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 might catch – let alone eat. My mind drifted back to Tolkien’s epics, but instead of the Fellowship crossing the Misty Mountains I thought of Isengard, and Saruman’s command to burn Fangorn Forest as fuel for his war machines. It’s a shame our own trees can’t speak; maybe we’d listen. 

The tension between nature and industry wasn’t the only conflict on display today. A few miles further a mural proclaimed “Welcome to Basque Country,” a proud and sobering reminder of how the Spanish and French have attempted to suppress or limit the autonomy and expression of an ancient and indigenous culture. 

Mom called out behind me, snapping my morning reverie. 

“I’m exhausted.” Mom was breathing hard against her heavy pack, struggling with the additional weight we’d previously send ahead of us. Food had been sparse today, and we were both feeling the missing calories.  Instead of slowing down, I picked up the pace, determined to reach Pamplona and the creature comforts of a large city. 

Laundry was at the top of my list. Clean clothes were running low, and rewearing dirty socks was a recipe for more blisters – or worse. “Immersion foot syndrome” – better known as trenchfoot – can occur even in warm climates if your feet spend too long in sweaty socks. We needed food and a laundromat, stat. Food would follow soon after.

But The Camino had other plans for us. About 7 mikes from Pamplona we bumped into John and Sophia, a couple from Taiwan on a side quest to Zabaldika and its 13th century Romanesque church named for its patron saint – St. Stephen.

Unable to dismiss such an eponymous coincidence, Mom and I briefly dismissed our growing hunger and followed them up a steep climb, Pamplona splayed out in the distance. A small village greeted us at the summit, houses of dressed stone with a modest church at its center.

Two Sisters of the Sacred Heart greeted us as we entered, offering stamps for our pilgrim passports and information on the striking 16th century alterpiece, featuring my namesake at the center. 

To the right, a small spiral staircase led up to the bell tower, home to the oldest bell in the Navarra region. Con permiso, I rang it twice, and let the sound fill me up when food could not. The resonance was deep and beautiful.

The rural countryside faded into the bustle of the city as we continued towards Pamplona, the natural landscape giving way to human designs. A canopy of trees greeted our entrance into the outskirts of the city, and soon the streets were filled with people and the tempting aroma of restaurants promising a late lunch. 

But the day had been hard, and we were both tired. Opting for a post-laundry takeaway pizza in our hotel room, we agreed that more stops and more food were needed in future stages. We had heard the trek to Puenta la Reina the next day would be challenging, and we’d need all the rest and food we could find to make it through the next stage. For now, it was time to enjoy the relative sanctuary of our hotel room from the raucous Saturday night life as we dealt with blistered feet and tired shoulders.

More to come.

-Hicks