Lessons Learned Walking 500 Miles on the Camino de Santiago
It’s 5:30 in the morning in Irun. This is my second visit to Spain in three years. The last time was to do the illogical, especially for a man racing towards middle age. At 39, I traveled to Pamplona for the Festival of San Fermin. Escaping unscathed from a pack of angry bulls gave birth to another adventure not far from the last — to walk the Camino de Santiago. The twelve-hundred-year-old pilgrimage to the church thought to hold the relics of Saint James seemed the only answer for one of the most difficult years of my life.
I choose the Camino del Norte, the second longest trail of the seven established routes. Its panoramic views of the Basque, Cantabria, Asturias, and Galicia regions also make it one of the most popular. But the Northern Way is not for the faint of heart, stretching 518 miles over 30 stages. I will need to average 17 miles each day to complete the route and make it home on time.
My first day is not promising. The security guard at my hotel speaks no English, and my Spanish makes me sound like a toddler. No one can tell me where to get a pilgrim passport or where the trail begins. I walk to an albergue in a neighboring town. My backpack is almost twice the recommended weight because of a suit and laptop from brief stints in Italy and Ireland. Ten minutes into the hour-long walk and I am already exhausted. My GPS tells me to take I-636, a highway with narrow shoulders already littered with Mac trucks and motorcycles. Leery commuters rumble past, kicking up gravel and questioning my sanity.
When I arrive at the hostel, I speak to an elderly man alternating between drags of a cigarette and coughing up alarming amounts of phlegm. I manage to explain I need a pilgrim passport and want to know where the Camino begins. He tells me it’s back where I started. Day one, and a recurring theme in my life has already surfaced — my tendency to plow ahead with little regard for the right path.
An hour later and I have my Pellegrino passport. I follow yellow signs past monasteries, farms, and rustic homes. The world is suddenly back on its axis, and all is forgiven. But soon, the serene gives way to impossible inclines, heat, cold, and a Tolkienesque mist. The terrain and climate change on a dime leaving me in a daze. I try to center my ambling mind, reminding myself I don’t need to figure out my life on the first day.
By afternoon, I arrive in a beautiful fishing town called Pasaia. I stop by an albergue requesting a stamp for my passport when a hosteler a little younger than my father forces me to drink three tall glasses of water and eat two slices of bread. I fall in love with Spain on the spot. Still, it takes me three hours to figure out I need to take a thirty-second boat ride to continue the journey. It’s a high price to pay with a bulky bag on a hot day. Yet, somehow, after everything, I’m within just five kilometers of San Sebastian.
I make it to this vibrant city known for its picturesque promenade and cobblestoned old town by early evening. But my excitement soon gives way to the realization every hotel in town is booked. It’s Friday night in one of Spain’s most popular resort towns. I decide to sleep on the beach the same way I did seventeen summers before. Perhaps a small part of me hopes to recapture a piece of my old self — the guy who didn’t know the difference between bold and reckless.
But sleeping near the soothing soundtrack of waves is not as romantic as it sounds. The temperature dips below fifty-five degrees as I shiver through the night in a makeshift windbreaker. Meanwhile, loud house music never abates as drunk teenagers frolic and urinate fifty yards from where I lay my head. Why am I doing this? I start to wonder.
The new day ushers in a sense of hope. There is something glorious about having a front-row seat to watching the world wake from its slumber. Vestiges of debauchery remain, but the rising sun reminds me there are new possibilities ahead. I need to walk twenty-four kilometers on three hours of sleep but suddenly feel like I could skip the rest of the way.
I follow the yellow arrows like a child on a scavenger hunt, passing old Spanish towns one would be hard-pressed to find on a map. By early afternoon, I arrive in a beach town named Zarautz that could easily be perched on the California coast. I stay at an Airbnb a stone’s throw from the beach owned by the world’s kindest couple. I listen patiently as they give me a twenty-minute tutorial on a three-hundred-square-foot apartment.
