Everyone has one trip that is their gateway trip to being an adventure addict. For me, it was hiking the Camino de Santiago from April to May 2018 with my oldest brother, Brandon.
Like a lot of people, I had seen the movie The Way, featuring Martin Sheen on his journey to finish the hike his son had started before he died. The film highlighted beautiful landscapes, quirky people, and the struggle of overcoming grief. I was 23 and certainly looking forward to traveling, seeing the countryside, and meeting people. Thankfully, I wasn't battling grief.
This was my first backpacking trip ever, and it was a good one to do. We only had three weeks to hike because of work restrictions (it usually takes a month to do the ~500 miles on the Camino Frances), but this wouldn't get us to the end; we would have to take a bus somewhere in the middle, ending up hiking ~310 miles. Luckily, I wasn't hiking alone, and there would be hostels every evening/frequent towns, so I wasn't concerned about taking much gear.
A Note on Gear
We really didn't need much for this trip. I carried a 65 L backpack, but I would have preferred to have a 45-50 L pack (with hip straps, of course). We did not carry a sleeping system, and we had lighter sleeping bags. It was April/May, but we were in hostels, so it was never too cold; liners weren't necessary. I had two short-sleeved shirts, two pairs of athletic leggings, a sweatshirt, a light jacket, a thermal rain coat, hat, sunglasses, buff, and extra socks (take at least 4 pairs). I swapped out boots for Teva sandals later, which was a common thing to do. On hot, sunny days, wearing long sleeves was important to avoid getting sunburned (and it's better than sunscreen). Hiking poles were great for descents. We did not bring a cooking system or water filtration system because towns were frequent, and we preferred to be more lightweight.
France: Paris, Bayonne, and St. Jean Pied du Port
My first and only time in France was short-lived. There was an issue with the hotel we booked for two nights (they only had us down for one night), and we were overcharged for a one-bed, closet-like room. Foregoing our frustrations, we dove into Paris for some sight seeing, naturally stopping by the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame, and Arc de Triomphe. Only being there one day and not fully experiencing the food, culture, and wonders that Paris had to offer, I was slightly disappointed. I wasn't hit with a culture shock, but I also don't know what I was expecting. We simply grabbed some pizza and beer at a tiny restaurant with three tables, I forgot my Nalgene water bottle (which would be a recurring motif), and we casually had an evening stroll before retiring to our closet space. Instead of staying the second night, we decided to beeline straight for Bayonne via train, one stop short of where our hike would begin in St. Jean Pied du Port.
St. Jean Pied du Port was a cute little town with narrow stone walkways, colored shutters, and bustling people from all over the world. Brandon and I received our pilgrim passports to collect stamps in all the little towns we would pass along the way, and we stayed in our first hostel that night. It was the cheaper hostel run by a tiny, middle-aged, French woman with ten (yes, ten) cats. She lived alone, had a strong attitude, and spoke broken English. I knew some broken French, so we made it work. We quickly learned that she was the village cuckoo. Her neighbors rolled their eyes when she would bang pots and pans, yelling for her cats to return for dinner, but that was okay. I liked that she was different. The only problem was that she required that no one left before 7 AM, and we didn't know the severity of that until the following morning.
Our hostel was packed with 6 to 8 people in one small room with multiple bunk beds. The larger, private room next door was empty, but that was more expensive. I had a hard time falling asleep after one of the guests, a large, dark-bearded man with a heavy accent, made jokes about killing people. However, 6:30 AM came soon enough, so Brandon and I went to the empty large room to pack our bags quietly so we could leave at 7 AM sharp, which was a huge mistake. In a rage, the hostel owner thought we had slept in the larger room that night, and she cursed us for waking up too early."No respect! No respect!" Speaking French without the pressure of being yelled at was hard enough, and I found myself sputtering any words I could think of that would diffuse the situation. Without fully having our bags packed, she began shoving us out of the door, causing me to forgot my hiking poles, phone charger, and camera on the second floor. Luckily, one of the tenants tossed me my camera from the window, and she frustratingly retrieved my hiking poles herself before slamming the door shut. My phone charger was forever left in St. Jean Pied du Port, and, days later, a stranger would recount the story of us at dinner.
