First Arrival — Roncesvalles, Spain

All around me, the lightening hit rock and meadow. Thunder punching through the air a half second behind. And behind one was always another, and me with still five miles to go. I've always kind of liked inclement weather, there's a thrill in perseverance, and in witnessing a little crazy burst up out of something else. Be it sky or flame or tectonic plates. But the storm had started just as I reached the Pyrenees peak above Roncesvalles, and though I did not mind the drenching rain or stinging hail so much, the sharp veins of electricity loosing themselves on the trail in front of me had my heart dropping fast. And I was cold from the rain sneaking down the neck of my jacket and my hiking boots soaked by the muddy water rushing down the trail through the rocks. And all I could think of was that this was the exact piece of craggy mountain where Emilio Estevez got killed in that fucking Camino movie, and I'd be damned before I went down like that. I'd just hiked 10 uphill crawling miles in seven hours, gaining 3600 feet of elevation, and since the view was covered by fog I would at least like the added bonus of surviving the trip. 

Which of course I did. 

I'd left late, waiting for the post office to open so I could send some extra gear home. Which I didn't. Because I forgot that international shipping rates require turning over one's first born. So, I left at 9:30 instead of 7, with the full weight of what I'd brought with me. (Which actually was fine, I ended up wanted like half the stuff I was going to send back. And 28 pounds isn't really that much.)

I caught up with a lot of the people who'd left earlier than me because I prefer not to take breaks. In the nine hours I walked yesterday, I stopped three times for a total of about 10 minutes. I'm sure conventional wisdom advises a person to rest on a difficult hike, but I find my motivation starts to spill out and seep into the ground the moment I sit down, and each restart produces a burst of bad attitude that I'd rather not confront in myself. And so. I rely on stubbornness and muscle to keep going, and though my pace is slower than some, it often lasts longer. It was the first day and the most difficult climb of the entire 500 miles journey. I just needed to power through to Roncesvalles. 

The way started in the hillside neighborhoods above St. Jean Pied de Port, climbing sharp up through sloping farmland. I wound around green hills and up into the fog, surrounded by the hollow clink of bells. Every once in a while one of the horses or cows the bells were attached to appeared quite suddenly right beside or in front of me. Seeing just the next 20 meters of trail, and the alpine brush immediately surrounding me was at times both peaceful and erie. And I tried hard to lose track of time, to stop counting each individual burning step up each next hillock. And as I rose higher, where brush gave over more to rock, and as the day's hikers spread out, I looked around and realized it was just me and a herd of tired-looking sheep scratching it out here against the mountain. It was nice, until the sky started its complaints. And even then it was nice. But all the nice was overshadowed by my persistent worry. 

I could say so much more. About how halfway I sat down unexpectedly with the sudden and sure intention of crying for exactly 30 seconds before making myself move on. But I didn't need to do that, even, because out of the fog right then appeared a retired couple from Missoula and I hopped up to join them. Though I prefer to walk alone, right at that moment I needed something different. I could also tell you about the man from Mexico City, who I happened upon just as the rain started and we both stopped to cover our bags and selves. He and I walked the last five miles together, and his kind pace and honest conversation was a bigger help than I realized even at the time. He was walking the Camino to try and change his way of thinking, he said. It struck me, then, that in a long day of walking mostly alone, I had come across people only and at exactly the times I needed someone else to talk to. 

And now it's the next morning, nearly 7 am, and the hundred or so people I shared this ancient room with have been stirring for nearly an hour and are strapping on backpacks and mostly dry shoes. Myself, I will wait for the light, and for a little room to move around. And I want a moment to enjoy the medieval-era monastery we slept in, row upon row of bunk beds lining its slate bricked walls, beneath deep chinks of window with  scratched stained glass still dark beneath an early sky. 

Also, it's raining. Shit. 

Roncevalles Monastery