The Camino de Santiago, or the Way of Saint James, is an important traditional pilgrimage dating back to pre-Christian times. Throughout the Middle Ages it rose in popularity as one of the three pilgrimages leading to complete absolution of sin in Catholic tradition, along with routes to Rome and Jerusalem. (See my Article).
Nowadays people continue to make the trek from various locations across Europe to the cathedral of Santiago, which holds the supposed remains of Apostle James. People travel by foot, bicycle, horse, car, or even scooter, and stay in municipal albergues in common rooms generally crowded with bunk beds, or camp along the way.
The most common and perhaps most traditional route in the Camino Frances, beginning in St. Jean Pied du Port, France, and extending 780 kilometers to Santiago de Compostela. Many people choose to continue an additional three walking days to Finisterre, literally meaning “the end of the world,” on the Gallegan coast.
After four buses and a taxi, Craig and I arrived in St. Jean, a very small village where all the beds in all the hostels were full. They kindly allowed us to sleep on the floor of the community gymnasium. The next day we began our Camino, starting with what is known as the Most Challenging Day: a 3,500 meter climb up a 27 kilometer mountain path. They say this day is most difficult because it is, technically, the most physically trying. It is, however, in retrospect, one of the most exhilarating and fun days of the camino. Our muscles were fresh and our spirits were high as we climbed through the clouds, unable to see over 10 feet ahead of us, listening to the cowbells of the sheep hidden in the shroud of mist, marveling at the fog and fern filled gorges. The beauty and mystery distracted us from our burning muscles and exhaustion.
In my journal at the end of the first night, I wrote: We could see clearly only ten feet in front of us, and everything up to thirty feet appeared giant, mythical, daunting; several times we each had to check with the other to find out if we really were seeing a majestic profile of horse with colt, a looming tree, a sheer drop-off, or even a trail marker. Oftentimes we could hear the bells of a herd of sheep or cows, but never saw one. Then we turned a misty corner and found ourselves in the midst of a blurry herd of longhaired sheep, baaing and balancing on the edge of the cliff and spilling onto the trail.
It was a beautiful and unforgettable start to an incredible journey. We finished more tired than we had ever been, but proud! We were excited to have finished the Most Challenging Day and assumed it would be all downhill from there (literally).
No, the true difficulty begins later, when your joints and feet rebel against 30 K days, when your back begins aching from your rucksack, when the blisters set in, when the sunburn catches up to you, when the dorm-room snorers leave you sleepless, when your legs, exhausted, simply give out from beneath you.
They say the Camino de Santiago can be loosely split into three major stages: the physically challenging French-Spanish Pyrenees Mountains; the mentally challenging, unforgiving, flat, and seemingly endless meseta; and the jubilant last stretch through the Gallegan mountains.
The first stage, every step becomes so painful that you want to quit. No amount of rest breaks relieve your pounding, pounded feet and you can feel your bones spreading apart, your toe joints swelling, your tendons plucking and stretching as your tortured feet struggle to keep trudging. You feel every pebble on the dirt or asphalt paths. You pop your blisters every night but at the end of the next day they are quarter-sized again, tinted yellow from your iodine treatment. You throw away your laundry soap and extra pen, anything to pare down the weight in your pack.
You try everything: you buy a walking stick. You buy another. You try new insoles. Ace bandages, new anti-inflammatories, ibuprofen. Sanitary pads in your shoes! Threads through your blisters. Icing. Elevated feet. Vicks VapoRub massages. Foot soaks in cold rivers, knee braces, rosemary alcohol, Vaseline in your socks. Beer. Rest days. Stretching and more stretching.
And then one day you suddenly realize that at 25 K you’re still going strong, still feeling good. Your feet are fine, your blisters are tolerable, you ache a bit but can’t imagine it was ever enough to hinder you. You feel the muscles strong in your legs and, feel capable. You’ve passed through your first set of mountains and know that nothing can stop you now!
You set off into Burgos, one of the few major cities on the Camino Frances. You excitedly enter into the industrial center and you discover that following your quiet suffering in the peace of a natural rural setting, you are afraid of cars. Your senses and your brain are assaulted by construction, traffic, huge buildings, crowds of tourists, pollution, music, screaming kids, the smells of restaurants, barking dogs. You long for the woods.
Here you begin the next stage. You feel good, you feel healthy and prepared for the mentally challenging phase, happy and determined. Soon though, you realize that this is the most difficult task you’ve ever attempted. For days on end you watch the trail before you, extending forever through the tractor-dappled wheat fields during a dusty harvest. The scenery stays the same, as though you are simply on a treadmill. Everything is dust and brown, dry or paved, sun-baked and unfriendly. You watch the horizon, losing focus. You grow bored and grumpy. You try, but you cannot remember why you ever thought it was a good idea to WALK ACROSS SPAIN.
