We were all just manipulating and maneuvering one another to get each other to take care of our unmet, unspoken needs, the things we weren’t succeeding in addressing ourselves.
I shook my head at this miserable realization when I suddenly flew off my feet and slid straight down the mountain for about ten feet. Sitting in the mud with the wind knocked out of me, I caught my breath.
“I get it. My relationships are like this path today,” I said aloud. “Messy, mucky, slippery, and ungrounded.”
I was relieved I had let these people go from my life. And humbled to realize they probably felt the same way about me.
I also felt sad that we had ended up apart and feeling bad.
I knew in my heart at that moment that no one was the “bad guy.” Or the “good guy.” We were just people navigating the muck of relationships given the hidden patterns we were stuck in.
Standing up, I tried to regain my balance and make sure nothing had suffered too much. Knee was okay. Butt was sore but no more than usual. I was fine. The descent continued, as did the slippery ground. It never eased up. I was particularly frustrated that I kept banging my toes on the fronts of my boots, making it nearly impossible to take a single step without feeling excruciating pain.
As I walked, I thought that this was how it felt to be married to Patrick. As much as I wanted to forgive him—and me, for that matter—all I could think of was how much pain I had been in for so many years being married to him. Like the slippery ground under my feet, I had never felt fully safe with him.
I didn’t trust him to have my back at all.
I wondered if that was fair. How much of that was me being stuck in a pattern of not asking for or allowing help, and how much was about him not having it to give?
Just as I thought about this my foot slid once again, and I landed in a puddle up to the top of my ankle, the mud now sliding into my boot and through my sock.
“That’s an answer for you, Sonia,” I said out loud, between cursing. “You took the step into the muck.”
That wet foot pissed me off. When will this end?
I wanted the pain to end. I wanted the walk to end. I wanted the sliding and muck and mud to end. I wanted to feel solid ground under my feet and trust that I could take my eyes off the path for a second and not get ambushed by unstable, slippery rock and gravel giving way. That’s what I wanted, but as far as I could see, it wasn’t about to end anytime soon.
There was not much I could do but carry on, so that’s what I did. The hours passed and judging by yesterday’s pace, I had to be at least halfway to Zubiri by now. I was hungry. And because I drank all the water from both my water pack and my bottle, I had to pee.
Not seeing any sign of a town or village or lone café on the road, I was about to continue on when I remembered my pee cone.
After checking that the coast was clear, I decided to use it.
I pulled it out of my backpack and eyed it suspiciously. How do I use this thing? I asked myself.
It was somewhat self-explanatory. I simply had to put it over my “privates” as the sales guy had said, and quite literally go for it. Feeling funny doing this so close to the path, I decided to move a little deeper into the woods for privacy. When I felt I had hidden myself well enough, I looked at the pee cone once again.
“Am I really going to use this thing?” I asked myself.
“Yes. Just use it and stop being such a prima donna!” I snapped right back.
Feeling that standing and peeing like a guy was way too much for me, especially given that I was trying to move away from my “inner masculine,” I decided to squat and use the pee cone instead. That way I could ensure that I didn’t splatter all over myself, which has happened in the past.
I put my backpack down and struggled to balance under my poncho. I wasn’t sure I had everything in its proper place, but before I burst, I just trusted and went.
Afterward, I stood up, pleased that no one had passed by, and somewhat impressed that someone had thought to invent a pee cone. Except when I stood up, I felt way too warm underneath my poncho.
I lifted it up only to see that the stupid pee cone had directed the pee to the back of my pants and my long underwear. My pants, my socks, and my entire backside were covered in pee. I might as well have pointed a fire hose at myself.
Embarrassed and wet, I cursed the pee cone and myself for at least a half an hour. Eventually I started laughing. It is so true that most of what happens to us, we create. Most of it? my inner voice challenged.
Walking in my soaking wet pants, I relented. “Okay, all of it.”
Funny how this day was completely the opposite of yesterday. Light to dark.
