El Camino: Palas de Reí

That. Was. Hard. 

But beautiful.

I started out just after eight this morning, walking the first couple of hours in a foggy mist. It was all uphill, but I took it slowly, stopping often to admire the beauty revealed in each turn of the trail.

The first 12km went well. Really well. I was less sore than I’d expected to be, and I reached the midpoint of the trail in good spirits. I stopped for a longish lunch, in the spirit of my Mexican friends from yesterday, minus the wine, and was ready to tackle the rest of the trail.

I was in good shape, but wasn’t sure I was up to another 12km, so figured perhaps I could walk just 1km, that isn’t very far, and do it 12 times. And, by this point, it was mostly downhill, so I’d at least be able to balance out the strain in my calves.

That theory worked until kilometer 8-ish, when my feet decided they were done. The remaining four kilometers were a long and painful slog. The good news part is that once my feet filled my shoes like balloons ready to pop, they didn’t try to continue to expand. I mean, at least it was a nice steady pain level.

To tell the truth, I can’t even remember the last kilometer.  I know I had just 20 minutes left to walk. (Thank you, Google), and it took all I had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

I walked into the hostel, almost in a trance, around 4. Good thing I didn’t have to answer any hard questions on the way in. (I did still know my name which is the only thing she asked.)

I made my way upstairs to my room, collapsed on the bed, and almost cried. My shoulders, my calves, my feet were on fire. (My hips, surprisingly, were doing almost ok!) When I took my shoes off, I found a big blister on my toe that I hadn’t even felt because everything else hurt so bad. *sigh* What was I thinking when I signed up for this trek????

Over the next three hours, and it took three hours, I managed to take some Advil, drink some electrolyte water, shower, stretch, and begin to work out some of the cramps using my handy-dandy yoga therapy balls.

To my surprise, by 7, dinner time, I felt almost human. It’s now 9-ish, and I’m ready for bed, but thinking just maybe I’ll be able to walk again by morning. Tomorrow’s walk is shorter, “just” 15km.

Piece of cake???

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Photos: on my way out of town in the mist; tree tunnel as the mist lifted; the view from today’s high point on the trail

El Camino: Portomarin

Today’s journey was just 10km. About the time I hit my stride, I looked up to find I’d finished the day’s trek! It was a beautiful morning, cool, mostly cloudy. I saw a small portion of a rainbow as I started walking - always a hopeful sign.

Unlike yesterday’s crush of people, I spent much of the morning walking with only the sounds of nature to keep me company. I think it was because I was starting from such a small town. Yesterday, I started walking at one of the most popular jumping off points along the whole trail; a big town with many, many hostels. Last night, I stayed at the only available inn for several miles, and it hosted only a few dozen people. It was a nice change of pace.

As I walked, I kept hearing whispers from those who have trodden this path before me. At one point, I had to clamber down a rocky gorge. As I looked at the divots in the stone, I realized they had been formed by all the boots stepping the those exact spots over a millennium.  I can’t really grasp how many feet have to walk on a rock to make an imprint in the stone, but it’s humbling to know my passage, though I would have thought it went unremarked, added just a smidge to the depth of the imprint.

I kept checking in with my hips and feet as I walked, since both were not speaking kindly to me by the time I arrived yesterday. My feet, surprisingly, were fine. My hips, well, they’re not fond of the journey thus far; I’m pretty sure it’s the weight of my day pack throwing them off kilter. I’ll try to give them a good stretch this evening, perhaps it will help calm them down a bit.

I spent most of today’s hike contemplating tomorrow’s trek, which will be my longest of this trip, 23km. I’m not as frightened I’ll run out of steam before completing it as I was before I started walking because I’ve been watching the other hikers. Instead of doing the whole day’s hike in full-steam-ahead mode, as I would tend to do (gotta get all the work done before I can rest!), they stop along the way to give their bodies a break. Yesterday afternoon, I watched one couple stop in at the restaurant at the inn where I was staying for a full meal, complete with wine. They sat and laughed for two hours before gathering their gear and moving on. I doubt I can convince me to stop for that long, and the wine is definitely out of the question, but I’m thinking a couple of longish breaks along the way will get me there in better shape.  We’ll see…

Photos: this morning’s rainbow; looking back along the trail; those footsteps in the stone; the Church of San Xoan de Portomarin, just a block from where I am staying 

El Camino: Casa Morgade

I misspoke yesterday when I said I was feeling alone. I should have said I was feeling lonely. There is a difference. Today, I walked alone, and was totally content to put one foot in front of the other, not worrying about keeping pace with anyone but myself. 

