Magic Mountain

Along the jagged faces of the rock were large expanses that wore the patina created by ages of weathering: long dark streaks like dripping paint.

"When the sun hits the mountain, that's when the forms emerge," Stephane said. "In the morning it takes one form, in the afternoon another and in the evening another. It's like a living being."

To the Summit

To the people of Aix, Sainte-Victoire is a magnet; climbing to the top is a sort of rite of passage for children. Families take to the paths for Sunday picnics, rock climbers tackle its sheer southern faces in summer. For centuries, on certain feast days, Christian pilgrims have made their way to the summit topped by the large iron Cross of Provence.

A week after my first visit, I was drawn back to the mountain, this time to climb it -- a trek that takes about two hours on well-marked trails.

The most common and easiest way to climb Sainte-Victoire is from its gently sloping north side -- from a trailhead that is before the rustic village of Vauvenargues, which is dominated by a castle-estate that Picasso bought in the 1950s and where his remains are buried. (On making the purchase, Picasso famously boasted of buying "the original Sainte-Victoire by Cezanne.")

In fact, from this angle, Sainte-Victoire takes on an entirely different aspect from the imposing mountain that Cezanne painted from the west. From the northern side, Sainte-Victoire resembles a long, low chain of forested mountains -- with the back side of the summit sheltering a centuries-old chapel and priory built into the rock.

For this adventure, I recruited my good friend Daniel, a nature-loving French Alsatian. We set out in the morning on a pleasant spring day -- well-equipped with all one needs for a hike in the French countryside: sandwiches made with baguettes and plenty of water. Daniel even packed into his backpack a hot thermos of coffee and rolled-up seat cushions on which to repose.

The hike did not get off to a great start, however. At the trailhead of the GR-9 trail that leads to the summit, Daniel walked a few yards -- and stopped. He stared down at his shoes and cussed -- the rubber soles had fallen off!

In fact, Daniel had been given his "brand-new," expensive, name-brand hiking boots by a friend who'd blown out his knee and no longer had use for them. But somehow, during the time they'd rested in his friend's garage, the rubber and glue had dried out. And at this very moment, they were disintegrating.

After we recuperated from laughter, Daniel insisted on continuing with the trek -- meaning that he would have to walk on his boot's upper soles, made of fabric and a hair's width of rubber cushioning.

I was dubious. The peak looked a long way off, especially for someone who was wearing the equivalent of house slippers. Still, we rationalized, even modern slippers were probably better than the footwear of the Celto-Ligurian scouts who used Sainte-Victoire as a lookout in 300 B.C.

Luckily for Daniel, better than half the trail was an easy country road, wide enough for a Jeep. It climbed and snaked through forests of pine and live oaks and stands of wild olive trees. Then, just about an hour and 10 minutes into the walk, the path narrowed into a single-file track of rock and dirt that mounted toward the walls of bluish-tinted limestone through fragrant expanses of wild thyme and rosemary.