I missed it when I actually stepped over the line separating Castille & Leon from the Spanish state of Galicia. I had looked for geographic signs and saw many over the past 3 days, or so but I flat out missed the formal crossing. I don’t know the history in order to understand the Celtic connection with this northwestern part of Spain, but if greenery attracts the Celts, there’s plenty of it here in Galicia. And mountains too, not rugged and two miles high like we find in Colorado, but definitely not hills. So far this looks like a rich agricultural region. I’m seeing a lot of cows and evidence of a cheese making industry, both from cow’s and goat’s milk. Also saw chickens running around, grapes growing for wine, and other cottage gardening and fruit orchards. There are also a lot of contented looking horses. In sum, this is a very idyllic place, and chilly this night as I write these notes regarding Galicia.

As I was walking what I hoped to be the last mile or so of today’s 18 or 19 I heard a commotion down the dirt road I was about to turn onto. Then this happened . . . right place, right time. Hope you enjoy this.

Granted, most pilgrims of yore were not on John Brierley’s 33 stage St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela plan, but beyond that I think the days of a modern day pilgrim are quite similar to those of earlier days. One rises, today more often to an alarm, them to the light of the sun or the crow of a rooster. Some of us pull the covers over our heads, thinking we might negotiate another 10 minutes or an hour. But the reality of moving on is compelling. Pack up the sleeping bag, bundle your belongings, and sip some coffee, eat a crust of bread, and comtemplate the day’s journey.

It’s risky to leave too early without the benefit of light to see the way. I can attest to the calamity of missing a turn marker and having to retrace or, worse yet, continue sure that you “know” the way. Once you have your bearings, you walk and walk and walk, eyes detecting the numerous roots, rocks, or other impediments waiting to grap your toe and send you tumbling to the ground. Your eyes also scan the horizon for a distant Pilgrim Village, a place to stop for a moment, regain your breath, and replenish your water. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.

In the Pilgrim Villages the modern day pilgrim has the best opportunity to sit in the same shade as pilgrims long ago. The narrow streets through these places have invited a myriad of footsteps over the centuries. It’s impossible to walk the path and not be touched by those who have passed before you.

Exhaustion tells you it is time to find a place to sup and rest your head for the night. But first you must find that shelter, that bed. You must also refresh yourself for the late afternoon and evening, for the day is not yet done. There are clothes to be washed and hung to dry. A meal to be prepared, or received from a gracious host. In modern day this is at a price of coins or bills, but one still finds albergues which lay out food for a donation.

And now this morning’s host is signaling that it is time to vacate his hostel so he can prepare for another straggling line of pilgrims later today, as last night’s guests turn their eyes to the road, looking for The Way.

I heard distant music as I stopped to replenish my water supply. At first I thought a larger band might be gathering but then this happened. Sorry there’s no polished fade in/out but I’m working with what I’ve got.

I had stopped to replenish my water supply and heard music. At first I thought it was a larger band but then this trio marched down the street. Right place at the right time.

Yes, this famous route, the French Route, of the Camino de Santiago has been in constant use for centuries. In truth, the use has seen ebbs and flows, with recent years showing a dramatic up-tick. Nevertheless, the historians and others have a general idea of the pathways which make up the Camino.

I had only thought vaguely about this until my feet were actually moving along the marked paths. After hearing from a fellow from South Africa who is working at restoration of one of the hundreds of churches along the way about the contemporary work being done to excavate not only the area around “his” church, but also the Camino itself, I began to realize that what we walk today is and is not the Camino de Santiago. I speak with no authority here, only supposition, but I would guess that parts of the route have been paved over, built over, or eroded away.

But as I walked through Hornillos del Camino and then, 13 miles later, Castrojerez with a couple of other spots on the map in between, I learned I was walking through villages which have been serving the pilgrims with food, lodging, health care and, most importantly, water, for at least 5 or 6 centuries. When walking these streets, sometimes only a throughway and a few sideways, my feet and those of my fellow modern pilgrims are actually stepping on the footfalls of the earliest pilgrims to Santiago.

As with all archaeology, I am both respectful and curious about the science and the art. As I walk the Camino, I listen for whispers, for moans, for the sounds of those who have previously passed. I look for the spirits of those who never made it to Santiago de Compostela, or even beyond to Finesterre (End of the Earth). But those who are doing the excavations must surely look for other than bones in finding the old ways. I’m sure there must be thousands of marked and unmarked graves along this way, but also bits of sandals, or what? What else remains but the spirit in marking the True Pilgrim Path?

