The Real World
Camino. Chapter 3
This is my serialized story of walking the Camino de Santiago across Northern Spain with my sister-in-law. If you’d like to start at the beginning of our journey, click here.
Day 1. The real world always plays a role in long-distance hiking. Walking the Camino de Santiago proves to be no exception. Still, Marlene, my sister-in-law, and I don’t have any problems navigating through Customs at the Madrid airport after our overnight flight, taking a domestic flight at noon to the northeastern city of Pamplona, and hailing a taxi to drive us to the gateway city, St. Jean Pied de Port, in France, arriving by mid-afternoon on Monday, the day before our pilgrimage.
In short order we find the hostel where Marlene has made reservations and stash our backpacks in our bedroom upstairs. The room is small with Scandinavian furniture of light pine, and the two single beds are perfect for our needs. As brother- and sister-in-laws, we essentially only know each other through our spouses’ family events. This trip will be one of acquaintances beyond the social courtesies of family.
An hour later Marlene and I hike up the cobble stone street to the Camino registration office. A number of fellow pilgrims of various ages and nationalities are milling around outside. Everyone excited, like at a pre-race, sign-in for a marathon. Getting in line inside to register and receive our “passport” - to be stamped along our route at churches, cafes, museums, supermercados (grocery stores), farmacias (drug stores), etc., - turns out to be fairly easy, and the time we thought we would be waiting in line is dramatically reduced.
The British volunteer at the table in front of us couldn’t be sweeter in answering our questions and gives us a map of the town showing us where to eat and where to start walking tomorrow. The map indicates that at the big white house outside of town we can either go straight to climb into the Pyrenees or take a right to avoid the stiff elevational climb and walk to Valcarlos. The volunteer says we will want to take the right, so we note that this is a critical landmark for us to get started on our journey.
As we leave the office, an older couple comes up to us and asks if we are American. They are from Rhode Island and introduce themselves. The woman appears to be in good shape. She wears comfortable hiking clothes with a colorful bandana around her neck. Karen introduces herself and points to Rich, her husband, who looks to be a couple of years older. He is equally wiry and dressed comfortably as a knowledgeable hiker. She says she and Rich are always delighted to meet Americans on the Camino and hope we enjoy the pilgrimage as much as they have. Karen tells us she is 75 and Rich is 78 and they are starting their eighth pilgrimage tomorrow.
It turns out, I discover, my sister-in-law loves to talk with strangers, and soon we are engaged in a wide-ranging discussion on the Camino, travel, and the days leading up to our trip - as well as, of course, the days ahead. Karen asks what word each of us plan to contemplate on our pilgrimage. Marlene answers immediately that her word is “Surrender” and Karen nods like that word is worthy for a pilgrimage. They turn to me and off the top of my head I say “Survival” and that gets a big laugh. I don’t think Karen is as enamored with my word, but when I think of my recent bout of plantar fasciitis in my foot and the crash weight-loss program I embarked on all summer, I can’t help but wonder if I have the stamina to get through this, if my foot is strong enough, if I can manage a month of walking twelve to twenty miles across the geographically diverse landscape without physically breaking down. Not having thought about it, “Survival,” seems quite appropriate.
What have I gotten myself into?
The one piece of advice Karen and Rich give us is to carry hiking poles. I had trained all summer without poles and felt confident I wouldn’t need them, but my wife, Karen, totally disagreed and strongly suggested I buy poles in Spain. Instead of looking into this on Google or asking other pilgrims, I simply said I don’t need them. Marlene, though, who was carrying her own poles, only shook her head at my obstinance. Still, now listening to Karen and Rich’s 7-times-hiking-the-Camino expertise and looking upon the height of the mountains in the distance, I finally relent and, shortly thereafter, as Marlene and I pass a hiking store walking back to our hostel, I buy my first ever set of poles. The Camino better be forth spending this money, I say.
That evening we eat at a local restaurant and after looking over the menu for vegan / or, even, vegetarian options, I order a hamburger with fries. This is the beginning, I realize, of giving up on my five years of being a vegan. In Northern Spain, I have been told, vegetables are non-existent. With a local cuisine based on meat and given the calories I will be burning, I can’t afford not to keep my protein intake as high as possible. I vow to return to my vegan ways when I get back to the States.
Our 500+ mile walk begins on a beautiful Tuesday morning. Our initial stage is only a two-hour climb into the Pyrenees Mountains separating France from Spain. With all of our training, Marlene and I are ready for this challenge and with my new poles I feel like a majorette leading the parade. A breakfast of fruit, yogurt and pastries is waiting for us downstairs and, before we leave, Marlene picks up the extra bananas on our plates, while I grab the remaining fresh baguettes to carry with us. With only a 5K walk to our hostel in the Pyrenees, we are delighted to have the treats - like going on a picnic - aren’t at all worried about getting an early start.
