Day 36 - June 13th: The Gauntlet

Mons-la-Trivalle to Lodève: 27.6 miles / Total: 948

I finished early yesterday—before 3 PM—which made it feel like I had a full weekend before today’s run. After a shower and some rest, Christina and I sat on the terrace of our auberge enjoying vegetable tapas and draft beers with our view. The low sun bounced off the mountains while a cool breeze drifted in. Jazz music played softly in the background. The "L’Interlude, run by a French couple, is perfectly located on the Voie Verte in the small town of Mons-la-Trivalle (pop. 671). It was a lively evening at the town square—locals and travelers alike out for food, conversation, and the golden light.

For dinner, we walked with Jax to La Rodge, a pizzeria in a converted warehouse with high ceilings, a bar, a pool table, and a packed patio. We sat inside with Jax and waited—and waited. The bartender-waiter was clearly overwhelmed, and the pizza chef, who looked like the owner, eventually ran over to apologize for a problem with the brick oven. He bought us a round while we waited. Ninety minutes later, the pizza arrived—and it was worth it. Mine had anchovies, spicy sausage, and Calabrian chili oil. Incredible. The only downside: sitting that long, my back tightened up when I stood. Not good.

We were back by 8:30 PM, and I was out cold soon after. I was as tired as I’ve been on this trip. Just before I passed out, Lisa texted: “Hope the journey is still carrying on in a beautiful way. Of course you’re freaking tired—you should be!” She’s intuitive like that and its why I call her “The White Witch.” I hadn’t said a word.

The hosts laid out breakfast early for us—7:00 instead of their usual 8:30. Originally, we were the only guests, but a few others—motorcyclists and a couple on a road trip—checked in last minute. I had the breakfast room to myself. Perfect.

Since I’d be back on trail and temps were staying in the 80s, we gave Jax a test run—he hadn’t limped when I took him out in the morning. Worst case, Christina could scoop him up. Best case, he could go 25 km.

I walked out feeling rickety—back tight, ankles weak, knees sore, slightly lightheaded. My chest wasn’t worse, at least. I didn’t think about how far I had to go or how many miles were left. I focused on getting that first kilometer done with Jax by my side. A few kilometers in, I warmed up.

About 5K outside of town, I met Bill—a fellow runner in a hydration vest like mine. Originally from North Carolina, he moved to Porto for a year and then fell in love with Olargues, the medieval town I passed yesterday. He and his wife bought property there (much cheaper than the Mediterranean coast), and now split their year between France and the U.S. We talked about routes and terrain—critical recon for me. He confirmed what I suspected: the Voie Verte I was on parallels the Via Tolosana (the Arles Way) and is far easier. The official Camino path is more remote, more rugged, and more vertical. I felt good about my choice.

Bill also gave me bad news: the Voie Verte would end 20 km into the day.

Note for future travelers: The Voie Verte trail network in France is incredible. In Haut-Languedoc, it’s an enchanting greenway—mostly flat, weaving through villages that support tourism without the crowds of the French or Spanish Caminos. For anyone looking to cycle, hike, or even do a relaxed Camino, I’d strongly recommend it.

Just as Bill said, the trail ended in Bédarieux, a working-class town tucked into the Orb Valley, once a hub for textiles and mining during France’s industrial age. Christina had perfect timing—she swooped in to pick up Jax, just as the shoulderless roads began and the day became hot.

From there, the day got wild.

I followed a narrow mountain road out of the valley, the river to my right, slowly gaining elevation. A few kilometers later, Google Maps directed me to a small side road that climbed steeply. The terrain changed—drier, red clay underfoot. I wasn’t too concerned. Only 17 km to Lodève. How bad could it be?

After 3 km, the GPS had me turn onto a sketchy trail I almost skipped. It started as a farm road but quickly overgrew. The intended turn led to a wall of vegetation—impassable. Across the field, I saw what might be a trail hugging the mountain. It reminded me of the patch Ted and I crossed days ago. I went for it. After 100 brutal meters of bushwhacking, I broke through and found a red clay path—overgrown but passable. My legs were scratched raw and full of burrs. No time to deal with it.

I navigated by direction now, guessing my way through fields and scrub until I popped out onto a mountain road. I thought the worst was over.

Wrong.

My next waypoint was up a steep pitch, through tall brush and under a barbed wire fence. I climbed. At the top, I reached a weathered cross standing in the sun. Who knows how long it had been there. From there, a narrow trail ran along the spine of the mountain—single track, stunning views.

At one point, I saw a mountain cathedral surrounded by a tiny village off in the distance.

Water was now a concern. The temp had climbed into the high 80s. I adjusted my pace and effort to conserve what was left. I reached another cross and paused to look back. The valley I’d come from stretched out almost 2,000 feet below me.

Eventually, the trail crested onto rolling alpine meadows—wildflowers, sunshine, absolute silence. I imagined scenes from The Sound of Music. Then I reached a small stone chapelle, perched at the highest point of the trail. It was locked, but I pressed my camera against the keyhole and snapped a photo of the still-beautiful interior. As always, the Church gets the best real estate.

Soon after, I rejoined the Via Tolosana, which I’d last seen about seven days ago with Ted. Our paths had merged again. Just 6 km to go.

A sharp left turn led under another barbed wire fence. Then the trail dropped straight down—unmarked, rocky, and vicious. No water, no cell signal, no margin. I hyperextended my knee, torqued my back falling backwards, twisted my ankle, and got cut up scrambling through thorns. Finally, I burst out onto a barely visible track, jogged to release the tension, and ducked under yet another barbed wire line.

Two meadows later, I spotted a shaded trail running along a river. I followed it, crossed the river, and climbed an unused driveway that spilled out onto a real road—3 km from Lodève.

Hallelujah. The home stretch.

I had planned to tack on 6 extra kilometers today to get ahead for our Sunday transit day. No chance. I was dehydrated, scraped, hungry, and beat. This was one of the hardest mountain stages I’ve ever done. The elevation, rawness of the terrain, and lack of wayfinding or water made it brutal. But unforgettable and with time I’m sure I will cherish this day.

Lodève, where I finally tapped out, has ancient roots. Originally a Roman settlement known as Luteva, it later became a center of textile production and religious power in the Middle Ages. It’s nestled in a basin surrounded by limestone peaks, and today serves as a gateway to the Grands Causses and Plateau du Larzac.

Christina and Jax were waiting at the hotel. Jax practically exploded with excitement. Christina just stared at me—covered in scratches—and asked, “What happened?” I sat down on a cement parking bumper and told her the story.

I appreciate your support.

Cheers,

David