Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago

by Gabriel Schirm

  Many artistic works during the Middle Ages show St. James with a staff and concha, or scallop shell, and the symbol has survived to present day. Pablo explained that the scallop shell is a metaphor. The grooves on the shell all lead to a single point at its base. These grooves represent all of the routes and ways to get to the tomb of St. James in Santiago de Compostela. The waves of the ocean wash scallop shells onto the beaches and shorelines of Galicia. Much as the posted trail markers bearing the scallop shell guide us to Santiago, it is said the very hands of God use the waves to guide the shells to the beach.

  I think about this story as I quietly chew my food. I think about the grooves and the many ways to the tomb of St. James. What an amazing metaphor for life and for this journey. How many times have I unconsciously judged someone for doing something I wouldn’t? The teachers are forming their own groove in the shell of the Camino. I am forming mine. I glance across the table at Amy who is as silent as I am tonight. She, too, is forming her own path to Santiago even though we walk together.

  Upstairs, I lay my head on my pillow, which is covered with a new layer of tiny black bugs. The silence between Amy and me says it all. We are both scared that we will not finish, and it is all because of me. This can’t get worse can it? My body will heal a little right? Tomorrow we begin again.

  Walking Stick

  Trail Days 4—5

  After half falling asleep on a bed of bugs, I am awakened by two late arrivals at one o’clock in the morning. I have no idea how they got in as most albergues lock their doors at around 10 p.m. I gather by their conversation that they are bicycle pilgrims. Yes, you can do this on bikes. They are going the opposite direction on the Camino but are a new item.

  When I say “item,” I mean I am two seconds away from standing up and tossing them both out of the second story window because they are loudly whispering things like, “I wish we would have met earlier,” and “Would you like me to hold you like this?” and on and on. Keep in mind that the occupants of this room are myself, Amy, thousands of little bugs, and these two new love birds. I stand up, storm out of the room, and make a new bed on the couch in the common area of the albergue. At this point, I don’t care. I need to sleep, and my earplugs are not working.

  I wake up at 5:45 a.m., return to the room, make as much noise as possible to wake up the two love birds whom I am still pissed off at, nudge Amy, and we head out the door. Amy calms me down as we begin to walk, and she reminds me that I am supposed to be loving and accepting of everyone, even horny people who wake me up in the morning. I know she is right. This anger is not serving me at all.

  We start heading up a steep hill into thick morning fog, and I can hear the calming whir of giant wind turbines hidden in the gray clouds above our heads. We finally make it to the Monumento Peregrino, which marks our high point of the day. We find ourselves in the cold damp embrace of a dark cloud. It is only us up here and a handful of thin, sturdy, metal statues of peregrinos. The figures perfectly posed in the surrounding weather as the wind blows into their metallic faces.

  After a short pause to admire these statues, we start our descent. The rocky path proves very difficult as the knee pain of yesterday returns with a vengeance. Amy has forged far ahead, and I have lost sight of her. I have adopted a diagonal method of descent, approaching the trail much like a skier carves out a continuous S shape while attacking a steep run.

  Many pilgrims pass me on the trail, only pausing to ask me if I am OK. I start to notice my knee looks like I have grown a second kneecap, and I am now almost certain that I will not be able to finish this walk within the 30 days we have planned. The knee brace given to me by the Hungarians yesterday is helping, though, and my breakfast consisted of a 600-mg Spanish ibuprofen. This is helping a little.

  I descend from the clouds at a snail’s pace. Despite my body, the morning light catching the dew on the expansive golden fields of wheat and the clouds above make Amy and I both pause in awe. For the second time today, we are lost in silence only interrupted now and again by the wind blowing through the wheat. We eventually make our way into the first town for a café con leche and a more substantial breakfast than pain pills.

  It is only about 10:00 a.m., and I doubt I can walk much further after that steep descent. As we discuss the possibility of extending the time we have to walk by changing our flights, the Camino provides exactly what I need once again. This trek is trying to teach me to quit worrying.