I no longer wanted to feel angry with anyone or myself. I just peed on myself and was tired of being pissed off. It was time to change the channel. I started singing my favorite songs, making up the words whenever I couldn’t remember them.
I started with The Beatles, “Can’t Buy Me Love,” and ended up with Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know.” I had walked in silence for four hours and had not spoken to anyone on the path over the past two days. In fact, I didn’t want to speak to anyone as I walked. But singing was okay.
Several more hours passed, and I found my resentments toward everyone had vanished, at least for the time being. All except the ones I felt toward Patrick, but I was trying. I didn’t want to carry the weight of those dark feelings toward him, or anyone, including me. But they wouldn’t budge much, no matter what I wanted.
I noticed, even in only two short days of walking, that heavy or negative thoughts made the Camino much more difficult to walk. When I let go of my dark thoughts, I found I could keep on going even when I thought I didn’t have another step in me. That’s why it was annoying that some of my dark thoughts clung so tenaciously to my mind. They wouldn’t let go. The more I tried to make them go away, the more they intensified. I gave up. I let them be.
Finally I stumbled into Zubiri. I looked around to find the town. There wasn’t much of one. Only a few sad, empty establishments next to a highway. It didn’t matter. I was relieved I had arrived. Once again, all I wanted to do was go to sleep.
It wasn’t difficult to find my hostel. It was in a small house directly across from the pilgrims’ albergue in the center of town. I knocked on the door and an extremely thin, elderly woman opened it and smiled. In the foyer, right behind her, stood Cheater, as if welcoming me with open arms. I felt so glad to see him.
She started to show me a room just behind Cheater, then put up her hand and stopped me in my tracks, looking down at my mud-covered boots and peed-on pants. She pointed to them and gestured for me to take them off, which I happily did. Mud cracked off of me, and exploded everywhere. I apologized immediately. She simply smiled as if to say, “No problem,” took them from me, and placed them in a plastic bag. Once I had stripped down, she pointed to a room behind me. That was apparently my room. Thank goodness there were no stairs to climb today. I was truly too wiped out to carry anything anywhere. The room was very simple. It had a single bed with a small hand shower on the wall next to a toilet separated by a thin wall, and no windows. Perfect.
Once I saw the room and approved, she took me upstairs and pointed to a large sink with a scrub brush and some soap. Then she pointed to the bag with my pants and shoes.
Nodding yes, I realized she was showing me where I could get my boots and clothes cleaned up. Standing in my underwear, I immediately set to it. It was no small effort to get the mud and pee smell off, but I managed. She returned after a few minutes and pointed out a rack on the balcony where I could hang them to dry. Given that it was drizzling fairly steadily, I hoped that they could.
Once my clothes were spread out to dry and I had changed into drier duds, she asked for my pilgrim passport so she could stamp it. I had almost forgotten about that. Then I asked about dinner. She showed me a small map and said I had to walk 2 kilometers into town and could get dinner there after 6 P.M. I looked at
my watch. It was already five. My feet hurt so much I wasn’t sure I could manage. I was starving, though, and hadn’t yet had dinner since I started out, so I rallied.
The problem was my toes. They were so banged up it was hard to walk. Fortunately, I had the lightweight Merrell shoes. They were soft and didn’t hurt my toes as much.
I showered, got dressed, and set out to find the place for dinner. I was famished.
Day 3
(20 km; 12 mi)
Zubiri to Pamplona
I woke up at six in the morning, ready to go. I was still unbelievably sore, every single muscle aching like crazy. I think it was not only because of the rigors of the walk, but also because the room had no heat and I was tightly curled up into a frozen ball all night. I slowly unfurled as my eyes opened up, and gently stretched.
Ouch! My toes were so sore that even moving them was excruciatingly painful. I crawled out of my sleeping bag to examine them once I turned the light on. Every one of my toenails was black and blue. No wonder they hurt so much. I had really bruised them.
