I felt lighter as we left the outskirts of Logroño. Buoyant, even. Maybe it was the three pounds of gear I’d left behind me. Or the fresh trail runners adding new energy to my stride. Or the kinship I was developing with the small cohort of pilgrims that we’d kept running into since Orisson, a recurring international cast of characters offering a “Buen Camino!” as we strolled. My blisters were healing nicely. Mom and I had found a bit of…
We slept in to 8am, reveling in the extra slumber afforded by our rest day in Logroño. Most days we tried to start walking by 7am, which meant 6am wake-ups. Only a few weeks ago I would have balked at such an early rise. I’m a night owl by trade, but like mom’s diet, was forced to reconcile my preferences with the demands of the Camino. Having an extra two hours of sleep felt like pure luxury, and I savored…
The first rays of morning light peeked over the steeple of Santa Maria as we departed Los Arcos with a group of 10 pilgrims for Logroño, one of Spain’s precious cultural and culinary jewels. The melodic hum of an accordion followed us on our way out of town, a small cadre of locals greeting the rising sun with song in the town square. It was a glorious, if polka-y send off. With relief, I noticed that my traumatized feet seemed…
“It’s not your legs you have to worry about. It’s your feet.” My fellow pilgrim’s words rang all too true with each step towards Los Arcos, my toes crying in agony. I’d done what I could to limit the heat, moisture, and friction in my Merrells – compeed, moleskine, you name it – but it wasn’t enough. Two large blisters throbbed angrily on each of my pinky toes, with more on the way. In my focus on the length of…
The vegetation took on more bristle as we left Puenta la Reina and moved deeper into the parched Mediterranean region of Spain, the leafy evergreens and lush mountain meadows receding to the deep-rooted, hardy plants that thrive in the hot Spanish sun with limited access to water. The Path itself looked chapped and ruddy, the undulating cracks and crevices in the road like dry, cracked lips longing for water. The cumulus clouds above us were a welcome reprieve from the…
The early morning hours of Pamplona were blissfully quiet as we started our journey to Puenta la Reina. The streets were completely empty, save for the street sweepers washing away the remnants of last night’s revelry. I took a long, slow breath, filling myself up with the cool morning air and the promise of a fresh start. The previous day had been challenging, both emotionally and physically. So the night before, mom and I agreed on new ground rules to…
The Way from Zubiri started next to an industrial park, a sickly plume of noxious yellow vapor wafting from a tall smokestack rising above the tree line. Heavy machinery and strip mines accompanied the first stage of our walk, a sad contrast to the natural, unblemished beauty of the mountains we’d left behind. The Rio Arga gurgled just below the plant. A lone fly fisher tossed his neon line into the murky water and I shuttered to think what he…
Thank god for food trucks. The oasis of bocadillos and fresh orange juice arose like a mirage after the first 10 miles to Zubiri, the mustachioed middle-aged proprietor blasting Hank Williams as he slung sandwiches and bebidas to hungry pilgrims. His truck was adorned with regalia that wouldn’t be out of place at a Midwest diner, with mid-century Coca-Cola signs and classic pinups on the wall behind him. I went all in and ordered two sandwiches (solo queso for my…
“I come bearing my mother’s ashes to the end of the world.” My breath caught, and the tears started instantly. I hurriedly wiped them away, but couldn’t take my eyes off the woman’s small black locket. I was humbled by the power and emotion of her words. I thought of my uncle, my godfather, I lost to cancer last year, and the tears ran unabated, my fingers unable to hide them faster than they appeared. I will never forget that…
“I’m so sick of climbing!” The pilgrim ahead of us leaned over his trekking poles, his frustration and exhaustion on full display. When he told us he was headed to Roncessvalles, a full 10 miles past our intended evening stop in Orisson, I couldn’t blame him. The trek through the Pyrenees is challenging. The climb starts as soon as you leave SJPP, but is deceptively easy until about halfway through the route to Orisson, when the switchbacks begin. If you’re…