A wise friend once told me there are three versions of yourself. The person you were before The Camino, the person you are on The Camino, and the person you would become after The Camino. As we talked sitting in the shaded courtyard of a centuries-old monastery she had no idea how right she was.
Walking through the mist into the Pyrenees Mountains, I had no idea what was in store. The sun had not yet risen when we rolled out of bed, sleepy-eyed and anxious; We strapped on our packs and took the first step of thousands out of the hostel and on to the ancient path that is The Camino de Santiago. The air was cold and wet as we pilgrims began our ascent into the mountains. As the sun began to rise over the French Pyrenees for a brief moment the fog lifted and the views were stunning. The South of France truly is beautiful (and looks just like Disney told us it would). As I climbed higher and higher the fog was replaced by dense clouds covering the mountainside and obscuring my view to only ten or so feet in front of me. It was then, only a few hours into my first day that I, so soon, realized my first fatal mistake. Holy shit I was hungry. I had no food. My destination was still a good six hours away and I hiked my happy ass into the wilderness on a Sunday, in France, where no nourishment was in sight.
I first learned about The Camino de Santiago in 2006 when I read a book by Shirley MacClaine detailing her spiritual journey as she walked The Way, a common pseudonym for the trail. For years, I said I wanted to do The Camino. I told friends, family, co-workers, anyone who looked vaguely outdoorsy at a party. Anyone. The whole time though I never actually thought I would go. Then, as the universe often does, it totally throws your world upside down and, hey, the opportunity presented itself and I jumped on it. Half an escape and half a strong desire to follow in the footsteps of giants and experience something great. In about three months I bought all the gear, the fancy water repellent pants, a pair of boots that cost roughly the same as my college education, I booked my ticket to Paris and I was ready to go. And I went. And that was hellish. Everything from the flight over to the city of Paris itself was a trying experience. I won’t even talk about Paris. It’s still too soon. The only cool part, about getting to the start of the trail, was that I got to jump on a moving train as it left the station. It was a very cinematic moment, in my head at least. The reason I had to perform that little stunt was because of my debit card wrongly put on hold, a series of closed subway stations, buses, and a few teenagers who I am pretty sure purposefully told me the wrong subway stop. I digress, I said I wasn’t going to talk about Paris.
Finally after a few more trains and a lot of running in very heavy boots I arrived in the town of St Jean Pied a Port. St Jean is the traditional starting place of The Camino de Santiago. Here travelers check in at the local Pilgrim’s Office where they get their credentials, which are stamped at each hostel along the way, and secure room and board for the night. The town is built on a hill with a grand citadel set as a crown upon the top. This was the main defense of the exBasque capital and still remains intact to this day. I arrived on a beautiful late summer Saturday and after taking care of the official Pilgrim business I joined my travel buddy Gene and we started out to explore. We met other Pilgrims while roaming about including, a now dear friend, Katherine. How did we meet? She overheard Gene and I speaking English and trying to find an open restaurant for dinner. Our American appetite said it was 8:00pm and it was time to eat. Katherine’s British stomach was clearly saying the same thing. Eating early in Spain is almost impossible as most places won’t open for business until after 10:00pm and by that time we must already be back in the hostels before the doors are locked. We managed though and found a table at an empty cafe which happened to serve a Pilgrims Menu; A cheap menu designed for the poorest of travelers. Gene, Katherine, and I ate our dinners and before retiring for the night we hiked to the top of the Citadel. As the sun sank low over the mountains in front of us we all stood in silence contemplating our next days journey in which we would ascend the very peaks we looked upon in the twilight of the evening.
By mid-morning on the first day of walking my blood sugar was already low and I was starting to feel the effects. I was shaky, cold, and not in the best of moods. Hiking those switchbacks up the mountains with the stress of fifty pounds on my back was taking its toll. I go to the gym, but this kind of expulsion of energy was not something I was ready for. I sat down in the thick cloud cover for a moment and found some leftover miniature white bread slices in my pack. I scarfed those down chased by water. It didn’t help much, but it did give me carbs to keep moving. A few miles more and I find myself navigating the windy, twisted roads through the tallest peaks and crags that rarely see travelers who aren’t pilgrims. The landscape was a dichotomy of soaring peaks and bottomed out grassy enclaves. The bells of free range sheep, horses, and cattle echoed around me unseen in the thick mist. Peering through the haze, I thought I saw something out of place. A few yards away from me a savior was parked in the form of a white van giving out warm drinks and food to passing pilgrims. I saw this type of pop-up cafe a few more times on the trip, but this first encounter was by far the most special and the most needed. I made my way to the van where a wonderful Swiss gentleman gave me hot chocolate and a protein bar. Not long after and I was beginning to feel like a human being again. Before continuing on my way the Swiss Savior offered Gene and I a black marker for us to write our name and nationality on his van. So far we were the first Americans to pass him that day. Gene and I walked together for a while and he remembered the bottle of whiskey we had bought back in Paris. Mixing that with a Coke he got from the van, we created a source of much-needed sugar and carbs. It was not an ideal combination, but it kept me from passing out. We walked on. And on. And On. Almost ten hours after we took our first steps we began to descend, carefully, into the valley holding the monastery of Roncavelles.