I popped open the arnica and took two, then a third, for good measure. I then slathered myself in muscle cream, which was the only way I could get moving in the morning. Gumby sat silently watching me as I put on my long-sleeve wool shirt and two pairs of socks. Next I went upstairs to collect my long underwear, pants, and boots. Since my room had no windows, I had no idea what to expect outside. One thing I didn’t expect to see was snow coming down in heavy chunks.
My clothes! I ran to the balcony only to find my long underwear, pants, and boots completely covered in snow and still soaking wet. Grabbing them and shaking them off, I could tell this was going to be yet another challenging day.
“Why didn’t I bring two pairs of pants? I brought enough of everything else I could think of,” I lamented as I scraped off the ice. The boots were a lost cause. I didn’t see the thin woman who had greeted me the night before anywhere, but as I began to poke around the salon, I did find a blow-dryer. Yes! I could blow-dry my long underwear and pants. “Thank you, guides,” I whispered as I ran downstairs with it before anyone saw me.
It worked. After only ten minutes each, my underwear and pants were toasty dry and ready to go. The boots were another matter. I pulled out the insoles and started drying first one, then the other, then back and forth over the next 15 minutes. I didn’t actually manage to get them terribly dry, but I did warm them up a bit.
“Oh well, I’ll just wear more socks.”
I put on my two pairs of socks, which tortured my toes, and then shoved my feet into my soggy boots. Ow!
Taking a deep breath and sucking up the pain, I stood up.
“This is torture,” I cried under my breath. “What have I done to my toes?”
Pushing onward, I decided I would dedicate my day to people who suffered around the world. Here I was whining about my toes and cold, wet feet when in some places in the world, this was everyday life. I summoned the good soldier in me and stopped complaining. I then took a moment and put everything back into Cheater, and slammed him shut. How can it be that he seemed to be expanding? I didn’t buy a thing, and I even ate a fair number of the PowerBars I brought with me, and yet I could hardly get him zipped. I shoved and punched until I succeeded.
Once that was done, I dragged Cheater into the foyer. Since I still had not seen the thin woman from the night before, I took a marker I brought along with me and marked the name of the next town and hostel on a piece of paper and taped it to the top of Cheater with a Band-Aid, hoping that would be enough to get it to where I was going, which was Pamplona, the town in Spain where they run the bulls.
Opening the front door, I peeked outside and was greeted by a strong, cold wind and a blanket of snow. Breakfast, I was told the night before, was around the corner. I grabbed Pilgrim and dashed out, both hungry and not wanting to get too wet.
It was 50 feet away.
I walked into a small café where an old Spaniard stood behind the counter. Laid out were individually packaged industrial croissants and small cans of artificial orange juice. There were a few packets of butter and jam, to which I could help myself.
The Spaniard asked me if I wanted coffee.
“Café con leche, por favor,” I said, disappointed at the bleak “pilgrim’s breakfast” before me. He turned and brewed and steamed as quickly as lightning and nearly slid the café over to me before I could sit down. I grabbed it and took it over to the plastic table where I had set down my backpack and poles. The croissant was loveless and the orange juice hard to drink, but the café con leche was heavenly, made by a true maestro. I smiled at him and said, “That’s so good!” which seemed to please him. He nodded in response.
I reached into my backpack, took out one of the two PowerBars I had set aside as my day’s allocation, and slowly unwrapped it. I would eat half now with this coffee and half on the Camino. I nursed both bar and coffee very slowly, while forcing down the plastic-tasting croissant, thinking I would need the energy even if I didn’t like it.
I had a second cup of his delicious coffee before I set out, hoping its warmth would insulate me from the snow that was coming down harder than before. Moments later, fortified as well as I could be, I put back on my heavy windbreaker, gloves, hat, neck warmer, rain poncho, rain pants, and gators over my boots, a last-minute purchase at REI that I discovered in my bag this morning. I was ready.