By early evening, I am limping along the beachfront as families bask in the sun. They sip coffee at popular cafes as children sculpt then pummel sand castles nearby. My body is depleted, my knees in agony, yet I can’t recall being happier. I am content because getting here was hard. It is one of the few realizations about life I stumbled upon early — fulfillment comes from doing difficult things.
I find the one vegetarian restaurant in Zarautz. I see a thirty-something man wiping down countertops as I enter. His heart sinks when I grab a menu. “I can go if you’re closed,” I tell him. He tells me in perfect English it depends on what I want. The man’s name is Andres, and we talk for nearly half an hour. He tells me he’s from Venezuela and how he stumbled on Zarautz after a less than auspicious start in Madrid. We swap stories about our time in New York as he assures me I can take my time drinking the smoothie he’s made me. I get the sense the two of us could have been good friends in another life.
“Any second now, the most inspiring person in the world will walk by,” Andres assures me. Moments later, a man known throughout Spain for surfing every day walks past. At first glance, there is nothing remarkable about him until I notice he is not alone. His hand is placed on the shoulder of a man leading him to the beach when it dawns on me he is blind. Now I understand.
“I hope you have a fucking amazing time,” Andres tells me as I slide my drink across the bar as if in a Western. I admire his energy, marveling at how he’s managed to protect his sense of wonder about people and the world. Inspired, I say goodbye before making my way to the beach to catch a glimpse of the blind man surfing.
The following day I meet the first of several pilgrims who will become friends. Heidi is a twenty-eight-year-old woman from Leipzig who works in a hotel in Switzerland. The town she now calls home has a population of two hundred. I listen as she explains how against her parents’ wishes she picked up and left Germany instead of finishing school. She tells me she had to live her own life with a conviction I didn’t have at her age.
Later in the afternoon, I meet Faith and her father Malcolm, an animated Scotsman who is no stranger to the Camino. I soon discover he’s trekked across Spain three times before. Heidi, Malcolm, Faith, and I stay in what will be the first of many albergues. This one is in an old train station in Deba, a seaside town in Gipuzkoa. There is a wonderful sense of camaraderie in these hostels. Pilgrims the world over are suddenly brought together as if huddled around a campfire before dismounting from bunk beds and clumsily reaching for walking sticks at daybreak. Why each of us chooses to walk is less important than the collective sense we are all in this together. “You’ll start to see signs for Santiago and get upset,” Malcolm tells me. “You don’t want it to end.”
That night, I hear rumors of a monastery just past Bolivar where pilgrims can sleep and attend a mass led by aging monks. I’m told space is limited and the abbey is not particularly close. It’s all I need to hear. The next day, I walk eighteen miles which will be far from my longest day. I meet several Americans, two of which I will cross paths with no less than four times before reaching Santiago.
At 8:00 pm, I break bread with my new family, a table of fifteen or so fellow pilgrims from around the world. I know no one and can barely understand most, yet there is no place I’d rather be. The evening ends as an elderly priest blesses our journey wishing us safe passage for the remainder of our trip.
I alternate between long stretches of solitude and companionship, reminding myself the Camino can be both. The walk doesn’t need to be forced into some notion of what I think it’s supposed to be. Freedom comes from letting go and allowing the experience to move through you without judgment. This of course is not easy on the Camino or beyond, which is precisely what makes it worthwhile.
On some parts of the journey, I am alone for hours — days even without seeing another soul. I am a walking contradiction, relishing my alone time one minute and then longing to talk to someone — anyone the next. I decide weeks before there will be no technology while hiking, which admittedly is less difficult for me than most. I will be accompanied by only my thoughts, an act that feels on the brink of extinction.
There are days when I think about nothing but food. I’m rarely not hungry. The fruits and nuts have not satiated my already narrow frame. My pants slide south of my bony hips as I shed pounds I can’t spare to lose. Spain is many remarkable things, but vegan-friendly is not one of them.
I think also about the past and the future, but not nearly enough about the present. I am filled with angst fueled by the fear I am running out of time to become the man I long to be. But mostly, I marvel at how fast my life has gone by, knowing its velocity will only speed up. On most days, I don’t know what to do with myself.
