Not Exactly Everest

So I started the Camino Saturday 3/31. I’ve walked about 115 miles so far, and am feeling great. Already I feel like I’m in the Camino time warp — not really sure what day it is, or where I slept last night. The time just flies! Hard to believe I’ve been walking eight days. 

But let me start at the beginning....

The Adventure Begins 

My original flight to Barcelona Mon. 3/26 was cancelled, so I left the next evening, Tues. 3/27. After two days of planes, taxis, trains, and buses, I finally arrived by bus from Pamplona, Spain, to my Camino starting point of St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France, around 7pm Thurs., 3/29. I hoisted my 13-lb. pack onto my back and glanced around the cobblestone streets. Several other fresh-off-the-bus pilgrims stood warily about, none of us sure which direction to go. There was a sort of “first day in the freshman dorm” nervous excitement on everyone’s faces.

St. Jean is a small, charming hill town on the French side of the Pyrenees. The setting sun lit the clouds and sent shadows slanting across the medieval buildings as we all made the trek into the center of town, across an ancient stone bridge, and up a steep hill. Stunningly beautiful. I found a cheap, clean hostel & settled in for the night. I planned to spend 2 nights in St. Jean, just to get myself on European time before my first day on the Camino. 

Friday 3/30, after an amazing mushroom omelette for breakfast (cooked by a surly French woman at a tiny corner cafe), I explored the town. The highlight was a nice hike up several flights of steep, ancient, stone steps to  the top of the Citadel, a 12th century fortress which afforded a spectacular view of the town and surrounding countryside, as well as the Pyrenees, where my Camino would begin the next day:

I found a small market on the main street and for 3€ made myself a simple dinner of a giant, sweet, red bell pepper and a potato cooked in the microwave at the hostel, slathered with the most amazing local Basque cheese made from sheep’s milk. Delicious! 

There are two Camino routes from St. Jean to the next stop in Roncesvalles, Spain. Both routes wind their way approximately 18 miles over the Pyrenees and are notoriously challenging — the most difficult stage of the entire Camino —  which is why I skipped this section last year. The higher and more difficult route, the Route de Napoleon, reaches an elevation of 1400 meters (4600’), and is usually closed until mid-April due to snow blocking the trail. The lower route, the Route de Valcarlos, while less difficult at a maximum elevation of about 1000 meters (3280’), is still very challenging for a novice hiker like me due to the relatively rapid elevation gain. I’d be starting at an elevation of about 600 meters (1968’) in St. Jean. 

This altitude map shows both routes, in meters. I took the lower (Valcarlos) route. 

Adding to the challenge was the weather forecast: Rain, and a high of 45F. I wasn’t worried about the weather or the trail conditions, as I knew from last year that the Camino is well-maintained, and I’d heard that much of the Valcarlos route is on the roadway. But I was a bit worried about the vertical ascent. I am notoriously slow on the uphills. I sometimes struggle with feeling inferior because of my slowness, as people pass me all the time going uphill, but I do respect that everyone has their own pace, and mine just happens to be pretty sluggish on an incline.

I went to bed early in anticipation of the big day, the start of my Camino.

Saturday, March 31. I woke up at 3:30am. After lying awake for two hours, I surrendered and got up at 5:30am, too keyed up to sleep anymore. 

There were about a dozen people eating breakfast in the hostel kitchen, but it was completely silent except for the rustling bags & the clink of china as we ate our meager breakfast (included in the 10€ hostel price - instant coffee/tea, bread, butter, and jam). I supplemented mine with fruit I’d bought at the market. I knew from experience that later on the Camino these communal breakfasts would be a lot more vocal, but these were first-day freshmen! 

I was really nervous about the challenging day ahead. I knew what to expect from the rest of the Camino, but this trek over the Pyrenees was new turf. Needing a pep talk, I reached out to my son Ben in China, where it was 6 hours ahead. We had a quick but satisfying text exchange. “You got this, Mom,” Ben texted. I felt better. 

I set off in the rain around 8am, layered for warmth and protected from the wet weather. As I made my way through town and into the foothills, passing charming farmhouses and rolling fields, the rain fell steadily and then turned to hail. This continued off and on all day. The sun made a few capricious cameos, lighting the bright green hills and sparkling on wet grass and trees. But I could see snow dusting the higher hills and wondered how far up I’d be going that day. I had no idea what I was in for!

I was warm and dry, and so happy to be on the Camino at last. The morning’s anxiety slowly morphed into euphoria as I drank in the beautiful French countryside and fresh, clean rain-soaked air, feeling strong and confident, and did I mention, so happy to be back on the Camino?

