by Alan Lipka

I do not consider myself the adventurous type. Quite honestly, going to the movies qualifies as a risky venture for me. So how in heaven’s name could I ever have found myself in three different countries in three consecutive days and poised to walk across mountain, meseta (plateau in Spain) and countryside to a destination almost 500 miles away? No, this wasn’t me at all.

But find myself, I did, and in many different ways.

The El Camino de Santiago de Compostela is perhaps the most famous Christian pilgrim route in the world. For over ten centuries, people have made their pilgrimage to the city of Santiago in northwestern Spain, where the body of St. James the Apostle resides. There are at least a dozen different routes to Santiago, from origins in Spain itself and as far away as Lisbon, Paris, cities in Germany, Austria, Switzerland and even far off Russia. Millions of peregrinos have chosen to make their way to stand in the great cathedral of Santiago and pay homage to the Saint. With over 1,800 buildings of great historic interest along its path, the Camino has been proclaimed the first European Cultural Itinerary and inscribed as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. All of which was delightful for me to investigate from the comfort of my easy chair until I received a call from my son…

Aaron is definitely an adventurer. He has traveled the world and worn out his share of traveling shoes. He speaks several languages well enough to get by, and when in a pinch, has a knack for mixing them all up so that his idea comes across to whomever he is speaking. I have no idea how he does it. What I do know, is that he used his English to make the prospect of joining him for a walk through Spain a very attractive proposition. How could a father possibly decline the invitation to be with his son and experience a journey of such magnitude?

After surprisingly little discussion, we decided to travel the Camino Francés, a popular route that begins in southwest France at St. Jean Pied de Port. From there, we would hike over the Pyrenees into Spain via the route that Napoleon favored in the Peninsular War. Both of us are military historians, so walking in the footsteps of warriors as well as saints appealed to us. The decision settled and plans made, we began our “walk” by flying to London. A hop to Biarritz via Ryanair brought us to France, and a train to St. Jean put us at our starting point. There, we obtained our Credencial del Peregrino, the document that identified us as pilgrims.

It is probably appropriate to say that I had no idea of the physical, emotional or spiritual impact the following 36 days would bring. And while I would like to regale you with a tourist’s rendition of my journey, I must admit up front that I did not take a single picture and gave up on my journal after day three. It is tempting to excuse myself by saying that I was overwhelmed by the exertion, overcome with emotion, and submersed in the spiritual. All of which would be true, but the simple fact is that the experience had become… inexpressible. Internalizing each day to the fullest became my greatest desire.

Certain exertions, namely walking, took on new significance. As expected, I found out that walking uphill is hard, and yes, it is even harder carrying a backpack. What I did not expect was that going downhill is harder yet. Even the best boots in the world cannot protect toes from the relentless forward push. How naïve I was to think that once I reached the top, the going would get easier!

The first few days of the Camino Francés were a test of my threshold of pain, level of endurance and commitment to finish. Long stretches of time were spent wondering why I was putting myself through the endless, mindless boredom of putting one foot in front of the other. Each night, as I fell into an exhausted slumber, often interrupted by the snores of my fellow peregrinos, I told myself that the morning would bring relief. And it did—first, from the aforementioned communal commotion, and second, from the mind-numbing exertions of the day before. In fact, the restorative powers of sleep made the days before actually seem worth the effort!

There is no fast food on the Camino. In fact, there is an insidious and almost malicious pattern to the times at which meals may be obtained. The Spanish custom of siesta means that purveyors of foodstuffs take their own leisure when those of us used to being served are looking for their service. Surprise! I learned that if I wanted to eat, it was best to pack something beforehand. My personal schedule of eating and resting took a radical turn.

From start to finish, the Camino is a treat for the senses. Mountain vistas (sometimes topped by dozens of windmills), fields of undulating grain, emerald vineyards and valleys blanketed in cottony fog were constant reminders of the visual glory of northern Spain. The larger cities were full of hustle and bustle, with the sounds of traffic and smells of diesel. Smaller villages were a stark contrast, with braying cows and fresh manure serving the ears and nose. My sense of touch was constantly stimulated, often by pain in a new place. The Camino is still very much a part of my daily life in this regard, as my feet still hurt.

Emotional release came easily to me on the Camino. I often found myself with eyes that were tear-filled. Sometimes, the tears were simply from the wind that seemed to constantly blow toward me. Mostly they sprang from a deep sense of gratitude: a sense that I was walking out of my past and into my future. There is a tradition along the Way, to pick up a stone and push one’s unhappiness into it, and then drop the stone, leaving the unhappiness behind. The Camino is littered with cairns all along the way, some made of hundreds of stones, symbols of the healing that has taken place for so many pilgrims. A few of those stones are mine.

Stone also supplied the building material for the vast majority of the historical buildings I visited. Many of the churches I entered were already 500 years old when our country was born. I touched ruins that were hundreds of years older still. The spiritual impact this had on me, brief though it was, reached deeply.

There was a church in every town, however small. Most times they were empty; sometimes, a candle was burning at the Altar of Repose. Mass was celebrated several times a day in cathedrals located in larger cities. In the Cathedral of Santo Domingo, a chicken coop has been built in the rear of the church to commemorate a miracle performed by Saint Dominic, and the live fowl inside it could be heard adding their praise with loud cock-a-doodle-doos.

Thirty-four days of continuous walking provided ample time to develop friendships with many people who were sharing the Way. Some came and went in a day; others became traveling companions for days or even weeks. Since we tended to walk at different speeds, there were times when we started together but ended up finishing our daily walk hours apart. Gathering in the plaza or at the albergue (pilgrim hostel) at journey’s end became a wonderful time for relating our thoughts, feelings and experiences. Sharing a common hardship developed within us a camaraderie that went beyond simple friendship. We truly became brothers and sisters of the Camino, caminantes.

This held particularly true for Aaron and myself. We sometimes walked together, and those times were as often filled with companionable silence as spirited conversation. We began each day with a plan for meeting somewhere along the Way to have a snack or just catch our breath.

I was usually the laggard, but my dear son inevitably had a frosty cerveza grande (large beer) waiting for me when I rolled in at the end of the day.

Checking in to our albergue always seemed to have a special meaning for us. As we signed in, he would introduce me as “mi padre,” and I would smile and return the introduction by claiming him as “mi hijo.” I do not think I have ever felt such a father/son closeness as at those times.

It seems as if I have walked out of a past that was filled with memories of hurts from which I was still suffering. Perhaps the pain of being hungry, footsore and tired along the Way was a metaphor for those emotional hurts. Along the Way, I found in my companions, generosity, joy and enthusiasm for life. Perhaps it is in these qualities that I found a measure of healing.

The world that I came back to isn’t much different from the one I left. But I hold in my hand the small stone I carried with me most of the Way. It is a symbol of the joy and happiness and gratitude that I brought back from my sojourn. These feelings have been made manifest in countless ways since then.

Would I do it again? Absolutely! I know that the experience would be different, and that I would be changed anew. Giving back by guiding others promises to be a great way to pay it forward. Somehow, I just feel the journey is not yet over.

(If you have an interest in traveling the Camino Francés, you may write to Alan directly at atlipka@livesouth.com. He would be glad to share his experience and advice.)