Shocked and dumbfounded, Brandon and I exchanged a did that actually just happen look before saying "Well okay then", starting to walk down the quiet, empty, stone cobbled street at dawn. Day 1 had begun.
El Camino
Everyone says that the first day is the hardest on the camino, and that's true, to an extent. A huge elevation gain pushes you over the Pyrenees, but you have a number of rolling hills and climbs throughout the journey too. I made a huge mistake buying boots that were slightly snug, assuming I'd "work them in". This never happened, and it wasn't long before I had massive, painful blisters that restricted my walking. This was my first trip with my brother who is 9 years older than me, and I was just hoping he wouldn't be regretful of me joining him.
The countryside was so beautiful, yet the weather is so temperamental. Early in the trip, we were shrouded in a dense, eerie fog with horses seemingly appearing and dissolving in the void. We crossed stunning farm fields, walked along narrow, dirt pathways between tall, swaying fields of grass, and meandered through the blossoming flowers of spring. During April/May, rapeseed flowers were lighting up the countryside, creating giant pockets of gold that glittered on the horizon. We weren't spared, however. Every now and then, we were hit with a cold drizzle, or we had to hike through a clay terrain with mud glued to our boots, weighing us down. One day, we were even hailed on. We lucked out though: the week before we arrived, there was a snow storm that prevented hikers from crossing the Pyrenees. By the time we got there, only small lumps of snow remained on the side of the trail.
People are wonderful
As always, strangers continue to surprise me with their kindness. We were gifted small tokens here and there, like a beautiful hand-painted seashell, a Buen Camino! patch, and, oftentimes, prayer cards. In the first part of the hike, we met a Romanian named Mihai, a middle-aged man with a soft and cheerful demeanor who was delighted to hike with us, and vice versa. For days, we would lose him, and then we would appear at the same hostel again with a joyful reunion. One morning, he even surprised us with breakfast, and I made a mental note to pay it forward for someone else in the future. We were crushed to have lost him for good one day, without having a way to contact him or keep in touch.
In addition to Mihai, we met two French men in their 70s at a hostel. They were best friends and enjoying retirement. One was tall and skinny, the other shorter and squatter. The communication barrier between us and them was strong, but we would hike past them, and then we would break, and then they would pass us; a backpacker's game of leap frog. On random days, we would hear a "Hellooooo!" from the distance, and, glancing back, we would see our friends a mile behind on a hilltop waving excitedly. There wasn't anything more to this relationship besides the periodic joy of seeing familiar faces, and that was special. When we told them, in poor French, that we would have to bus ahead to Leon from Logrono, we could tell they were disappointed. We were too.
On a particular afternoon, somewhere past the halfway point, I left my pilgrim's passport with all my cherished stamps in a town about 8 miles back. This is pretty standard for me, but there was no way that I was going to backtrack that far. A man who ran a small, empty diner nearby called the location I was previously at and confirmed that my passport was still there. Together, they had arranged that some cyclists heading our way could meet us and return my passport. In disbelief at this stroke of luck, we waited, and, sure enough, a fleet of Spanish men on bikes reunited me with my stamps. My brother just shook his head.
We did connect with a few people long-term, though. We met Lisa, a young woman from the U.S. (I want to say Arizona?) hiking the whole way by herself. She was very easy to chat with, and when we crossed paths again later, she had acquired a pod of hiking buds, including Adam, a tall, red-beaded man from the UK who called us strictly "Pennsylvania" and "Pennsylvania's sister". Adam and Lisa would hit it off and end up in a relationship later. While they aren't together anymore, they are still having epic journeys around the world. Lisa and I also grabbed lunch in Upstate New York when she was passing through one day!
Highlights and Lowlights
One of my favorite moments was exiting Pamplona. It was a beautiful and sunny day, yet cool and breezy, and after passing through the bustling streets where Running of the Bulls occurs, the silence and tranquility of nature set in. The narrow, dirt pathway was empty, except for the periodic cyclist. I felt happy and at peace, enjoying the fresh air and sunlight on my face, passing roadside wildflowers. Poppies were my favorite to pass: their vibrantly large, red heads would stand out and bounce in the wind. This same day, we went to St. Steven's Church, a tiny stone church with a spiral staircase that led to a bell tower overlooking the lush, green countryside. That evening, we paid 20e to shower, do laundry, and have breakfast and dinner. We dined at a large group table with about seven people, and I flexed my mediocre translational skills for two French women. This was the day where someone had told us an intriguing story about a brother and sister who were kicked out of a hostel on their first night and that someone had to throw their gear to them from the second story window. Brandon and I cracked up in disbelief.
