Soy una Peregrina
Ken and I watched The Way starring Martin Sheen about ten years ago. I was mesmerized by it: the plot, the characters, the setting. “The Way” (El Camino in Spanish) refers to the ancient pilgrimage routes across Europe which converge in Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain. St. James is purportedly buried here, so the cathedral which holds his tomb was a major pilgrimage site for Christians after Jerusalem and Rome. Intrigued by the idea of walking so far on an historic path, as the credits rolled I turned to Ken and said “I want to do that”. He shot back, “Not me. It looks hot.” Which struck me as a little strange because the movie is set in fall, and by the end of the trek, the actors are all wearing winter hats and jackets. The subject came up from time to time, including once when we were on a hiking trip in Peru, when our guide indicated his interest in walking El Camino. Ken told him to take me too, because he was completely uninterested in this excursion, and after that I didn’t give the idea much thought.
I was complaining to my therapist last Spring that I wanted to travel but wasn’t sure how to go about it without my favorite traveling companion. She sent me three links of grief-centered trips that some of her clients had done based on their own searches. One looked too spa-like, one looked like the group would fill two buses, but the third looked just right: small tours led on a Camino pilgrimage walk. I express my interest on the website and soon have a telephone call scheduled with Rachael, who runs RedMonkeyWalkingTravel.com. And shortly after that I am booked to accompany her group on a grief support trek on about a 115 mile portion of the Camino Frances through Basque country in both France and Spain. Red Monkey runs other guided trips too, but the grief support one takes place in the fall so I am in-country around the same time as the movie, when the nights are cool and the rainy days are chilly. But when the sun is out? It is hot. I don’t have much in the way of clothing changes and by the end of the first half day of walking, one of my two day outfits is completely soaked with sweat. Ken was right.
Some of the path is through woods, and when we walk through towns there can be shade from the buildings, but we are primarily walking along farm fields or pastures where there is little tall vegetation. Most of the trails are stone-based, either actual rocks or packed gravel or pavement. These materials hold the heat and reflect it back at us so even as the autumn sun drops in the sky there is little relief from the heat on a sunny day.
There are so many parallels to Ken on this trip. He loved bird watching and had a special fondness for the fishers and the hunters, including the peregrine falcon, so I was tickled to learn that peregrino is Spanish for pilgrim. During lunch one day we watch peregrines dive for prey in the heavy breeze as we rest on a hilltop near Uhart-Mixe. And on two different days we glimpse Common Cranes: one day in France as both the flyers and the walkers are headed for the low point across the Pyrenees, and then a few days later as we climb the Alto de Perdon (Hill of Forgiveness) in Spain. We hear them long before we see them: their squawking is loud even though they are thousands of feet above us. They migrate from their summer breeding grounds in northern Europe to winter in Spain, Portugal and Morocco. When medieval pilgrims crossed the Hill of Forgiveness, there was no iron sculpture commemorating the trek, no highway off in the distance, and no windmills along the ridge generating electricity. But they would have seen the cranes at this time of year, just like us.
In homage to our shared engineering background, Ken and I frequently found some bridge to inspect on many of our travels. On this trip there are many beautiful arched stone bridges as part of the ancient path. I tear up every time I cross one, because I can’t help but think of him in this setting. These strong and weathered structures of literal connection are both ties to the historical past, as well as reminders of our past together. The waters they cross stir up recollections too, as he would always be curious about what kind of fish lived in a particular body of water, and more importantly, how they were caught. He is never far from me on this walk.
When Ken and I hiked, we had a joke that all rocks hope to reach the ocean. Once in a while we would kick one to send it further down the trail and giggle that we just helped it get a little closer to its goal. There are places along the Camino where pilgrims leave stones or other small tokens, sometimes on one of the small shrines that we pass here and there, sometimes on the trail markers at nearly every intersection, sometimes on large cairns that have grown organically from years of this activity. They drop their talismans, perhaps to leave behind some memory or as a prayer for the future. I brought along a few tiny bits with the intention of leaving them: a shell Ken had on his dresser from some locale unknown to me, a Euro cent he had saved from one of our trips, and a Cape May diamond, found on the beach on our last trip to the shore as a family. Leaving these items exposed on the trail didn’t feel right, and I decided after a few days of walking that I would drop them in the water somewhere.
When we stopped to have our picnic outside of Villava, the Ultzama River was roaring after two days of heavy rain, and the five arched stone bridge crossing the river into the main square seemed like the place. After lunch I stood in the middle of the central arch, said a little prayer and tossed my mementos into the water. And right after doing this I laughed when I realized that I had just made a stone found on the beach in New Jersey start its journey to the ocean all over again. And I felt a little guilty to have waylaid it but after all, that’s what I am faced with too: starting over again when I thought I was almost done.
When I talked to friends about my plan to walk part of the Camino, I joked that given Ken’s concern about the heat, he would be glad that I was taking this trip without him. But really, he was with me the whole time: in the birds, in the bridges, in our silly inside jokes. Of course this was not nearly as good lingering over an aperitif together or sharing bites of unfamiliar foods or discussing all of the wonders one sees while traveling, so it was good to be with a group and enjoy companionship with new friends, even as I was missing him terribly. Days on the Camino were perfect for both solitary contemplation as well as friendly conversation. I think maybe one day I could’ve convinced him to go, and watching the cranes or marveling at the old stone bridges, I’m certain he would’ve agreed that in spite of the heat, this was a worthwhile journey to take.