I can’t believe I’m heading back to REI, I thought, as I got back in the car to buy the second backpack. Once I purchased my medium-sized backpack, I drifted back over to the shoe department. I had read a blog on the Camino the night before that said hiking boots were completely unnecessary, and that lightweight Merrell walking shoes were more than enough. The writer made it seem as though the Camino was literally a walk in the park (albeit a long one) and suggested that anyone trying to tell you otherwise was exaggerating to no end, and a whiner. Just as I picked up a pair of the shoes in question, a young salesman approached me and said, “Those are really comfortable. Want to try them on?”
“So I’ve heard.” I answered. “Are they good for long hikes?”
“They can be. Depends on where you’ll be hiking.”
“I’ll be hiking across Spain. I read that shoes like this were more than enough for the trail I’ll be on.”
“Well, then you should get a pair,” he said, clearly having a different attitude than that of my first boot salesman.
“Okay,” I said, reverting back to my spontaneous way of deciding things. “I’ll take a pair.”
Once paid for, into the second backpack they went.
Back home, I pulled everything out of the dead-body backpack and started repacking.
I had to decide what would go into my “I’ll carry it myself pilgrim’s backpack” and what would go into my “let someone else carry it cheater bag.”
Just then my daughter Sonia came in and asked, “Do you have long underwear?”
“No,” I answered. “I don’t think I’ll need them. It’s almost June.”
“Take these anyway, just in case,” she said handing me a pair. “They’re mine. Better safe than sorry.”
Next, Debra walked in, with pepper spray ( yes! ) and some information from the Internet on what to do if wild dogs surround you.
I took the spray and ignored the papers.
“What else?” I asked myself out loud as Debra and Sonia looked on.
“Did you pack a coat or a windbreaker?” Debra asked.
“No, not really. I have a very lightweight jacket. I don’t think I’ll need a coat.”
“I’m not so sure that’s all you’ll need. Better take my coat. You never know. You might need it while walking over the mountains,” she said.
“Did you pack a warm hat and gloves?” Sonia asked.
“No, I packed a sun hat and a bandana, but not a warm hat.”
“Take these, then,” she said, handing over a cashmere stocking cap and gloves that a friend had sent me a month earlier to take on the Camino and that I had forgotten to pack.
Glancing around my bedroom, I asked again, out loud, “Anything else?”
Considering the ridiculous mountain of stuff I was taking, all I could see that was left to pack was my bedroom dresser. But then my eyes drifted to my totem, Gumby, sitting on my personal altar, the silly, smiley-faced, rubbery green toy from my childhood.
“Gumby!” I cried. “I have to take you!” I’ve had Gumby with me ever since I was around ten years old. He was small and silly but always cheered me up and made me laugh. In a way, he represented my alter ego, my inner child, my conscience, and my Higher Self, all rolled into one. He had to go.
“I’ll take my pillow, too. Why not?”
Pulling up the final zipper, my daughter asked me, “Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?”
“I think so. I’m as ready as I can be, but I’m sure I’ll think of 20 more things to pack before I actually walk out the door on Monday. Just stop me before I become ridiculously weighted down. I’m supposed to be walking this pilgrimage to lighten my load, and so far, I’m not doing very well.”