by Kurt Koontz
Like every day, it was time to live in the Now. I washed my mind and started a steep ascent. Unbeknownst to me, I walked past a significant monument in the dark. The Cruz de Ferro consists of an iron cross, mounted on top of a large log. Tradition invites pilgrims to bring a stone from their homeland and toss it at the base of this monument. I vaguely remember seeing the gigantic pile of stones but did not connect the dots until reading about it later that morning
What was missed in the dark was certainly overshadowed by seeing one of the most stunning sunrises of my entire life. Henri Matisse could not have dreamt of the color scheme that unfolded before my eyes. After the summit, the trail took a huge downturn that declined 3,000 feet over eight miles. During the initial descent, I happened to turn around and see dark, jagged mountains with trees backlit by glorious pastels. Fluorescent clouds hung above the horizon. The path was so steep that I could descend a bit and relive the sunrise over and over.
I took a gazillion photos and must have looked back at least 40 times. I was certainly not in a hurry, but it did remind me that going forward is difficult when you are always looking backward. Using the sunrise metaphor, I thought about how nice it is to reflect on the past, without dwelling to the point where progress and growth are hampered. When looking back, it is also nice to spend more time on the positive and very little on the negative. I certainly did not see a hint of Foncebadón in this glorious sunrise.
The steep descent began to take a toll on my feet and legs. There had not been a downhill like this one since the first day on the Pyrenees. The Camino was not only steep but also very rocky. I considered what I would do on this slope if I were mountain biking, one of my favorite sports. I rarely walk a bike down a steep or rocky road. But there is no way that I would have ridden on this challenging trail.
I arrived at a rest point in a quaint little village called Acebo and decided to look for some heat and a snack at the first possible location. I walked into a tiny hotel that was perfect. A large, crackling fire warmed the lobby. The proud owner of this appealing refuge greeted me from behind the bar. He served me a nice slice of chocolate cake. A large golden retriever lay on the floor of the cozy room. The heat from flames provided a most enjoyable and intense warmth. I spent about an hour sitting there reading my guidebook.
I walked for another few hours before taking a break for lunch. I joined Macha, a wonderful Belgium woman who I had seen a few times over the past couple of days. After eating, we decided to walk together.
As we walked, she shared her Camino story with me. Her husband had died about 25 years before from cancer. She had three grown children, the oldest 37. About five years ago, her lover of six years terminated their relationship without warning. She was devastated and spent a year in a very bad emotional trap. One day, she decided to try to walk the Camino to get over her fear of being alone. For three years, she did an annual 10-day walk on a portion of the trail. This year, she decided to walk the entire 490 miles.
I asked if the experience had helped her overcome the fear.
“Yes,” she replied. “By arriving and walking alone, it forced me to learn to be by myself.”
“Wow, that seems like death by firing squad,” I couldn’t help observing. “Did you ever consider getting your toes wet before jumping in?”
“I never thought of it like that,” she answered with a laugh. Then she added with an enigmatic smile. “I also learned that we are never all alone. Strangers come from all over the world, and we walk together, and we learn how much we are the same. A pilgrim is never without family on the Camino.”
We finished the day in another great city named Ponferrada. The unique Castillo de los Templarios rose above the city. It looked like a castle from a fairytale. I could imagine Rapunzel in the tower getting ready to lower her hair.
The lengthy downhill had taken its toll and we were tired. We both decided to stay in a hotel for the night. We found a perfect spot near the town square.
After showering and laundry, I began to arrange my stuff and was looking forward to a nice nap. Then I happened to look at the bottom of my shoe and just about had a heart attack!
An obvious hole had worn through the shoe and was getting way too large to survive the remainder of the Camino. I tried to keep calm while reviewing my alternatives. Adversity is part of life, and this was a grand opportunity for another learning experience, I told myself. My first thought was to take a train to Madrid or Burgos where there were more retail opportunities. I also thought about contacting someone from home and having them express me a new pair of shoes.
All the options looked like they would interrupt my perfect trip. I had often thought of the many things that could end my Camino, but wearing out my shoes was certainly the furthest from my mind.
The final option was to shop locally. I had little confidence in this approach. There are no Walmarts, REIs, Home Depots, or Macy’s on the Camino. Instead, bread is purchased at the panadería, drugs at the farmacia, flowers from the florista, and fish from the pescadería. In the smaller villages, which make up 95% of the Camino towns, a tienda may be the size of a small bedroom. Even if I found a shoe shop, it would likely be closed. In Spain during the weekdays, shops are open for only limited hours. On Saturday, very few are open for even a few hours. Sunday is strictly for church. Siesta is a given for all seven days, and usually occurs between two and five in the afternoon.
This town was much larger than most with a population above 60,000. I decided to give it a try. If I couldn’t find new shoes, perhaps I could find a local repair shop.
As my Camino luck would have it, I saw a shop with hiking gear in the window directly across the street from my hotel. It was four o’clock, however, so I spent an hour chewing my nails while the owner took a siesta.
