9/17 The walk from Pamplona to Puente La Reina is long. Even with the easy day in Pamplona, the distance between village rest-stops stretch and the bottoms of my feet burn. I feel a sense of urgency to get to my destination ever since the evening when all the albergues were overcrowded in Zubiri. The urgency takes away my sense of freedom to go at my own pace. The daily mileage and destinations my guidebook suggest seem too demanding for me, and my pride is hurting. I am physically fit, yet it’s hard to keep up with others who are following the same guidebook schedule. No one is talking about their difficulties, and I feel alone with my struggle. I keep counting days in my head to see if I need to reschedule my return flight. The worry loops and the counting keeps with the rhythm of each step.

Today’s path includes a 1,100-foot ascent of the El Perdōn mountain range followed by a similarly steep descent. The lush sunflower carpeted hills and the gorgeous overcast light keep my sinking spirits up. As the climb becomes steeper, the scattered wind turbines get closer and closer, until I’m so close to one that I can hear the blades whip. Whip step up, whip step up. This becomes a moment I remember because I am crying at the beauty and crying at the realization that I’ve gotten myself into a challenge that I cannot meet. I long to be nowhere else and I long to be home. Each longing in waves, alternating and bleeding into each other.

Finally, Alto del Perdon at the top of the climb. I meet the Monument to the Pilgrims Way to Compostela, the large metal sculpture of ancient pilgrims, some on mules, on their journey to Santiago. I also meet a 69-year-old woman from Toronto (she passed me on our way up the hill!). She takes photos of me and her thumb with my phone. She tells me that a pilgrim’s sins are forgiven once this point is reached (after the brutal climb). Maybe true, but the succeeding downhill prompts words that require further forgiveness. White rocks roll underfoot.

I reach the bottom of the long hill where there are houses but no cafes at which to rest or alburgues at which to quit early. I see a young couple, tired and irritable with each other, in the same predicament as I am. My feet hurt from pounding downhill. I want to quit for the day, but there are another 2.6 miles to Puente La Reina. It’s late in the day. My guidebook suggests a detour through Eunate where there are a beautiful octagonal church and a small hostel. I take the chance that there’s room at the hostel and embark on the detour. I don’t regret the decision when I walk along freshly plowed farmland with fragrant, rich soil that reminds me of where I grew up.

At the church, a tour guide gives the history to a group of pilgrims. I listen in until I’m told not to. I head over to the only other building on site that I think must be the hostel. The door is locked and no one answers my knock. My spirits sink. I must walk the rest of the way to Puente La Reina.

When I finally arrive I check the first albergue I come upon. It’s full, but am told the hostel around the corner might have room. They have one private room left, but it is a double, and I must pay the full price of 60 euros. I’m so spent, I don’t have it in me to search out the other albergues in town in order to pay the dormitory price. So I pay. The shower in the private bath is hot and feels grand. I’m greedy with the water, and the drain has trouble keeping up. I wash my clothes in the small sink and set up a sagging clothesline across the bathroom.

Fortunately, a restaurant is adjacent to the hostel. One other pilgrim eats dinner. She’s American, dressed fashionably casual, may have a decade on me, and is the type who’s confident in her own sophistication and wisdom. She strikes up a conversation, and we share a table outside for an after-dinner drink, her wine, me coffee. She asks if I’m married, have kids, dating anyone. I tell her no, but that I just started dating Michelle. My story is stilted because I’m used to talking about Stella. I feel I’m betraying Stella and possibly myself to describe what I have with Michelle. After only a month we are exclusive and using the word love. That’s typical of women, the whole U-haul joke (what do lesbians bring on the second date? A U-haul). My story is romantic and my table companion seems to enjoy the tale in that way that married people tend to live through their single friends vicariously.