  A group approaches the bar and a very friendly girl with a huge smile walks up to Amy and me and says hello. Her name is Kate, and she is from Seattle. “How is your Camino going?” she asks. I tell her about my knee pain, and she gives me some fantastic advice, “You need a walking stick! Seriously!”

  Kate has been walking for weeks already, having started in Le Puy, France, and tells me exactly what I need to hear.

  “I cried everyday for the first week because the pain was incredible,” she explains. “You need to push through the pain of the first week, and it gets better. It always gets better. Your body will find its groove.”

  She goes on to explain that the walking stick, if used properly, removes 30% of the weight from your legs. Low and behold there are walking sticks for sale at this particular bar. Amy and I thank this stranger for reviving our spirits, buy two walking sticks, and continue on our way.

  This stick is amazing! Amy names her stick Alejandro. I name mine Dolores. A girl’s name, which I derived from the Spanish word for pain, dolor, which seems appropriate. I already feel the difference and the slight relief on my knee. I am filled with hope once again that we may be able to finish! All thanks to Dolores and our angel from Seattle!

  As we continue to walk, John from New Orleans catches up to us and yells, “Hey!”

  “How are you not hours ahead of us already?” I ask him. “We aren’t exactly breaking speed records this morning.”

  “Slept in and I’m a bit hungover. Too much wine last night!” he replies with a big smile. “Took advantage of that private room. Amazing!”

  He immediately notices the new gear, and after I tell him how much it is already helping, he tells me that this is exactly what he needs and decides to buy one in the next town.

  “Isn’t it weird how the Camino provides exactly what you need right when you need it?” John asks.

  I smile and nod, “You have no idea.”

  We eventually separate again as John’s pace is much faster than mine. We take today slowly and stop for snacks in most every village and town. I am leaning heavily on the right leg and noticing something disturbing. My right knee is starting to burn as well.

  “How is your knee?” I check in with Amy.

  “It still hurts but I think it is getting better,” she replies. “Must be all that yoga I was doing before we left! My joints are juicy!”

  After only 8 miles total for the day, we sit for yet another rest, planning to continue when a guy named Peter from Ireland sits down to join us for a coffee. Peter has done the Camino de Santiago before and offers some sound advice. He tells us to stop here for the day and take it easy. He reminds us that this is not a race. Yes, part of the Way is suffering but you will be angry if you permanently injure yourself and have to have some sort of procedure when you go home. This is apparently more common than one might think. People get into a sort of crazed zone out here and refuse to stop.

  He tells us to remember there are many ways to Santiago. I pluck this advice from the air and chew on it for a while. Incredible food for thought and a life lesson I desperately need to learn. I repeat it over and over again in my head. There are many ways to Santiago. This is not a competition. The advice sinks in, and we decide to stop here for the night. There are six or seven albergues in this village, so before deciding on one, we buy a fresh tube of Voltaren, a strong pain cream, from a drug store. I rub the cream into my knee as Amy chooses an albergue from the guidebook.

  Despite the conversation with the Irishman, I am still sad and deflated. The f
eelings of being average race to the front of my mind. In all of my jobs and all of my failed projects, I have always been just “OK”—or at least that is how I’ve felt. I have never excelled at one particular thing, and this situation is not helping. We may have to take a bus, which will further confirm how average I am.

  My mind takes me back decades in an instant. I am a kid exploring a river in the mountains of Colorado. My river. My mom and I lived next to it. In a tent. I didn’t know it at the time or really get it, but we were pretty poor. For me, we were camping for a while. Now, of course I understand that we were homeless. People don’t normally live in tents. Even temporarily.

  My parents were already divorced, and my dad was in prison, serving time for drunk driving. I was too young to understand alcoholism or that my absent father was dealing with his own demons. They both loved me, which was all that mattered. I am lucky in that regard. My mom cleaned houses to make ends meet, and as an only child, I spent a lot of time alone.

