THE INTERNAL JOURNEY: A HARVEST OF REFLECTIONS ALONG THE CAMINO
Days 1, 2, 3 - May 15, 16, 17
There's plenty of planning and training that goes into walking the Camino, which I include at the end of this website, but for now let's get rolling.
May 15: Leavin' on a Jet Plane....and a Train, or two
My iPhone is charged. The alarm set. For the flight from Tucson to Dallas my carry-on backpack (with collapsible poles tucked inside) passes through TSA security at the Tucson airport. I have a tight schedule in Paris from plane to train. So carrying on my backpack - with no baggage to claim - is an important part of making the connection. I'm looking optimistic, even though my injured foot is still hurting.
Tucson - Dallas - Paris: I have plenty of Euros, but a little voice inside tells me to get a few more (especially coins) at the Dallas airport where I change planes. I ask for coins at a money exchange. A wise decision in case some panhandler comes up to me. Or if I need to use the .50 Euro pay toilet at the Paris train station, or purchase a ticket in Bayonne, from a machine that only accepts 9.4 Euros in coins. Thank you, little voice.
I board the plane in Dallas for the nine plus hour flight to Paris. I take the sleep-aid Ambien and miss the evening meal. A fair trade off.
May 16:
Even though there is a nine-hour time difference I'm alert for the landing the next morning and disturbingly aware we are one hour late in arriving. My stomach twitches. It does that when I see the writing on the wall.
The flight attendant tells me she "thinks" I might make the train. Finding my way to the metro-subway station is not easy, but find it I do and on to the Montemare train station. No luck. I miss the train to Bordeaux by a good thirty minutes, or so. That was the whole purpose of carrying on my backpack. Oh well. I tried.
All Aboard!
I attempt to get a refund from a French agent since I missed the first train. Good luck. He has no interest in helping and says to take that up with American Airlines, since it's the American's fault I am late.
Thank Goodness I brought along the second ticket (read Chapter 29 about that fiasco), although I'm holding my breath the ticket will be valid. The TGV arrives. Also called the bullet train. It's prompt and off we go without a hitch. I don't worry about missing the train to St. Jean Pied-de-Port. The last one doesn't leave until 9:03 that evening.
The countryside out of Paris is mostly flat, like Kansas, as I noticed on a previous trip to France a few years ago. I am drowsy, but along the way I take in the sights and see creamy white, salt box style houses with detail around doors and windows. This train makes numerous stops before reaching the small station at Bayonne. It's after hours and there is no clerk around from whom I could purchase a one-way ticket to St. Jean Pied-de-Port.
Days 1, 2, 3 - May 15, 16, 17
There's plenty of planning and training that goes into walking the Camino, which I include at the end of this website, but for now let's get rolling.
May 15: Leavin' on a Jet Plane....and a Train, or two
My iPhone is charged. The alarm set. For the flight from Tucson to Dallas my carry-on backpack (with collapsible poles tucked inside) passes through TSA security at the Tucson airport. I have a tight schedule in Paris from plane to train. So carrying on my backpack - with no baggage to claim - is an important part of making the connection. I'm looking optimistic, even though my injured foot is still hurting.
Tucson - Dallas - Paris: I have plenty of Euros, but a little voice inside tells me to get a few more (especially coins) at the Dallas airport where I change planes. I ask for coins at a money exchange. A wise decision in case some panhandler comes up to me. Or if I need to use the .50 Euro pay toilet at the Paris train station, or purchase a ticket in Bayonne, from a machine that only accepts 9.4 Euros in coins. Thank you, little voice.
I board the plane in Dallas for the nine plus hour flight to Paris. I take the sleep-aid Ambien and miss the evening meal. A fair trade off.
May 16:
Even though there is a nine-hour time difference I'm alert for the landing the next morning and disturbingly aware we are one hour late in arriving. My stomach twitches. It does that when I see the writing on the wall.
The flight attendant tells me she "thinks" I might make the train. Finding my way to the metro-subway station is not easy, but find it I do and on to the Montemare train station. No luck. I miss the train to Bordeaux by a good thirty minutes, or so. That was the whole purpose of carrying on my backpack. Oh well. I tried.
All Aboard!
I attempt to get a refund from a French agent since I missed the first train. Good luck. He has no interest in helping and says to take that up with American Airlines, since it's the American's fault I am late.
Thank Goodness I brought along the second ticket (read Chapter 29 about that fiasco), although I'm holding my breath the ticket will be valid. The TGV arrives. Also called the bullet train. It's prompt and off we go without a hitch. I don't worry about missing the train to St. Jean Pied-de-Port. The last one doesn't leave until 9:03 that evening.
The countryside out of Paris is mostly flat, like Kansas, as I noticed on a previous trip to France a few years ago. I am drowsy, but along the way I take in the sights and see creamy white, salt box style houses with detail around doors and windows. This train makes numerous stops before reaching the small station at Bayonne. It's after hours and there is no clerk around from whom I could purchase a one-way ticket to St. Jean Pied-de-Port.
