Climbing Haut-Folin via the southern route, in stages

Hello everyone,

I’m so happy to share my climb with you, and if it inspires you to take it on, then it’ll be a success. Sometimes I’ll use the local language because I think it’s essential to connect with the people we meet along the way.

This adventure took place last year, just before winter, right after summer, and smack in the middle of autumn. That really sets the time of year. After climbing Mont-Beuvray—a story I shared here ages ago—I decided to tackle a much more adventurous peak: the summit of Haut-Folin, which rises to 901 m, and that’s no small feat, let’s be honest. It’s located in the Bois du Roi massif. Up there, you often brush against the clouds, which seem to take a mischievous pleasure in wrapping around you.

I’m going fully self-sufficient—no porters, no guide, no cook. I’m just treating myself to a very short approach flight. The flight is early in the morning on a small plane, the *Spirit of St Bernadette*, and it’s perfect. I’ll enjoy watching it deliver mail in the mountains. The pilot will drop me off at the hamlet of *La Pierre en Eau*, near Anost, a small village at the foot of this forest-covered giant.

Physical condition I’m now really seasoned for such an expedition because I’ve trained every day by walking to the village grocery store—round trip, in all weather, that’s 2.1 km. The 451 m elevation gain won’t be a problem for me. .../...

Ascension du Haut-Folin par la voie sud, en tortiaux

Wow! Never heard of this mountain before! I rushed over thinking it was some sacred Himalayan peak that had never been climbed before... I’ve scoured my maps but can’t find this summit anywhere :( Maybe it’s in Switzerland or Canada? Still gonna tackle this tough climb though—I’ll be back with my ice axe and crampons.

I'm setting off on this Morvan expedition if I've understood correctly... As a kid, I spent many holidays in the Morvan near Saint-Brisson. I know Mont Beuvray but not Haut-Folin. And I started my civil service career in Montsauche, which hadn't yet added "Les Settons" to its name. I'm really looking forward to rediscovering this region with you all.

Given such enthusiasm, thanks Djalma and Gaura—I can only bow and continue the story of this incredible challenge. Before diving into the heart of the action, I’ll describe my gear because, quite honestly, I think it might help others.

My equipment

A *boge* slung over my shoulder with:

- A portable meta stove, mug, fork, Opinel knife, pan, and water bottle. - An ultra-lightweight tent designed for extreme cold, with a matching sleeping bag. - A pair of socks and two clothespins to dry the pair I wore during the day. - My tortiaux - A cotton T-shirt. I’ve read that cotton should be avoided because it dries poorly and gets smelly. I don’t care—I’m alone, and I like my own sweat scent. My *boge* weighs around 15% of my body weight; I’m on target.

A waist pack with:

- Emergency medication for AMS (acute mountain sickness). I’ve ditched Diamox—too allopathic—and packed dried dandelion stems in a sealed bag instead. Their diuretic effectiveness has been well-documented by cross-studies from Ohio and Lyon universities.

- Lip balm, essential for preventing chapping since the cold gets sharper the higher you climb. - SPF 75 sunscreen, which I ordered from Paris because here, we only have SPF 58 or 71, and I was told Parisian products are always better than ours.

- An emergency ration *not* to be used unless absolutely necessary, as it tends to weaken your legs—quite inconvenient during a climb: Drambuie, a liqueur made from Scotch whisky infused with spices and heather honey, 100% Scottish. It packs a more "fiery" kick than our grandmothers’ peppermint schnapps or even smelling salts. - Dried bananas, a whole bag. They stick together, so I have an excuse to eat them two at a time. - Homemade candles to ward off wolves. It’s worth noting that we’re on a wolf migration route—from Italy to Brittany.

A neighbor told me: "When there’s *botailles*, it’s a sign the rain’s gonna last."

I’m going anyway.

*boge: a deep canvas bag *botailles: raindrops that form bubble-like shapes when they hit a liquid surface.

hmmm, that photo is really big! !

In terms of equipment, it seems suitable, but I’ve never heard of "Tortiaux." I took a quick look online, and the only answer I found was: Clafoutis! I don’t think that’s it...

Hi Dom, I’m originally from Nivernais, born in Nevers—my father was from Morvan.