Outside was beautiful. The snow against the trees was gorgeous, and the fog swirling on the ground made the Camino beckon as if into a magic forest. Looking around for a yellow arrow pointing in the right direction, I saw a young girl weighted down by a huge backpack, wearing plastic bags over sockless feet stuffed into snow-covered canvas tennis shoes. She looked miserable and confused.
I approached her and asked if she was okay. She assured me she was, and then shook her head at the snow.
I nodded in agreement and then pointed to her feet. “Mucho frio!” I said, wondering if she was freezing. Surely she needed some socks, but she shook her head, saying, “No. Okay.”
And so I accepted. “Buen Camino,” I wished her, as we both started heading for the bridge that would take us out of town and back to the path.
I paused. It was time to pray.
Holy Mother God, my toes hurt. Can you work a miracle and help them heal? I can barely walk. I need your help. Remind me why I am doing this because I am really feeling sorry for myself today. Thank you in advance.
Amen.
P.S. Guardian Angel, please keep me from further hurting my knee and toes today if possible. I want to enjoy myself.
As I set out, I walked quietly. I wasn’t in the mood to sing, and for the longest time, I couldn’t even think. The path continued, up, up, up, then turned and went down, down, down, and then up again. My toes were so sore I had to walk very slowly so I wouldn’t jam them any more than I had to. What was I going to do about them?
I knew there would be places along the path to get other shoes, and all I could think of, snow or rain aside, was to find some hiking shoes that had open toes, like Tevas. In fact, I daydreamed about Tevas for hours. It helped me navigate the snowy slush I was now literally wading through along the path.
Several hours into the day, I began to actually enjoy the icy cold beauty I was trudging through. I was so glad that I was warm enough. I had overheard in the café last night that a woman from Canada got lost in the Pyrenees the day after I had left St. Jean and was found dead. That was so upsetting. I wasn’t sure if it was true, but several pilgrims were animatedly talking with each other about it. I just listened. I knew the path I had just crossed over was difficult, and that they had closed it shortly after I left St. Jean for Roncesvalles. People were talking about it in the pilgrim’s office when I went to get a stamp once I had arrived there. But I had no idea it was that treacherous.
It seemed that most of the deaths on the Camino over the years had occurred on the part I had just completed. That another death occurred yesterda
y sent chills up my spine. Am I biting off more than I can chew? I wondered. Yet, intuitively I knew I was fine and, apart from sore muscles and toes, I was tough. I could manage this Camino no matter what was ahead … and would.
As I walked the slush got worse, as did the fog. My thoughts once again drifted to my marriage. Today I was more resigned. Maybe it is the best thing for both of us that we end now. Funny how we’ve been together for over 30 years, and at the end I wondered if our marriage had even mattered all that much to Patrick. How did that happen?
If I let myself think about it too much, I realized that I was getting angry all over again. “Really, Patrick?” I’d say, talking to his spirit. “Just like that, we are done?”
Not getting any answer from him, of course, I said, out loud, “Okay, I can accept what has happened. I can let our marriage go. In fact, I want to. Furthermore, I’m not going to hold on to anything. I’m not going to fight over anything. I’m not going to get into a battle of that nature. That is not me. I am just going to walk away, like I’m doing now.”
Saying that, I felt some relief in my aching heart.
At one point an hour or so later, I came across a particular place, by a very large tree, where it seemed the entire web of mountain rivers converged, the water intensely rushing down, clearing away everything in its path. I sat down on a rock and watched it for a long while as I fished out and ate the second half of my PowerBar.
The river talked to me. Let it all go, Sonia. Don’t hold on to a thing. Not material things. Not feelings. Not the past. Not your judgments. Not even your identity. Let it all be swept away with the river.
I must have sat there for half an hour, mesmerized by the river’s conversation with me. Not a soul passed by. Then suddenly, as if waking me out of my reverie, a group of laughing Italians approached and wanted to take pictures at my spot, so I gracefully got up and started back on my way.
Walking Home: A Pilgrimage from Humbled to Healed Page 9