Luckily I’m not shy about asking for help. I find a father and daughter also waiting in the small station. The daughter figures out how to purchase a ticket from a machine. Without her help I would still be standing there until the next morning staring at the ticket dispenser with no directions. Not even in French. Turns out, on this antiquated machine, you must dial in the date of departure and the destination code. It requires coins. Euros only. No credit cards. No bills. Thank goodness I got Euro coins at the Dallas airport. Thank you little voice. Oh wait. The fun is just beginning.
Next stop: St Jean Pied-de-Port:
The train is marked Aquitaine. That's one of the 27 regions in France, along the Atlantic Ocean bordering Spain and the Pyrenees. It's a name I was not familiar with until Sam, my neighbor back home tells me of Eleanor of Aquitaine and I order the book to read after my return. I also realize when I get back home I must re-watch, The Lion in Winter.
The train takes me through the Basque country that overlaps France and Spain. The Basques have a language of their own (Euskera). It's too dark to see the steepness of the Pyrenees although coming into St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France I see lights from houses built into the hillsides. The train scheduled to arrive at 10:27 p.m. is only a few minutes late, but by now the entire town is dark. Since there are no taxis at this late hour we must walk from the train station into the village.
A quick headcount shows only six of us getting off the train. I notice one couple who look like they know which direction to walk. I hurry to tag along and ask if they have reservations for the night. No. Neither do I. Actually, albergues do not take reservations. They are fast walkers. I limp - actually drag along with my aching right foot. I don't let them out of my sight. Turns out they are a German mother and adult son from Koblenz.
After several wrong turns we party of three arrive in the village proper. The German mother spots a sign, Albergue. These shelters are also referred to as refugios and are available only to pilgrims on a first-come, first serve basis. The mother knocks loudly on the door. The hospitalera (inn-keeper) comes out and shushes us to be quiet. "Everyone is asleep. Everyplace in town is full," she tells us much like a scene in the movie, "The Way." We go to another albergue and hear the same story. Nevertheless, we walk to a third albergue where a man, who is still awake, is talking to a few pilgrims. We tell him of our dilemma and he says, “Get in the car. I think I know someone who might have space.”
Once our seat belts were fastened he remarks, “You are very trusting to get in a car with me.” I'm in the front seat and blurt the first thing that comes to my jet-lagged and addled mind, “We have to be trusting. We are pilgrims.”
Finally we arrive at an albergue some distance away. The owner/proprietor is not around. The driver, who took pity on us, opens several bedroom doors and turns on lights. Sleepy people, who will be pilgrims come morning, moan with the disturbance. After several more tries our after-midnight-angel finds one empty room. There are three single beds. One each for two weary travelers from Germany and one very weary 24-plus-hour-traveler coming all the way from Tucson, Arizona USA. A bed on which to lie my head. A small miracle.
I quickly learn the Germans boast of a hearty constitution. The window is opened to let in the chill of the mountainous brisk, night air. This is my first clue I made a serious mistake in listening to advice about bringing a paper-thin Silk Sleep Sack, instead of a regular insulated sleeping bag, in the name of saving space.
Next stop: St Jean Pied-de-Port:
The train is marked Aquitaine. That's one of the 27 regions in France, along the Atlantic Ocean bordering Spain and the Pyrenees. It's a name I was not familiar with until Sam, my neighbor back home tells me of Eleanor of Aquitaine and I order the book to read after my return. I also realize when I get back home I must re-watch, The Lion in Winter.
The train takes me through the Basque country that overlaps France and Spain. The Basques have a language of their own (Euskera). It's too dark to see the steepness of the Pyrenees although coming into St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France I see lights from houses built into the hillsides. The train scheduled to arrive at 10:27 p.m. is only a few minutes late, but by now the entire town is dark. Since there are no taxis at this late hour we must walk from the train station into the village.
A quick headcount shows only six of us getting off the train. I notice one couple who look like they know which direction to walk. I hurry to tag along and ask if they have reservations for the night. No. Neither do I. Actually, albergues do not take reservations. They are fast walkers. I limp - actually drag along with my aching right foot. I don't let them out of my sight. Turns out they are a German mother and adult son from Koblenz.
After several wrong turns we party of three arrive in the village proper. The German mother spots a sign, Albergue. These shelters are also referred to as refugios and are available only to pilgrims on a first-come, first serve basis. The mother knocks loudly on the door. The hospitalera (inn-keeper) comes out and shushes us to be quiet. "Everyone is asleep. Everyplace in town is full," she tells us much like a scene in the movie, "The Way." We go to another albergue and hear the same story. Nevertheless, we walk to a third albergue where a man, who is still awake, is talking to a few pilgrims. We tell him of our dilemma and he says, “Get in the car. I think I know someone who might have space.”
Once our seat belts were fastened he remarks, “You are very trusting to get in a car with me.” I'm in the front seat and blurt the first thing that comes to my jet-lagged and addled mind, “We have to be trusting. We are pilgrims.”