Sitting at an altitude a little more than 2,952 feet this small village is a godsend for worn out pilgrims after the first days grueling climb. Gene and I made our way to the hostel or albuerge, to find one giant room lined with bunk beds to accommodate 110 people. Dropping our packs we moved to the dining area for our pilgrims meal before settling outside with several glasses of beer. Beer and wine are usually given to pilgrims for free. Not only does this give you a substantial amount of calories, but the beer and wine are also supposed to help with the swelling of joints. It at least helped the pain, and my mood. So, for those of you keeping score, I made it through my first day surviving on white bread, a protein bar, whiskey, beer, and wine. That’s one hell of a way to start a spiritual journey.
When it was time for us to be locked into our hostel Gene and I had rejoined Katherine and added two more to our little Pack of Pilgrims. Lars the Dutchman and Vanessa, our Lebanese princess. Seriously this trip was so spur of the moment for her she packed high heels “just in case”. We mailed those right back home, among other things, as soon as we got to Pamplona. We passed the night on creaky bunks enduring the cacophony of a thousand different tones of snoring and before we knew it, it was time to walk again.
For days we walked. Pamplona lead to Estrella which lead to Logrono. Now, about a week and a half on the trail my experience began to change. They say The Camino is a three part journey. The first is physical. The Pyrenees are treacherous with steep ascents and break-neck drops combined with weather patterns that defy logic. By this point in the trip though the packs weren’t feeling as heavy. Yes, I was beaten and blistered from the elements but a sort of resilience was steeling up my body. My legs and stomach were becoming leaner as my shoulders widened to accommodate my weighty pack. I no longer spent hours upon hours focused on the pain in my legs or the raw skin of my feet rubbing against the sides of my boots. It was then, in those moments of choosing to focus on The Way rather than my physical pain, that I broke through the physical barrier. Leaving the city of Logrono, the grand Pyrenees at my back, I journeyed into the desert region of Najera. The next phase of The Camino was ready to test me.
The desert region’s intentions, the mental test, became clear my first day on that flat, dry, alien terrain. You spend about two weeks dealing with body pain. Skin cracks, blisters ooze, joints lock, and muscles burn. After you come to terms with the fact that you are just going to hurt for a solid few weeks to come, what’s left? My mind turned inward. As I walked I now no longer felt the tiny pebble that snuck its way into my boot or the ache of my shoulders underneath my pack. Now I was walking alone during the day, meeting up with my Pilgrim buddies at night, and I was stuck in the never ending loop of thoughts going through my mind. Questions and musings on love, family, money, sex, career, were all mingled together in a nonstop monologue within my brain. Aside from the constant internal chatter there is something incredibly taxing about walking long distances across a vast, flat, desert landscape. Each day no matter whether it was on the way to Burgos, or Fromist, or Leon I started out being able to see my final destination as a speck on the Western horizon. The thing is, with each step I never seemed to make it any closer to my goal. Logically I knew I was covering ground but because I was at a walking pace the city in the distance never seemed to move. After a few days this is another thing you learn to work through. It’s a Camino lesson in patience and perseverance.
One particular day after walking alone for hours I came to a medieval church. There were no beds, just sleeping bags on the ground. It was here, in this radiantly decaying church, I ran into Gene again. We got word that our friends Vanessa and Katherine had gotten pretty far ahead of us. Gene and I decided to push ourselves the next day and catch up with them. Fifty miles in one day. We could see our destination six hours before we would ever reach it. Other pilgrims we passed told us to stop, we’d never make it. We didn’t stop, we persevered like we were taught. It sucked. Two broken men shuffled into Burgos that evening. My feet bleed from under the toenails; Genes’ knee became tight and swollen. When we finally made it into the city we lost the trail and ended up in an industrial area. We lucked out and found a small bar with wi-fi so we could contact the girls and find out what hostel they were in. I have never been happier to log on to Facebook and have a message that those saints of women had booked a fancy hotel…with beds…AND HOT WATER! As I got into bed that night, feet visibly throbbing, I honestly thought I may never walk again. The next morning came and to my surprise my feet had rebounded nicely. A hot bath and a soft bed go a long way.