Day 11 began in an atypical manner for this trip, thus far, for I splurged a bit on a big breakfast of eggs, chorizo, and potatoes, that of course with some of the great Spanish bread. Oh! Also a great cafe Americano. This definitely got the day off to a good start as I joined my Irish friends Pat and Margaret again for 14 miles through a rolling agricultural landscape. I’ve got lots of pictures, but haven’t yet figured out how to move them from the phone to the tablet from which I compose the blog. However, I do have a couple of pictures taken with the tablet to show you where I am right now. First there’s one of the two (at least) churches in this small town of 2000. I’m in Belorado.

The Iglesia Santa Maria

It is said that hermits once lived in caves in the cliff behind the church. Also, the construction of the church is reminder that villages had to do everything they could to defend themselves. Defensive walls were built around the core of the village, and this church served that enclosed population. It has a beautiful altar.

But back to the day of walking. Pat, the Irishman, is a fast walker, but he slows his pace now and then to accomodate the more deliberate pace of his wife, Margaret. Along the way, Pat is a talker, sometimes to himself as no one is near enough to hear, even Margaret, who is accustomed to his accent and fast speech. We admired the generally good quality of the path surfaces, mindful that most of the way closely paralleled a major highway. The path ranged from gravel two track country road, to asphalt, to hard packed dirt. There was even one stretch of concrete. For the most part it made for good pace.

I slowed, or stopped, several times to interview folks along the way. Pat and Margaret have a good knack for identifying a good subject and are now fully committed to my project of interviews. They will point out those whom they have talked to and that they think have a good spin to offer, and they are almost always right. I talked to a Bosnian fellow who was born in New Zealand, where his parents fled. Stefan was full of his 23 year old spirit and glad to spend time talking to me about his experiences as a musician and sometime radio host. He thought it cool to be talking to an (almost) 70 year old viejo walking the 500 miles alongside him. I thought it pretty cool to be recording some of his energy and enthusiasm.

It’s fun to mix things up and talk to both young and old and in between. It will make a nicer story if ever I braid it all together into something or other. Two older French women came along at a blistering pace for a 68 and 70 year old, especially considering they were pulling carts behind them rather than wearing backpacks. The spoke very little English, but at least I got their voices into my recorder. A 64 year old guy from Southern California, walking his first Camino in an extended way (beginning just two days south of Paris), had formed a pack with the French ladies who were setting a pace for him. Brian has been recently laid off from what I suppose was work as a structural engineer, after 28 years with the company. He admitted that part of his reason for being on the Camino was to put his termination experience behind him. But he also admitted he thought he might also be paying for some of his past mis-steps – he was careful to not use the words “sins.” He’s quite affable and I am sure I will walk alongside him again in the days ahead.

Rain clouds cooled us throughout much of the day without ever raining, but now thunder is in the distance and the air has a rain cooled quality. There is rain in the forecast, especially for Thursday. I’m not looking forward to that, but it comes with the Camino package. There’s no covered pathway to duck into. You just put on the slickers or, in my case the poncho, and keep moving toward Santiago. Tomorrow will be day 12 and I’m prepared for whatever is offered.

For those who may be keeping score based on the 33 day itinerary suggested by John Brierly, author of “A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago,” the same plan I typed out for a few, I am one day behind because of breaking one of the first 10 legs into two halves. But still, I am feeling confident that I will arrive in Santiago on my 70th birthday or a few days before. I hear they have a big party planned for me.

Here’s a picture out the window where I sit writing. Sorry it’s a little dark, but maybe you can see pears and figs growing on the trees.

It hasn’t yet been 2 weeks since I set out on this adventure of a lifetime, to walk the historic Camino de Santiago French Route, a distance of just under 500 miles across a good portion of NW Spain. I can tell you this because I count from my departure from San Antonio on August 21 and it is now . . . what?

One of the numerous surprises so far is how time slips away from you when every day your purpose is to lace up your boots and walk. I suppose everyone anticipates such things – isn’t this why many of us are out here, to clear our minds of routine and other burdens of our regular lives – yet the way it happens is something miraculous. And every reaction I’ve seen to this is amazing as well, usually a laugh, then a river of laughter, when a group of people speaking to each other admit that no one has the slightest idea of time of day, the date, or sometimes even the hour. As Willie says it: Funny how times slips away.

The varied topography through which one walks along the Camino is similarly deceptive. It has been a new surprise, a new horizon, every day and beyond every turn in the road. Surfaces are hard, sometimes unstable, hard asphalt, harder cobblestones; when lucky a hardened earthen trail stretches out in front of you. I have walked along paths with head high reeds along either side of a slender footway. I have walked through oak and pine forest, providing welcome relief from the brilliant light of the sun.

