It was only two weeks before I was to leave, and I hadn’t prepared at all for the long trip ahead. What was I thinking? This was just like me. It wasn’t that I was intentionally procrastinating. It’s just that I rarely plan or prepare in advance. I prefer to act on impulse and intuition and leave the thinking and preparing part to sort itself out along they way. That always drove Patrick crazy. Rather than plan ahead, I just dive in and go for things in life, trusting all will work out in the end. And for the most part, aside from some occasional extreme stress, it has, at least for me. That made Patrick nervous because he didn’t blindly trust the Universe like I did. If anything, he was just the opposite, always preparing for the worst-case scenario, which annoyed me to no end.
Except this time, as I found my way to the REI store, with my “things to buy for the Camino” list in hand, I felt slightly annoyed at myself for having waited so long to get ready. Walking more than 500 miles across a country required a little more than good luck. I needed good boots, and it would have been better if I had broken them in first. Oh well. There was no time to do that now.
I was nevertheless optimistic. I knew I would make it because I intended to, but the effort might have been more comfortable had I picked up some boots earlier.
In fact, I thought, all I really wanted, more than anything else at this point in my life, was to be comfortable and comforted. “Funny way to seek comfort, Sonia,” I said aloud to myself. “Choosing to do one of the hardest things you can possibly think of. That’s smart of you.”
I laughed out loud. It was so like me to take on difficult things without thinking. I wondered now if maybe that wasn’t necessarily the best way to go through life after all.
“Too late now,” I said to myself out loud. “You are committed up to your earlobes on this Camino and leaving in two weeks. So I guess you’ll soon find out.”
My first stop at the store was the shoe department to buy hiking boots. It seemed like an easy enough task until I actually started trying them on. The salesman, a short, red-faced, rotund, and earnest man, was a pro boot fitter, and was not about to simply let me pick a pair that looked good and go merrily on my way. Once he heard what I was doing, he became very serious and said that it was absolutely essential to my success that I get the right boot for the trek ahead, and that I needed to take my time finding it.
“I’ve helped several people get ready for the Camino,” he said, making conversation as he set five or six pairs of boots in front of me to try on. “The last guy I helped was a priest from a parish in Evanston. He was going to walk the Camino to raise money for kids in his parish who needed school supplies and lunches.”
I was embarrassed when I heard this. How noble that he had a cause that was so much bigger than personal reasons. Suddenly, walking to heal my unhappy heart seemed silly and self-centered.
“Why are you going?” the boot fitter casually asked as he unlaced the first boot and opened it up for me to try on.
I hesitated. I didn’t really know what to say. To share that it was to recover from the end of my marriage and heal my wounded heart seemed way too personal and somewhat selfish compared to saving poor children from going hungry.
I paused. “I don’t know,” I answered, not quite truthfully. “I’m unhappy and I want to walk my way out of feeling this way, I guess. I know there’s a happier, more authentic, grounded me that I want to connect with, a me that has nothing to do with anyone else.”
“I think that’s why most people go on long hikes. It’s a good idea.”
I slipped the boot on. It felt fine. “These are good,” I said. “I’ll take them.”
“Hold on a minute,” he answered, laughing at me. “Not so fast. We have to make sure they fit and will be comfortable for the long trek ahead. You haven’t even stood up in them yet.”
Feeling out of my element, I suddenly felt the urge to simply pick a pair and move on. This was the way I generally made decisions. I was quick. Impatient. Especially when someone was focused on taking care of me. I felt uncomfortable taking the time to make sure what I needed was adequately addressed. I actually worried that I was using up too much of the boot fitter’s time and this wasn’t fair to other buyers.
While I knew this was crazy thinking, it was apparent that all the buried feelings that I had tried to override with my spiritual education and training were no longer willing to be ignored. They came flying back into my face with a vengeance and made me sweat. It took everything in me not to chastise myself for having these feelings show up.
Stop judging yourself, Sonia, I admonished myself. Take your time. And accept your feelings. Ignoring them is why you are in the mess you’re in. So relax and receive the help you’re being given.
