A Million Steps (2 page)

Arrival

Pilgrim Passport

At the Madrid Airport, I noticed just one other person with a backpack. On the train to Pamplona, there were two. The entire bus to Roncesvalles was full of future Camino de Santiago pilgrims. After 30 hours of travel from Boise, Idaho, I was finally with “my people” who would become the foundation for some serious camaraderie for the next 30 days. My first friend was a German organized-crime detective named Peter, who shared a taxi with me to St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France.

As we left the town of Roncesvalles, our walking destination for the next day, we saw two peregrinos (pilgrims) on the road. Cloaked in rain ponchos with strappy packs draped over their shoulders, they appeared to be spent. I wondered how my arrival in 24 hours would compare to these worn walkers.

The taxi driver shifted through turn after turn on the 45-minute ride. Nausea threatened, but I tried to stay focused on the dark patches of land. Searching for a trail in the dusk, I gazed through chestnut, birch, and hazelnut trees. The lush green slopes met the creek beds in the enclosed valleys. It was easy to feel that this was a historic, even mystical place, to begin the adventure.

At about nine o’clock at night, the taxi dropped us at a narrow bridge leading to the only major road in St. Jean. A light rain fell as we walked down the deserted street. Shutters guarded most of the windows and large metal sliding doors protected the businesses. I could not read a single sign as they were all in French.

Peter found the official start of the route: the pilgrim’s office. I had given up on all logistical thoughts and was pleased to place my trust in my companion with his red backpack and lined face. I assumed his super detective powers would skillfully navigate the final destination of my long day of travel.

With trepidation, we passed through the arched doorway. The small room was filled with four tables and four gracious people eagerly awaiting the new arrivals. Each table had two chairs for pilgrims and one chair for the host. These stations were cluttered with stamps, maps, and fresh Pilgrim Passports protected by clear plastic Ziploc bags. The smiles of our hosts created a sense of warmth, but I quickly realized with some concern that I was the only English-speaking person in the building. My comprehension ended with bonjour. My new detective friend again helped me with communications.

I had ordered my Pilgrim Passport or
Credencial
online in advance, but Peter needed to get one. I remembered receiving my credential in the mail and admiring the blank booklet. It had my name, city, state, and country. The “beginning” date was still blank. At the time, I knew this tiny accordion-style booklet would become a treasured and meaningful possession for the rest of my life. It looked so clean and untouched in my Boise home.

The Pilgrim Passport grants access to the
albergues
, or adult hostels, where one can rest for the night on the Camino. At each stop, the
hospitalero
(hostel host) places a stamp on the document. In Santiago, the passport serves as evidence of the trek, and a
Compostela
(certificate of completion) is issued to each person. To get the certificate, a person must walk a minimum of the last 100 kilometers (62 miles) or bicycle a minimum of the last 200 kilometers. The trip from St. Jean is 789 kilometers (490 miles).

Due to the late hour, the people in the pilgrim’s office became the allocators of the remaining bunk beds in town. They sent us to 21 rue d’Espange to stay at le Chemin Vers L’Etoile. This albergue was a short walk from the office.

When we arrived at the hostel, the hospitalero was flirtatiously helping three young women from France. The mood of the room was light until another young lady from Hungary arrived with tears streaming down her face. All attention turned to her until we determined that her tears, running over freckles and framed by red dreadlocks, came from a joyous place. She was emotional about being at the start of the Camino.

The hospitalero advised our small group of pilgrims with broken English. “This ’ees your trip, your life, your adventure,” he said. “Do not make the trip for anyone else. Make ’eet for yourself. If you walk with a new friend and they walk too fast, say goodbye. Let them go. This is your trip. Your Camino is for you.”

It seemed a bit selfish but sure made sense a few days into the pilgrimage.

When it was our turn to “check in” for the first night of sleep, I gave the hospitalero my credential. He smashed it with his handheld stamp tool, which left a green imprint of a scallop shell, le Chemin Vers L’Etoile, and St. Jean Pied-de-Port. My first stamp was thrilling and gave me a feeling of validation. My remittance of 15 Euros made this the most expensive albergue of the entire trip, but it did include breakfast.

Our host took us up two flights of squeaky stairs, through a hall, and into my first group sleeping quarters. Six sets of bunks, for a total of 12 beds, huddled in a room about the same size as my bedroom at home. The windows opened to a view of the dimly lit cobblestone street below. A slight rain fell as I unpacked my backpack and put my yellow Kelty sleeping bag on the bottom bunk.

