare the donkeys. Halter them, curry, brush, clean their shoes and hooves, place the saddle-blanket and saddle, attach the cinches loosely, balance the saddle bags for weight and hook them onto the saddles. Full water bottles, lunches, and waterproofs and layers in our day packs, we’d set off.

The Stevenson app was a great help, as the trail changes and the signs and markings lag.  The little Cicerone book was usefully descriptive of each day’s destination.  We also encountered numerous adults hiking the same direction and they assisted with good cheer and tips.  

A pair of French hikers, Remy and Karl, were lively meal companions for a few days. A Viennese youth, heading “around the world”, was sweet and engaging. Quite a number of the other hikers, French all, were at least of late middle-age, fit contrasts  to the obese adults waddling around our cities.

The older walkers were reassuring to me. I’d worried that this might be the trip to convince me that I was actually 85yo. I was awakened but not because I couldn’t keep up; rather, the long days simply took a lot out of me.

I’m not certain that it was easier to have the donkeys carry my 8kg of stuff than carrying it myself. Leading a donkey is not a relaxing prospect, at least not for the 6 days we did it. As 24 hours grazers, sleeping in shorts intervals, if they don’t feed every 1 1/2-2 hours, they become discomfited by stomach acid and become headstrong. Lunging for their snacks required each of us leading one to decide to allow it or to assert our dominance. We were instructed by Dorian, Marie-Ange’s daughter, to be firm but kind. We were to convince them that we were in charge. It was a psychological game, as well as one very physical. The upper body workout with a hungry 600-800# animal was considerable; I developed a tendonitis and swelling of both my hands from pulling on the lead or grabbing the halter itself. In extreme instances I grabbed both the halter and the animal’s nose to gain control of the head.

It often takes 2 to drive a donkey, one on either side of the head or one in front looking ahead with a loose lead and one in back poking or pushing the animal’s hindquarters when they pause. Shaking a small branch with leaves often helps to get them started again. Tugging, as in trying to dominate a toddler who has just learned “No!” or as in trying to argue with an unfortunate suffering with anorexia nervosa, is sure defeat.

At lunch-time we’d remove their packs and saddles and put each animal on a long lead attached to a tree so they could graze and rest. They liked to stay close to each other; once we had to drop small wedges of apple, Hansel and Gretel-fashion, to draw Hashtag close enough to a distant post to tether him.  At times there wasn’t adequate feed beside the road for them and we’d have to move further along. They loved the leaves and stems of a sumac-like tree.

We purchased and carried oats, apples, carrots, endive, and lemons as treats for them. 2 of the three liked to squeeze the juice out of a lemon half and spit the pulp on the ground. I have no idea of the discrimination of donkey taste buds. Are they capable of sweet, sour, bitter and salt like us?

I bonded with Hashtag on the first day and walked with him much of every day until the last when I switched for Bellou. I’d assumed that the former was old and, thus, headstrong when hungry. I discovered at the end of the trip that his temperament was a result of  adolescence. I initially assumed I was a better donkey-whisperer than I actually was, although I was comfortable with them.  I liked them all; they are sweet and hard workers but demanded much more of us physically than I’d assumed.

A couple of frightening times included Upio getting stung by a hornet and bucking and galloping down a trail untethered. The next day as I was letting Hashtag graze, he stirred up an entire nest of hornets which pursued him up the hill into a gathering of the other two donkeys plus hikers.  All three then burst into a gallop down a long road and out of sight up a side road. We’d learned the day before to simply let go of them if they ran. Tom, Maria, and I followed and they were shoulder to shoulder, looking back at us, wide-eyed. Adrenalized, they’d outrun the hornets. We let them settle for some minutes and resumed our journey.

On the last part of the final day, as we descended the lower slopes of Mt. Lozere, the trail was narrow, rocky, and steep.  There is nothing quite like leading a large beast down a steep slippery trail, hearing their metal shoes sliding behind you on the rocky ledges they must traverse. But they were sure-footed and mindful partners in the venture, knowing the trail well. No one was crushed or even stepped on.

Of my companions, each had an interesting story.  I shall not attempt to repeat them in detail—I’ve not Chaucer’s gifts—but all revealed humor, grit, and kindness. This sort of trip is a good filter. One woman had lived in her 20’s at Findhorn in NE Scotland, for those of you who recall it from the 60’s. Her parents were Polish, captured by the Soviets and they spent 2 years in the same gulag as Alexy Navalny. Others had spouses  with varying degrees of infirmity, adjusting their lives to address the now very disparate needs of two adults in later life. One had a knee that was in trouble but still walked the trail most days uncomplainingly. A recently-married son of one is an accomplished sustainable-energy engineer who cannot find a job since our government has pulled all funding for those programs and must rejoin his Taiwanese wife there, jobless. There was always plenty to discuss and we rarely fell back upon the obvious—the outrageously corrupt and dangerous conduct of DT and his cowardly or malignant sycophants.

The countryside began as gentle hills gradually becoming steeper and higher. Much was forested with spruce, pine, larch, beech and birch. There were endless stone walls encircling emerald meadows containing immense dairy cattle, gigantic bulls, and horses. The latter were usually curious and ran over to where we were. Some were draft horses, some leggy, athletic runners. There were no Quarter Horses or Appaloosas.  All were handsome and well-fed.  We saw sheep only once, a group of 5 or 6 in a darkly-shaded pen. Previously, this was sheep country but the market for wool has vanished world-wide, replaced by petroleum-based polyester fleece.

We encountered deer hunters with a baying pack of hounds on one day. Soon after seeing them, a doe with two fawns ran frantically up a nearby meadow, then down it, and up again. Bambi! No gunshots were heard, thankfully.

We covered the middle section of Stevenson’s journey. If we’d gone further into the Cevennes National Park, we would have traipsed through the Central Massif of France with longer and steeper climbs. As it was, our climb to the Finiels on Mt. Lozere reached 1699m, a bit higher than Maine’s Mt. Katahdin (1606m). That day’s walk was about 14 miles, an exhausting end to the trip, given our donkey-work and the treacherous descent.

I spent the next two nights in a comfortable hotel in Le Puy-en-Velay, a darling medieval town with an 1100 year-old chapel (and frescoes)  atop an extinct volcano. On a higher plug was a tall statue of the virgin Mary cast from Russian cannons captured during the Crimean War after France was victorious at Sebastopol. The Cathedral of Notre Dame is the oldest point of departure in France for pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. The town has wonderful restaurants, food shops, and an astounding 500 year-old lace industry.  There is a large school for those who want to learn the practice of making lace by hand, a trying craft.

Totoom runs a very agreeable shuttle service and I was at Lyon-St. Exupery with time to spare for my flight to Porto. My nephews met me at the airport and whisked me to their lovely farm/orchard where I’m enjoying the pleasures of their and my sister-in-law’s company and the Portuguese countryside.

The Chemin de Stevenson was an unusual experience. I’m unequivocally glad that we did it as we did. I wouldn’t repeat it with donkeys, however. I would enjoy hiking the final section in the Cevennes with companions in the future, carrying my pack or with a baggage transfer service.