I woke up at six in the morning, ready to go. I was still unbelievably sore, every single muscle aching like crazy. I think it was not only because of the rigors of the walk, but also because the room had no heat and I was tightly curled up into a frozen ball all night. I slowly unfurled as my eyes opened up, and gently stretched.
Ouch! My toes were so sore that even moving them was excruciatingly painful. I crawled out of my sleeping bag to examine them once I turned the light on. Every one of my toenails was black and blue. No wonder they hurt so much. I had really bruised them.
I popped open the arnica and took two, then a third, for good measure. I then slathered myself in muscle cream, which was the only way I could get moving in the morning. Gumby sat silently watching me as I put on my long-sleeve wool shirt and two pairs of socks. Next I went upstairs to collect my long underwear, pants, and boots. Since my room had no windows, I had no idea what to expect outside. One thing I didn’t expect to see was snow coming down in heavy chunks.
My clothes! I ran to the balcony only to find my long underwear, pants, and boots completely covered in snow and still soaking wet. Grabbing them and shaking them off, I could tell this was going to be yet another challenging day.
“Why didn’t I bring two pairs of pants? I brought enough of everything else I could think of,” I lamented as I scraped off the ice. The boots were a lost cause. I didn’t see the thin woman who had greeted me the night before anywhere, but as I began to poke around the salon, I did find a blow-dryer. Yes! I could blow-dry my long underwear and pants. “Thank you, guides,” I whispered as I ran downstairs with it before anyone saw me.
It worked. After only ten minutes each, my underwear and pants were toasty dry and ready to go. The boots were another matter. I pulled out the insoles and started drying first one, then the other, then back and forth over the next 15 minutes. I didn’t actually manage to get them terribly dry, but I did warm them up a bit.
“Oh well, I’ll just wear more socks.”
I put on my two pairs of socks, which tortured my toes, and then shoved my feet into my soggy boots. Ow!
Taking a deep breath and sucking up the pain, I stood up.
“This is torture,” I cried under my breath. “What have I done to my toes?”
Pushing onward, I decided I would dedicate my day to people who suffered around the world. Here I was whining about my toes and cold, wet feet when in some places in the world, this was everyday life. I summoned the good soldier in me and stopped complaining. I then took a moment and put everything back into Cheater, and slammed him shut. How can it be that he seemed to be expanding? I didn’t buy a thing, and I even ate a fair number of the PowerBars I brought with me, and yet I could hardly get him zipped. I shoved and punched until I succeeded.
Once that was done, I dragged Cheater into the foyer. Since I still had not seen the thin woman from the night before, I took a marker I brought along with me and marked the name of the next town and hostel on a piece of paper and taped it to the top of Cheater with a Band-Aid, hoping that would be enough to get it to where I was going, which was Pamplona, the town in Spain where they run the bulls.
Opening the front door, I peeked outside and was greeted by a strong, cold wind and a blanket of snow. Breakfast, I was told the night before, was around the corner. I grabbed Pilgrim and dashed out, both hungry and not wanting to get too wet.
It was 50 feet away.
I walked into a small café where an old Spaniard stood behind the counter. Laid out were individually packaged industrial croissants and small cans of artificial orange juice. There were a few packets of butter and jam, to which I could help myself.
The Spaniard asked me if I wanted coffee.
“Café con leche, por favor,” I said, disappointed at the bleak “pilgrim’s breakfast” before me. He turned and brewed and steamed as quickly as lightning and nearly slid the café over to me before I could sit down. I grabbed it and took it over to the plastic table where I had set down my backpack and poles. The croissant was loveless and the orange juice hard to drink, but the café con leche was heavenly, made by a true maestro. I smiled at him and said, “That’s so good!” which seemed to please him. He nodded in response.
I reached into my backpack, took out one of the two PowerBars I had set aside as my day’s allocation, and slowly unwrapped it. I would eat half now with this coffee and half on the Camino. I nursed both bar and coffee very slowly, while forcing down the plastic-tasting croissant, thinking I would need the energy even if I didn’t like it.
I had a second cup of his delicious coffee before I set out, hoping its warmth would insulate me from the snow that was coming down harder than before. Moments later, fortified as well as I could be, I put back on my heavy windbreaker, gloves, hat, neck warmer, rain poncho, rain pants, and gators over my boots, a last-minute purchase at REI that I discovered in my bag this morning. I was ready.
Outside was beautiful. The snow against the trees was gorgeous, and the fog swirling on the ground made the Camino beckon as if into a magic forest. Looking around for a yellow arrow pointing in the right direction, I saw a young girl weighted down by a huge backpack, wearing plastic bags over sockless feet stuffed into snow-covered canvas tennis shoes. She looked miserable and confused.
I approached her and asked if she was okay. She assured me she was, and then shook her head at the snow.