I was sad to have missed the section between Logrono and Leon, but we had a flight to catch, and it was the only way we could make it to the end in time. The worst day was when we arrived in Leon. We hiked 20 miles in the wind, rain, hail, and below-freezing weather. We arrived exhausted and weather-beaten to a hostel at 4 PM, and the room was full. Everyone was middle-aged or older, laying in the dark, whispering and occasionally coughing, and we received strange and uncomfortable side-looks. Opting to escape this somber hospital ward, we went to get dinner at the restaurant next door, but it was booked for a birthday event. The waiters seated us anyway in the corner, but, once again, everyone at the event kept glancing at us, the two, dirty, fatigued hikers who didn't belong there.
Our mileage ramped up, and we began averaging about 22 miles a day. Everyday after that was an extreme incline followed by a drastic decline. My feet had swollen so badly that they could not fit into my boots. In town, I had to switch to hiking sandals out of necessity to allow my feet, which were now a size 10 instead of 8.5, room to expand. My feet resembled a latex glove that you inflate with air, and the pain from so much pressure limited me more than my knees. One day, I was in so much pain, that I broke down and cried when a hostel told us they didn't have any vacancy; we had to keep walking.
To get complete credit for hiking El Camino, you really only need to do the last 100 km, and quite frankly, this was the ugliest part of the trip. From Sarria to Compostela, it was uneventful, and the mountains were substituted with highways and open roads. There were a lot more people and a lot more Americans. Curiously, the Americans were odd to us, and we received the most passive aggressive hostility from them. It was almost as if our presence robbed them of having a cultural European experience. We asked one woman where the town hostel was, and she responded, standoffishly, "I don't know, I'm a pilgrim", and then was notably pissed when we shared the hostel with her later.
We were nearing the end of the trip when we met two women in their 30s from Portugal. They were coworkers in the medical field, and we hiked with them the last few days. One was a little more silly, the other more serious. We bonded over language at dinner and learned how we each would say different words or phrases. Basically, beach and bitch are pronounced the exact same way in a Portuguese accent.
Hiking with a sibling is great, but it can obviously be difficult. One entire morning was dedicated to a severe argument over the panhandle of West Virginia and whether our family in western Pennsylvania was technically closer to West Virginia or Ohio. Another time, I was fed up with him pressuring me to hike faster that I snapped and yelled at him; I have a history of bad knees, my too-small boots caused serious foot swelling, and I had enough social pressure from the 70-year-old Europeans completely smoking me on the trail. Our third and final argument was nearing the end of the trip when I made the grave mistake of having a bag of alcohol wipes next to my stamp passport. The wipes leaked and caused all my stamps to bleed together in a beautiful, colorful, oil spill, which was confused for an abstract painting by other hikers. I wasn't very bothered. After all, I didn't need this to prove to myself that I hiked the Camino. So, we fought about this too. The experience was great though: This was truly the first time I was able to bond with my brother as an adult. Being 9 years older than me, he was always in a different stage of life, so it was nice to have this time together.
Santiago de Compostela
When we finally arrived in Santiago de Compostela, we were met with a commercial, modern city that surrounded an older, romantic, historic heart. The old, stone buildings and narrow alleyways filled with people from all over the world, and this was exactly how I pictured the ending to be. I hobbled my way to the pilgrim's office (my feet still hurt badly) to get our certificate when I heard the familiar "Hey! It's Pennsylvania! And Pennsylvania's sister!" I really couldn't think of a better way to finish than by seeing friends and hearing Adam's goofy exclamation. The line to get the final certificate was long, and I took my watercolor passport to one of the stations to be evaluated for accuracy. I gave a pitiful smile as I handed the man my stamp mess, and the man took one look at the very first stamp in St. Jean Pied du Port and the last stamp in Santiago de Compostela. Satisfied, he wrote my name on the certificate and sent me on my way. I was lucky, though: my brother had a woman evaluate every single stamp in his booklet.
