9/13 Lost. The road I walk curves around and soon meets a dirt trail. The official Camino pathway. I see others walking along and huge relief washes over me. I’m found. The first Camino epiphany hits me and I say out loud, “There is no wrong way on the Camino”. And Camino being synonymous with life, I am a toddler, and maybe acting like one.
Sometimes the path is dirt or gravel with no roadway in sight. Other times the path is beside the quiet roadway. Either way, it is up and up and up. A much-needed break is in Orisson where I split a sandwich with another pilgrim, (as we call ourselves on the Camino) because there was only one left (I don’t remember whose idea it was to share, but probably not mine..I usually don’t share food). I am envious of those who are stopping for the day at this point, about 1/3 of the way to Roncevalles, to recover from jet lag and to break up the ups. ‘I will do this next time’ I think.
After another while of walking, I take a sit down and remove my socks and shoes. A few pass me. I climb some more. Hillside Sheep disappeared behind the fog. I can only hear the wooden music of the bells around their necks and with silence behind. The magical-seeming moments take away the fatigue that threatens to seep in with so much yet to go.
The landscape becomes woodsy and cooler. At the France-Spain border, there is a fountain for refilling water and only two and a half miles to the peak. My guidebook says the downhill is brutal on fatigued legs. Someone stops and we discuss the two downhill path options. The less steep one is longer but safer. The pilgrim advises the long one. I wonder if he underestimates me.
When I get to the peak, there’s a young woman standing, resting. I ask which way. She points away from the steep craggy path. We start to chat. I decide to walk with her down the long safe way missing the challenge of the difficult path but enjoying the company. We talk, and walk, and coach each other down the steep spots the two and a half miles to Roncevalles Albergue.
We enter the brick building from behind and wait at a reception window to sign in and pay for our bed. The young woman has a friend who made a reservation for her and was off to her room in the new dormitory area which I was then told was full. I would be staying in the original medieval hostel across the street featuring 110 beds all in one large church-like room. By this point, walking across the street seemed a huge ask. I pay my 10 euros and feeble a smile.
At the hostel, I’m briskly given instructions I can’t understand. The person behind me nudges me in the right direction to my bunk. I’m so tired my jaw won’t stay closed. I stand there thinking I’d just walked 15.6 miles and ascended 4,560 feet, yet there is so much left to do before I can lay down in this bunk bed.