As the vegetation became more lush and the ground began to rise and fall I realized I was no longer feeling assaulted by an onslaught of ideas and thoughts running through my head. Instead, I was having a conversation with myself. Over the last few weeks, I had talked my way through a laundry list of dreams, fears, philosophies, and on and on. Something about being alone with your thoughts for ten to twelve hours a day pretty much forces you to work through some issues. The hills were evolving into mountains as I read the sign telling me 7 kilometers to Foncebadon. The Camino, so far, had strengthened me physically and mentally and I was ready for whatever was next as I began the final leg of the trail.
The final phase is said to be the spiritual portion. Each day of walking got me closer to the traditional end of The Camino, Santiago. The excitement and anticipation of the pilgrims was palpable. People talked at night of how wonderful it would feel to finally step across the border into Santiago. The hills still hurt, but not as bad. My feet were sore, but they had calloused and no longer blistered. My mind could still be distracted, but it was easier to focus. Street art and hand made signs of encouragement placed along the trail all seemed to follow a theme of victory. Not just within the trail but of an understanding of yourself and a little bit better understanding of the universe we are all apart of together. Painted on a door cluttered with signatures and drawings was a simple phrase “Todo es Posible”. Everything is Possible. I walked into the city of Santiago with a new found confidence and peace that I hadn’t known before. Over the last thirty odd days, I realized that with the right amount of effort and patience absolutely anything is possible. Even though I was in Santiago I knew I couldn’t rest. I would get my certificate that I had completed the pilgrimage from the church but then I would walk on. Three more days to the ocean. Fisterre is the ancient Celtic ending of the pilgrimage from the days before it was assimilated into Catholic culture. This seaside town, not the city of Santiago, was where I knew in my heart I had to end my journey.
Cue the rain. The entire trip was beautiful weather but as soon as I teamed up with Katherine and walked out of the city gates it began to pour. Boots overflowing with water pouring. Our ponchos and pack covers were worthless in the driving rain. There was nothing else to do but just keep walking, after all, we were already soaked. They say only two percent of pilgrims make the final three-day journey to the sea. The trail becomes void of human interaction as you snake your way through the eucalyptus forest. The fog was back and rolled under you each step of the way. After two and a half days of gray gloom, we spotted a coastline dotted with tiny lights cutting through the fog leading out to a lighthouse on the far western point. Fisterre. Only a few more hours and we were there. It was my birthday the day I finished my pilgrimage. Gene and Vanessa had gotten a day behind Katherine and I so they grabbed a bus the last few miles to surprise me in time to catch the sunset. It is a tradition that all pilgrims gather on the rocky outcrop below the lighthouse and watch the final sunset of the journey. The ultimate payoff and closing of the book. Sitting there on a rock, whiskey and coke in hand, the sun slowly sank towards the sea. Maybe 20 or so pilgrims had gathered. Almost all I had met along the way. Katherine, Gene, Vanessa and I sat side by side. No one spoke. It was a time to reflect on what we had all spent the last month going through.
I started this journey entering a mist and I ended it the same way. Like in life, it’s the magical moments of the unknown, hiding in the fog of our mind sometimes seeming the scariest, that turn out to be the most special. I learned that you can’t live your life being afraid. I had learned that we really are all connected through the universe and that that great tangible spiritual THING we all want to feel, it’s inside of us. I learned that laughing uncontrollably and drinking Gin with new life-long friends is an absolute necessity. I learned that people with little to offer can combine their efforts and end up sharing a fantastic meal. These people of different gender, nationality, orientation, religion and race could all sit together and share laughter and tears and most of all empathy. I saw this happen. Sometimes we couldn’t even understand each other’s language but we were bonded by the fact that we were part of a quest that had been taken for many millennia before us and that many will walk for ages after we’re gone. I saw it happen and it was good. The spiritual portion of the Journey, even when finished on the map, is the one that seems to stick with you the most.
Looking back, Katherine was right. I had changed from the person I was before the Camino and now that I’m back in my home country and the backpack is stored away, the boots tucked in the closet, I am very happy to see the person I’ve become after The Camino. The best part is, it never ends. The Camino is just a road. Just like life you have the option to stop and sit or walk and see where you end up. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my mythic adventure across the entire country of Spain. Each day is simply a new step on The Camino of life and I have no plans to stop walking.
Outside Atlanta 
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