I nodded in agreement and then pointed to her feet. “Mucho frio!” I said, wondering if she was freezing. Surely she needed some socks, but she shook her head, saying, “No. Okay.”
And so I accepted. “Buen Camino,” I wished her, as we both started heading for the bridge that would take us out of town and back to the path.
I paused. It was time to pray.
Holy Mother God, my toes hurt. Can you work a miracle and help them heal? I can barely walk. I need your help. Remind me why I am doing this because I am really feeling sorry for myself today. Thank you in advance.
Amen.
P.S. Guardian Angel, please keep me from further hurting my knee and toes today if possible. I want to enjoy myself.
As I set out, I walked quietly. I wasn’t in the mood to sing, and for the longest time, I couldn’t even think. The path continued, up, up, up, then turned and went down, down, down, and then up again. My toes were so sore I had to walk very slowly so I wouldn’t jam them any more than I had to. What was I going to do about them?
I knew there would be places along the path to get other shoes, and all I could think of, snow or rain aside, was to find some hiking shoes that had open toes, like Tevas. In fact, I daydreamed about Tevas for hours. It helped me navigate the snowy slush I was now literally wading through along the path.
Several hours into the day, I began to actually enjoy the icy cold beauty I was trudging through. I was so glad that I was warm enough. I had overheard in the café last night that a woman from Canada got lost in the Pyrenees the day after I had left St. Jean and was found dead. That was so upsetting. I wasn’t sure if it was true, but several pilgrims were animatedly talking with each other about it. I just listened. I knew the path I had just crossed over was difficult, and that they had closed it shortly after I left St. Jean for Roncesvalles. People were talking about it in the pilgrim’s office when I went to get a stamp once I had arrived there. But I had no idea it was that treacherous.
It seemed that most of the deaths on the Camino over the years had occurred on the part I had just completed. That another death occurred yesterday sent chills up my spine. Am I biting off more than I can chew? I wondered. Yet, intuitively I knew I was fine and, apart from sore muscles and toes, I was tough. I could manage this Camino no matter what was ahead … and would.
As I walked the slush got worse, as did the fog. My thoughts once again drifted to my marriage. Today I was more resigned. Maybe it is the best thing for both of us that we end now. Funny how we’ve been together for over 30 years, and at the end I wondered if our marriage had even mattered all that much to Patrick. How did that happen?
If I let myself think about it too much, I realized that I was getting angry all over again. “Really, Patrick?” I’d say, talking to his spirit. “Just like that, we are done?”
Not getting any answer from him, of course, I said, out loud, “Okay, I can accept what has happened. I can let our marriage go. In fact, I want to. Furthermore, I’m not going to hold on to anything. I’m not going to fight over anything. I’m not going to get into a battle of that nature. That is not me. I am just going to walk away, like I’m doing now.”
Saying that, I felt some relief in my aching heart.
At one point an hour or so later, I came across a particular place, by a very large tree, where it seemed the entire web of mountain rivers converged, the water intensely rushing down, clearing away everything in its path. I sat down on a rock and watched it for a long while as I fished out and ate the second half of my PowerBar.
The river talked to me. Let it all go, Sonia. Don’t hold on to a thing. Not material things. Not feelings. Not the past. Not your judgments. Not even your identity. Let it all be swept away with the river.
I must have sat there for half an hour, mesmerized by the river’s conversation with me. Not a soul passed by. Then suddenly, as if waking me out of my reverie, a group of laughing Italians approached and wanted to take pictures at my spot, so I gracefully got up and started back on my way.
I had been walking for about three and a half hours when I turned and came upon a makeshift café in the middle of nowhere, where there were at least 20 pilgrims huddled together, all drinking hot coffee and eating snacks.
I was so glad to happen upon this oasis, as I was freezing and really hungry. I approached the counter and could see they were offering some wonderful things to eat, including an egg and potato frittata for only 1 euro. I opened my little trail purse, which carried my passport, one credit card, and my money, and pulled out a five-euro note, adding a fresh café con leche to my order.
As I waited, I looked around. Everyone was soaked and weary. My attention then drifted over to the corner of a small picnic table, where I overheard a middle-aged American woman, in a panic, just realizing that she had lost her wallet, with everything important in it, somewhere between Zubiri and this stop.
She was devastated, and I could understand why. She kept saying, “I have to go back. I have no passport or money or credit cards, so I can’t go on.” She apparently was traveling alone like I was, and was clearly distraught.
Several pilgrims gathered around her, showing concern, and one man seemed to have taken over the role of getting her out of that mess. He offered to give her enough money to get back to America, if she wanted to keep on walking to Pamplona with him.
She was grateful, but wanted to retrace her steps on the trail instead in case she could find the wallet. I understood. I would have wanted to do the same.