Finally we arrive at an albergue some distance away. The owner/proprietor is not around. The driver, who took pity on us, opens several bedroom doors and turns on lights. Sleepy people, who will be pilgrims come morning, moan with the disturbance. After several more tries our after-midnight-angel finds one empty room. There are three single beds. One each for two weary travelers from Germany and one very weary 24-plus-hour-traveler coming all the way from Tucson, Arizona USA. A bed on which to lie my head. A small miracle.
I quickly learn the Germans boast of a hearty constitution. The window is opened to let in the chill of the mountainous brisk, night air. This is my first clue I made a serious mistake in listening to advice about bringing a paper-thin Silk Sleep Sack, instead of a regular insulated sleeping bag, in the name of saving space.
May 17:
We awake at six to the sound of others stirring. Our party of three take turns showering, as it would have been too noisy, too disruptive the night before to the other sleepers whom we had already disturbed.
I'm in surprisingly good spirits. I dawdle behind the mother/son Germans who head to a Pandaria (bakery). I soon discover the delights of local pastries. I would have shunned these calories back home. Onto the Pilgrim’s Office, as soon as it opens, where we are encouraged to select a traditional scallop shell and tie it to our backpacks where it will stay, and sway, throughout the rest of the journey. The scallop shell is a symbol of St. James.
We awake at six to the sound of others stirring. Our party of three take turns showering, as it would have been too noisy, too disruptive the night before to the other sleepers whom we had already disturbed.
I'm in surprisingly good spirits. I dawdle behind the mother/son Germans who head to a Pandaria (bakery). I soon discover the delights of local pastries. I would have shunned these calories back home. Onto the Pilgrim’s Office, as soon as it opens, where we are encouraged to select a traditional scallop shell and tie it to our backpacks where it will stay, and sway, throughout the rest of the journey. The scallop shell is a symbol of St. James.
After I present my U.S.government-issued passport to him, he returns it along with a required Pilgrim’s Passport. This document, “Credencial del Peregrino”, allows pilgrims to stay in albergues at a minimal fee, and on occasion for only a donation, such as the one I just left. I would learn along the way that we pilgrims get more than we give at albergues along the Camino.
I part company with the Germans to find Gale, an American friend-of-a-friend, whom I met in Tucson the previous week. She suggested I spend an extra night there in St Jean Pied-de-Port, and walk with her group of four, ages 62 to 72. I was hesitant because of the added expense, since they chose to stay in cushy hotels the entire time. They also had their luggage and backpacks transported by van to their well-mapped out, pre-planned destination each afternoon. More importantly, I wasn't prepared to share my private pilgrimage experience with four other women I barely knew even though they were going only as far as Burgos. Next time perhaps.
These four American women coincidentally left Tucson the same day I did, but flew first to Madrid, then Pamplona and bused back into France at St. Jean Pied-de-Port. In retrospect, I should have considered this favored route of travel. Unlike me, they arrived refreshed and took a day off to explore the charming village of St. Jean Pied-de-Port and had a lovely meal the night prior before tackling the foreboding mountain. But I was on budgeted time. And money. Instead, my Ego chose what I thought of as the real pilgrim’s journey - staying in albergues, walking every day and carrying my backpack, even with an injured foot.
St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France to Roncesvalles, Spain:
Nevertheless, after receiving my pilgrim's passport (credential) that first morning, I strike out to find my new friend's hotel. I'm hopelessly turned around. I'm not sure where it is and any further search would cause more delays especially if I did find them and we perhaps we might have ended up chatting over more pastry and tea.
Checking the time on my watch (that the guide book suggested I leave at home) I decide I’d better get started up the mountain. Time's a-wasting. John Brierley’s book, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago suggests if you plan to make the long haul over the Pyrenees and descend into Roncesvalles before nightfall, it’s best to get an early start. I'm already late.
Clearly, I do not have my bearings in this village, but soon realize all I have to do is follow some determined-looking backpacker soul carrying walking sticks. We pilgrims are easy to spot. Within minutes I pass through the archway leading out of town and over the river Nive. I'm now officially on the Camino de Santiago with a skip of excitement in my heart. And my feet.
I'd done enough reading in advance to know to look for the ubiquitous scallop shells on blue background and yellow arrows. These are way-marking signs to designate footpaths. Signs are typically painted above eye level, although I also found them at knee-level and on occasion hidden behind tall weeds.
Usually it's difficult for me to stay in the moment. Often I'm thinking of the past. Or the future. That little voice in my head has a mind of its own and it's difficult to keep quiet. However, trying to stay in the moment I hum a few bars of what years ago I used to sing to my now 20-year old. "The bear went over the mountain ... to see what he could see."
I part company with the Germans to find Gale, an American friend-of-a-friend, whom I met in Tucson the previous week. She suggested I spend an extra night there in St Jean Pied-de-Port, and walk with her group of four, ages 62 to 72. I was hesitant because of the added expense, since they chose to stay in cushy hotels the entire time. They also had their luggage and backpacks transported by van to their well-mapped out, pre-planned destination each afternoon. More importantly, I wasn't prepared to share my private pilgrimage experience with four other women I barely knew even though they were going only as far as Burgos. Next time perhaps.