I got a better night’s sleep last night (a solid four hour stretch), which is directly correlated to my lift in mood, I’m sure. I woke up this morning feeling ready to face my day. In fact, as I started out, I was questioning my decision to cut the walk originally scheduled by the tour company in half, to do the distance over two days instead of one. It seemed like everyone I talked to on the path was going the distance, and not that I’m competitive, but I was feeling a bit of a lightweight. However, by the time I rounded the bend to catch sight of Casa Morgade, I was congratulating myself on my foresight. I’m pretty sure they aren’t passing out any prizes for the quickest finish, and my feet and hips were talking to me with every step.

Fortunately, I recovered quickly - by the time I finished lunch, my feet had quit screaming, though my legs certainly know I covered some distance today. I’m tired, not exhausted, which bodes well for tomorrow’s trek. I hope.

Today’s walk was beautiful. The weather was perfect, in the upper 70’s, with a light breeze. Once out of Sarria, I walked through pastoral countryside on a mostly shaded lane. The path was heavily traveled, but I had enough space to just relax into trail thoughts. That is to say, I have no clue what passed through my mind as I walked.

I was, time and again, aware of the weight of history. I heard echoes of all the footsteps down the years, of those who had trod this path before me, most of them without the support of modern hiking shoes.

Tomorrow, I am slated to walk about the same distance as today. I hope the heaviness in my legs will ease overnight. If not, well, it’ll just take me a greater portion of the day to cover the distance. Not the worst outcome.

Photos: the first section of my portion of the trail; an ancient church along the trail; an equally ancient stone bridge, still fit to be trod; my first view of Casa Morgade

El Camino: Sarria

Despite my best efforts and general exhaustion, I did not sleep soundly last night. My circadian rhythm hasn’t had a chance to catch up with my physical location, and despite the darkness, my body was unwilling to fall into deep slumber at three in the afternoon. Go figure.

The alarm jolted me awake at seven, and I grumpily got up, pulled everything together, and made my way to the Metro station. A little help from a helpful subway agent got my card reloaded for the ride, and with very little difficulty, I found my way to the train station.

The train ride across Spain to Ourense was seamless. We zipped smoothly along the countryside and beneath the mountains at 300km/hr. I found myself wishing I could ride that way to Minneapolis - it would sure beat driving!

At Ourense, there was some construction something down the line, and they switched us to a bus for the last 90 minutes of the journey. The drive was along a windy not-quite-mountainous road. We had to stop in a town along the way, and I quickly developed a great appreciation for the driver’s spatial reckoning ability.  Kind of like playing Tetris with a bus.

Once we arrived safely in Sarria in mid-afternoon, all I had to do was drag my suitcase a mile down the street to the hostel. As I bumped along, I found myself grateful for the sturdy wheels on the bag; the sidewalks were no smooth airport floors! Like the day before, once I was checked in, I went upstairs and promptly fell into bed for a nap. 

My travel success notwithstanding, (I neither got lost nor missed any connections. The tour company had actually done their job, and the hostel was expecting me.) my grumpy mood has stayed with me for much of the day.  I know it’s one of the common side effects of jet lag, but I still found me being impatient with myself. 

I felt very alone today. Though logic tells me there are a plethora of other solo pilgrims, it seemed that everyone I saw but me was in pairs or part of a larger group. Yesterday’s welcome smiles morphed to quiet assessing glances, smiles were fewer - probably a reflection of my own unquiet mood.

Don’t you want to go walk around and see all the things?  No, I definitively did not. I just wanted to stay in my clean but cramped room and stare at the ceiling. Which, since I had no travel companion to boot my butt into gear, is exactly what I did until shortly before dinner, when I convinced me to head out to at least find the branch-off spot for the Camino. (Which turned out to be just around the corner from the hostel.) I wandered down the street a bit further anyways, and found a pleasant stream. There, I took time to find a bench where I was able to sit and listen to the running water and the unfamiliar bird calls. A few minutes there helped to level out my mood.

I’ve now had a delicious dinner, and am ready to stretch and head to bed. I know the entire country stays up late as a general rule, but sometimes, you just gotta buck the trend.

Tomorrow, I start my walk along the trail!  It’ll be the shortest walking day of my journey, just 11km. It’ll be just long enough, I hope, to just stretch the kinks from my legs and work through another layer of this jet lag.

Buen Camino to me!

Photos: (all in Sarria) the long main street I hauled my suitcase down, my quiet stream, my Camino start point!, the stream, on the other side of the street, where lots of people were gathered 

El Camino: Madrid

As I was vainly attempting to get a little sleep on the plane last night, it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, I had not thought this thing through. I mean, I had a hotel reservation and all, but had no idea how I planned to get there from the airport. Details.

