Lost on the Camino
Another washout is forecast for our last day of walking on the Camino, which seemed like an unfair way to end our journey given the downpours we had already weathered. Indeed, the final stretch started out like those other two days, with rain as soon as we left our cozy hotel. When we stop for a coffee break in late morning, the bar is crowded with pilgrims whose bodies fill the space with a steamy warmth. The television is showing the devastation in Valencia. We are getting the tail end of that storm and the victims of the resultant flooding are on my mind as I head back out into the rain.
It is not far to the next village, but my feet are already in need of a break as I splash through the water on the cobbled streets. I am relieved to see a pharmacy in one of the stone buildings and shake off my wet poncho before I enter. The proprietor has a well-stocked display of Compeed blister pads and I purchase two sizes, chattering a bit in Spanish to lengthen my time in shelter. Back outside, after a short climb I am relieved to find that there is an arched gallery around the main square. Here I sit protected from the weather on a stone bench and reapply fresh pads to my sore feet. There are giant blisters on both of my inner heels, and hot spots on the top of both feet. It is dark under roof, even at noon, but I finish my doctoring and exchange greetings and welfare checks with some of our party as they pass by.
The guides catch up to me just outside of the village as we are about to cross a Roman era bridge, now suitable only for foot traffic. After a bit of cheery conversation, we break up again on the long climb after the bridge. The storm is unrelenting as I traverse the countryside and I am near my breaking point as I enter the next hamlet: I need to be out of the rain. One of the first buildings I see has a high portico which is only partial protection from the downpour, but I huddle here hoping the owners will understand my desperation. I take off my backpack and take in a few deep breaths. As my heart rate slows, I come to peace with the misery of it all. My wet feet, my cold hands, my heavy legs. None of it matters. I am thankful to be here, to be walking, to have time for meditation and reflection. There is a tiny market just a few dozen steps away, and I pull up my pack and continue on to regroup with the others. There is no hot coffee here, just cold drinks, so I choose a bag of nuts and gobble them down for lunch. As I am putting my poncho back on, one of the guides is surprised I am ready so soon. “I think I’ve reached Nirvana” I tell him, “I need to keep moving”. He grins in recognition of the feeling.
And I walk. The rain is everywhere, my feet ache and my bones are chilled. But I walk. I dodge puddles as a natural reflex and am awed by the flooding all around me. I think about the next phase of my journey, starting in a day, when I will be alone in a foreign country. My apprehension about flying solo has morphed into fear. While it is difficult to do many things alone after being part of a couple for so long, I am not without resources or grit. Why am I so scared? Deep in these musings, my eyes are cast down on the saturated gravel when I notice a piece of blue slag glass. We have many pieces similar to this at home, after Ken took our kids on a hike that passed an abandoned glass factory years ago. I pick it up and look around, there is nothing else like it nearby. I carry it, amazed that something so reminiscent of Ken is here in my path. While the forecast is for steady rain through 6 pm, about an hour after the minimart, the rain stops. And the sky starts to clear. In another half hour, the brilliant after-storm sun is shining down on me.
I stop at a literal sports bar in Villatuerta, where there are indoor courts and outdoor fields for various athletics, to use the bathroom. I need to buy something in exchange for the pit stop and as it is late in the day for coffee, I order a small beer. I rarely drink beer, and haven’t had one since Ken died. It tastes delicious. I text our leader to tell her that I made it to the bar and then I sit on a bench outside in the warm sun to switch out my blister pads for the last time.
The Camino can be confusing to navigate through towns, and I am not sure that I am following the correct path as I continue. I reach a guidepost marked with bicycles showing “Estella 2.7 kilometers”. Sometimes there are alternate routes for cyclists to avoid conflicts with walking pilgrims, and I turn and see behind me one of the familiar small monuments which have been marking the trail. I figure this must be the walking route to our destination and I turn off the pavement. I am not long on the path before I cross a river that is swollen from the storm and I decide to leave the blue glass behind. I take it from my pocket and hold it next to my heart, and as silly as it seems, try to imbue all of my fear into the fragment. I say a little prayer and throw my fear into the river.
The path starts to climb again, but I am walking briskly, energized by the sun and the beer and Nirvana. It strikes me as odd that I see no footprints in the wet earth since I know there are people in front of me, but the occasional Camino marker assures me I am on track. To lighten my load, I throw the last of the group lunch apples to some horses I pass. I can see the town far below me and wonder when the path will turn. I cross a few roads that dead end near the trail and wonder if I should follow any of them downhill toward civilization, but the markers compel me uphill. An alarmingly narrow path turns from the road into a field and a dog barks his warning but I continue. Soon the path widens and there is a monument so I feel a little more confident, but that feeling is short-lived because now I am in the woods, and dusk is approaching. I am getting further from town as the lonely woods get darker. Apparently I didn’t throw all of my fear away because now I am scared.
I turn on my phone to figure out where I am. There is a text from Rachael “Cathy! looking for you”. Everyone has reached Estella and is wondering how I missed it. I map out a route to the hotel and realize that I am still 4 km away from a place that hours ago was less than 3 km away. I start retracing my steps and text her my location. When I reach a paved road, I turn down the hill. The thought of walking for another 40 minutes in the dark is demoralizing. I don’t want drain the rest of the already low battery but I can’t afford to get lost either. I switch the phone on and off as I advance, checking frequently to make sure I am headed in the right direction.
Rachael tells me she is getting in a taxi and will come and get me. Finally on the edge of suburbia, I reach a park bench and sit under a streetlamp. I am chilled but I need to stay still so they can find me. And then in the twilight they are there, my leader and the taxi driver, rescuing me from my foolishness. Why didn’t I check the map earlier when it was clear I had been walking for longer than what would be required? As it turns out, back at that guidepost, a seldom-used historical part of the Camino diverts around Estella, and this is the route I was following. I was never going to get to the hotel if I stayed on this path. The guides have told us that getting lost on the Camino is a right of passage for pilgrims. After all, are there any of us who get through life without even one misstep? Still, I chasten myself for causing worry and delay to the others and am embarrassed when the hostel owner refers to me as “The Lost”.
As much as I enjoy solitude, walking the Camino, grieving, living: it is good to share these things with others. Sometimes it is hard to push myself out of my seclusion, after all, it feels safer to be alone and not risk the uncertainty of being out in the world without Ken. But staying isolated creates other kinds of suffering and life is never risk-free, no matter how hard we try to shield ourselves from it. Notwithstanding my experience with Rachael and the taxi, no one is coming to rescue me from the loneliness of widowhood. I continue to learn how to move forward, balancing my need for community with the quiet I crave for healing, knowing that help is out there when I have lost my way so there is no reason to let fear be my guide.