Talking (and complaining) with other pilgrims becomes vital to retain your sanity. You might even begin a makeshift book club with a small group of friends you met back on that first night, devoting your extra time to reading found, lost, stolen, bought, brought, traded, and shared random novels and discussing them just so you have something to talk about besides the frustration of the unchanging trail and the toll it's taking on your body and mind.
One day you find yourself brushing your teeth in your undies in the communal restroom and realize you have lost your modesty. You notice that no one has the energy to ogle you anyway. You become ravaged by insects and have allergic reactions to their bites, on your body, on your face. You realize you have established a simple yet satisfying routine: wake, walk, stop for coffee, walk, walk, stop when you reach your destination, shower, wash your clothes in the sink with a bar of soap, hang them to dry, read a chapter of your book, write in your journal, go to dinner, go to bed. You have made friends and it’s always a happy surprise to see them in the same village, though in this strange existence there's always a chance you are never going to see them again after THIS moment.
At this stage you lose your way. The flat, dusty trail leads you back to your own pains and aches and negativity every day. This phase will never end, and you know you will never reach Santiago. You HATE the walk, you HATE the food, you HATE looking at this same road AGAIN. You feel dirty, exhausted, lost, and angry.
Just as you finally admit defeat, you find yourself in Leon, where you rest a day, visit the cathedral, avoid the albergue for once so you can have one night’s real rest. You celebrate! You have finally reached the end of the second stage. You are so proud, and so relieved, so ready to move on.
In Galicia you are joined by and often sickened by the people walking only the last 1-200 K. They’re fresh and energetic, staying up and rising early (earlier even, than your own 5 AM wake up call). They don’t know how to pack in the dark or respect exhausted sleeping pilgrims. You stay restless and by now you are sick and tired of cold, communal showers shared with hacking and hairy men. You work to tune out singing Spaniards and the blasting mobile phones in the dorms and enroute.You’re offended by the loss of peace on the trail and the sudden competitive feel of *your* camino. Also by just too many men clad in nothing more than their undies.
Yet you have recovered your exhilaration. You are thrilled to be climbing and CONQUERING mountains and trekking through the green green green green forest! You’re excited by the scent of the decomposing undergrowth and healthy soil and moss, excited by the spongy ground beneath your now undeniably invincible feet. Your endorphins are on fire and you are surrounded by breathtaking scenery as you climb unforgiving hills and walk with cows and listen to the roosters crow and the plentiful springs run down the rock cliff faces. You love what you are doing. You love the country you’re in. You love and appreciate your body and realize how powerful it really is. How powerful YOU are.
One day you happen to catch your reflection in the rare free bathroom mirror in your sport bra and you are shocked at how you have changed. Your weight has redistributed itself across your frame so that your shape has been altered. Your face has thinned and your skin is dull beneath its thick layer of insect repellent and sunscreen and dust. You have a sock tan, a shorts tan, a t-shirt tan. Your shoulders are rubbed red from your rucksack straps. Your legs are covered in angry blackberry bramble scratches and mystery bruises, your knees are scabbed from slip-ups on rock faces. Your lips are chapped, your hair is ragged, you are speckled with bug bites and scars of bug bites and bug bites on top of bug bites. You discover heat rash and chafing you hadn’t felt earlier. You look permanently dirty. You look both strong and feeble at once.
You press forward. The signs that once mocked you by saying “Santiago: 790 K” now boast numbers in the 100s. In double digits. In the 20s. And then you’re there, and you push your way through the crowds of tourists and lie down in the plaza before the cathedral and stare up at the moldy-beautiful building you’ve been working toward for nearly 800 kilometers and you watch everyone snap their photos and you wait for your revelation.You are joyful. You are depressed. You are so happy to be finished. You are so disappointed to be done.
You hear someone say, “Now I understand what they say about it being all about the journey, not the destination.” You feel that. You feel everything.
You receive your compostela. You find a room and bathe without flip flops. 3 times. You see pilgrims you haven’t seen in a long while, and keep watch for those you hope to see but never run into again. You don’t tell anyone goodbye. You try Gallegan food and share stories over pimientos de padron and pulpo and Atlantic oysters and white wine.
You travel to the coast, to Finisterre, where people once believed the flat world ended. You stare out from the peninsula and find it hard to convince yourself the world is, indeed, round. You finally say goodbye to the people who have become friends, the friends who have shared something this sacred with you. You try not to cry although you’re exhausted and emotional and unsure of this life without the routine and conquest and power of the camino.
You head home after 35-some-odd days. You leave a part of yourself behind, there, in the Pyrenees, on the meseta, in the mist in the trees, and you take more with you.