We attended the mass at St. James Cathedral and paid our respects. We saw the apostle's tomb under the altar, and it was a little upsetting that most people were concerned with taking photos during the mass instead of having a deep, faithful experience, or, at the very least, being respectful. Though, I really couldn't judge. The pilgrimage was a journey that I expected to take in a more religious way. I carried a rosary, but I only used it a few times. The one time I did use it, people took pictures of me. Still, I would give thanks everyday, but I never had a "spiritual awakening". Honestly, I didn't feel very different, and that's okay.
This trip did provide me with a lot of other things I wasn't expecting. I gained the revelation that I can actually backpack and walk many miles every single day. I fell in love with long-distance hiking, and I knew I wanted to keep doing it in the years to come. Mostly, I met some incredible people from around the world and made wonderful memories, and this solidified my need for travel and backpacking in the outdoors.
I hope that everyone gets a chance to hike El Camino de Santiago some day.
Buen Camino!
A stranger’s Camino miracle
By Adam
I walked the Camino in April 2018, and have fond memories, I aim to retrace my steps in April 2023. These are my words to one memory I have of a special day in a special place.
I remember the details clearly, even after all this time. I had had a long walk into Leon but was rewarded with a bed and the most fantastic ham egg and chips I’ve ever tasted, those yet to walk will learn that you appreciate food even more after a long walk.
I started early the next day and after a few Km’s it had started to rain, I was always unorganised and my wet weather gear was in the bottom of my pack. Already wet I decided to stop into a cafe and take a rest to see if the rain would clear, I treated myself to a cafe con leche, a Camino tradition for many, and waited. The rain didn’t clear and I decided I’d walk over the bridge and find an albergue for the night.
As I left another pilgrim had entered the cafe we greeted each other with the traditional ‘ buen Camino ‘ and I went along my way, who would have known that, thst chance insignificant meeting would still be in my mind to this day.
The next day was just a normal day on the Camino, just one step in front of the other. Partway through the day my dogs were barking and needed a rest, it was then that I saw a sign for a cafe, the Camino does always provide. I went to the cafe and as I placed my bag down and took a seat, the man I exchanged the brief encounter the day before was there, he had an overjoyed expression upon his face, we greeted each other and he commented on our brief meeting the day before.
This man’s name was John Tucker, in his voice there was a great excitement, he excitedly told me how he’d just become a grand parent, his daughter In law back in New York had given birth to his first grandchild, a girl, Leanna, and I was the first person on the Camino he’d told, I felt and still feel honoured that he choose to share this news with me. He packed up his pack and off on his way he went.
I settled down for my break with a warm glow, excited for this stranger and the news he’d received, whilst getting snacks from my bad I stumbled upon the two cigars I’d carried with me, one for me and one for, I don’t know who, but in that moment I decided I’d never find anyone else more deserving on the cigar than John.
I hastily finished my break and set off to catch up John and give him his gift. It took a while but I eventually caught up to him, and he was with another pilgrim, and I gave him the cigar and we walked together.
This is when what I call ‘ the strangers Camino Miracle happened’ we were all in good spirits I think mainly feeding off johns energy, he was walking the Camino he was floating that day. As we walked towards a village I noticed out of the corner of my eye that there was someone just in front to the left of us walking towards us.
It was a woman with blonde hair, I didn’t recognise her, and at first I’m sure John didn’t, but it was his daughter, Elizabeth she had flown from New York to surprise her father, I’ve no idea how she managed to find him I think that was the miracle, but to see this man’s face, who in the space of a few hours had become a grandfather and them had his daughter surprise him from nowhere, is something I’ll never forget.
It’s because of the Camino, because of moments like this, that when life gets me down and it’s not going my way, that I know miracles happen, there is always the chance of unbridled happiness, and I’ll always remember the joy on John’s face.
So keep the faith in times of darkness, miracles happen and you never know what lies around the corner, in John’s case literally.
Buen Camino
- Adam
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