When the owner arrived (well rested), he was not optimistic. I wear a size 13 shoe, which is much larger than footwear worn by most Spanish men. He retreated to his small stockroom and returned with two pair that barely covered my toes. I saw a pair of ladies shoes on the display case that resembled my current shoe. He shook his head, but returned to the storage area. Then, to our joint amazement, he came back holding a pair of shoes that were identical to mine, but one size larger! I was a bit concerned about the extra room, but it sure beat any alternatives. There are many beautiful things about this event, but the main one for me is that this particular brand and model of shoe did not require any break-in period.
Many people have told me that the Camino always provides, but this was a rather miraculous purchase.
I decided to try out my new shoes by walking throughout the city. With much trepidation, I spent about two hours visiting shops and taking in the sites. The new shoes slipped at the heel, but I hoped an additional pair of socks would fix this in the morning. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped for some pizza before retiring to my room.
I was almost asleep when I heard beautiful bagpipes. I opened my window and saw a man playing for a small crowd of tourists. My mom has requested that bagpipes play at her funeral, so the wonderful sounds of the music are always accompanied by sadness for the inevitable day.
Day 20
Vineyards
Anxiety about walking in my extra-large Patagonia footwear interrupted my dreams. Even though a break-in period was not required, I was still nervous. My Brierley guidebook was adamant about NEVER walking the Camino with new shoes. Still, I had no choice. With two of three pairs of socks on my feet, I put on the new shoes, loaded my gear, and exited the hotel.
I was barely out of the city before meeting two women in red stocking hats, Annette and Melinda from South Africa. Our introduction began when they asked me to take their picture. They were immediately friendly and interested in my extra set of worn shoes.
I had tied the laces of my old pair together and was wearing them around my neck. I planned to find an appropriate place for the shoes to live in infamy on t
he Camino. My new friends became part of the search committee. We thought about leaving them on a marker or possibly suspending them from an overhead wire. We tossed around a few ideas, but nothing felt right.
After a nice coffee break, I parted ways with the South African ladies and started walking with two men from the United States. John was from Boston and Jim was from Montana. It turned out Jim was the bagpipe player from the night before. I do not recall reading about bagpipes as a recommended item for the Camino but sure was pleased that John carried the extra weight. The shoes hanging from my neck intrigued my companions, who were astounded when I told them of my good luck. Jim was also a tall man with big feet and had tried to buy new shoes on the Camino. He spent over 15 hours looking for boots in the large city of Burgos without success. My finding these shoes was truly like finding a needle in a stack of hay.
While walking through the village of Columbrianos, I found the perfect resting place for one of my worn shoes. I placed it on a white Camino marker with a raised yellow scallop shell on a blue background. The monument sat in front of a brownstone rock wall that was the identical color of my shoe. Along the way, I had seen a few shoes in similar locations. I am hopeful that my large shoe is still at that location, prompting all who pass by to wonder about the rest of the story. I decided to bring the actual wounded soldier back to Boise to test Patagonia’s outstanding warranty program.
Throughout the day, I was pretty paranoid about the new shoes. Each step created mortal fear of a ginormous blister erupting under the laces. Every four kilometers I stopped, stripped off the shoes and socks, and inspected my feet thoroughly. After doing this about eight times, I realized that not only were things good, but I dare say these were a bit more comfortable than the holey-soled pair. Once again, fear of change overshadowed its actual consequence. From a fashion point of view, the darker color certainly complemented both of my Camino outfits.
During the previous day’s shoe debacle, I really felt like my Camino could come to an abrupt halt. A rolled ankle, massive blisters, a broken toe, illness, or a long list of other events could also terminate the journey. It made me think again about how many things could end my life with little or no advance warning.
Twenty days of walking were behind me and eight were in the future. I had averaged about 19 miles per day but planned to glide into Santiago at a pace closer to 12 miles per day. It was really hard to imagine that I was so close to the end of the Camino.
If that day’s mixture of subtle wind, warm sun, and random cloud cover were a cocktail, it would have been a James Bond martini. The wind kept the sweat at bay while the sun provided a comforting atmosphere for a trek. The rolling clouds acted like a thermostat to keep a constant and pleasant temperature.
I could not stop taking photos because everything appeared to be full of beauty. I snapped shots of the strangest things, including tree bark, brick patterns, wet sidewalks, cemetery headstones, and my walking stick. I never searched for a shot, but accepted every opportunity to capture the moment. By letting go of judgment, my mind found beauty in areas that had previously been hidden. I looked forward to taking this new concept back home and applying it to many aspects of my life.
I ran across a man who was close to my age. He was walking with an incredible amount of pain, as evidenced by his facial grimaces and obvious limp. I stopped to offer help, but the language barrier prevented verbal communication. He pointed to his knees, which were covered by long blue jeans. He had tightly tied a used bicycle tire tube below each knee. His desperate attempt to deflect pain startled me, and I wondered about his motivation to continue the walk. We were all doing this for different reasons, and the ego is one powerful animal.
The landscape suddenly and distinctly changed this day, from the flat, dry Meseta to rolling hills with lush, green, leafy vineyards. All of the vines were bursting with robust grape clusters. I ate a scrumptious few that had fallen to the ground. Large groves of aspen trees provided a hint of yellow leaf color to welcome the imminent autumn.
