Trailblazing

“Spiritualism can suck it.” Surrounded by quaint stone farm homes and acres of green rolling hills, this seemed like an out of place thing to utter. But no. Amidst the natural beauty of northern Spain, with it’s damp smelling forests, quartets of birdsong and not another human soul for miles, spiritualism could indeed, suck it. Splayed rather grotesquely by the side of the road, my sister, having just muttered the above blasphemous sentence was peeling off her sweaty, bloody mess of a sock to reveal a blister on her heel the size of a scoop of ice cream. I collapsed down beside her. Ignoring the horse flies, I pulled out a melted granola bar and took a defeated bite.

Walking the Camino to Santiago de Compostela wasn’t supposedto be this arduous according to every book, film and article I had read prior to embarking.  Wasn’t I supposed to have like, a transcendental experience? The pilgrimage to Santiago, also known as The Way of St. James, is deeply rooted in Christian faith. After the resurrection of Jesus, St. James (well, back in the day, you could just call him James) became the leader of the Church in Jerusalem. James traveled to Spain to spread the Good Word and, following his death, was buried in a tomb in northwestern Spain, a location which fell into oblivion and was all but forgotten for centuries.

Around the year 815, a Spanish hermit named Pelayo had a dream in which he saw a bright light shining over a spot in a farmer’s field. His dream was investigated, as dreams often were in this era of outpouring belief, and a Roman-era tomb containing St. James’ body was found. Around this shrine the city of Santiago de Compostela (Compostela, roughly translating to “field of stars”) grew. The tomb drew devout Christians across Europe, and by the eleventh and twelfth centuries, a half-million pilgrims were making their way to Santiago every year on foot to pay their respects.

Centuries later, my family and I first caught wind of the Camino through (how else?) a little sleeper indie hit of a film called “The Way”, starring Emilio Estevez and his dad Martin Sheen. I was living in a different Santiago at the time, but was convinced immediately that the deep soul purifying and paradigm shaking pilgrimage that Martin  Sheen undertakes in the film was exactly what I needed too. It’s unclear whether it was the guitar laden soundtrack, gorgeous cinematography, tear jerking plotline, or all of the above, but my parents, sister and I were sold. It was decided we would walk the Camino after I graduated from college.

Our departure for the Camino could not have come at a more salient moment. I had just turned twenty-two and like most people my age, was vaguely terrified of the future, but too distracted in my attempts to look like I had it together to do anything about it. Everyone began asking me what my post-collegiate plan was. A question that, to my freaked out synapses was always translated along the line as “When are you going to prove that this ridiculously overpriced undergraduate degree was worth it you big dumb cluck?”

My usual tactic in these scenarios was to assume an expression of calm confidence, reply “Peace Corps” and then steer the conversation away from my doomed future. This answer was a truthful one. Joining the Peace Corps was something I had wanted to do since middle school. Back then I think I got a kick out of the “good for yous!” and overall impressiveness the Peace Corps answer elicited. As I grew up, my decision to join became less a good party trick and more a realistic life choice as I weighed my different options. Due to the false advertisements of our culture and perhaps the faulty perception of every young generation, we assume that most dreams die at age thirty. We are warned through sitcom and tragic novels alike that kids, a mortgage and a dissatisfying job will quash the aspirations of youth. Truth or not, I haven’t experienced it yet to say. Regardless, and erring on the cautious side, I did not want my Peace Corps dream to end up in my inspiration (aka “I wish I would have done this”) scrapbook. So I filled out the outrageously long online application in the fall of 2012 and awaited a response. I passed the application’s interview, medical exams and background checks, but by graduation, I still had not received my Invitation.

Nebulous worry clouded my future. What would I do if I didn’t get accepted? Where was I going to live now that college was over? How was I going to take the next step forward in my life? These questions kept me up at night, which I am aware, is such a first world, young twenty-something year old problem. But there you have it. I was stressed. Within twenty four hours of walking across the stage and receiving my university diploma, I traded in my cap and gown for hiking boots as my family and I boarded a flight bound for Spain. I was on the brink of a major life change and was looking to do some serious Self Examination on the trail to Santiago.

