“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 my boots, I’d neglected something just as important – the width. Feet naturally expand throughout the day, which is why you should always shop for boots in the evening. Add the inflammation from 20 miles of heat and pressure with a 20lb rucksack, and your feet are liable to look like Fred Flintstone’s by the end of your stage. My swollen feet were trying to burst free of their suede-and-mesh prisons, and the result was pure agony. 

I swore as the ball of my foot landed on a rock, my toes wailing as though they’d been dredged in acid. I grimly thought of the pocketknife I brought. You don’t need your pinky toes, right? Amputation would be preferable, delightful even, compared to walking on them. An Australian pilgrim jokingly suggested he’d do the deed for me, and I was half-seriously considering it. Another rock, and I let out a sharp hiss of pain. I’d walk forever, if only my feet would let me.

I pulled off to the side of the Way, stripping off my socks and reviewing the damage. Blisters are a common occurrence in the backcountry, and if left untreated can lead to an onslaught of complications – infection being the most concerning. I recalled my first-aid class. As pressure and heat damage the skin, it starts to fill with fluid, creating a blister. If the skin breaks, your compromised blister becomes the perfect portal for bacteria and an ideal gateway for infection. Infections lasting longer than 24hrs can lead to evacuation, and the end of your Camino.

I peeled the moleskine away from my damaged toes and muttered a word of thanks. No broken skin. But the fluid buildup was increasing and the chance of a rupture also increased the longer I walked. These blisters were severe, and would have to be lanced. That meant clean hands (or, more ideally, gloves), a sterilized needle, thread, and antibiotic ointment. One problem: I needed a lighter, or preferably, antiseptic wipes to sterilize the needle. I had neither. 

I carefully wrapped my toes in compeed and lambs’ wool, to decrease friction and soften the impact of my footsteps. Just a few miles to Los Arcos, where I could find a pharmacy and the supplies I needed.

I stepped into pair of dry socks and reluctantly laced up my boots, my hands slippery with sweat and sunscreen. The stages had grown hotter with each step towards Santiago. I tried not to think about the upcoming meseta, an endless and barren plateau of heat and stone. Better to stay in the present. Future Stephen would deal with the meseta. Present Stephen needed a pharmacy. I picked up my trekking poles and put one battered foot in front of the other. “Smile pilgrim,” my mantra harder than usual to maintain. “Almost there.”

Los Arcos is a tiny, sleepy town, but hosts one of the most lavish and visually stunning baroque-style churches on the entire Camino. The Iglesia de Santa Maria hails from the 12th century, a glorious mix of late Gothic and baroque styles. The organ, housed on the second level of the church, is a magnificent instrument. I still get chills when I see the pictures. 

Mom was excited by the altarpieces in particular, overwhelmingly ornate examples of baroque and Gothic artistry. It’s a testament to how excited we were that our first stop in Los Arcos was a church, and not a pharmacy.

But my toes needed care, so I left mom to her pictures and prayers and walked to a nearby clinic. A young pharmacist, not much older than me, stood behind the counter. I tried valiantly to run through my shopping list in broken Spanish before he gently interrupted my sputtering in perfect English.

“Alcohol wipes. A knee brace for tendinitis. Anything else?” 

I plunked down more compeed and asked for ibuprofen. When he brought out the 400mg tabs, I almost wept. Now we’re talking. Tabs in the states are usually only 200mg.

The bill was high – almost two nights’ worth of hostel accommodations. But I could have hugged him. As I walked out, more pilgrims walked in. This guy had certainly found his market.

Back in our hotel room, I washed my hands and pulled out a sewing needle and thread, thoroughly sterilizing my lancing instruments with the newly acquired alcohol wipes. I threaded the needle and disinfected its target. I ran the needle through. It didn’t hurt, and the relief was instant as the thread wicked away the fluid. I sighed with relief, applying antibiotic ointment and fresh compeed to protect it.

With considerably less foot pain, I joined Mom for mass in the church. I had a lot to be thankful for. And a lot to prepare for. The temperature was rising and I needed to give my feet time to heal. Tomorrow’s hike to Logroño is shaping up to be a grueling day.

More to come

-Hicks