I took my time, pausing to take lots of pictures. As I moved farther up into the hills, the fresh smell of farmland and sheep grew stronger, and I saw all kinds of birds I could not identify flying about, including some kind of split-tail hawk. It was a lovely passage for many hours, pausing briefly to chat with other pilgrims as we passed each other. 

Within a few hours, I crossed the border between Spain and France, marked by nothing more auspicious than a petrol station and an aging little strip mall. There’s not even a sign, I only knew it was the border because I’d read about it in the guidebook. Around mid-day I made the small village of Valcarlos, the last town with services before my destination, Roncesvalles. I paused to rest and eat some crackers with more of that amazing Basque cheese, sitting on a bench overlooking the valley in the snow-dusted hills beyond, during a brief sun break. Very quickly the rain began again, so I packed up my picnic and soldiered on.

The way passed more beautiful farmland and forest, slowly getting steeper. I shared an apple with two tiny ponies by the roadside.

The road kept climbing, and soon I could see small clumps of snow between the bases of the trees, then as I ascended higher, the snow was piled scantily along the sides of the trail. It was beautiful. Tired, I paused again for another snack around 2:30, estimating I was only about an hour or so from the hostel. 

Some people wisely break the 18 mile stretch between St. Jean and Roncesvalles with an overnight in the tiny town of Valcarlos. I chose to make the 18-mile trek in one day. I knew it would be challenging, but I’ve been training for months in the San Francisco hills and I figured I was good to go. All went well till late in the day. I had perused the altitude map for the day and read the trail notes in my guidebook, but I hadn’t paid very close attention to the end stage — the steepest ascent on the Valcarlos route, where the trail goes from 1300’ to 3200’ feet in 3.75 miles. It just so happened that on the day I walked, this difficult final stretch coincided with a spring snowstorm!

The trail kept winding up and up, and seemed steeper all the time, much to my chagrin. I was getting very tired, as I’d already been hiking for about six hours. The rain and hail started up again, but now turned to snow. It was soft and quiet and lovely, as I’ve always imagined snowfall would be. (Californians typically get a little giddy about snow, since we only get to see it if we go skiing). Hiking this steep trail alone in a foreign country in the falling snow, which was starting to obliterate the trail, was another matter entirely. The snow’s charm quickly wore off. However, I could still see the muddy, now snow-filled, footprints of my fellow pilgrims, so I was comforted. Weirdly, there were no way markers here, but the trail depression was pretty pronounced. Still, I hadn’t seen another pilgrim in about 2 hours. I felt the first twinge of anxiety.  

After seven hours on the trail, I assumed I was fairly close to the hostel, thinking it absolutely couldn’t be more than a few miles at most. The trail got steeper and steeper as the snow fell. At one point the trail T-boned a road, and I couldn’t tell which direction to go. I stood in the silent, falling snow and started to cry. But I realized I had to hold myself together: Losing it was not an option! So I sucked it up. I saw footprints going in both directions, but I just trusted my gut and went left. Good call — within a few dozen steps I saw a Camino marker. It led the trail off the roadway, into the woods. Thankfully there was a small barbed wire fence along the slowly fading trail. 

The temperature was dropping, and the snow became ankle deep, seeping over the tops of my ankle-high Keens. I regretted once again that I had not been able to find the right pair of boots that fit comfortably. In boots I would’ve been confidently trudging through this, but with my feet getting soaked despite two layers of wool socks, and the threat of losing the trail as it got later, I started to get really nervous. I was dressed warmly, but also drenched with sweat from the exertion, and completely exhausted. Whenever I paused to catch my breath I would immediately get very chilled. Between the cold, my nervousness, and not knowing how far away I was from the hostel, I had to fight to hold back the panic. I’m not a natural athlete despite being, uh, “big-boned,” and after a long day, I was nearing my limit of endurance.

Again I told myself I would get through this. I had to. Staying out here was not an option. I knew I could probably call for help, but I’d heard that pilgrims who need to be rescued are charge €5000 for the trouble. No thank you. Only if it became dire, and somehow way deep down I knew it wouldn’t, though that didn’t curb my nervousness very much. 

As I forced my sore and tired legs to keep stepping up and up, I started mentally singing songs to ward off despair. The first one that came to mind was the Christmas carol I used to sing with my sister: “Good King Wenceslas” —

Mark my footsteps my good page, tread thou in them boldly

Though shalt find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.

