Climb Every Mountain…

The light from my headlamp pierced the darkness as Gary and I set out that morning. The muddy earth swallowed our shoes as we walked. It had rained all night but fortunately, for us, the rain had stopped and we head out, hoping for dry weather. We planned to meet Kristen at the trailhead for the Hospitales Route, the hardest climb of the entire Primitivo.

The night before we’d bought a slabs of tuna empanada and some chocolate filled cookies from the albergue’s market. There was no place to stop until we reached our destination so we tucked them in our pack and hoped we might at least get a cup of coffee before we began to climb. Kristen was waiting for us on the trail, but Gary and I needed coffee, so we head back to her albergue and to ask the hospitalero if he might spare a cup for her caffeine addicted friends. Fortunately he agreed.

The climb was intense. Up and up and up we went, digging our walking sticks into the earth and lunging forward. Above the clouds the sun broke through and we were surrounded by rolling hills of green, huge swaths of purple and white heather and mountains as far as the eye could see. The landscape was dotted with herds of wild horses and grazing cows that seemed fascinated with us as we walked by. We passed the ruins of three pilgrim hospitals, built in the 1500’s. A reminder that this was the original route to Santiago, the one that King Alfonso II walked as he made his way to witness the bones of St. James the Apostle. I wondered, as I walked, what it might have been like for him as he made this journey. What had he carried as he crossed this land? Where did he sleep? Who were his walking companions? And what did they talk about?

At the crest of the mountains we stopped for lunch. The tuna empanadas were rich and delicious, just the perfect meal for the moment. From where I stood, the mountains gave way to beautiful valleys and then shot up again to touch the sky in magnificent shades of green and blue. Here in this earthly cathedral we were alone, just the three of us. I breathed in the cool mountain air. Felt the sun on my skin and listened to the silence. It seemed to serve as a reminder that we are part of something much larger and more grand than we often realize, just the smallest piece of this planet we call home.

A few hours later we came across a picnic table and sat down to rest, pulling out what was left of the empanadas and cookies from lunch. I was out of water as there’d been no place to refill and the cold that I’d caught a few days earlier was starting to wear me down. On top of that my feet were throbbing. Gary to the rescue! He handed me a couple of Advil and a swig of water, reminding me, of what I’ve learned time and time again on these journeys… the Camino provides.

Soon we were joined by a young British man from the Isle of Man. He pulled out a lunch of canned olives, some cheese and crackers and we chatted for a while. He was walking with a guitar strapped to his pack, playing as he walked. He hoped to learn some of the old spiritual songs along the way. After a bit we bid him farewell, hoping to catch him later on and hear him sing. The path down was difficult. Steep and rocky and I was grateful, once again, to have my walking sticks to steady me as we descended.

We’d managed to avoid the forecasted rain but with just 3 or 4 kilometers to go before we reached the town of Berducedo, the skies opened up and the rain began to fall. We ducked beneath a tree, hoping that we might wait out the heavy down downfall but to no avail. After a while we gave up, walking as quickly as we could while the rain cascaded down our faces and soaked our feet. We arrived at the albergue looking like drowned rats, but we peeled off our rain gear, stuffed our shoes full of newspaper and made our way in for the night.

Coming Friday - The descent to Grandas de Salime (or as I called it Grand Salami)