I hope you don’t mind me asking: on Aeropage, the page about Ste Bernadette’s spirit... there *is* a reliquary at St Gildard where her remains are kept, but I didn’t know the nuns at the convent flew a little cuckoo plane—can you give me more details? ...I’m staying with a friend, Claude, here in Nevers for three days starting today. She’s a big hiker, especially in the Nièvre department (though at her age, she’s taking it easy these days). She’s climbed Haut-Folin several times... I read her your account of the area, and she said the trail is covered in bilberries, and the porcini mushrooms in autumn are famous too. One snowy winter day, a breathless Parisian hiker asked where the cable car was, and her husband deadpanned, "At the top—way, *way* up there... probably at the end of a *torviaux*, meaning one of those winding paths that twist all the way to the summit."

I’ll keep reading your travel journal, even though I no longer live in Nièvre but in Loire now. Françoise

451 m elevation gain! Personally, I gave up on this climb—it was too ambitious for me. I’m curious to know if you’ll make it to the summit and how many days you’ll need. Don’t lose your bearings, especially if the mist plays tricks on your nerves and the wind messes with your balance.

With those on, we’re in for a while, but just in case you get the urge to lace up some "wind soles," I’ve taken precautions: the druid of Plouneour Menez, Brittany’s highest point (385m), assures me that as you progress, the summit will drift farther away like Pinocchio’s nose growing longer.

Kilimanjaro and Mount Meru seem like "small challenges" when I see your prep for climbing Haut-Folin—so when it comes to the actual ascent, whoa...

Hello fellow readers and commenters! Carassou (that’s a lovely username!), you’re practically a neighbor! The little plane in the photo is just a nod to Lindbergh’s monoplane, the *Spirit of St. Louis*, and those explorers of the impossible. This one’s broken down on a bend on the road to St. Honoré. So you see, it has nothing to do with hunting near Ste. Bernadette. The term *torviaux* you used is unfamiliar to me. There are different dialects even among the Morvan locals, who fiercely argue over who truly owns their patois—St. Prix claims it’s the real deal, while Arleuf insists they do too.

Djalma, I’m so glad you approve of my gear—I think you’re an experienced hiker. *Tortiaux* are clogs; we’re in a region of clog-makers. A few still exist, surprisingly not just for folklore.

Sarana, thanks for stopping by! It’s true, that elevation gain worries me a bit. But I’m determined…

Hola Voyajou, your druid is probably right, but you know Pinocchio is drawn to bad company—yet he’s a brave little guy, and that tale is a gem of an initiatory journey. So I’ll let his nose grow!

Bôjour Dolma Honestly, such a climb is exhausting for the knees, lungs, and oxygen-starved brain… but I made it. Imagination is a powerful motivator, even better than adrenaline.

Nothing to do with my climb, though I might run into wild boars, wolves, lynxes, and with any luck, a white tiger!

Right outside my window! They’ll be there at best for two or three days.

Yes, I know, it’s a bit long before I actually start my odyssey.

I think—no, I’m sure—that to truly know a place, country, mountain, islands, etc., it’s important to know at least a little of its history.

The entire Morvan region was the stronghold of the Aedui. The most famous Aeduan is Diviciacus, the only druid whose name has survived from the 1st century B.C.

These discoveries aren’t recent!

Here’s an excerpt from a letter by the priest of Saint-Léger to the canon of Autun, dated November 17, 1725. He describes the mountain next to Haut-Folin, Mont Beuvray, where the Romanized Aedui lived under Tiberius and later fought alongside Vercingetorix.

"About thirty years ago, an enormous old beech tree fell beyond the ditch on the Saint-Léger side, and beneath its ruins, many stones were found. This led a local peasant to dig in the area to collect them. He discovered a red clay urn, two and a half feet tall, completely intact with a lid of the same material. When he opened it, he found it filled with ashes and a human skull, which crumbled to dust as soon as he touched it. Among the ashes, he also found two large gold medals, one of which resembled a six-livre écu.

For a long time, he refused to admit to the discovery, fearing he’d be questioned by the local lord. Finally, on his deathbed, he confessed to me. He added that a goldsmith in Autun had given him fourteen pistoles (140 fr.) for them. I’ll add that Mont Beuvray is vast, with a circumference of at least two and a half leagues."

And here’s a little pride: Paris wasn’t the capital—no way! It was Autun (Augustodunum), the capital of Gaul.

If you read the priest’s letter, you’ll see that walking around Mont Beuvray is exhausting: two and a half leagues (1 league = a little over 4 km).

Haut-Folin is similar in size, but I’m not walking its entire circumference—I’m heading to its summit, where there’s an architectural marvel!

