Crossing the Pyrenees
The section of the Camino on our trip includes crossing the Pyrenees Mountains. After four days in France, we are to stay overnight in the border town of St Jean Pied Du Port, a common starting point for pilgrims headed all the way to Santiago de Compostela. We have a fairly easy day walking in, and arrive early enough to explore both the hiking goods shop and the old city walls. The sun is shining and a new friend and I are happy admiring the river, stopping in the church, and enjoying a sangria before dinner in this charming town.
But tonight there is a storm coming. If we follow the Route de Napoleon through the mountain pass tomorrow, we face a walk of 16 miles with a climb of about 4200 ft. to a point where there are reportedly glorious views. A repeat pilgrim we met a few days ago said he has never seen those views because of the fog, and with the forecasted storm he is frustrated that this trip will be no different. Our porter in France, who grew up locally and still climbs in the mountains, warns our guide against the high road: with the wind and the fog and the rain it will be dangerous. Still, we are disappointed when Rachael tells us that we will be taking the Route Valcarlos, the winter route, instead of the primary one. The walk directly to Roncesvalles is 1.5 miles shorter, and although we will not get higher than about 3500 ft, there is a steeper climb on this route for nearly the last 4 miles.
We are barely out of St Jean at daybreak and the rain starts. Not a soft gentle rain but a heavy, steady pour. We stop along the road to pull ponchos over our backpacks and we continue. My wrists are exposed and the rain trickles down my forearms to my elbows with every swing of the walking poles. Our walk meanders through the countryside, mostly along minor roads for this stretch, with an occasional car and numerous puddles to dodge, and some sympathetic looks from the sheep and cows that we pass.
To reach the town where we will stop for lunch, we climb a long walkway paved with concrete. A serious climb, not the rolling hills we have been traversing, and my calves tighten at the exertion. We tramp up as the runoff gushes down, spilling against our legs as it careens along the steep path. Arriving at the cafe completely drenched, the bartender brings out a clothes tree so we can hang up our ponchos and jackets. Our outerwear is dripping but hardly drying in the cool damp air blowing in through the open door, but at least it is off our bodies. As we wait for hot sandwiches and warm drinks, some of us switch into dry socks. Before we leave we share a Carrajillo, a hot coffee drink made with rum and sugar, which tastes more like a rum drink laced with coffee and sugar, a bit of extra fortification before we continue. Even splitting one between us is enough to trigger a warm buzz as we layer up. I slip on my gloves last, knowing they will not be dry for very long.
The order of the afternoon is jumbled in my head. I have a photo of Rachael holding the Carrajillo in the bar, and then a photo as I entered Roncesvalles, so many hours later at dusk. What happened between those two points is as blurry as the fog. There are stretches along two lane highways, but also some parts from scenes in a story book, like when we walked through a tiny village where we had to open a small wooden gate to follow a mortared stone path into a forest. We came upon a creek there that was overflowing its banks, beautiful in its rage and power, with the yellow leaves of the autumn woods our substitute for sunshine.
Then we are well up into the mountains, where dark gray rock towers rise out of the rust colored ground, but the clouds are too low for us to see the tower tops. There is more highway walking here, where we walk in silence in a single file. Once we turn off the road, the trail flattens for a short spell, and the soft ground is easier on our feet. But the respite doesn’t last and soon we are on another steady ascent. There were storms recently in the region and many fallen trees have not yet been cleared from the trail. We walk along a narrow path which is running along the hillside when we reach a tree blocking our way. The ground above and below the trail is so steep it is hard to get over the trunk, and one of our group slips and struggles to right herself…it would be a long tumble to the bottom and we are all relieved when she regains her footing.
The path widens and steepens as we start what must be the last four miles of climb. Where it is muddy, the ground is sticky, and where it is rocky, the ground is slippery, and where it is leaf covered it is both sticky and slippery. My legs ache from five consecutive days of walking, and from pulling up the weight of my feet, heavy from the soaked socks and mud-caked boots. Thanks to my rain gear, I am dry from my elbows to my shoulders and my chest down to mid calf, but everything else is soaked. I can hear the stream which we parallel roaring below, but we never seem to get any further away from it as we advance.
By now, the effects of lunch and the Carrillo have worn off. I am so exhausted even the bottoms of my feet hurt with every step. My core is overheated from the exertion of the climb but my hands and face are chilled from the rain. I trudge in the isolation of the poncho hood, the sounds of the rain and my steps and my breath creating a meditative rhythm. Suddenly I am aware of Ken, in tune with the suffering of his final months. Do I hear his voice? It is more that I feel his presence, as we share in the pain for a few moments. To sense him with me is an unexpected revelation, and the holiness of this encounter gives me comfort.
At some point after his diagnosis, a simple exchange developed between the two of us. It would most often happen after we had been sitting together in silence: perhaps in a doctor’s office trying to digest some new information, sometimes in a hospital room when a nurse had finally come in to answer the call for pain medication, mostly at home, when we would be facing some unwelcome task or even just rising from the couch to go to bed: one of us would look at the other and say “OK”. Like OK, we got this. OK, we can move forward. OK.
As my roommate and I try to recover from the day, we hang our wet things all over the sparsely furnished room: in the armoire, on the armoire, on the radiator and the desk chair and the head board, and on the miracle of a towel warmer, one of the only ones we see on the whole trip. We go out in the hall to hang items on that radiator when we run out of space in the room. We take turns in the shower and gratefully put on dry clothes. She looks at me and says “I think we’re in shock” as she points out I’ve been muttering “OK” every few minutes as I focus on taking care of my sodden gear and getting ready for dinner downstairs. I laugh as realize how right she is. We are spent, physically and emotionally, completely drained from the experience of the day.
As we were approaching our destination, the guides stopped for a break at a spring. My water bottle did not need refilling but I begrudgingly took out a few energy bites to chew. We were so close, and stopping felt like torture, a prolonging of our misery. Then one of our leaders asks us what we are thankful for in that moment. My brain bristles at this unwelcome interaction, but I spit out “the rain”. I am not trying to be facetious, even though part of me wants to lash out at the intrusion and the delay. I am grateful for the rain.
The rain has reminded me that no matter what our expectations are, so many factors of our lives are beyond our control. Like the sole pilgrim earlier in our journey, we can try over and over to reach a goal, and despite our best efforts, things like rain and fog are simply beyond our control. The rain has also kept me isolated from the outside world and brought me into communion with Ken, which is a rare and beautiful thing.
Mostly, walking in the rain has reminded me to move forward. Winston Churchill said “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” I can still walk, regardless of what is going on around me. I am unsure of my destination, but I can still move and experience and feel. And for that, I am grateful.