Before I left, I had some vague ideas, and planned to figure it out when on the plane, but because of technical difficulties (my fault, I didn’t remember my Delta password) I was incommunicado.

Cue the Universal Nudge that has me going on this trip in the first place. My seat mate, Harris, was from Greece, went to university in Germany, currently teaches Spanish linguistics at a university in Kentucky, has traveled far and wide for work conferences, and was not about to let me flounder.

When the lights came up in the morning, I told him of my conundrum, and asked to borrow his phone for a moment. He not only helped me figure out how to get to the hotel, he (despite his quicker trip through customs) waited for me at baggage claim, helped me buy a Metro ticket, and escorted me to my first stop. Our paths diverged at that point.

Some friendships last a lifetime, some for ten hours.

The hotel (Hotel Don Pío) kindly allowed me to check in early, and I went in and passed out on the bed. It’s amazing what a couple hours of sleep can do for one’s brain power.

When I awoke, I asked the front desk person for a lunch recommendation, and she sent me just down the street to No Me Llames Dolores (there’s gotta be a story there…) Lunch was delicious, dessert was on the house (?!), and when I left, they told me I now have a home there, should I ever choose to return.

Despite my Spanish speaking abilities, everyone has been friendly, welcoming. Those jitters? They are quickly being smothered in kindness.

I’ve managed to stay awake since my nap, and will head up to sleep shortly - something about having maybe three hours of sleep last night is making the seven hour time difference easier to adjust to. 

I’m up early tomorrow morning, to take the train up to Sarria, where my Camino walk will begin, so I do hope sleep comes without too much trouble. There is some issue with construction, so the last leg of the trip will be by bus instead of train.  The  time between the two transport is just twenty minutes, so I have my fingers crossed, hoping for no wrinkles in the plan. 

I’ll let you know!

El Camino: Jitters

 

I've been plotting this El Camino trip of mine for the better part of a year. With an underlying sense of adventure and anticipation, I've delved into tour companies (aka: luggage schleppers), the best gear to have when undertaking the trek, and how I could get there and home.

My sense of adventure was abruptly replaced by "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING???" as soon as I made the final train reservation, put the last piece of the travel puzzle into place. Seemingly out of nowhere, I began to face the trip with trepidation and heightened anxiety. (My reaction left me a bit confused, because anxiety is not a staple in my coping strategies catalog.)

You'll get lost. You're going to miss your plane. You don't speak the language. You're going to miss your train. You're not going to have the right cash on hand. What if you forget/lose your passport? Jet lag is going to make you miserable. Covid is still out there, you know! Your feet are going to hurt. What makes you think you can walk 14 miles in one day, then get up the next to do it again? 

Never mind that I'd considered each of these scenarios in the planning process. (Google Translate and my credit card take care of many of them, no?) My heart's been pumping a bit too quickly, my brain is alert and on edge. It's unsettling, to say the least.

Knowing such reactions don't really appear out of nowhere, I began to dig a little deeper. I didn't have to dig far - this is the time of year when I set off on my original camper van journey, and my subconscious tracks such things. Now it all made sense. 

With all that's happened since the abrupt and permanent detour that ended my trip before I'd found whatever it was I was looking for, I'm pretty sure I've not completely dealt with my feelings regarding my change in direction. By the time life settled down enough for me to process what had happened, those feelings were already buried under the pile of my reactions to the other big life crises which followed in relatively quick succession. It was a decade, that's for sure.

No wonder I'm worried this new trust leap will end in crisis. The precedent is there.

Which is all the more reason to make the journey.

Back to my rocking chair analogy. When my years are drawing to a close, and I'm sitting in my rocker on the porch looking back over my life, when I think of this moment, will I be glad I took the leap, or will I wish I'd stayed home?

For me, the answer is clear. Even if I run into trouble, I'll have done it living my days, not hiding in fear.

Onward!

El Camino

 

Late last fall, after one of my tone classes at Woodside, I was talking to the instructor for a bit, just chatting about our lives. I told him about my camper van journey, and he told me about the trip that had most impacted his life - a walk on El Camino, the pilgrimage route in Spain. The trek has several start points, but all roads converge in Santiago de Compostela, where the church is said to house the remains of St. James.

As he spoke of his journey, I felt a little nudge. "Pay attention," Someone said. "Perhaps you want to consider following in his footsteps."

