Hiking the Camino

It’s been a few short weeks since we returned to California. The hummingbirds are still where we left them--at their feeders. The red-tailed hawks are soaring above the hill behind our house, doing what hawks do best. Everything is as we left it.

Yet, something was amiss—we had just returned from an epic journey, a pilgrimage, but could not put my arms around what had just happened; I struggled to comprehend what my wife and I had just accomplished. 

We had traversed 500 miles of France and Spain in 31 days, starting in the snow-capped Pyrenees and finishing at the cathedral of Santiago (Saint James) de Compostela in Galicia, the Celtic region of Spain. Our inert bodies were confused and clamored for an objective--to continue walking, to move forward--to reach the next village or city. 

I first heard about the ‘Camino’ or ‘Way of St. James’ in 1969 when reading James Michener’s iconic book about Spain, “Iberia.”   It is in Santiago de Compostela where the remains of Saint James are said to lie.  History and legend have it that St. James, the apostle, made his way to this Roman province in Spain to preach after Christ was crucified.  When St. James returned to Jerusalem, he was martyred and his remains floated in a marble coffin to Galicia where they were discovered by a shepherd.  The site was venerated and a church and sepulcher built. After a miraculous victory over the occupying Moors in 844 AD, the Spanish king ordered that a pilgrimage be made to the shrine of St. James. Over the centuries, this route, the “Camino” became a highway for the passage of people, goods, and culture.

Later, I discovered that in 2000 Shirley MacLaine, the actress, had written a book about her Camino experience. And, in 2012, Martin Sheen appeared in the movie “The Way” directed by his son, Emilio Estevez.  During a volunteer mission to Mexico, Martin told us that the movie was his ‘labor of love’ and urged us to go.  In our early 60s, with creeping arthritis of the knees, we decided to heed the call.

On a foggy spring morning in early May, we took our first steps through the clocktower arch in the Basque village of Saint Jean Pied de Port and began the pilgrimage.  

Almost immediately, we began to detach ourselves from the real world. Our priorities changed as quickly as the Navarran landscape and medieval villages passing by.  How far could we travel in a day?  Would there be a bed waiting for us? Where would we rest along the way and how often?  What would we eat to sustain our bodies as we traveled up and over hills, mountains and monotonous plains?  What would we need to protect ourselves from the elements—from the sun and the fickle Galician weather awaiting us in the later stages?

On the Camino, there was little or no talk about politics.  Politics seemed almost trivial in this setting.  In fact, its absence was refreshing.

My Spanish and familiarity with Spain over forty years added another dimension to the journey, a heightened sensitivity to our accommodating hosts and the ability to learn what they were thinking as well as understanding what the Camino meant to them.  I was grateful to be asked by Spanish clergy during several pilgrim services to translate Spanish to English for our fellow pilgrims. To look into the faces of our fellow pilgrims—Finns, Irish, Africans, Asians, Germans, French and Russians—and convey in English the words of peace and a pilgrim’s blessing was deeply moving…something I will never forget. 

The Iberian landscape was breathtaking and the churches and cathedrals astounded. But it was the people along the way--the pilgrims and non-pilgrims who were “Our Camino” and inspired us every day:

Russell and Lori, a blind couple from Minnesota, were perhaps one of, if not the most, inspiring people we encountered on the Camino. We met them after the city of Burgos where they introduced themselves as “turtles.”  We spent the better part of a day together and were astounded by their energy and love of the outdoors.

Francisco, the 89-year-old Basque cyclist, appeared at a convent hostel, his uniform and helmet covered in grime and his bicycle broken…but not his spirit. Fighting off a flu, he vowed to complete his seventh and perhaps final Camino.  “Call me Frank,” he smiled.  “I used to live in Brooklyn.”

Karla, the 66-year-old Dutch woman, told us that she had dreamed about the Camino several times before sharing the dreams with her husband and sons.  They surprised her saying that it was a sign that she had to walk the Camino.  Traveling alone, she found the Camino ‘liberating.’ 

And we could never forget the Galician woman standing by the side of the road, her enthusiasm undampened by the rain. She pressed her cakes with a dash of homemade honey into our hands asking for nothing in return.  

On this, the Jacobean Route, there was a spirit of community that connected everyone.  If I could help a fellow pilgrim with translation, I was only too happy; if my wife, a nurse, could tend to the blisters of a young Japanese woman or the swollen knee of a Boston College student, she did so dutifully.  If a woman traveling alone requested to walk with us for company, we readily accepted.  It became clear to us that the camaraderie on the Camino transcended race, religion and age.  

This kindness, this empathy was easily reciprocated. I can still see Julia, a young Danish woman (a stewardess in the real world) rummaging through her backpack to find a brace for my ailing knee and volunteering it with a sweet smile and genuine concern (she later found us on LinkedIn and messaged to find out how we were doing).  

Along the way, we were witness to the great Pyrenees, the magnificent vineyards of the Rioja, the Spanish plains of Palencia, the rushing rivers and verdant splendor of Galicia, shepherds with their flocks, and storks in church belfries.

After 500 miles and 31 days, the end was in sight. We had now been walking in the city of Santiago walking for almost an hour before the cathedral spires appeared above the rooftops.  It was my wife who first saw them.  So many thoughts came to mind--so many miles, so much had happened in one month. The excitement of concluding the journey energized us and, in the company of several Boston college students and some new Spanish friends, we entered the rain drenched Plaza de Orbradoiro and thanked God for delivering us safely to the tomb of St. James.   The feeling of relief, joy and satisfaction that we felt staring up at the rain-stained cathedral must have been similar to what the medieval pilgrims experienced.  

I never did find divine inspiration or discover the "inner me" on the Camino.  I didn't lose weight (the contrary--thanks to a never-ending supply of custard flan on the Pilgrims Menu) or find love (I already had that).  

Our Camino was the people along the way—each had a unique story to tell, a deeply personal reason, or not, for walking to Compostela, something that compelled them either spiritually or for some other reason to endure the blisters, bad knees, rain and fatigue.

If we learned anything, it was that the Camino, like life, was a personal journey. Except that this journey was meant to reflect upon the other world, breathe in the air and wait in joyous expectation for what might be around the corner...it all seemed rather simple.