The past several days have been through agricultural areas, mostly vineyards, but with hay, sugar beets and who knows what else in the mix. The earlier days of passing a variety of livestock, many of the animals hung with deep, resonant bells, much as Mahler must have had in mind, are gone. This land is now with a reddish tint to the soil and distant horizons, mountains and foothills still visible. The distance disguises itself such that what appears a 10 or 15 minute walk away becomes an hour or more. Small villages appear in the distance, sometimes three or more depending what way you are looking. One afternoon I was mesmerized by a village atop a hill, nature providing it some of the defenses it needed from those of ill intention. It was hours before I actually climbed the hill to walk the narrow streets.

I ran into a 78 year old German lady today, walking alone. She remarked on the intensity of the sun, but also of the promise which takes such a long time to mature – to reach a village suspended in time and distance.

It’s a question I ask every day, of myself and others, why are you walking the Camino de Santiago? I have yet to find anyone with a decisive answer. We are all here for a variety of reasons: the physical challenge, the possibility of a spritual discovery, to walk in the steps of others centuries ago – those begin to explain why I’m here. Others have told me they are doing it as a companion to someone else, the Colombian gentleman walking it with his sister, also several mothers walking with their young adult children.

On the Camino I see people of all ages. There’s a group of young girls with a chaperone who seems very unobtrusve (in the best way). I am enjoying watching the young people, suffering the same sore muscles, limping up and down the stairsteps at the end of the day, but enthusiastic in conversation and bits of song as I sit here on the patio writing. So far, I believe I’ve seen only a few who look to be older than I, though I heard from someone they had talked to someone 81 years old, though not looking it.

Many will fail at their intention of reaching Santiago de Compostela, either underestimating the time it would take, or falling to various physical ailments. Some are walking the 500 miles in segments, a third this year, a third another, etc, and some will skip over parts, fervent only in the desire to walk the final distance from Sarria to Santiago. Of course many are limited by vacation leave. One young man from Denmark I talked to said once he made the decision to come to Spain to walk the Camino he entered his supervisor’s office with his resignation in hand. Either allow me 6 weeks of leave, or accept my resignation, he said. They gave him the leave.

Circling back to why, I have mentioned in a previous post my regret that Cameron Kopf died before he could wish me well another time in my endeavor. But I also must mention others for whom I am walking. There’s family, my brother and two sisters who are following my every step. Then there are family members battling a variety of physical ailments. I’m thinking of the struggles being fought every day by my nephew Riley. And then there is my brother-in-law Lee. Get better soon! You too, niece Laura. You will prevail.

I would also be remiss to not mention those around me who have fallen, almost always before their times. 102 year old Ruth, who threatened to propose to me at her 99th birthday; Richard Teitz, who set a standard of living life to the fullest for all who knew him; and Tim Bishop and Dean Witten, two fine percussionists who may or may not have known each other.

My neighbors in San Antonio, Hope and George, also asked for prayers. And then there are Steve Hager and his wonderful family. I don’t carry the same religious convictions they carry, but my thoughts are with them all as I make this pilgrimage of a lifetime.

I saw someone remarking some time ago of “yes, another XII Century church” and I suppose it may get monotonous in some way. So allow me to say that I currently sit in the shadow of Iglesia San Andres, thought to have been built in the mid XII Century. I don’t know I will have a chance to go inside, but I am certainly enjoying the massive bells ringing on the hour and quarter hour. I keep my recorder handy but usually by the time it boots up, the bells have finished their ringing. Neverthelss, this will not deter me from recording a wide range of bells, not only church bells, but the bells tied around the necks of sheep, cattle, and horses. I’ve got them all.

This is day four of walking to Santiago de Compostela and my body begins to weary. There’s been a different challenge every day and tomorrow begins with stoney uphill track to a peak topped by a huge steel cross. Along the ridge which ascends to the peak is an array of wind turbines. They seem to be taunting Don Quixote or any other latter day clone to try his lance on them. The steep uphill is followed, according to the guide book, a steeper downhill which finally mellows out as it arrives at where I would have liked to arrive today.

It was not to be. I needed to stick around Pamplona to absorb its atmosphere a few hours more. Maybe I needed another night there, but I decided to keep moving after getting a Spanish sim card installed into my phone. Seems to be working fine, though I haven’t tried to use the phone as a phone. Maybe sometime later.

I still had thoughts I might make it a little further along, but things went awry. I’m glad the blame is not on the Gitana whom I skirted around after a Spanish gentleman gave me warning with the finger to the eye – danger ahead – signal. Haven’t seen that since Mexico, but the situation reminded me of a time in Florence back in 1993 when the Gitana managed to pick my passport out of a fanny pack. I wasn’t about to allow that again.