These four American women coincidentally left Tucson the same day I did, but flew first to Madrid, then Pamplona and bused back into France at St. Jean Pied-de-Port. In retrospect, I should have considered this favored route of travel. Unlike me, they arrived refreshed and took a day off to explore the charming village of St. Jean Pied-de-Port and had a lovely meal the night prior before tackling the foreboding mountain. But I was on budgeted time. And money. Instead, my Ego chose what I thought of as the real pilgrim’s journey - staying in albergues, walking every day and carrying my backpack, even with an injured foot.
St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France to Roncesvalles, Spain:
Nevertheless, after receiving my pilgrim's passport (credential) that first morning, I strike out to find my new friend's hotel. I'm hopelessly turned around. I'm not sure where it is and any further search would cause more delays especially if I did find them and we perhaps we might have ended up chatting over more pastry and tea.
Checking the time on my watch (that the guide book suggested I leave at home) I decide I’d better get started up the mountain. Time's a-wasting. John Brierley’s book, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago suggests if you plan to make the long haul over the Pyrenees and descend into Roncesvalles before nightfall, it’s best to get an early start. I'm already late.
Clearly, I do not have my bearings in this village, but soon realize all I have to do is follow some determined-looking backpacker soul carrying walking sticks. We pilgrims are easy to spot. Within minutes I pass through the archway leading out of town and over the river Nive. I'm now officially on the Camino de Santiago with a skip of excitement in my heart. And my feet.
I'd done enough reading in advance to know to look for the ubiquitous scallop shells on blue background and yellow arrows. These are way-marking signs to designate footpaths. Signs are typically painted above eye level, although I also found them at knee-level and on occasion hidden behind tall weeds.
Usually it's difficult for me to stay in the moment. Often I'm thinking of the past. Or the future. That little voice in my head has a mind of its own and it's difficult to keep quiet. However, trying to stay in the moment I hum a few bars of what years ago I used to sing to my now 20-year old. "The bear went over the mountain ... to see what he could see."
Stripped of my vast, Material-Girl possessions I'm just beginning to get in touch with my real self. It's nothing but adventure and beauty before me now. Pausing along the way I capture the first of 800+ photos. Bucolic scenes of rolling hills, valleys and leaning fence posts as the path’s elevation steadily rises higher, higher, higher. Cattle and bulls roam freely onto paths that both hikers and bicyclists share. A few more photos show a pile of rocks (cairns) with an arrow pointing toward Roncesvalles.
Occasionally I pause to catch my breath. It takes energy and concentration to talk, listen and response. As I proceed I realize this uphill climb is a metaphor for life. The downhill segments, too. Just as in life, this path will seldom be flat. It's the ups and downs that builds our spiritual muscles.
I find that I'm glad to be alone. My injured foot forces me to walk slower than normal. It only bothers me slightly when other stragglers pass me by. After six miles I pause at Albergue Orisson just long enough to even out a wrinkle in my socks and change the hiking boot insoles to ones that are more comfortable. Someone, who had the sense to make advance reservations to stay there for the night, suggests I’d best be on my way because rain is forecast for the afternoon she tells me. This is not the last I would see of Orrison.
Occasionally I pause to catch my breath. It takes energy and concentration to talk, listen and response. As I proceed I realize this uphill climb is a metaphor for life. The downhill segments, too. Just as in life, this path will seldom be flat. It's the ups and downs that builds our spiritual muscles.
I find that I'm glad to be alone. My injured foot forces me to walk slower than normal. It only bothers me slightly when other stragglers pass me by. After six miles I pause at Albergue Orisson just long enough to even out a wrinkle in my socks and change the hiking boot insoles to ones that are more comfortable. Someone, who had the sense to make advance reservations to stay there for the night, suggests I’d best be on my way because rain is forecast for the afternoon she tells me. This is not the last I would see of Orrison.
Pulling myself together I huff and puff my way upward amidst pastures while I continue taking photos. Passing me are a few bicyclists prepared for rain, which does not come.
Instead a few more miles up, and from out of nowhere, the wind gathers into a gale force. Suddenly I am fighting mother nature. I am no longer able to gain distance. I take four or five steps backward or sidewise for each step forward. It's difficult to describe the experience until months later, after I return home, I watch television with my husband as we see newscasters covering a hurricane and struggling to stand upright. Here on the mountain my efforts at photographing the pastoral beauty cease.
Ahead I notice a young college-age woman, who stops often, and it appears she is waiting for me. Perhaps she is just catching her breath. However, the way my mind is working right now, along with the mountain mist, I wonder if she is an angel there to protect and watch over me. Am I hallucinating? Is she real? This is not quite an other worldly experience. That would be too extreme. Yet this feels different and unlike anything I've experienced.
I'm back in the past and think of my late sister, Veronica. I had never seen her happier then after her mountaintop - peak experience in Colorado a month before her tragic death that was a shock to me and our family. Killed instantly in a senseless head-on collision by a car of three teenagers. Afterward, there were numerous instances of family and friends feeling her presence and a few seeing visions of her. Ten years ago, in 2002, I wrote her biography, "An Ordinary Nun." It was among one of the achievements of which I am most proud. Perhaps she is here with me to make certain I am able to chalk this journey up to another satisfying accomplishment.