(This also has a nice zippy 4/4 beat which helped me keep a steady pace. I didn’t feel any heat in the steps, but just thinking warm thoughts helped, a little.)

To further distract myself, I started preparing for a long night in the snow, should it come to that. I did check my phone’s map, which said I was 40 minutes from my destination (noting nervously I only had 20% of charge left), but I needed to stay on the trails to get there. And if the trail disappeared…. The GPS in the mountains was just a dot in a green field onscreen, so not really helpful at all. I knew I had no way to make a fire, but at least I had dry clothes in my pack....

Foolishly, I had drunk almost all of my water, since I had been so sure I was close to my destination, based on time elapsed. I thought I could probably put snow in my water bottle and melt it against my body if I needed to. Also I had food, so that was covered. But I absolutely did not want to spend the night in the snow. I thought of calling for help, but I wouldn’t know how to describe my location. 

Wet, exhausted, scared, alone… I realized it was foolishness to have lingered earlier along the way, stopping to snack and take all those pictures. I had been lulled into a sense of confidence, since I had done the Camino before, and I knew that it is ridiculously easy to navigate, you just follow the little yellow arrows or way markers, which you typically only miss if you’re not paying attention. But I hadn’t done this stretch, and here in the mountains there were very few markers and they were very far between. In good weather, I’m sure the trail is extremely obvious, but snow is a great obliterator. I thought of all the pilgrims of old who probably died on this notoriously difficult route, and again thought of how spoiled and soft we modern pilgrims are with our waterproof equipment, lightweight backpacks, GPS. The arduousness of the pilgrimages of old cannot be overstated.

It was now about 4pm. I knew I had a lot of daylight left — the sun sets around 8:30pm this time of year in Spain. But as the trail kept climbing and the snow fell harder, my despair grew. I mechanically kept repeating Good King Wenceslas, trying to stay calm. 

Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind grows stronger

Fails my heart I not know how, I can go no longer 

No, not that verse! Go back to the Heat was in the very sod verse, you idiot!

Finally, finally, I heard a car, so I knew that there was a road nearby. I was still on what tiny bit I could see of the trail, and then I heard children’s voices. Up ahead, at the top of a hill, I could see a car parked and children playing in the snow. I knew I was very close, at last. I paused to lean on my walking sticks, tears of relief flowing down my cheeks. With my waning energy I made my way sloppily up the final very slippery steep hillside, to the road. The Camino trail wound off into the woods again, but I elected to stay on the road, using the last of my phone’s charge to guide me to Roncesvalles, one mile away.   

As I neared the hostel, I finally saw another pilgrim — a man ahead of me on the road, moving very slowly. His rain poncho had bunched up behind his backpack and a small pile of snow rested on top of it. I could tell from his body language he was just as exhausted, if not more so, than I was. I hurried ahead to him, so grateful to find a fellow pilgrim!

How are you doing? I asked. You got some snow in your pack, let me brush it off. He looked a little disoriented and was oblivious to the snow that had piled up. I brushed it off and adjusted his rain poncho. Thank you, he said. First Camino? I asked. Yes, he said. Don’t worry, Roncesvalles is right there. We’re almost there. I pointed to the rooftops of the buildings I could see just ahead. Oh good, he said. I was happy to provide comfort to someone when I was in need of comfort myself. It made me feel less sorry for myself. 

I was never so relieved to arrive somewhere in all my life. I crossed the snowy courtyard, greeted by a Dutch hospitalero. Once inside I sank onto a bench with my backpack still on and collapsed in tears for several minutes, flooded with relief, and elated to be safe and warm at last.

I got settled into the clean, modern hostel, which is housed in a beautiful 14th century former monastery. 

I had a wonderful dinner of vegetable soup, delicious bread, pork chops, and the ubiquitous Spanish french fries. I was so pumped full of adrenalin I could not stop chattering with my pilgrim tablemates. It was hardly a brush with death, but it was still a fairly dangerous situation — I later found out that two Scottish pilgrims had to be rescued from the route that day. I was very lucky!

Not to worry, folks: the rest of the Camino is nowhere near this challenging. The hardest day, made unexpectedly more difficult by a late spring snowstorm, was behind me. I made it! This was the most physically demanding thing I have ever done in all my years on the planet (well, except maybe giving birth to Ben — 18 hours of labor with no drugs). I felt like a total badass!

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night (still too pumped), but when I did I slept like a rock. And a good thing, because the hostel kicked us out the door by 8am.

And so the next morning, a bright sunny Easter Sunday, I began day 2 of my adventure....