Peter and I took a short stroll through town, stopped for a coffee and beer, and returned to 21 rue. After resting very little on the three planes, one train, three subways, two buses, and one taxi that had brought me here, I found no problem sleeping in a room full of snoring strangers.

Day 1

Crossing the Pyrenees

I awoke at 5:30 with lots of energy and anticipation for my premiere day of walking on the Camino. I had no trouble settling upon my first outfit as there was not much from which to choose. I selected my aqua-blue, short-sleeve, moisture-wicking shirt, Moreno wool socks, Kuhl hiking shorts, Patagonia Drifter A/C hiking shoes, and my trusty Tilley Airflo hat. The ensemble fit well on my 6’5” body, and the hat did well to cover my bald head.

After carefully filling my backpack, I went down the noisy stairs to experience my first group breakfast. The room buzzed with many different languages, spoken by people from France, Germany, Hungary, Brazil, and the UK. Loaves of bread, butter, and two types of jam sat on two long tables. We drank rich, black coffee from large, clear bowls without a handle. It was a very calm meal, but I kept wondering what was going through all of our minds. After years, months, or days of planning, ground zero was in our faces. Bags were packed, nutrition consumed, and it was time to walk almost 500 miles to Santiago de Compostela.

Prior to leaving the hostel, Peter gave me my first of many gifts on the Camino. He reached into his backpack and pulled out two scallop shells wrapped in white tissue paper. These shells are a symbol for the walk. At the base of the shell, all the grooves merge into one location, representing the multiple pilgrim routes that become one at the cathedral in Santiago. Each groove on his shell held an autograph by a significant person in his life. The one he gave me was untouched. We both tied them to our packs. At the time, I did not realize the significance of this gift. To date, it is one of my most prized possessions.

This first day on the Camino is notoriously difficult. The trail from St. Jean leads to Roncesvalles. The initial 10 miles are in France with the remaining six in Spain. I chose the Route de Napoleon, which sports an accrued ascent of almost 5,000 vertical feet through the French Pyrenees mountains.

I was completely hooked with the first step. I climbed the consistently steep trail for five hours to the summit at Col de Lepoeder. The sun shone, with intermittent clouds streaming above and below my vantage points. In the valleys, the mountain peaks looked like jagged islands poking through a sea of giant cotton balls.

Thousands of sheep grazed in the green hills, their bells clanging on air currents all around me. Multiple pairs of griffon vultures, with their white heads and eight-foot wingspans, soared overhead. I felt completely honored to watch them ride the thermals with so little effort. Several times, I found myself sitting on a rock, mesmerized by their flight patterns.

Throughout the day, I met people from Korea, Switzerland, France, Hungary, Germany, Poland, the USA, and Canada. Near the summit, the proprietor of a snack-and-beverage truck kept track of people and their country of origin on a large white board. He had placed perhaps 200 red grease marks next to at least 25 countries.

My primary companions were Peter, my German taxi companion from the night before, and Mikoli, a 19-year-old student from Poland. With a high degree of confidence, Mikoli exclaimed “anything is possible in this life.” I was intrigued by his youthful optimism and wisdom and asked him to share more of his thoughts. With a big smile on his face, he explained that he had a lifelong fantasy of being able to see Pearl Jam perform a live concert. Six months prior to walking the Camino, the band made a stop in his hometown of Warsaw. He lived the dream from the ninth row as they rocked for three hours. In a matter-of-fact tone, he explained that by accomplishing this goal, he became confident that anything was possible in his life! His enthusiasm was contagious.

The entire walk on the first day consumed eight hours and cremated many calories. It was a gratifying and mystical day. Seeing, hearing, and feeling nature created dramatic highs. I felt connected to the earth. My mind was pretty tame during the day but did wander into some touchy areas of my life. Most of these thoughts focused on my dad and my girlfriend Roberta.

Doubt made its debut and I wondered, “What am I doing here? Today was pure magic, but can I actually do this, day in and day out, for 490 miles?”

I did realize that the first portion of the trip is very similar to the day we enter the world as an infant. I was completely dependent on other people for just about everything. I had no knowledge or experience about where to go, what to eat, where to stay, or how to speak Spanish, and no details about the upcoming terrain. Nothing was familiar and I was alone, waiting for and wanting help from strangers.

Arriving in Roncesvalles was a great moment. After a long descent, I crossed a small creek that led to a dramatic bronze sculpture of a man with shield and sword, lying next to his horse, downed by battle and dying. The sign read “La Muerte De Roldan dated 15-8-778.” I realized that more than a thousand years ago a man named Roldan perished in an attempt to protect the French frontier. Standing at the base of the sculpture, awe-struck by the sight, I knew that I was no longer in Idaho.