All I can say is that it would be pointless for you to ask me “Do you know the way to San Jose?” or any other place. I’m admitting it. I have a talent for getting lost, losing my way, and even Google Maps didn’t help. I had just congratulated myself on following the Camino signs so carefully, had even stopped to take a picture of one so I could brag later. That’s when I missed one as I was leaving Pamplona. I became nervous when I hadn’t seen one in quite a long while, so I turned around. A group of young university looking people came around the corner, with packs on their backs. I thought surely they were pilgrims like me, but whatever their quest was wasn’t mine. They landed at a large outdoor table in front of a restaurant. I admitted to them I was lost, so someone immediately called up a map on their phone and said “go this way and you’ll find the Camino.”

Their advice to go “this way” didn’t seem to be working. I had doubts but wasn’t ready yet to hail a cab. I could see the windmills in the distance, and the cross high atop a peak, so I knew I had to go that direction. But still I was flummoxed and losing courage. I just wanted to see one of those signs for the Camino, or someone ahead of me carrying a backpack. That’s when a police car pulled up. I told them I was lost. Donde esta el Camino? I asked. One guy jumped out of the car and said “Mira.” He pointed a direction. Go that way past “dos puentes” and you will find the path. I walked and walked, searching for that second bridge.

I guess my distress was sending out an SOS, for a young college girl named Gloria came along and asked if she could help me. She actually walked me to the next sign, not quite holding my hand, but certainly reassuring. “Thank you. Gracias,” I said. She replied “Buen Camino” as I went my way and she her’s. That’s the way my day went. How was yours?

When I finally locked in my trip to Spain, to walk the Camino de Santiago, my friend Cameron Kopf had one of the most enthusiastic responses. He was truly excited for me, and looked forward to following my Facebook posts and subscribing to this blog. Those who knew Cameron know that he could fill a space with his positive vibe. He loved life, and to share his love for it with everyone near and far. I didn’t know Cam all that well, yet we shared a friendship important to us both. We had met in Mexico, where both he and I played French horn in various of the orchestras. I saw him next four years ago when I bumped into him playing a concert with another good hornplaying friend, Susan Vollmer. I was in San Francisco to run the SF Marathon. Sue has been living and working in SF for years. Cam lived up in the mountains somewhere, but remained busy as a freelance horn player and then as leader and tuba player of a mixed ensemble of musicians.

Sadly, Cameron passed away about 10 days before I left for Spain, victim of a massive heart attack. The last thing he had posted on my FB page was something to the effect he believed in a past life I had been a Pilgrim walking the Camino. I thought about Cam and his last comments as yesterday I walked through the pass from St. Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles, through the Pyrenees, especially when I walked past this cross, high in the mountains with swirling fog all around.

Rest in Peace, Cameron. I know you wouldn’t miss my adventure. I’m sure you are along for the walk.

But I did manage to get out alive. Set out for Roncesvalles on the other side of the pass and arrived at destination over 8 hours later. About 18 miles, but a lot of up and down, not particulary easy. The road started steep for the first 10 km or so of the total distance listed of 27. Don’t mess with the math. I think I did a bit more, allowing for a wrong turn or two. To be fair, the scenery ranged from pastoral to spectacular – pictures will come – and parts of “the way” were very manageable, allowing you to get into a nice rhythm.

A light rain began early and stayed with me for most of the hike. It would occassionally get a bit heavier, made worse by the fact it was a blowing rain. Elevation gain was 4500′ and the surface ranged from pavement, lightly traveled, to two track dirt, to several rather long stretches of loose stone, real potential for rolling an ankle, which I didn’t. In addition to the rain, fog descended early and never lifted. It was very disorienting. The blowing rain made the poncho mostly useless. Everything in the pack except for some electonics in a dry bag got pretty wet. I’m waiting for the dryer where I’m sleeping tonight to become available, though I’m afraid there may be more rain tomorrow. If so, I will try a more secure way of wrapping the poncho around the pack.

The accomodations I chose for tonight, and for most of the camino is a rather large hostel which is connected to a very old nunnery. I think that’s what I read, and I haven’t been out yet to walk the grounds. Volunteers from Holland, with very good command of English, manage the check-ins and bed assignments. This is nothing like what I had last night, sharing a room with six others. Tonight’s is a room lined with bunkbeds, but the price is very cheap and perhaps some of the youthful energy of these roommates will wear off on me.

For the record, I crossed the unsecured border, no fences, no passports checked, no visa, into Spain. My Espanol will serve me, and perhaps improve. I was lost trying to communicate in French. I’ve met so far folks from Vermont, France, England, Ireland, Colombia, Australia, and the Dominican Republic.

And for a joke. An Irishman, a fellow from the Dominican Republic, and an American walk into a bar – lost. “Can anyone tell us how to get to the Camino de Santiago?” The Irish fellow and the one from the DR were bicycling. I ran into them near the pass through the Pyrenees, and we found ourselve lost together, having missed a turn marker. Thankfully the guy from DR had good GPS and the Irishman had a great sense of humor.