I also keep my eyes on two men behind who alternate between gaining distance and falling behind with the effect of the wind. Before long it's obvious they are no longer on the path. In their wisdom they must have turned back. Or lost. Or injured. My internal antennae goes up.
Survival Mode
The effort to fight the wind is brutal. It's tiresome and I feel myself getting weak. I estimate the wind speed at least 100 km, or 62 mph and probably more. The Hebrew word for wind is the same used for God. This is a mighty powerful God the likes of which I've never encountered.
My loose-fitting, hooded rain jacket flaps in the strong wind. The brim of the sun hat I wear - to keep flying hair out of my face, eyes and mouth - is determined to whirl in as many directions at the will of the wind. My second pair of shoes, strapped to the outside of my backpack, wildly swing to-and-fro like they are boxers in a ring. My hiking poles serve no use as the wind whips them from side-to-side and out from under me. How did this happen so suddenly? I've heard of baptism-by-fire referring to a soldier's first experience under fire in battle. This is my baptism-by-wind in a battle of my own making.
I see a Basque shepherd’s hut in the far distance below and consider finding my way there for the rest of the afternoon and into the night. I'm barely alert, but enough to gather my wits and understand my thought process is severely hampered. Asking to stay the night with a lonely sheep herder. Yikes!
I'm rapidly becoming delirious from exertion. Judgment is clouded. Thinking confused. My ego alternates between determination to continue - just another 17 kilometers over the mountain top to the downhill side of the Pyrenees - versus the practicality of finding shelter and heading for safety. A silent voice reminds me that pilgrims are more seriously injured on today’s downhill stretch then throughout the entire Camino. I'm already injured, and with one more severe twinge of pain I will be unable to proceed. Throughout the lucid moments amidst my delirium I wonder about hypothermia, falling, and the likelihood of not reaching Roncesvalles by nightfall with the combination of slow speed, physical exhaustion and distorted mental condition. What if something happens to me halfway downhill? If I fell and hit my head I'd be fodder for wolves and bits of me carried away by griffon vultures.
I don't know exactly where I am, but remember some while back seeing 15 K marked on the road. I've only walked nine-plus miles in seven hours. Back home and during training I could have easily walk 22 miles in seven hours. With the elevation adjustment for the climb I still have 17 K (over ten miles to go) with no energy left and still battling this gale force wind. But I'm not ready to give up. I've come this far. I see no options.
Trudging along, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch the wind bouncing something blue in the distance in a field of weeds. Surprisingly, in my state of mind, I recognize it as a sleeping bag probably lost by some poor soul. I walk off the natural path to the right and tromp 20 yards, or so, into the overgrowth and retrieve the precious bundle. A fellow pilgrim will surely want this back on his first night as he begins his long journey. Even this early on I intuitively understand that pilgrims take care of each other. Simply a good deed. I attach the stuffed sack to the outside of my backpack. It beats and butts in the wind along with everything else behind me.
By now I'm absolutely certain the two men, who were there 45 minutes earlier, are not behind me. I read an article before leaving home warning of the dangers of hitchhiking along the Camino. The young woman continues to stop and keep on eye on me. We are the last two on the mountain. I catch up to her. I ask if she thinks it's safe to hitch-hike up here. She shrugs. This young woman, who is barely out of her teens, is beginning to have difficulties of her own. If I decide to go on she will be my only lifeline. I don't know if she has a working cell phone. I am aware that without a special European chip my iPhone will not work even for the simple dialing of #112 for general emergencies. What if something happens to both of us? Her crippling story continues when I see her the next day.
I'm distracted. A car passes. I fear I've lost my last chance to safety on this seldom-traveled road. Weeks later I learn that for a short distance GR65 parallels this part of the Camino which otherwise is just a path beaten by pilgrims.
The wind is deafening and without warning from the lower elevation two ambulances zoom past in the direction I'm headed. I wonder if one of the bicyclists I'd seen earlier has fallen. I continue to fight the wind that does not let up. A few minutes later I come around a curve to see these same ambulances blocking the trail. The young woman and I stop in our tracks.
Death on the Camino
Two paramedics are kneeling on the ground above a man whose shirt has been removed. Pads have been attached to his chest. A Defibrillator. I know enough that these are only used for life-threatening cardiac conditions. A woman stands above him. Her body language seems remarkably calm and without emotion. I feel certain the man is not someone she has known for long. Later I learn the dead man is someone she met just hours before.
A helicopter rises from the village below, climbing in altitude until it lands near the ambulances. In the foothills of Tucson where I live I know to suspect the worse when I see helicopters flying overhead to retrieve seriously stricken hikers in the Santa Catalina mountains. In our hearts the young woman and I suspect the outcome but neither can say the words. The young woman begins to cry. I pray.
All who call upon me I will answer.
I will be with them in distress.
Psalm 91:15
Death on the Camino is inevitable, but I did not expect it to be around the next corner. God rest his soul. I carry his memory during the many miles ahead. I was the only one present at the bedside when my mother died sometime around midnight 27 years ago. Her death was imminent and I felt blessed to be the one there with her when she breathed her last breath. Later I learned that others feel blessed - feel it is a privilege - to be present when someone takes that dark journey into the white light.
