It’s been a great 42 days I’ve spent in Spain, well, the first day was in France, walking the amazing Camino de Santiago. I started this odyssey months ago, searching for the appropriate adventure with which to celebrate my 70th birthday. Funny, no other decade crossing birthdays had ever compelled me to do something big, I mean really big. But this one felt different. Inspired by what I saw of others who were doing great trekking ventures, and challenged by what I began reading of the Camino de Santiago, French Way, I began dreaming of such a marker for the turn into my 8th decade.

I finally said it out loud a year ago as I vacationed with siblings in Colorado. No one seemed particularly stunned. I think they just thought it was a “thing” that I would forget about. And I almost did, until one of the every other month lunches with a group of friends, all of whom would come to the table with tales of their latest vacations to at times distant lands. It was my turn. I told them I was going to walk 500 miles to celebrate turning 70. That’s interesting, was the overall reaction, and nothing more was said.

The trip was almost aborted as I juggled air fares and other expenses and found my propensity for frugality was making it difficult to move forward. I became paralyzed at the thought of such expenses, not to mention finding a dog/housesitter and getting permission to be absent from other obligations for almost 7 weeks. In the end, I finally bit the bullet and started booking flights, usually getting to the point of entering credit card numbers, then back-peddling. One night, I finally pulled the trigger, loosing a flood of doubts, mostly whether it was within my physical means to walk 500 miles.

The early days of the Camino, starting with a strenuous day one up and over the Pyrenees, did nothing to allay my fears. Blisters rose on my heels, then the balls of my feet. My right knee reminded me of a previous running injury. My sister Kay, dogsitting my mutts, responded to my litany of injuries and doubts: “You’re not going to quit, are you?” The thought of a DNF (did not finish) prompted me to keep walking. I nursed the blisters, wrapped the bad knee in an ACE wrap, and kept going.

In the month or so before D-Day, I had wondered, often out loud to anyone who would listen, that nothing I had ever done prepared me for consecutive days of walking 12-20 miles per day. How would I feel at 50 miles, 100? On the Camino those answers were revealed. I kept walking, aimlessly lost a few times, but I kept going. One hundred miles became 250, a week became 3 weeks, I kept walking. Thanks to new made friends Pat and Margaret, I managed to stay mostly on the right track. Thanks to Pablo, I grew to respect the other walkers, everyone walking a different Camino. Thanks to Louise and Max for the many times we shared our varied intentions.

More than a few days on particularly rough trail reminded me that I was a twisted ankle or knee, or an inadvertent stumble, from the dreaded DNF. The only proof of mission accomplished would be arriving at Santiago de Compostela, perhaps even presenting my Pilgrim Passport as evidence I might be awarded the Compostela.

On the final day of the Camino de Santiago (I would go on to walk four days further to Finisterre) I walked a number of kilometers with Sami, a Canadian doctor. We were startled at one point to see an EasyJet descending just above our heads, landing at the Santiago airport. Today I came full circle, one of what I’m sure will eventually connect other completed circles. As my Ryanair jet to London taxied the Santiago runway for takeoff I looked out the window to see the Camino, the exact spot where EasyJet had startled on that final day to Santiago. Ryanair turned 180 degrees to make its powerful dash, then leap, into the space above. As we became airborne I said my farewell to Espana, at least for now. Thanks to St. James for his plentiful gifts.