The vineyards, homes, and villages in this area looked much more prosperous than the ones in the Basque country. Throughout the afternoon, tractor after tractor rolled down the Camino, pulling large wagons full of moist green and purple grapes. I later learned that Spain is the world’s fourth largest grape growing country.
I arrived at a municipal albergue in the beautiful village of Villafranca del Bierzo. With my slower pace intact, I arrived quite a bit earlier than the previous days. I checked into the facility and was pleased to learn that there were coin-operated machines for laundry. This was my third chance to go through this experience, which got better each time. While my clothes enjoyed the suds, I spent the afternoon outside stretching my legs and writing in my journal.
When the clothes were finished, I returned to my bunk on the third floor and found my “top” bunkmate inspecting his mattress. It seemed a bit odd, but to each his own. He introduced himself as Mikkel from Denmark. His curiosity with the bed stemmed from a recent bout with bedbugs. He found a dead bug in the seam of the mattress but did not appear to be overly concerned about it. I, on the other hand, could not pack my bag fast enough. In a gracious manner, I requested a refund and began my search for a new home.
The only other albergue option did not have a nice feel, so I opted for a night in Hotel San Francisco. My wonderful room overlooked the town square. Back-to-back nights at hotels were not in the plan but turned out to be an unexpected treasure. I spent quite a bit of time exploring the area. A nice river flowed through the city and families enjoyed a large garden with fountains.
I found an Internet terminal in a bar and sent missives to friends and family. The place was filling up, so I decided to eat dinner at the same location. While I was walking toward the front of the restaurant, Mikkel came through the entrance. We decided to share a meal.
Mikkel was 19 years old and worked with handicapped children at a kindergarten in Copenhagen. This clean-cut young man actually quit his job when his boss would not allow for his desired seven-week vacation. They offered four weeks, but he determined that this was not enough time for his personal journey across Spain. Prior to my Camino experience, I would have been very judgmental about his decision and not open to learning about him as a person. But by this point on my trip, I could not imagine a better classroom for life’s lessons than walking these miles to Santiago. As the night progressed, he told me that he sent post cards to his students every day. Without saying a word, we both felt confident that the kids and his job would be anxiously awaiting his return to Denmark.
I went to bed with some very content thoughts. Today’s happiness came in the simplest forms––good shoes, machine-washed clothes, and unlimited hot water in a gorgeous, private room.
Day 21
Ascents
I woke up 185 kilometers from Santiago and looked forward to my 21st day of walking the Camino. I was prepared for a total accrued ascent for the day of 3,600 vertical feet, concentrated on two large hills that covered about eight miles. The first hill was optional, and my macho genes did not allow me to take the easier path.
In the darkness, I began to climb a very steep hill. About five minutes later, an older man passed me walking in the opposite direction. He complained about the difficulty of making the climb. I shrugged off his concerns and blamed it on his age. About five minutes later, my body heat was high and my breath was short when I saw another gaggle of people making their way back down the hill. One of them was my South African friend Melinda. She told me that it was just too much for her, but that Annette had decided to continue. It was only a 1,000-foot climb, but the angle was truly a challenge. Seeing more young people aborting the mission left me with some doubt. Still, I was convinced that there must be some relief as this rigid angle could not last forever.
With a bit of light from the pending sunrise, I could see the trail as it wound up the mountain. My friend Annette and anoth
er couple appeared committed to the climb. I peered back over my shoulder many times to see the lights from the village and an array of mountains that spread in all four directions. After quite a bit of labor, the climb became manageable and the scenery wonderful.
The Romans believed that Finisterre, on the western coast of Spain, was the end of the world and buried nobles there as a badge of honor. With equal conviction, I found the top of the world on this hill. As I approached the summit, the sunrise began to provide a radiance that was simply magical. In every direction, mountain ridgelines receded in silhouette. The pines and rocks were visible on the first ridge, the second had a hint of brown, the third was the darkest. They became a progressively lighter shade of gray until meeting the distant horizon. The entire scene changed with each minute as the sun began to shine light over the entire area. As the sun broke above the horizon, the sky above the most distant mountains became a canvas of orange, yellow, and blue.
At the bottom of the hill on the other side, I found a small bar that was serving food. I felt like I was on some type of wonder drug as I walked through the entrance. My body and soul were truly quenched and glowing from the morning’s hike. I ate tortilla de patatas and my first Tarta de Santiago, an almond cake with a powdered sugar imprint of the Cross of Saint James on top. The cake was another reminder of the Camino’s long history. The traditional recipe dated back to the Middle Ages.
Below the deck, about 10 local villagers harvested potatoes in a large community garden. A small orange tractor, driven by an aging man wearing a short-brim hat, turned the ground. The only woman wore a blue dress that hung well below the knees. Together, they filled 18 large white sacks with fresh tubers. It struck me as very odd that I had never seen potatoes harvested before. After 48 years of living in Idaho, I witnessed my first earthborn spud in Trabadelo, Spain.