A second car comes along and is forced to drive off the ambulance/helicopter blocked road and slowly rolls alongside me. Oftentimes in life we plead, “Lord, I don’t know what to do. Please send me a sign." The wind should have been enough of a sign for me to turn back. The man lying dead on the road was an unmistakably huge sign. Like a neon- flashing billboard. It could not be clearer as to the direction I must take. I surrender my ego.
Pilgrims are warned not to hitch-hike. I weigh my options and flag down a young French family in the automobile in front of me. At first the woman in the passenger seat will not lower her window. She must be afraid of this crazed, wind-blown woman starring back at her. I must look like I feel. Like I'm in shock. I can’t even remember the name of the village to where I'm headed. I know a little French but right now my mind is paralyzed. They do not speak English.
The husband quickly assesses the situation and realizes this older, frazzled-looking American woman is probably harmless and just needs help. The young mother gets in the backseat with her young son. I mumble a few words, but otherwise not a word more is exchanged until I'm safely delivered back to the Albergue at Orisson where I had passed seven hours ago.
Instead a few more miles up, and from out of nowhere, the wind gathers into a gale force. Suddenly I am fighting mother nature. I am no longer able to gain distance. I take four or five steps backward or sidewise for each step forward. It's difficult to describe the experience until months later, after I return home, I watch television with my husband as we see newscasters covering a hurricane and struggling to stand upright. Here on the mountain my efforts at photographing the pastoral beauty cease.
Ahead I notice a young college-age woman, who stops often, and it appears she is waiting for me. Perhaps she is just catching her breath. However, the way my mind is working right now, along with the mountain mist, I wonder if she is an angel there to protect and watch over me. Am I hallucinating? Is she real? This is not quite an other worldly experience. That would be too extreme. Yet this feels different and unlike anything I've experienced.
I'm back in the past and think of my late sister, Veronica. I had never seen her happier then after her mountaintop - peak experience in Colorado a month before her tragic death that was a shock to me and our family. Killed instantly in a senseless head-on collision by a car of three teenagers. Afterward, there were numerous instances of family and friends feeling her presence and a few seeing visions of her. Ten years ago, in 2002, I wrote her biography, "An Ordinary Nun." It was among one of the achievements of which I am most proud. Perhaps she is here with me to make certain I am able to chalk this journey up to another satisfying accomplishment.
I also keep my eyes on two men behind who alternate between gaining distance and falling behind with the effect of the wind. Before long it's obvious they are no longer on the path. In their wisdom they must have turned back. Or lost. Or injured. My internal antennae goes up.
Survival Mode
The effort to fight the wind is brutal. It's tiresome and I feel myself getting weak. I estimate the wind speed at least 100 km, or 62 mph and probably more. The Hebrew word for wind is the same used for God. This is a mighty powerful God the likes of which I've never encountered.
My loose-fitting, hooded rain jacket flaps in the strong wind. The brim of the sun hat I wear - to keep flying hair out of my face, eyes and mouth - is determined to whirl in as many directions at the will of the wind. My second pair of shoes, strapped to the outside of my backpack, wildly swing to-and-fro like they are boxers in a ring. My hiking poles serve no use as the wind whips them from side-to-side and out from under me. How did this happen so suddenly? I've heard of baptism-by-fire referring to a soldier's first experience under fire in battle. This is my baptism-by-wind in a battle of my own making.
I see a Basque shepherd’s hut in the far distance below and consider finding my way there for the rest of the afternoon and into the night. I'm barely alert, but enough to gather my wits and understand my thought process is severely hampered. Asking to stay the night with a lonely sheep herder. Yikes!
I'm rapidly becoming delirious from exertion. Judgment is clouded. Thinking confused. My ego alternates between determination to continue - just another 17 kilometers over the mountain top to the downhill side of the Pyrenees - versus the practicality of finding shelter and heading for safety. A silent voice reminds me that pilgrims are more seriously injured on today’s downhill stretch then throughout the entire Camino. I'm already injured, and with one more severe twinge of pain I will be unable to proceed. Throughout the lucid moments amidst my delirium I wonder about hypothermia, falling, and the likelihood of not reaching Roncesvalles by nightfall with the combination of slow speed, physical exhaustion and distorted mental condition. What if something happens to me halfway downhill? If I fell and hit my head I'd be fodder for wolves and bits of me carried away by griffon vultures.
I don't know exactly where I am, but remember some while back seeing 15 K marked on the road. I've only walked nine-plus miles in seven hours. Back home and during training I could have easily walk 22 miles in seven hours. With the elevation adjustment for the climb I still have 17 K (over ten miles to go) with no energy left and still battling this gale force wind. But I'm not ready to give up. I've come this far. I see no options.
