About a year ago, I came across Hape Kerkeling’s memoir about walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, a Christian pilgrimage route to the remains of St. James in the city of Santiago. Kerkeling followed the main route, the Camino Frances, which began at the edge of France and continued along northern Spain for approximately 780 km. The ordeal lasted about a month and pilgrims stayed in special accommodations, albergues or refugios, along the way. The albergues were on a first come, first serve basis and pilgrims slept in communal bunk beds for only one night at a time.
As a child, I had hiked in the mountains surrounding Bogotá with my family, but didn’t commit to the hobby until I lived in Indonesia, where the verdant fecundity of the land had sprouted gentle mountains and volcanoes.
I continued hiking in Peru, on mountains free of the blight of civilization, where epiphanies proliferated and truth seemed attainable.
Hiking was a form of walking meditation. The simplicity of walking toward a goal and carrying all I ever needed on my back was liberating. Bathing and changing clothes was a luxury. Eating was a reward that lightened the weight on my back, and the only persistent thought I ever had was the level of my water supply. I moved to North Carolina and frequented the state and national parks. I became infatuated with the Appalachian Trail.
The Camino de Santiago marked a new period in my life. I embarked on the walk with my father the summer before returning to school full-time in an attempt to switch careers.
The first day on the Camino proved cool and overcast. I was overambitious and carried camping equipment. I felt alive and truly human. I shed worldly worries. Bills, assignments, tests, Monday meetings, and deadlines no longer beleaguered me. The scenery was captivating and desolate. A fog that rolled in halfway through the day and obscured the surroundings stripped the act of walking even further. I cleared my mind to match the white that enveloped me. I walked over 30 km that day across the border and through small Spanish towns.
Halfway through the second day, my right knee began to ache beneath the pressure of an unnecessarily heavy backpack. I lightened my load by dumping my tent on a plank of wood along the trail and hoped that a stronger pilgrim would scoop it up.
My knee throbbed that night and the pain heightened the next morning until walking along level ground became excruciating. I popped ibuprofen, rubbed anti-inflammatory menthol cream on my knee, and wore a brace before walking the remaining kilometers to one of the few cities along the Camino.
We rested for a few days and the knee pain never completely abated, but I was able to walk. I wore the brace on days with inclines and declines. Various muscle groups would take turns complaining throughout the day. Limbs would swell and change color. We would periodically lose sensation in our legs, shoulders, arms, and hands. Bodily pain soon became chronic. My muscles would continue to ache while I slept and occasionally awaken me during the night, begging for some alleviation when all I could promise was a change in position.
I began to encounter other injured pilgrims. Many wore knee braces. Some shuffled along in sandals with bandaged bloody ankles. Others had a noticeable limp as they walked, yet they all endured their pain better than I ever could. They never complained. We would greet each other with “Buen camino” and a smile and continue on our way.
We would wake before sunrise and depart in blue hours when shadows stretched along the path and the air was still. The sun would quietly rise without our notice and brighten our surroundings. We usually stopped in the early afternoon before the summer heat became too oppressive. We lolled for the rest of the day, resting our sore bodies and reveling in the lightness of walking without a backpack. We bathed and washed our clothes and tended to our wounds. Menthol frequently perfumed the air. We consumed large three-course meals that included a full bottle of wine before fitfully sleeping amid the snoring, the occasional shuffle and light of someone entering and leaving the communal bathroom, and the modern beeps of text messages.
I began to meet the same pilgrims following similar walking schedules. We greeted each other on the trail and slept in the same albergues. We exchanged stories, spoke of universal topics, and blushed when we faced a language barrier. I met very few Americans. Most were European. There were many Germans, a few Australians, and a large contingent of deeply religious Koreans who had also quit their jobs to complete the walk. I wished I could share their enthusiasm. They faced more challenges than I could complain of: bed bugs, wretched knees and injuries, and lack of money.
They were kind and generous. One French woman offered a bag of fresh cherries when I had propped up my legs to cool my burning feet. An American woman shared her breakfast with us and gave us a bag of almonds after we confessed we had been ill-prepared the day before. These small presents were more for the mind than for the body. I quickly learned that the body was capable of responding to physical demands with low fuel. But long walks with little food and water were still trials of necessity and not of choice.
During pain-free moments, I experienced a fraction of the elation I knew the other pilgrims nurtured. The birds sang sweeter. The rustle of the wind across leaves soothed. The rhythmic sound of hiking poles striking the ground beneath us hypnotized. The wildflowers that bloomed on mountain faces in purple, yellow, and white held the secret to all that was charming and good. I yearned to lounge on a boulder along the trail and learn.
But then the pain would stir. The elderly inhabitants of farming communities we traversed became a portent. Most of them had bad knees and wielded walking sticks. Some elderly farmers had permanently bent backs, but continued to toil in their fields. I recalled a middle-aged woman whose crooked knees prevented her from climbing the steps of a bus I was riding in Peru. I regressed to darker thoughts.
I entertained the thought of quitting several times, had debates with myself on the merits and losses of continuing. I succumbed to modern thoughts. I pondered whether the physical toll of a month of walking was worth reaching Santiago when neither of us was Christian and we had seemingly chosen to walk on a whim. Financial costs, another worldly worry now that I no longer had a steady income, became unimportant. I imagined spending the remaining weeks bouncing from one beach town to another, sprawling on exceptionally comfortable hotel beds, sleeping in past 6, and joining the ranks of tourists admiring beautiful things.
Quitting is shameful and unacceptable. How many movies have been made about the underdog succeeding? About the importance of finishing whatever you’ve started despite all obstacles? In my most petulant moments I thought all those screenwriters were fools. I wanted them here with me enduring this trial, but then the sight of another injured pilgrim mollified my selfish thoughts. I gritted my teeth, I cried when no one was around, I cursed my apparently low threshold of pain, and continued.
Near the end of the walk, as the numbers on the kilometer markers dwindled to two digits, ambivalence replaced the necessity of enduring. Other pilgrims were wistful and lamented that the walk would soon be over. But Santiago remained distant and unreachable even on the last day. As we crossed a bridge into the outskirts of the city, even when I glimpsed the sign proclaiming Santiago, I still could not believe. Those last few hours walking toward the historic center of town became otherworldly. We were suddenly thrust into civilization after weeks of walking in the countryside, through villages, and only a handful of cities. As we neared the center of town, large tour groups divided us from other pilgrims. The lanes narrowed as we dodged pedestrians in our sleepwalk to the end. We followed alleys until we were abruptly expelled onto a large courtyard overlooking the cathedral of Santiago where long tourist lines waited.
After receiving our compostelas, or certificates of completion, I returned to the cathedral and sat on a pew within its shadowed confines. I had lost sight of the pilgrims. I retreated to the darkness within the cathedral and closed my eyes. I was done. I would no longer have to follow conch shell markers or yellow arrows pointing the way to Santiago across the entire breadth of a country. Yet I was seized by melancholy that overpowered any relief I had at finally reaching the end. I belatedly understood the regret other pilgrims had foreseen.
Some decided on walking an additional three days to Finisterre, believed to be the historical end of the pilgrimage, prolonging their life as a pilgrim and heeding the simple rhythm of the Camino. I returned home. Weeks passed and the memory of pain rapidly faded. A sense of loss strengthened and I found myself only missing the Camino.
Michelle Ong is a native Texan that lives in North Carolina. She recently finished walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.