I watched this unfold as I ate my frittata. I wasn’t sure if I should step in to help. So many people were rallying around her that she seemed overwhelmed. She just kept saying over and over, “I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it.”
Then she suddenly got up and said, “I’m going back,” without accepting a thing from anyone.
Before I could jump up and offer her money, not that I had much with me, she was gone.
Wow! That was upsetting to witness. I prayed for her and felt for her deeply, knowing how much effort I had put into getting here. It must have been awful to have to quit so soon after she began. Funny how she knew it was her destiny that this would occur.
Once she left, everyone looked at one another as if to say, “I hope you can stay in the game.”
I smiled at a talkative fellow with an accent named Clint, from Kansas City. A tall fellow, wearing a snow-covered cowboy hat with a blue bandana underneath it covering his ears, and a bright red neck scarf, with a warm Midwest manner, he was quickly making friends with everyone. I have never been like that. I am shy and tend to watch and listen. Patrick was the one who talked with others and made friends easily. I admired him for that, although I am perfectly content to be the introvert that I am.
If I were talking all the time, how could I hear my inner voice or my guides? Quiet was so necessary for me. It was perhaps more necessary than eating.
Patrick and I were opposites in that way. He was far more social, and sometimes that would stress me out. He liked to be surrounded by people and I liked to be alone.
I know I confused him as well. After all, I could stand in front of 3,000 people and have a wonderfully fun time teaching them to listen to their spirit, and I loved every minute of that. It came easily to me. But when I wasn’t teaching, I preferred to be quiet, the fewer people around me the better. Ever since I can remember I’ve always preferred to be with my family and a few close friends over a large crowd.
It’s not that I don’t like people. I love them. It’s that I feel others’ energy so deeply when I am with them that I get easily drained. I’ve always called myself a “deep-sea diver” as opposed to a “water-skier” when it comes to socializing with others. Conversations soon move to a very intimate and deep level with me and I invite that. I don’t know how to chitchat. I connect heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul. It’s the only way I know how to communicate. But connecting at that level is so intense that I need time to be alone after I share such deep connections with others.
Soon after the woman left, one by one, we all got up and started back on the trail, “Buen Caminos” shared all the way around. I made my way onward slowly. My toes and I were no longer friends. I honestly didn’t know how I was going to get to Pamplona given the shape I was in.
Thirty minutes along the path, I saw a yellow arrow pointing upward and to the right, while there was a wide concrete sidewalk to the left. I hesitated.
Should I follow the arrows, or should I follow my intuition? My intuition said to go with the sidewalk, but the arrows clearly pointed in the other direction. The only guidance I received about the Camino was to follow the arrows, so I suspended my intuition and followed.
The path soon rose above the sidewalk and narrowed into a small, muddy trench that allowed for only one foot at a time, and sucked each foot into it up to the center of my calf, filling my shoes with thick mud.
I had to use my pole to free my foot with every step, swearing like a sailor the entire time. In the meantime, waves of pilgrims were cruising along the sidewalk down below, watching me and smiling as I fumbled along.
They’ll see, I said to myself. Who knows where they’re going. At least I’m on the path.
I continued my ridiculous struggle, soaked in mud, moving at a snail’s pace, watching the people on the sidewalk stroll in the wrong direction with ease, satisfied that at least I was not wasting my time even if I was wading in mud.
Yet, a funny thing happened. My path never diverged from theirs. After 45 minutes of insane muddy struggle, my single-line gully spilled right out onto the beautifully paved sidewalk that the many misguided and very dry pilgrims who had been watching me struggle along had been walking.
Several even started laughing as I looked down at my legs, drenched from the knee down in mud. It was so absurd at that point that I had to start laughing as well.
“So much for following the rules,” I said, shaking my head in a mix of disgust and incredulity. I was the only pilgrim who somehow missed the memo that walking along the sidewalk would take me where I wanted to go, and followed the arrows instead of taking the obviously easier way.
Well, that’s certainly my Camino lesson for the day. Don’t ignore the obvious!
That was such a perfect lesson for me. How many times had I ignored my intuition only to regret it? I knew better than that. Why did I ignore it now?
I knew in my heart when it came to all of my relationships that things were going terribly wrong, and instead of walking away earlier, I had just stayed in the game hoping that with enough loyalty and intention on my part, I could right what was wrong. I couldn’t.
If anything, this internal conflict made me crazy. I still loved the people I was no longer connected to. I had loved believing in them. I trusted in the goodness of their spirits. I gave those relationships my all. Yet my intuition did tell me that giving my all was giving too much. That was my problem, and I intuitively knew it. Yet I ignored what I felt because I had been taught to stay in the game. Especially with my marriage. I said, “I do,” and that meant don’t quit, no matter what. Whose rules were those? Who said those were good rules? Yet I followed them even though I could have taken an easier path and wouldn’t have suffered so much. No wonder everything blew up in my face.