Trudging along, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch the wind bouncing something blue in the distance in a field of weeds. Surprisingly, in my state of mind, I recognize it as a sleeping bag probably lost by some poor soul. I walk off the natural path to the right and tromp 20 yards, or so, into the overgrowth and retrieve the precious bundle. A fellow pilgrim will surely want this back on his first night as he begins his long journey. Even this early on I intuitively understand that pilgrims take care of each other. Simply a good deed. I attach the stuffed sack to the outside of my backpack. It beats and butts in the wind along with everything else behind me.
By now I'm absolutely certain the two men, who were there 45 minutes earlier, are not behind me. I read an article before leaving home warning of the dangers of hitchhiking along the Camino. The young woman continues to stop and keep on eye on me. We are the last two on the mountain. I catch up to her. I ask if she thinks it's safe to hitch-hike up here. She shrugs. This young woman, who is barely out of her teens, is beginning to have difficulties of her own. If I decide to go on she will be my only lifeline. I don't know if she has a working cell phone. I am aware that without a special European chip my iPhone will not work even for the simple dialing of #112 for general emergencies. What if something happens to both of us? Her crippling story continues when I see her the next day.
I'm distracted. A car passes. I fear I've lost my last chance to safety on this seldom-traveled road. Weeks later I learn that for a short distance GR65 parallels this part of the Camino which otherwise is just a path beaten by pilgrims.
The wind is deafening and without warning from the lower elevation two ambulances zoom past in the direction I'm headed. I wonder if one of the bicyclists I'd seen earlier has fallen. I continue to fight the wind that does not let up. A few minutes later I come around a curve to see these same ambulances blocking the trail. The young woman and I stop in our tracks.
Death on the Camino
Two paramedics are kneeling on the ground above a man whose shirt has been removed. Pads have been attached to his chest. A Defibrillator. I know enough that these are only used for life-threatening cardiac conditions. A woman stands above him. Her body language seems remarkably calm and without emotion. I feel certain the man is not someone she has known for long. Later I learn the dead man is someone she met just hours before.
A helicopter rises from the village below, climbing in altitude until it lands near the ambulances. In the foothills of Tucson where I live I know to suspect the worse when I see helicopters flying overhead to retrieve seriously stricken hikers in the Santa Catalina mountains. In our hearts the young woman and I suspect the outcome but neither can say the words. The young woman begins to cry. I pray.
All who call upon me I will answer.
I will be with them in distress.
Psalm 91:15
Death on the Camino is inevitable, but I did not expect it to be around the next corner. God rest his soul. I carry his memory during the many miles ahead. I was the only one present at the bedside when my mother died sometime around midnight 27 years ago. Her death was imminent and I felt blessed to be the one there with her when she breathed her last breath. Later I learned that others feel blessed - feel it is a privilege - to be present when someone takes that dark journey into the white light.
A second car comes along and is forced to drive off the ambulance/helicopter blocked road and slowly rolls alongside me. Oftentimes in life we plead, “Lord, I don’t know what to do. Please send me a sign." The wind should have been enough of a sign for me to turn back. The man lying dead on the road was an unmistakably huge sign. Like a neon- flashing billboard. It could not be clearer as to the direction I must take. I surrender my ego.
Pilgrims are warned not to hitch-hike. I weigh my options and flag down a young French family in the automobile in front of me. At first the woman in the passenger seat will not lower her window. She must be afraid of this crazed, wind-blown woman starring back at her. I must look like I feel. Like I'm in shock. I can’t even remember the name of the village to where I'm headed. I know a little French but right now my mind is paralyzed. They do not speak English.
The husband quickly assesses the situation and realizes this older, frazzled-looking American woman is probably harmless and just needs help. The young mother gets in the backseat with her young son. I mumble a few words, but otherwise not a word more is exchanged until I'm safely delivered back to the Albergue at Orisson where I had passed seven hours ago.
Once parked at Orisson, with me still in the car, my French rescuer goes inside and learns the two American men, who were at one time behind me on the camino, turned back and are waiting inside this Albergue. Upon arriving they asked for a cab to be called to take them on to Roncesvalles.
First I get in a car with a stranger in St. Jean Pied-de-Port who helps us find an albergue. Second, I beg for a ride from the young French couple on the mountain side. Now, for the third time in less then 24 hours I get into an automobile with someone I do not know. I share the cab with these two men. Each of us paying 25 euros, which is the best $30 I spent on the entire trip. I try to pay the young family for going out of their way for me - and possibly saving my life. They will not accept money. More small miracles are accumulating.
Safely delivered to the Albergue in Roncesvalles
I learn the two men are nurses from Florida – and smart enough to know to turn back when in a state of danger. Our cab safely delivers we three humbled Americans to the Spanish side of the Pyrenees at the albergue in Roncesvalles. We show our pilgrim’s credentials and are checked in. I never see them again.
I walk a few yards outside of the albergue and pay in advance for a meal to be eaten in community that evening.
The world is a book, and those who do not travel, read only one page. - Saint Augustine.
First I get in a car with a stranger in St. Jean Pied-de-Port who helps us find an albergue. Second, I beg for a ride from the young French couple on the mountain side. Now, for the third time in less then 24 hours I get into an automobile with someone I do not know. I share the cab with these two men. Each of us paying 25 euros, which is the best $30 I spent on the entire trip. I try to pay the young family for going out of their way for me - and possibly saving my life. They will not accept money. More small miracles are accumulating.
