Where to start, where to finish (Distance walked 25.1 km (15.5 mi/16.0Strava) to go - 753.4)

The calendar tells me it's Saturday the 12th of May. That simple fact tells me that already I am a day behind. When you hear about the day I had yesterday, you'll know why!

I had taken a down day before even startingMy Camino. That was probably a good thing. 

The historic district in St. Jean Pied de Port

On Friday morning things started early. In discussions with fellow peregrinos we had become somewhat familiar with the people with whom we would interact throughout the first couple days, up to the point where our physical capabilities would sort us into turtles and hares.

Julian, or JJ as he is sometimes known, is from near London and an experienced and capable hiker. Pauline likes to walk around her town until she gets tired and takes the bus home. Ashley is from down under but also has some hiking experience. Sarah is from Amsterdam and a very capable hiker also. Jeremy is... I forget. I believe he is from Los Angeles by way of Australia. There were many others gathered for breakfast that first day; a gentleman from Bay Village, Ohio and two Japanese gentleman, both octogenarians and beginning their first Camino. But the best story of the morning definitely belonged to Ashley.

She had a long trip to St. Jean and, after checking in, was anxious to get a good nights sleep as she wanted to begin the long trek from St. Jean to Roncevalles about seven a.m., after a hearty breakfast. She laid down and fell instantly asleep. When she woke up it was already 8 o'clock and the sun was up! Her first day and she overslept. She went to the lunch room and frantically asked if she could still get breakfast. Several people told her that breakfast was long since done. So she went up to the Pilgrim's Office to see if they thought there was still time for her to make it to Roncevalles. The office was just opening but they told her it would be impossible to make it at this late hour. She thought she had blown her big start. Eventually somebody realized what her confusion was all about. She had slept for an hour, not 13 hours. Of course breakfast was not available and she didn't have time to hike to Roncevalles, it was now 9 p.m! She was not used to the sun being up that late and the office was just re-opened after the evening meal hours! So we kidded her about starting on day 2!

The journey of a thousand miles starts with but a single step - Lao Tzu

So I guess the journey of 500 miles starts with a half step?

Jeremy, Julian, Pauline and I started out of St. Jean together about 6:45. We had not even made it out of the historic district when the road began to climb... and climb, and climb. 

For the next 12 miles the road rose relentlessly without break and without pity. It was somewhere around 8 km (5 miles) that the pain set in. I had already released the group from any thoughts of hanging back with me. This was going to be ugly, like having your fingernails pulled one at a time, only worse! I had thought about listing the body parts that hurt in the order they began to hurt. But I lost track of the order as the list grew.

I believe the pain was due to my being insufficiently prepared physically and because I drank only water and not a sports drink with electrolytes, coupled with my age. I have done a fair amount of hiking, but not much in the last 8 years or so.

So here is a list, on a 1-10 scale, with a number after each body part to approximate the pain I endured over the 16 miles that we hiked that day:

Left big toe 2

Right big toe 1

Both little toes 2

Left ankle 1

Right ankle 2*

Left calf muscle 8+**

Right calf muscle 6

Left knee 3

Right knee 3

Left thigh 6

Right thigh 8 **

Left hip 6

Right hip 3

* the right ankle hurt a little but the strange part is that it seized up with a cramp on a couple of occasions. My foot turned inward and tipped inward also, so that I could not straighten it and could not walk on it as the only part of the foot that contacted the ground was the outside of the foot.

** the left calf and right thigh took turns dropping me to the ground. The muscle cramped so severely that the leg could not be straightened, and it would be excruciatingly painful for more than a minute while I rubbed furiously to get the pain to subside.

Hikers often say, or have people tell them, "Listen to your body." My body was screaming at the top of my over-worked lungs, "let's go home!"

There was a food truck near the pinnacle of the climb that allowed me to get a banana and even more water. A short distance later we came to a couple of vehicles that could have carried me back down off of the mountain. I could see the top about a hundred feet ahead and thought that, once on the downhill side of the apex, I would be working different muscles and all would be better. The top, even as close as it appeared while lying on my backside in a field of sheep-stuff, would prove nearly impossible however. Then along came Ashley. She had electrolytes in pill form and I dropped one in my water bottle, shook several times and drank vociferously.

I even thought briefly of crawling back figuratively to the rescue vehicle, still clearly visible below. Eventually the full-locked position of my legs subsided, the determination returned, and I was able to make it over the pass.

The downhill side was still a challenge, but the chemical additions to my body paid quick dividends. I was proud to limp into the monastery at Hostel Roncevallis-Orreaga; sore, slow, tired but victorious. The climb is still THE story, as pilgrims share their story with each other.

I don't want, by virtue of over emphasis, to lead you to believe it was a miserable day; painful but not miserable. There were many other story lines:

The early start with clear skies allowed us to take in a wonderful French sunrise.