I wasn’t initially concerned about the walking. As a Colorado native, a hike is a walk unless you are sloping vertically, and then it’s really just a steep walk and stop being a baby about it, just hurry up already. Here’s the thing: In lieu of my fragile first world stressed state, I might have been drinking and munching a little more than usual to quell the panic of graduation and imminent free fall called my future.

Here’s the other thing: My family members are all shameless athletes. My parents are the kind of people who run or do physical activity daily. If they can’t due to travel or work, they are doing squats and lunges down the grocery store aisles and pushups in cramped hotel rooms. My sister is no slouch either. At the time of this trip, she had sustained a serious stress fracture from training for a half marathon, and yet still figured she’d be able to complete the walk (which she did…show off). My excuse was that I had partaken in a few too many glasses of Moscato, and that’s not really an excuse in this family. Stop being a baby about it, just hurry up already.

So we start to walk.

The first day on the trail, I want to sit down every kilometer, and hope a lone passing car would take pity and drive my sorry ass to that evening’s destination. My parents take off, marching confidently in the direction the yellow shell markers point. My injured sister, and my sweaty self limp almost an hour behind, slapping each of those shells as if we have just summited a 14er. The shells. The scalloped shell can be found on the shores of Galicia and has long been the symbol of the Camino. The grooves on the shell represent the various paths each pilgrim has traveled, eventually arriving at a single destination, (the tomb of St. James). The shell also serves the practical purpose of denoting that you are a traveler on the Camino. Many pilgrims attach a shell to their packs or their walking sticks at the beginning of their journey, thus allowing them to hunker down in some refugios or hosteles for free. With the shell as your identity, everyone you meet on the trail will call out to you as you pass by “buen camino”, literally translating to “good walk”, and implying well wishes for the way ahead.

The days that follow the first are even worse. Blisters form, muscles tighten and I don’t have the mental capacity to contemplate my spiritual fate, Peace Corps or future once, except to mentally note that it all generally blows. My mother, being the badass that she is, has taken her army knife and literally carved out a square in her boot to make room for her badly swollen ankle. “How much further” is not a question I ask anymore, instead keeping my head tucked inside my rain jacket and putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not all bad though. Our evening meals have never been more satiating after an eight to ten hour day of walking, and sleeping has never been easier to fall in to. The people we meet are good natured and encouraging, shouting their “buen caminos” at us like shining little good luck charms.

On one particularly hot afternoon, after emerging from the woods with piss on my pants and blood on my hands (don’t ask), a kind and elderly farmer offers me half his sandwich. We are both sitting on a low stone wall surrounded by farmland as he watches his sheep graze, and I do my best to clean myself up. We chat for a while, his lisping Spanish accent hard for me to understand, our miscommunications and explanations making us both laugh. As the sun sinks lower, he and I stand up, shake hands and walk in opposite directions. A hundred feet away I hear him whistle once, high and short. I turn to look at him as he calls out “buen camino!” waving with both hands. I find myself grinning stupidly and waving with both hands back.

Our last day on the trail, there are many miles behind us, and the beautiful Cathedral of St. James is in front of us, I look around and assess my significance in this spiritual place, really for the first time. I haven’t thought once about my Peace Corps application, nor what I will be doing with my life after this trip is over. Each day here, I have instead taken it one kilometer, and one step at a time. A church bell is ringing somewhere, and mass begins. I hear prayers floating out of the Cathedral, where they hang suspended above the town square. I close my eyes and breath in that old city.

You never see the view from the valley, (or, I suppose in this case, the tomb from the trail). I learned my lesson after walking the Camino was over and the lesson is this: the walk never really ends. Life will continue, even if you are uncertain of what the future holds. You will wake up the next morning and carry on because really, what other choice do you have?

Stop worrying, start walking.

Buen Camino.

*I received my Peace Corps Invitation a few months later, to serve as an Education volunteer in Indonesia.