I try to listen to that voice when I hear it - it doesn't speak often - and started looking into what it would take for me to make the trip. I asked around, found several someones who'd walked the ancient paths, got recommendations on all the travel ins and outs, and started making reservations.

I'm going to be gliking this trail (like glamping is to camping, my walk won't be a hard-core hike). I don't think my feet, still touched by neuropathy from my cancer treatments, would take kindly to carrying an extra 25-30 lbs across Spain. I'd probably make it, but I'd be miserable. I've also decided I don't need the hostel experience - sleeping in a room with a bunch of strangers who are "snoring and farting in seven languages" (per an experienced pilgrim) has little appeal. So I've worked with a tour company to arrange places to stay (I will have my own room, with a private bath, each night), breakfasts, dinners, and importantly, luggage transfers. 

I will get up each morning, eat breakfast, and set off for the day's trek carrying just my day pack. I will carry my water, my lunch, and my weather layer. The bulk of my luggage will get picked up and driven to my destination-for-the-day. How cool is that?

I will walk from 11 - 23 kilometers (7 - 14 miles) each day. As I write this, that sounds like a lot, but I will take it one step at a time. I'd planned to train at home, to work up to the distance, but my hike last month in Bryce Canyon taught me my biggest challenge walking this trail will be the neuropathy in my feet. I can't train the nerve damage away, I can only aggravate it, and so decided to just continue my daily pattern of activity, and bring lots of Advil. (My watch tells me I walk +/- 5 miles a day anyways, so I'll ?probably? be ok.)

My journey will cover the last 100km of the French Way to Santiago, but rather than stop there, I will continue on another 100km to Finisterre (or Fisterra), on the coast. Finisterre, which translates to the "end of the land", is the western-most tip of continental Spain. When people started walking this route in the 900's, they knew the world was round, but didn't know of the existence of the Americas, so when they stood on this point, as far as they knew, they had reached the end of the land. I read about this, and thought, "how cool would it be to follow in those footsteps and walk to the end of the world!"

In a few weeks, I'll get to find out!

(I don't know how much I'll be able to write along the way, but I'm going to take my iPad and will do my best to post a few words and pictures most days.)

Road Trip

'Tis the season, so last week I went back up to Minnesota, one niece was having her high school graduation party, followed by another niece's wedding (conveniently scheduled for the following weekend).

There was a lot of traffic on the way up, and I found myself grumbling a bit - the freeways are supposed to be wide open, aren't they? Aren't they???? Reality check: Yes, the freeways were wide open when I started making the Kansas City to Minnesota drive, but that was forty years ago. And perhaps, just perhaps, like all the other areas of my life, I am being a bit delusional if I expect things to be as they were forty years ago.

Once I harnessed my irritation, I whiled away a good hour of the drive reflecting on the ways the scenery had and hadn't changed over the years.

The peaceful looking little white Lutheran church, with its simple spire, that has welcomed me to Minnesota on many a winter evening is still there. *whew*

Sadly, the old farmhouse that someone did a great job of painting the first two stories of, before never finishing the job by cleaning up the third story dormers, now has boards over all the windows; a visible sign of the vanishing Iowa family farm.

The quirky gas station and accompanying motel in Boondocks (not an official designation) is lonely and abandoned. Its empty sign frames are decayed and rusting, its traffic has been swallowed by the Flying J which went in on the other side of the freeway about fifteen years ago.

I've reluctantly abandoned my Ankeny coffee/food stop - the quick on-and-off access I used to enjoy has been replaced by clusters of too many cars trying to drive in too little space. Instead, I've started going to a Kum & Go about ten miles up the road, which has a decent selection of bottled caffeine and fresh sandwiches. (I still HATE the name of the chain, I find it offensive, but my boycotting the place has not seemed to make much of a dent in their overall profit structure and expansion plans. They do make a valiant effort to keep the restrooms clean, a major plus when on the road, so I've decided it is time to swallow my indignation and move on.)

My original Ford LTD station wagon, baby safely buckled in her car seat in the back, has been replaced several times over. The car seat is but a distant memory, and wouldn't fit well in the back of the Mustang anyways. Nor would the kids.

No longer, on any part of the drive, does one hit the seek button on the radio (yes, I still listen to the car radio) and have it scan the entire dial (sometimes I miss radio dials) without landing on a music station. However, the assorted preachers are still there on the bottom edge of the dial, and I occasionally still listen in for a bit. Arguing with the empty air, outlining the many ways I disagree with their message, helps to keep my mind engaged and awake.