As the elevation and temperature rose we were greeted by incredibly beautiful vistas as the mist slowly burned off.

There was a powerful headwind all day as we climbed, making the climb even more difficult. Gusts sometimes threatened shaky legs in the battle to stay upright.

At one point we were given the perfect opportunity to rest when we came to a saddle at an intersection of two very high, narrow roads. Off to the left, among an outcropping of rocks, was a statue of the Madonna and child. 

Many had left remembrances, prayer offerings and other momentos. I saw the perfect opportunity to place one of Betty's rosaries at the sight.

As previously mentioned, one of the reasons I was interested in doing the Camino was to share my late wife's talents, and gift for helping others, with people around the world. She had worked with a group at church that made rosaries for different Catholic groups. When she passed away I had a small collection of these and other rosaries she had collected. I have a plastic bag of them with me, hoping to find appropriate places to donate or leave them.

The light blue Rosary was a work of art from Betty Finnegan

The first of these was left at La Madonna today. I also inquired at the large monastery where I spent last night. They have a table in the hall, available to pilgrims to leave or take, as needed. They gave me permission to leave four of the rosaries on the table and the volunteer I talked to loved the story behind them!

But the most unusual things seem to happen to me and one of those was to be my experience yesterday.

The registration process at the monastary was quite involved given the large number of peregrinos that check in every day. As I (eventually) made it into the registry office and made my way forward in the line I noticed a sign on the wall that said we were to have our passport ready. I asked and found out that they wanted both the peregrinos passport issued by the peregrino's office in St. Jean as well as my international passport. As these were in my pack I had to dismiss myself and go to get them. When I returned I found I had lost my place in line, so I reinserted myself and began to move forward. This time I noticed that they did not take credit cards, so I instinctively reached for my right rear pocket to check which Euro denominations were present. To my chagrin I was unable to unzip the pocket! (I was wearing a brand new pair of REI rain pants with zippered rear pocket). As the line slowly moved forward I continued to tug, pull and otherwise try to force access to the money. Eventually the line advanced to where I was face to face with the registrar, trying to ask if she had a pair of pliers to open my pocket. The language barrier soon subsided when she realized why I needed the pliers.

By this time I was holding up the line as the (female) registrar is now tugging at the rear of my pants and people from all around the world are openly laughing at us! Finally she called over a (female) volunteer who took over the task of tugging at my pants. She soon became aware of others observing this whole ordeal and asked for a man to try, volunteering a gentleman several spots behind me in the queue. He spoke no English so had no idea why he was being shown the seat of my pants. 

A few half hearted attempts later he gave up, so I asked the registrar if I could leave my passports with her and return once money was available. She agreed and I excused myself to see if, in the huge foyer, I could find a Swiss Army knife. 

My first choice was to ask one of the (male) volunteers whom, I had determined previously, knew some English. Apparently there is no Spanish word for Swiss Army knife as he was flummoxed. So he brought in another (female) volunteer to look at my rear end. She made several hearty attempts, then asked me to step outside for better lighting. Among others in the courtyard was a very exhausted man who had just arrived from the trail. He had a multi-blade knife, but there was no pliers included. I had just arrived at the conclusion that I would need to cut the pocket open with the scissors attachment when the (female) volunteer gestured for me to take my pants off.

It may have been the shocked look on my face that prompted her to further explain that, if I had another pair of pants in my pack I could excuse myself, go to the restroom, change pants, THEN go to work on the malfunctioning zipper. Finding this option more to my liking I did exactly that. Once I returned I asked for the man's knife again. The (female) volunteer was now sitting next to her (male) counterpart who asked what was going on. She explained to him and he asked to give it a try. I handed over the pants and he unzipped the pocket - no problem!

I returned to the registrar who gave me my passports and a meal ticket for a group meal at the adjoining restaurante. A quick shower and I walked over to the bar adjacent to the eatery to meet J.J. and Pauline (who had finished their climb in 2+ hours less than I) for a drink.

When 7 o'clock came around I went to the restaurant at The Hotel, as per my meal ticket. I walked in and seated myself among the normal clientele, whom I noticed were dressed quite well. I sat down in my shorts and wet stringy hair, then turned and saw the garson headed my way, nearly running, saying, "no, no no. Other room!" Apparently they entertain pilgrims in a group setting, separated as far as possible from the regulars.

We had a great three course meal and wonderful conversation as nearly every one of the 15 people at the table spoke English, even though they were from Alabama, Kentucky, Germany, Great Britain, Pennsylvania by way of New York City, Norway, Japan and Naples, Italy. 

It was then time to crash, and crash I did. But maybe now you realize why I'm a day behind and will tell you about today, tomorrow.

Twenty cubicles, two beds each! Forty of my closest friends on each of three floors