  As I got a little older, I noticed the cookie cutter houses and the “normal” families. The families that sent their kids to school with Lunchables, drove their kids around in new cars, and parents that were still married, families still whole. I started to play baseball in high school, which made me feel normal. Dad was out of prison and doing better. We spent hours together practicing, pitching, hitting, bonding. I was decent. I thought I was great. I wanted to play professional baseball for the Colorado Rockies. I wanted to excel at everything so the world would know that I was normal. Better than normal. Extraordinary. They would welcome me into their “normal club,” and people would admire me. People would read about this kid from a small town while sitting in their fancy houses and they would approve. They would envy me.

  Baseball became my obsession. I spent hours practicing, improving and doing everything I could t0 become better. My dad and I would make the long drive from our small mountain town in Colorado to Denver to watch the Rockies play. I remember looking at the larger than life players, gawking wide-eyed at the immense size of Coors Field and wanting with all of my soul to play on that field someday. My dad wanted this for me, too. I was so focused on this outcome, on this goal, that I started not to enjoy playing the game that I loved. I based my self-worth squarely on baseball.

  If I didn’t play well, I would feel like the world was ending. I would throw tantrums, hurling bats, balls, and equipment through the air. After a game in which I played particularly bad, I remember a friendly parent telling me, “Good game, Gabe!” to which I replied, “Screw you!” I was so focused on the future, on getting to college ball and the pros that it had ruined the present moment. My obsession took away from simply enjoying the game, which ironically probably would have made me a better player.

  Baseball didn’t work out. Failure number one.

  “You OK?” Amy asks. She is standing in front of me with her pack on. “Let’s go find a place to stay.” I realize I am in a competition here on the Camino. A competition with myself.

  We check into our chosen albergue, collect another colorful stamp, shower and down a delicious cold sangria which helps to dull the pain. During dinner Amy tries to use her psychology skills to unsuccessfully talk me out of this “average” line of thinking. I am thankful she is here.

  The dining hall reminds me of a school cafeteria, and I glance around to see a giant group of French school kids who are staying here for the night. They seem to be on some sort of Camino de Santiago school trip. These kids, who are a bit of an annoyance, end up providing me with a good laugh. As we lie down on our bunks for the night and the lights are turned off, the fun begins.

  Our albergue has around 40 beds tightly packed into a giant concrete room. I notice an Italian man stripped down to a tiny green thong, walk past my bunk, and lie directly on the mattress. I know he is Italian because he has a patch of the Italian flag sewn on the outside of his pack. My “Americanness” finds his thong hilarious, and I mentally nickname him The Angry Italian Thong. The school kids were chatty, granted it was only 8:00 p.m., and the Italian man was getting very, very angry. He started huffing and puffing in his bed.

  Then I hear a couple of Americans chatting outside of the room. Their voices carry and the entertainment escalates as The Angry Italian Thong gets up from his bed and starts pacing around all of the bunks. He gives the French kids his loudest, “SHHH!” He simply stands there in his tiny thong staring at them ready for a verbal fight. His angry thong walking accelerates as he starts mumbling, “Mama mia!”

  He again makes his way past my bunk to the second door and stares at the Americans who continue talking, somehow ignoring the man. He darts behind the door and again lets out a loud “SHHH!” This goes on for about 15 minutes, and I can’t take it. Laughter lightens my mood.

  We wake up before dawn. I did not sleep well, yet again, because of the symphony of snoring common to all albergues. It does not help that I am a light sleeper. Before this trip, many people told me that I will get used to the snoring, and I’ll be so tired that I’d sleep right through it. I have not found this to be the case at all. I think that advice must have come from people who snore. My most valued purchase before this trip, which I admit Amy had to convince me to buy, was earplugs, but they help only a little.