Unlike the days of yore, when I called from pay phones or not at all (because of the expense of the long distance call), I have my cell phone charged and ready. As I drive, I can easily update those waiting for me at the end of the road, so they know when to expect me. I like that part. 

I still can't quite grasp how many years have gone by. I mean, I know the numbers, but I guess I somehow always thought I'd get older on the inside, just like I do on the outside. This inner time-warp limbo, where I'm still somehow in my early adult years while simultaneously gray-haired and retired, gets harder and harder to reconcile with reality. Probably because it's not reality-based. 

It does make for interesting conversations with myself - I have SO many more perspectives to bring to a situation these days. Perhaps reality is overrated, no?

Trust the Path

I've been taking a hodgepodge of yoga classes pretty regularly for the last year. I presume I am absorbing bits of wisdom while I twist and balance and stretch, because as we work, the teachers often say things I know are worth remembering. But there's something about the mental state I fall into during class that I leave the room with only the memory of an impression. Like the imprint of a step on wet grass, the teachings seem to disappear moments after they land. (It's a bit disconcerting, I must admit.)

But this past week, one phrase made it through my mental fugue to stick in mind. "Trust the path", she said.

I'm guessing it stuck because that's exactly what I haven't been doing much of in recent years.

When I started writing this blog, I was in the middle of a trust fall. Having reached the end of my rope, unable to hang on any longer, I'd let go. I trusted the Universe to catch me, but have to admit, I didn't really think it would. I really thought I'd crash and burn.

But I didn't.

Not on my camper van journey. Not on my cancer journey, which was a total detour from the path I wanted to be on. Not while I recovered, walked with Kate on her journey, said goodbye to two of my sisters. Not while I hopped from job to job.

Each time I stumbled, each time I came to a seemingly impassable patch of ground, Something was there to show me the way forward.

Then came retirement and Covid, and for the first time since I'd first let go, I had no sense of the path forward. I didn't want to go back to where I had branched off my known road (and couldn't have gone back even if I did want to), but could see no way ahead, so I stopped, bewildered, in my liminal space. 

Rather than blunder blindly in the mist, I sat down in my last known safe place, tucked myself into a ball, and stayed put. I didn't trust myself to move. There I stayed, neither here nor there, for what felt like an eternity. After a while, I quit even looking for the way forward; it was an exercise in futility. 

Even after I was jolted back into movement by joining Woodside (my gym), and started taking steps, I had no sense of direction. To be honest, I still don't. I can't see where the path is going, and it's scary. But I'm taking steps anyways. I am choosing to try to Trust the Path, anyways.

One step at a time.

In a Heartbeat

As we were finishing up our plans to visit Bryce Canyon, I was forcibly reminded of how life can change course in a heartbeat.

One moment, I was getting ready to make our hotel reservation in Las Vegas, the next, I was sprawled on the living room floor, having caught my foot wrong on the step into the sunken area. My bad, I was looking down at the reservation page open on my phone instead of watching where I was putting my feet. *sigh*

I got lucky. A few ginger movements of my right foot told me I'd strained some ligaments, but hadn't seriously injured my ankle. But. In two days, I'd planned to be hiking the trails in the canyon, and such trails are not possible to walk with a messed up foot. *another sigh*

It was my own stupid fault, but I didn't give up hope. Perhaps, if I was an adult and followed the prescription for maximum healing (which hasn't changed since I took health class in seventh grade), I'd be able to salvage something from the trip.

Rest - check - Good thing I wasn't planning on driving, given that it was my right foot I'd injured.
Ice - check - Kate keeps a good supply of cold packs in her freezer.
Compression - check - a quick trip to CVS bought me a good ankle wrap
Elevation - this one was a bit trickier, given the confines of the back seat of a car, but I did my best.

To my surprise, adulting and following the above guidelines worked. I limited my excursions, and stayed on the canyon's rim the first evening we arrived and for the next morning's walk. I knew I had just one shot to take the hike into the depths of the canyon, and wanted to heal up as best I could before making the attempt. 

The Force was with me, and by that fourth day, I was well enough, with the help of my hiking poles, to head down the trail. *whew!*

As I walked through the impossible beauty of the canyon, my thoughts wandered to those I know whose stories didn't end so neatly. Whose lives have been upended by similar missteps, who were tossed into a maze of pain, surgeries, pins, and limited movement for months and years (not days).

Life is fragile.

I don't think I needed the reminder that my current (mostly) carefree and healthy state will come to an end; awareness I have crested age's hill is my near-constant companion. But I got smacked with it anyways. 

Today is the only day I have. At its end, I will sleep better if I have honored its fleeting beauty. I'll try to remember that.