“I like these boots. Thanks for your help. I’ll take them,” I answered, still trying to make it quick in spite of all my mental coaching.
No such luck. He was going to make sure I got the right boot for the hike, and I had no choice but to slow down and cooperate with him.
“Now stand up and see how they feel,” he said, and as I did I couldn’t help but notice how unrushed and genuinely interested in helping me he was. I took a breath and attempted to slow down and become as genuinely interested in helping myself as he was.
I did as he said. “These still feel fine.” I answered, trying to convince him.
“I’m not sold just yet,” he said, shaking his head. “Walk around for a few minutes and see how they feel.”
I agreed and walked in a fast, self-conscious circle around the store. Actually, they didn’t feel that great once I started walking. They were stiff in the front and hurt my bunions.
“How are they when you walk?” he asked.
“A little tight,” I said, “but once I break them in, they’ll be fine, I guess,” I answered.
“That’s not a good start. When are you leaving?” he asked.
“In two weeks,” I answered.
“That’s not enough time to break them in,” he said, shaking his head, “and believe me, you do not want to break them in on the trail. Let’s try another pair.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “You may be right.” He was, because the longer I had these boots on the more uncomfortable my feet felt, especially around the front of my foot, where they suddenly burned.
The next pair didn’t look as nice as the ones I had just tried on, but they felt a lot better.
“These feel much better,” I said, moving my toes. “These are far more comfortable. I’ll take these instead.”
“Hold your horses,” he said and laughed. “Getting the right boots is the key to your success, so slow down and work with me. Now, walk around and see how they feel after at least ten minutes.”
I strolled through the store this time, feeling silly as I did. I never quite saw myself as a hiker, spending far more time buying designer shoes at Neiman Marcus, so I felt like a bit of an impostor. But I liked the idea of being a true outdoorswoman, so I slowed down and gave the boots my full attention. After all, I really did want the right boots. And I was in no actual hurry. It was just my habit to be in a hurry. A very old stress-inducing habit.
As I strolled I began to think about the other things I needed to do for the trip besides buying boots and supplies. I also had to show my daughters how to pay the house bills while I was gone. Suddenly it seemed as though I had a mountain of things to do before I left and no time at all in which to do them.
I was responsible for so much. I took care of so much in my home, in my business, for my friends and daughters … and to walk away from all of that for nearly six weeks felt risky.
I knew I needed to do it in order to heal. I wanted to, and was ready to in every cell of my being. Still, walking away from so much was so out of the realm of my life as I knew it that it left me feeling vulnerable. I had to trust everyone and the Universe and myself to a degree that I hadn’t in a long time. I had to let go of control and let things unfold on their own.
Hmm. I think that’s the point of this Camino. Trust and let go. At least that’s the point for me, I thought as I looked at wool socks near the shoe section.
The salesman walked over to me. “Well?” he said, “how do these feel?”
“Actually, they feel a lot roomier,” I said. “I’ll go with these.”
“Before you do, how does the front feel, around your toes?”
“Not stiff like the others. I don’t feel any pressure there at all.”
“How about the heel? Does your heel rise when you walk?”
“A little,” I answered, “which is probably why they feel so good.”
“That’s not good,” he said, shaking his head. “If your heel is slipping around, you’ll get blisters. Here, put on another pair of socks, and see if it still slips.”
Another pair?
“Yes, it helps to wear two pairs of socks when you hike. The first pair is called a liner. It’s thinner and prevents your foot from getting rubbed raw by the boot. The second one is thicker, and you wear it over the first one. It absorbs the sweat and the shocks to the foot as you walk.”
“I see,” I said, as I took off the first sock, put on the liner, and then put the thicker wool sock back on, before slipping back into the boot.
“Does that make any difference?”
“It’s tighter,” I answered, standing up, “but comfortable.”
“Now, walk up this incline here,” he said, pointing to a small wooden ramp a few feet away. “You want to make sure that the boot still feels good when you walk uphill.”
I took a few steps up on it and said, “Yes, it feels fine.”
“Are you slipping in the boot?” he asked.