I’ve done my calculations. Sports medicine recommends not exceeding 400 m of positive elevation gain, and since I’m starting my solo expedition at 118 m, where should I set up my base camp?

I’ve seen people walking with poles, like for skiing. Apparently, they make holes in the trails, and now they’re equipped with rubber tips. Doesn’t matter—I don’t have any.

I left the *bôr*, the geese didn’t even honk as I passed, and now I’m walking on a grassy trail. My purple plastic sandals are swishing through the wet grass, and the sound is so unpleasant that I take them off and stuff them into my bag. There are sounds that are unbearable: basketball shoes squeaking on the floor, two pieces of styrofoam rubbing together, the sound of chalk on a blackboard—or even a too-dry sponge wiping it—back in school, people eating and chewing with their mouths open. These tiny noises irritate me more than they should.

For now, my toes tickled by the blades of grass, I walk lightly, the silence of the trail barely disturbed by the trills of birds.

And I think about the language of birds, which alchemists were so fond of. A secret and subtle language. Sometimes, without realizing it, we use it. They say it can heal us (happy laughter). It’s a whole universe (uni-verse). When we use it, words take on a different meaning. It’s a whole learning process (apprentice-wise). There are no truths, only interpretations in the language of birds—and that’s wonderful.

In the meantime, I’m reading my paper—it’s the route I printed out. “Turn right, then after about a hundred meters, follow the wide forest track to the left. It climbs up a valley. A few dozen meters after a wide curve and before reaching a spring, spot a path on the right that climbs the valley toward a ‘pass’ between Bois des Pierres (808m) and Le Brûlé (882m).”

How many steps in a hundred meters? I haven’t seen the spring yet.../

*a bôr: a small town

hi,

My purple plastic clogs squeak in the wet grass, and the sound is so unpleasant that I take them off and stuff them in my bag.

I had approved your gear before learning that "tortiaux" were clogs! Afterward, I thought, "Surprising choice of shoes for walking, but why not?" Indeed, the main thing is to be comfortable in your shoes. 😄 But if you only use them for daily tasks and not for a long hike, they might hold a few surprises! Then I figured that if I only had clogs for walking, I’d rather go barefoot... That’s what you did, so no complaints. Well, actually, one: the fact that these clogs are made of plastic—a material I avoid as much as possible.

And I think about the language of the birds, which alchemists are so fond of.

Surprising! I’ve looked into alchemists and, from a distance, alchemy itself, but I didn’t know that.

Meanwhile, I read my paper—it’s the route I printed. "Turn right, then about a hundred meters later, take the wide forest track to the left. It climbs up a valley. A few dozen meters after a wide curve and before reaching a spring, spot a path on the right that climbs the valley toward a "pass" between Bois des Pierres (808m) and Le Brûlé (882m)."

Old-school work, I see! No app on your phone or Garmin GPS😉

I once knew a guy (before the internet) who "worked" this way but hadn’t accounted for changes in the terrain. When he found himself facing a path that had disappeared into the vegetation or one that ended at a new farm or private property with a guard dog behind the gate, he’d end up lost in the wild for not knowing how to use the good old map-and-compass method.😏 For my part, in our well-civilized regions, it wouldn’t have bothered me—I’ve always enjoyed "getting lost"... as long as it doesn’t last too long!

Did you sleep well near the source? We should probably get back on the trail now because it looks like the summit of this Haut-Folin is still a ways off! Though that’s fine by us—besides enjoying your adventure story, I have to say we’re having a great time here

I kinda get the feeling you missed the source.

How many steps in a hundred meters? I still haven’t seen the source.../...

It depends on several factors: First, the length of your step (we could’ve guessed that[;]) which itself depends on the person’s height. There’s a formula to answer this question—it’s a bit complicated, so I’ll skip a step and give you the number to use: 0.3875. So multiply your height in cm by 0.3875 to find your average stride... For someone who’s 1.70m: 170 × 0.3875 = 0.66m 100 steps = 66m 100m = 150 steps (±10 steps) There you go... you won’t get lost anymore... Well, less often anyway. Still, we’re a little worried—you haven’t been in touch😕 Did you make it before nightfall?

Here’s a pair of Morvan clogs we found in the *écurie* when we settled in here. On the leather strap, acorns and oak leaves are embossed—we’re definitely in the Morvan. I went into the field wearing these clogs and put straw inside. I wanted to feel what people felt in the last century. They’re not as uncomfortable as you’d think.