  We begin the day’s trek greeted by a clear, cool, crisp summer morning, and my body is feeling better. Yesterday’s short hike has really helped me recover, and I mentally thank Peter the Irishman for urging us to take it easy and stop for the day. I begin to really enjoy today’s walk. The morning light changes the colors of the wheat fields and bright red poppies almost by the minute. As minutes turn into hours, pink fields fade to golden yellow then to a sea of green. We walk slowly, but it doesn’t matter. The Camino de Santiago simplifies everything, and our only job for the day is to put one foot in front of the other. I can tell it is going to be a hot day as I begin to sweat even before breakfast.

  Many people come to the Camino for religious reasons, others for personal growth. Most, like me, seem to be searching for inspiration of some kind. All along the path, you begin to see small sayings written by the pilgrims who came before you. Some written on stones with permanent marker and others on guardrails or walls. You can’t help but read them and ponder their messages as you walk. Sometimes they really hit home and speak to you, telling you something you needed to hear.

  My mind is deep in thought about my next move in life. Worrying about my career. Worrying about how to figure out what my purpose might be. Worrying about worrying. My walking stick lands on a little gem in the path, and a big grin spreads across my sweaty face. Someone has written these words on a stone, “It’s about the Way, not about the destination.”

  Once again, this is exactly what I needed to hear. The Camino de Santiago so far has been a metaphor for life. You focus on getting to Santiago de Compostela with every step you take, to that perfect job, perfect house, perfect whatever, and you forget to enjoy the journey and path that leads you there. I don’t cry but I am definitely moved. This message is so simple. Enjoy life. Do that and everything else falls into place.

  I seem to have a particular knack for doing the opposite. A special skill in ruining the present moment in pursuit of a distant goal. I think back to my time on the Travel Channel. This was an amazing opportunity to travel the world for free. The show had five hosts, and all of us had a different take on each city that we would visit. My take was food and music, so it was my job to discover the unique foods and music that made each location special. Our season focused on the Pacific Rim, and we traveled through Australia, New Zealand, and parts of Asia.

  This was an absolute dream job. When I received the phone call from the show’s producers that I had in fact landed the gig, I screamed like a six-year-old girl. I was elated at first but soon my mind took over and started to dream of more, of what this might lead to. I thought that if this went well, I could actually do this for a career. My baseball type obsession creeped in as I became focused
on what might be next.

  After our first three weeks of filming, we made our way to film episode four in Darwin, Australia. I had worked particularly hard, with the help of the producers, to set up a day with a famous Aboriginal Australian actor. He took me by boat to a beach that was important to his ancestors and, going with the food theme, took me stingray spear fishing.

  We waded out into the turquoise waters of the ocean, and I followed his lead, looking for stingrays, ready to chuck my spear if I saw signs of life. He was doing the same. Hours passed, the camera guy stopped filming and eventually, with nothing to show for our efforts, we returned to the beach. Everyone was disappointed, and we scrambled to make something out of the scene.

  His friends were invited, and they played the didgeridoo on the beach using the music to tell incredible stories of their people’s past. An amazing day. Unfortunately, all I was focused on was how poorly this might play out on TV. I was obsessed with my hosting ability and if I had said the right thing. I asked the editors, producers, and anyone who would listen if I was doing OK. How could I improve? I wanted badly for this to continue and I could see the end of the show drawing near. Again, I was so focused on what was next, using this as a stepping stone to bigger and better things, that I failed to fully experience an incredible secluded beach, with a kind Aboriginal man, sharing incredible music. This continued throughout the filming of the show, four months of anxiety, when I should have just relaxed and enjoyed the incredible ride.

  We continue through more small villages, always guided by the yellow arrows and Camino shell tiles that mark the path. The heat is getting almost unbearable as we enter the afternoon hours. These villages become deserted during siesta, and the only people you see are fellow pilgrims. We start to climb a hill, and my left knee begins to burn. Almost as if they are having a conversation, my right knee chimes in with an equally intense pain as I begin to lean more and more heavily on Dolores.