“A little. Not too much.”
“That’s not good,” he answered. “If you slide, you can bruise your toes. And that would be a disaster. Let’s try another pair.”
I surrendered. “All right. I’m open. What do you have in mind?”
“Give me a minute,” he replied, looking at all the models on display. “Okay,” he said, as though finding what he was looking for. “I’ll get another and be right back.”
He then brought out the ugliest-looking hiking boot I’ve ever seen, as if any were a fashion statement. It was black and gray, and looked big and heavy, and more like a man’s shoe than a boot, not at all “trekker-like” in my opinion. Yet once I had it on, it wasn’t heavy at all, and felt better than the other two for sure.
I did the obligatory walk around the store, and then walked up the mini-ramp and down, and still they felt pretty good. I put on the two pair of socks and repeated the process, and they still passed the test. “Okay,” I said, now sure myself, “these are it. I’ll take them.”
“What else do you need?” he asked, looking around. “Socks? Liners? Other gear?”
“I need everything,” I said, pulling out my list. “I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t done a thing to get ready, and I’m leaving in two weeks!”
“Did you just decide to do this?”
“No. I decided three months ago, but just haven’t gotten around to doing the things I need to do in order to get ready until today. I’ve been so busy, I just let time slip by. I don’t really know how it got this late.”
“Well, you aren’t the first beginner to approach a long hike like this. No worries. We’ll get you fixed up and ready to go.”
I got socks, hiking pants, hiking shirts, a rain poncho, and a white sun-blocking shirt to protect me from sunburn.
From clothing we moved on to other things I would need on the trail.
I got a water bottle, and a backpack that could carry all my stuff. I also got a tiny green sleeping bag that rolled up into nothing, and a liner for that, as well. I was getting into this.
He gave me the thumbs-up, and kept on moving.
Then he showed me a soft plastic funnel-like object and said, “You might want one of these. It comes in very handy on the trail.”
“What is that?” I asked, as he folded it back up, put it in a small pouch, and handed it to me.
“It’s a pee cone for when you need to pee,” he answered. “You don’t have to squat to pee with this thing. You just place it firmly over your privates and pee into it. It funnels it out, like a guy, and you’re on your way just as easily.”
“Huh. That’s interesting,” I said. “That’s another thing I hadn’t thought about, but I guess there are few bathrooms on the Camino, and I’ll need to go in the woods. Well, why not? I’ll take the pee cone, too.”
“PowerBars?”
“Yes.”
“Soap?”
“Yep.”
“Walking poles?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hat?
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that will keep the sun off my face,” I answered.
“This is the best,” he said and tossed me a floppy sun hat that looked like a combination French-Foreign-Legion-meets-burka hat, complete with a neck flap, which wrapped around the front of my face and that I could seal with Velcro.
It covered nearly every part of my face and neck, and was perfect. It was a little intense but then again, so was everything about this trip.
“I like it.”
Glancing around the store as if to see if there was anything else I might need before I checked out, he said, “I think you’ve got it all. Let’s have a final look at the list.”
I handed him back the now seriously crumpled-up list, not realizing that I had been holding on to it for dear life as we worked our way through the store.
Looking it over, mentally checking items off, he looked up and smiled. “I believe we’ve covered everything!”
We continued to chat as he rang up purchase after purchase, handing me a bill at the end. “That’ll be $869.42,” he said.
I gasped. “Oh my God. This is so expensive!”
He paused. “Do you want to put any of it back?”
Looking over everything I had just pulled off the shelves, all in hopes of insulating me against the rigors and discomfort of walking across an entire country alone on foot, I said, “No. I can’t—I’ll need it all.” I handed him my credit card.
Man, this was expensive! I thought, lugging my five very heavy bags to the car, throwing them into the trunk one at a time. Suddenly it occurred to me that I would have to carry everything I had just purchased.
“Arrgghh! How am I ever going to do that?” I asked myself out loud, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity and weight of what lay ahead.
“Well,” I answered, “one foot in front of the other, just like the boot guy said … that’s how.”