The wood used by clog makers was either birch, alder, acacia, or beech. They didn’t use oak or beech because it was much too heavy to wear.

There were many clog makers—often, every village had its own. This continued until World War II, when the decline began, ending in the 1950s with the arrival of tractors and rubber boots. It was much easier to climb into a tractor wearing rubber boots, and farmers had clean, dry feet.

Little bonus facts!

*Écurie*: Surprisingly, locals call what is actually a cowshed an *écurie*. I’ve never found an explanation, but we’ve adapted!

The first rubber boots were British—Wellington boots, named after the Duke. Around 1800.

The words *sabotage* and *saboter* (to sabotage) originate from the revolt of the *canuts* (silk workers) in Lyon, who destroyed weaving looms with their clogs. _

I went into the meadow with these clogs and put straw inside. I wanted to feel what people from the last century felt. It’s not as uncomfortable as you’d think.

Sure, but I wouldn’t try them to climb the Grand Veymont in my Vercors! 😏 The Morvan reminds me of my youth and my kayaking trips on the Cure... The closest river when I lived in the Paris region. Not many rivers with current in Île-de-France!

I mustn’t *dither*—I clearly missed the source, despite the precise instructions for calculating my number of steps per 100m, which I didn’t follow because I’m terrible at mental math. So I went back to my notes.

It says: « at the crow’s foot, go left for a few dozen meters, then take two consecutive right turns. The path you take dips into a small valley and overlooks a little lake (whose waters you can glimpse between the trees). »

I feel like an old, lumpy pillow, and suddenly, with blinding clarity, I know exactly how old I am. I just want to go home. I couldn’t care less about Haut-Folin with that hideous radio tower at the top.

The sun is setting and about to call it a day, and then I see it—that little pond, all blue. I’m going to pitch my tent right there in the yellowed grass.

And I won’t have anything else to think about except what I’m living in that moment.

But since I’m sick of telling the story, I’ll stop here. The coils of my brain are exhausted from churning out drivel. My imagination is running on empty. It’s not amusing anyone, least of all me. Spring is here, and before I head to Scotland (this time, for real!), there’s a thousand things to do outside—tend to the beehives (the bees are coming and going with yellow pollen on their legs), cut down two ash trees that caught that nasty chalarosis, prune the hazelnut bushes, etc. Anyway, thanks to those of you who kindly read these pages of nonsense.

* dither: hésiter

Is it over? Too bad, I liked it. Still, I hope you had a good night by your pond?

Thanks Pondy for this hike

Hey Timouss, great to see you here! Aren’t you in Iceland?

I think your username is really original, so of course I looked it up and found out. A cheechako is a newcomer in Alaska or the Yukon.

By now, you’ve probably become a sourdough. I looked that up too—the name comes from sourdough starter made from a mix of flour and water. You must be a good guy.

But I didn’t stop there—I checked your profile name: Kougarok. Beyond the Breton-sounding ring to it (and you chose well), it’s a river, road, or mountain in Alaska. Paired with that amazing bear picture, you’re clearly a solid, strong, and reliable guy! Did you see that? Pretty clever deduction, right?😛

I did indeed sleep in a tent by that lovely pond. It was last summer with a grandson who was camping for the first time. A really beautiful memory

Unfortunately not 🙁

Hey, you there 😇!

You gonna spin tales like Marco Polo?

Good luck😄

Hi Lillieone,

"This motto of the Province of Darkness" is worth all the VF trip reports of 2025 AD

Can you explain? I don’t understand at all—probably one of my cultural blind spots😎

Generally, no one understands what I say here because my comments or interventions are of no interest—except sometimes to amuse the crowd, which isn’t so bad. It’s all in good spirits anyway 😎

No... It’s just that we don’t have the intellectual level for it.

I can only tip my hat to such expertise😉 I just learned today that I might’ve crossed China illegally before it opened to tourism. P.S.: I never said Alexandra David-Néel was a Himalayan mountaineer!

I’d just like you to stop making things up and asserting baseless claims about things I never wrote. It’s really annoying. 😕

Hi Lillieone,

From Marco Polo, I’ve only read *The Description of the World, The Book of Wonders*—and mostly because he’d traveled through the regions I love exploring: the Anatolian highlands, Iran, and Russia. Quick question: why do you only write initials for names? MP, EM, etc...

Hi Dom

Somehow I ended up reading this story... and I enjoyed it so much! 🙂

Wow! I wonder how you managed to thread that needle. 😎