Safely delivered to the Albergue in Roncesvalles
I learn the two men are nurses from Florida – and smart enough to know to turn back when in a state of danger. Our cab safely delivers we three humbled Americans to the Spanish side of the Pyrenees at the albergue in Roncesvalles. We show our pilgrim’s credentials and are checked in. I never see them again.
I walk a few yards outside of the albergue and pay in advance for a meal to be eaten in community that evening.
The world is a book, and those who do not travel, read only one page. - Saint Augustine.
I take a warm, comforting shower and lay on the small bed for a short nap. I still have the “found sleeping bag” in my possession. Should I return it? After last night, I realize I could use a sleeping bag such as this. I'm still not thinking clearly. After the nap I turn over the prize at Lost and Found. Then i partake in the first of many delicious Pilgrim’s meals.
At the Posada pilgrims shared a large table. First course is lentil soup. Second course is fresh-baked trout so delicious it's as if this is a Five Star restaurant within a dark, humble, stone-walled building that's been here for centuries. Before leaving home I read Hemingway’s “Sun Also Rises” and remember a character fishing for trout in streams at nearby Burguete where Hemingway stayed. Everything in Spain comes with French fries. There's also bread and dessert. Yogurt seems to be the pilgrim's dessert of choice in Spain. I prefer flan, but I eat plenty of that in the days ahead. Bottled water is offered (but not necessary because the water along the Camino is safe. ) This is the first of a bottomless supply of delicious local wine on the table to share, all for one price.
Tired, and with a full stomach, I could easily fall asleep. Instead, the pilgrim’s mass at 8 p.m., at the Iglesia de Santa Maria next door, will begin in five minutes. See photo above right. Surely, I can stay awake long enough and offer thanks at mass for my good fortune and return to safety. Following mass, con-celebrated by three priests, all pilgrims regardless of denomination, faith or no faith, are invited to approach the altar for a special Pilgrim’s Blessing. I feel I've already received my blessing with a safe delivery off the treacherous mountain, but soon learn to not turn down any blessings, prayers and help that is offered.
Upon returning to the co-ed room I overhear a man three beds away saying, “I almost converted to Catholicism tonight after my sleeping bag was turned in.” I walk over to him and identify myself as the person who found the bag. He announces he will be more careful to tie it more securely to his backpack from then on and asks where I found it.
I tell him I found the bedroll shortly before seeing the dead man on the ground. The sleeping-bag-man identifies himself as the doctor who came upon the deceased before I arrived. He, and another pilgrim/nurse, briefly attempted CPR upon the nurse's insistence. The doctor confirmed the man was dead before the ambulances arrived and left him in the care of the man's walking companion, since the doctor was walking with three others and there was nothing more he could do. The Defibrillator, used by the para-medics in the ambulances I saw, was to confirm the death. I would encounter the doctor and nurse separately on much later dates. Supernatural coincidences were beginning to accumulate.
The Celtic writer John O'Donohue says, "One of the greatest sins is the unlived life." That man lying on the ground before me, just hours ago, had lived his life to the end in his search for fullfillment. Perhaps that's what his journey was about. I never knew the deceased’s name, although the spirit in which he lived - living out his special destiny - and the way he died - would linger longer then the length of my journey.
"Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28
Tired, and with a full stomach, I could easily fall asleep. Instead, the pilgrim’s mass at 8 p.m., at the Iglesia de Santa Maria next door, will begin in five minutes. See photo above right. Surely, I can stay awake long enough and offer thanks at mass for my good fortune and return to safety. Following mass, con-celebrated by three priests, all pilgrims regardless of denomination, faith or no faith, are invited to approach the altar for a special Pilgrim’s Blessing. I feel I've already received my blessing with a safe delivery off the treacherous mountain, but soon learn to not turn down any blessings, prayers and help that is offered.
Upon returning to the co-ed room I overhear a man three beds away saying, “I almost converted to Catholicism tonight after my sleeping bag was turned in.” I walk over to him and identify myself as the person who found the bag. He announces he will be more careful to tie it more securely to his backpack from then on and asks where I found it.
I tell him I found the bedroll shortly before seeing the dead man on the ground. The sleeping-bag-man identifies himself as the doctor who came upon the deceased before I arrived. He, and another pilgrim/nurse, briefly attempted CPR upon the nurse's insistence. The doctor confirmed the man was dead before the ambulances arrived and left him in the care of the man's walking companion, since the doctor was walking with three others and there was nothing more he could do. The Defibrillator, used by the para-medics in the ambulances I saw, was to confirm the death. I would encounter the doctor and nurse separately on much later dates. Supernatural coincidences were beginning to accumulate.
The Celtic writer John O'Donohue says, "One of the greatest sins is the unlived life." That man lying on the ground before me, just hours ago, had lived his life to the end in his search for fullfillment. Perhaps that's what his journey was about. I never knew the deceased’s name, although the spirit in which he lived - living out his special destiny - and the way he died - would linger longer then the length of my journey.
"Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28