A short time later we stop at the St. Jean cathedral. Marlene, who, unlike me, is a devote Catholic, takes a moment to pray for our safety and our families health. Before leaving the church, Marlene convinces me to join her and light candles for our journey. Outside Marlene holds my hands and together we verbalize short prayers to begin our journey. This act of prayer we agree we will do at the start of every day on our pilgrimage. As an agnostic protestant, this seems rather strange, but is appropriate thing to do, it seems to me, in undertaking a Catholic pilgrimage.
Upon leaving St. Jean we are faced with our first major decision. We reach the large white house outside of town and our options are to go straight up a steep hill or bear to the right. A Camino sign on a stone wall has us turning to the right. Still, I can’t help but think we are meant to go straight. Marlene says going to the right is what the British volunteer in the Camino office told us to do. So, with this in mind, we turn to the right and embark on a lovely 10km walk through the French countryside. We talk about our families and begin to get to know each other and all is good until we come to a French town with parked tour buses, large restaurants, and duty free stores. As Marlene hikes up to the mega-service station to find a bathroom, I contemplate this strange phenomena of buildings - almost appearing out of the blue like a ghost town. At no point did the guidebook mention a town on our hike into the Pyrenees. In addition, in truth we should have been climbing in elevation by now, especially if we only had to walk 7km. Suddenly, I realize we have made a fundamental mistake on this our very first morning of our very first day. We have walked to Valcarlos rather than up into the Pyrenees.
After ten kilometers (6 miles) and two hours into the walk, here we are. We both agree that between Marlene’s guidebook and mine (two different publications), we are definitely on the wrong track. What a shocking realization this is for us, especially with this being our first day, and, in truth, we see no way in studying the books to fix our situation other than to walk back to St. Jean and start over.
So return we do going on the route we just walked and before too long, like fate, we bump into another couple and realize in seeing them arguing over their map, that they too might be confused. We stop and introduce ourselves and quickly determine that they also expected to be on the hike into the Pyrenees. After some convincing with the woman, the four of us walk back to St. Jean. Marlene and I learn that Leah and Jim are from Houston. Jim, who heavy set and comes across as an old frat boy/country-club-golfer-type, is planning to walk with his wife to Pamplona or a town or two beyond before taking a taxi back to Pamplona to catch his flight to the States. He has a corporate job in a large grocery chain and can’t take a month off. Leah, who is tall and thin, with curly black hair, comes across somewhat spacey. I see her as a frustrated house wife, though she has a strong independent backbone permeating her dialogue. She says, in addition to raising two children now in their late teens, she runs her own marketing business. Most amazing, she is not going back with her husband and plans to continue her pilgrimage on her own to Santiago.
To me, they come across as totally unprepared to cross Spain. We’ve had months to study for our journey and, even then, took the wrong turn. What will happen to them when things get rougher? In truth, to me, they are way over their heads. Jim is wearing an old pair of tennis shoes and has no backpack. He says he never even saw the Camino guidebook, but simply is following Leah’s lead, and Leah is only carrying her guidebook, a light backpack, and a water bottle. This is in direct contrast to Marlene and me who have packed everything we think we will need for our month-long journey. Marlene and I agree that it is hard to say what lies ahead for them, but still, they are easy to converse with as we walk the two hours back to St. Jean.
It’s 1 PM and we have returned to the start of our journey - with 12 miles and four hours of walking under our belts. We leave Jim and Leah, who go back into St. Jean for more water, and Marlene and I are excited, once again, to be on our way. This time we hike straight up the steep hill to the left of the large white house and, shortly thereafter, discover a Camino arrow pointing forward into the Pyrenees.
Three-and-a-half hours later, we have what we wanted. We have climbed 2,000 feet in elevation since leaving St. Jean. At one point, while struggling up a rocky tractor path through an endless series of switch backs, I begin screaming “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” at the top of my lungs - much to Marlene’s surprise - releasing my pent up struggle with this section of the trail. (I am SO glad I bought hiking poles!) Marlene, who doesn’t swear, laughs at my expletives and, I suspect, realizes she now know me a little better than she did starting out this morning. She’s beginning to understand what she is in for in hiking with me as her companion on this 500-mile trek.
We reach Borda, our hostel on top of of the Pyrenees by late afternoon. Borda is early two kilometers past Orisson, the more famous hostel where Leah and Jim have reservations, and by this point in the day we feel every foot of the additional distance. When we arrive we are happy to finally be done and truly enjoyed the beautiful day of mild weather hiking 17+ miles, more than 12 miles beyond what we expected.