Camino Stories: The Camino Provides
Part Three in a series of stories from Spain
I recently read The Fellowship of the Ring and in it, the party has to pass through the mines of Moria, a dangerous route under the mountains. Mysterious forces (or great writing) seem to funnel them there. Like any great adventure, the hero has to follow the most difficult path to reach their goal. Sometimes that path is chosen, but I was fortunate enough to choose mine this time. I took a leap and landed. Just not exactly where I thought I would.
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On a rainy Wednesday morning in late August, a small plane touched down on the single runway in Irun, a town up against the Spanish-French border. I bumped my head on the overhead bin for good luck then scooted along the narrow aisle, exiting down the stairs and onto the slick pavement. No longer would I have the burst of jet engines to propel me. My own two feet would have to carry me the next five hundred miles. I was thrust into the adventure like it was the first day of school, backpack included.
In preparation there aren’t details, only vague intentions. No guidebook or forum post told me I’d have no appetite the first few days. Not one vlog I watched told me I’d meet someone that first day who’d be a part of my Camino family for the next few weeks. I knew the logistics but that didn’t make a story. It’s the people and experiences around them that do.
Immediately I had to battle jet lag and weariness after twenty-three hours of travel, but that was only one of the struggles in the first week. Half an hour into my first morning, an eight-hundred-foot muddy ascent greeted me. Then, as I hiked along the shadeless spine of the Jaizkibel mountains, the heat reached ninety-five. Baptism by fire was a near literal truth. I had to stop every thirty seconds to catch my breath and drop my pack. The excitement of finally starting was just enough to carry me through but doubt lingered. If it was this tough to start, how could it possibly get better?
There’s a phrase I often heard, the Camino provides. Well, what does it provide? Perhaps a place to sleep when everything’s booked, a friend with meds when you’re sick, a spectacular view after a strenuous day. Is it God, is it chance, is it just new perspective? Humans famously name everything, but I’m content to wonder. A special energy flows around the Camino, one that connects and supports. And it leaves generous space for its sharers to grow.
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A week into my slog I faced another climb, this one a fifteen-hundred-foot hike up to Monte Avril from Zamudio, followed by an equal descent into the largest city in the Basque country, Bilbao. I was determined to get to the city, but I was going slow. Up and up I went, just twenty paces between breaks to catch my breath and move my pack. Each micro-adjustment of the straps’ position on my bony shoulder, or the cinching of it around my waist, bought me another few minutes until pain reemerged. It was easier to keep a list of things that didn’t hurt.
As I neared the top, the path widened and a few pilgrims were gathered around a surprising oasis, a vending machine. No one bothered to question how this thing got to be there or had power. We only marveled at the choices. Water, juice, beer, soda, candy. It was a simple reward for the grueling path to get there.
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A couple weeks later, I spent a day walking alone. Whole days by myself were rare but a nice change from being in a group. It was a perfectly hot day, again. By this point, my body was used to the pack weight and the ups and downs. I was feeling strong and confident. But even if I had made it through my Moria, it only meant harder tests lie ahead.
I reached the seaside town of Tapia de Casariego around noon and found a place to eat lunch. Tortilla patatas, chocolate cake, and a Coke. The quantity of calories clearly trumped the quality. I sat at a shaded table and savored every unhealthy bite.
The afternoon seemed fit for an easy pace. I had a bed booked and beach views for miles. Mid afternoon I arrived at the albergue, a two-story stone building with a shaded courtyard where I threw down my pack. It was serene, my only company a breeze in the trees. A large chalkboard hung on the wall with a dinner menu. I took off my shoes and socks while debating on the roasted chicken or a fried steak.
Time passed and the silence turned from peaceful to worrisome. I wandered around and finally startled a staff member, who gave me the disheartening news they were closed. I stumbled my way through a few Spanish sentences to explain my reservation and my hope for a bed. But the owners were out on holiday and I had to move on. I was consoled with a beer, but it was hardly what I needed when the next place lay two more miles down the road. Without another choice, I laced up again and marched defeatedly on towards Ribadeo.
The city sat on top of another steep hill on the banks of a river mouth. Roads turned and twisted narrowly, sloping every which way through the old city. Kids played soccer in the town square, the only flat area to be found. Late afternoon crowds filled the tables outside, and the setting sun lingered just beyond the town. With my hopes tempered, I followed a hostel sign above a barroom door. But alas, there was room in the inn tonight. A cheap private room, at that. The frustration and sorrow, that I wanted to cling to so dearly as excuses for failure, melted away. They instead became reasons for success and joy. After a shower and a beer, I found within me a few more steps to roam around the city during golden hour.
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Some try to plan it all. Some are more free, letting circumstance determine the details. I fell in between, searching for a balance between peace of mind and peace of soul. On one hand, I’d hope for a reservation each night, with an easy path to get there and stops for snacks and coffee every few miles. On the other, who would’ve read the Lord of the Rings if Frodo could’ve destroyed the Ring in his own fireplace?
There’s a limit to what can be planned, as if the universe begs to let things be, not bent to my will. Yet there are also real consequences if everything’s left to chance. So I went, teetering back and forth along this line, not always getting it right but learning and growing along the way.
Many times when I was exhausted or in pain or full of doubt, I sat planning an escape. How I could get off this retched journey and be home with my dog. At least it took my mind off the struggle. But at some point during my thoughts, I always came back to this: the best way was through. And because I was 4000 miles from home, it was the easiest too. Through the persistent sore and throbbing feet that kept me up every night. Through the stress of plans A, B, and C failing. Through the cities and through the hills. I was resigned to keep going whether I wanted to or not. I was a kid again, thrashing on the doctor’s table, refusing to get a shot. Only this time it was up to me, not my mom, to hold me down and go through with it.
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Eight months have passed since I finished the Camino, and it’s easier to see the beauty of it now. Each day was a battle and each day was a gift. The 33 I spent on that journey have become one whole experience that I get to relive when I need to pick myself up. When I spend the time to write and look back at my photos, I’m right there along the misty coast of northern Spain, where I set out to do something and did it.
It can be difficult to convey the personal experience and emotion of this journey, but the importance of it continues to grow and leaves no doubt. The Camino did provide.
ER