This was the great dilemma of my life. Follow the rules, or follow my rules? As a good Catholic girl I was well trained in following the rules. Looking at the muck I was now soaked up to my knees in, I decided to follow my rules from now on. In fact, to heck with all the rules!
I walked with that decision all the way to Pamplona, which was, by the way, the longest walk ever. It was difficult enough to get there, but for Pete’s sake, once I arrived I had to continue walking across the entire city to the old part of town to find my hotel. And after hours and hours of walking up and down, and up and down and up and down in the snow and rain, walking across Pamplona was mercilessly up again, and I had had it.
“Come on, Camino, give me a break! This is too Catholic! Enough suffering for one day,” I cried as I miserably shuffled closer and closer to my destination.
I could already tell that this pilgrimage was getting to the core of some of my really ancient and limiting misery-making beliefs. As I pushed forward across the city, I began to notice how my beliefs layered one over the other. Some were creatively empowering, allowing me to directly access my Higher Self, and to work with my guides and the loving energies of the Universe at my side. Others were imprisoning, set in childhood, perhaps even carried over from past lives, put upon me like chains by the nuns, the Church, my parents, keeping me small, powerless, and fearful.
What a contradiction I am, I thought, sadly shaking my head at the conflicting jumble of thoughts and beliefs running my life. I know better than to be in this mess. Why am I still so stuck and suffering like I am?
Please God, please, strip away all the beliefs I hold on to that keep me from being happily and authentically me. I am so, so ready to be done with all this old crap!
I pleaded with God to help me as I walked. I knew in my heart that what held me back were beliefs that had been hidden away in the core of my being for lifetimes, like mold in the basement or cobwebs in the attic, festering far beneath my conscious thoughts. It was time to clear the muck all the way back to the beginning.
But not all of those beliefs were crystal clear or could simply be wiped away with mental Windex and—poof!—be all gone. At least not on an emotional level. I didn’t want to feel bad. I didn’t want to be angry. I didn’t want to feel like a victim. I didn’t want to be heartbroken. Yet I was. And I didn’t want to be ashamed that I was.
And I was not only ashamed of my feelings; I was also shamed by others because of them. The nuns at school. My parents. Spiritual teachers that I had read and talked with. No one allowed feelings that weren’t pretty. They all said or implied that having these dark feelings was not okay. It’s not that I wallowed in them. If anything, I vehemently renounced, denounced, and denied them all my life as I was taught to do.
This Camino was now bringing up all these ancient and very deep wounds I had carried in my being to the surface. They were the wounds I had run away from. They were all haunting me, like ghosts. If I were to create what I truly yearned for, I would have to make peace with these ghosts. I knew it.
Looking up, I finally saw the stone gate leading into the old section of Pamplona.
Old Pamplona was exciting. It was medieval, with winding streets and open plazas that threw me back in time. The town was buzzing. Everyone was out on the street, even in the rain, drinking little coffees, eating tapas, sipping beer or wine. I hadn’t expected such a vibrant and sophisticated crowd.
I actually found it confusing after the solitude of the day, so I asked a local, well-dressed elderly gentleman to help direct me to my hotel. Seeing I was a pilgrim, he decided that he would walk me there instead of pointing me in the right direction, for which I was immensely grateful, as I didn’t understand Spanish and was too tired to wander around.
Five minutes later, I stood in front of a very cute little private hostel with the kind gentleman wishing me a “Buen Camino.”
I could barely make it up the stairs with my bruised toes, but once I did, I was overjoyed to find Cheater sitting next to the receptionist’s desk, and right next to it, an elevator!
Yea! Thank God for little miracles.
I had made it once again, and it was only 4:30. I had managed to get here in only eight hours, which seemed to be my pace.
My room was small but very comfortable. I was especially thrilled to see a large bathtub in which I could soak.
I wanted nothing more.
But first I had to spend a good deal of effort washing out my muddy pants, socks, and shoes, and blowing them dry at least a little.
Once that was accomplished, I took a very long bath.
It was 7 P.M. before I ventured out again to find some dinner. The bustling town I had entered was now completely deserted. I wondered if I had hallucinated the crowds I saw only hours earlier. Where was everybody? All the little cafés and bistros were closed up, and it was now a ghost town.
It was still raining, and it seemed like it was getting colder by the minute. I wandered into a small wine bar and asked what had happened to everybody.
The young man who worked there told me that after lunch everything closes until eight. Disappointed, as I knew I didn’t have another hour in me, I asked for a glass of red wine and some french fries, which were delicious.
As I sat I thought of Hemingway’s Pamplona and the famous running of the bulls. My Pamplona was a little different. I was running from the bullying of my own self-condemnation.
With that thought and now overcome with fatigue, I went back to my room to sleep.
I was getting into this.