The next week is a glorious blur. I wander the bustling streets of Bilbao, ponder the meaning of life with an enigmatic Frenchman, and wait for herds of oblivious cattle to clear the trail. I receive a scallop shell, the Camino’s symbol of direction from a bartender en route to Portugalete. “Buen Camino,” he says. His kindness offers solace, reminding me in a progressively fractured world, there is not enough faith in people’s capacity to exercise the highest version of themselves. It is a more moving sight than the Seven Wonders combined.
I don’t realize it at the time, but my night in Pobena will be the turning point in my journey. The sleepy beach town has only one albergue. For one night, everyone I’ve met on the Camino is in one place. Reuniting with Heidi, Malcolm, Faith, Makesh, Alain, and April feels like a family reunion. We are beaming as we set down bulky bags and rub the soles of sore feet.
Still, good friends don’t always make sound sleepers. Without fail, there is an orchestra of sleep apnea pilgrims in every hostel. I cannot escape the crescendo of snoring as it echoes through the cramped quarters. On some nights, I swear I can feel the ground shake.
I toss and turn for hours, tearing the disposable bed sheets in half. At 4:30 am, I can take it no more. I pack my belongings and then tiptoe into the partially star-lit sky. For the next twelve hours, I walk the equivalent of a marathon. The hike reawakens something within — the need to see how much I can push myself. Four decades into life and my competitive nature has not abated. For the rest of the journey, I will average twenty-three miles a day, leaving my new friends several towns behind. I will never see them again and start to wonder if I’m missing the point of it all.
I rely on Spain’s rolling hills and ocean views to keep me company. I feel as though I’m walking through a postcard. The changes in landscape from one region to the next are more subtle than the shifting cadence of the language. Even my untrained ear can make the distinction between the Spanish in Cantabria and Asturias.
With each step, my body makes it clear too much is being expected at this stage of its life. The impact of walking on loose gravel, dirt, mud, asphalt, up then down grueling mountain sides for hours is a lot to ask of anyone. I push on anyway, popping painkillers nearly every night before bed. On some nights, the pain is almost unbearable. Still, I have less wear and tear than most. The Camino becomes a not-so-subtle reminder of our resilience — that each of us is capable of far more than we think.
As the weeks go on, the greatest challenge becomes centering my mind. Unpredictable weather, blisters, and cramped hostels are suddenly more manageable than corralling my untamed thoughts. One afternoon, my mind is clouded with other adventures that beckon as I write in a church in Iglesia de San Cristobal. It pulls me further away from the one at hand, making me frustrated about my inability to be as present as I would like to be. Even while walking desolate trails or sitting by a stream, I can’t escape the pull of unanswered emails or memos for work. Unplugging feels as much a state of mind as living without screens.
Leaving Comillas, the yellow arrows start to disappear. They are dependable before becoming vague and then disappearing completely. Kind of like some people, I think. I walk for miles with no clue of where I’m going. The morning mist gives way to rain when I decide to turn around. I am frustrated when I see a man in the distance walking toward me. His resemblance and accent are uncannily similar to Ozzie Osbourne, which somehow puts me at ease. “We’re okay,” he says, unfazed.
My time with Michael is brief but memorable. He is self-deprecating and laughs constantly at his jokes — two qualities I both possess and can’t endure for long. I wonder for a moment what this says about the way I feel about myself. “You’ve got a nice fast pace going,” he says. “Don’t let me keep you.” Still, I linger, unable to tear myself away. It’s been days since I’ve spoken to anyone.
The two of us rest at a bus stop, divided on the best way to proceed. “I don’t trust the arrows,” Michael tells me in a conspiratorial tone. He fumbles with the map on his phone as I tighten the straps on my bag and decide to take my chances. “May the best man win,” he cackles. I never see him again.
The rain surrenders as I arrive in San Vicente de la Barquera, a city lifted from the pages of a fairy tale. School children pass me on the La Maza Bridge, yelling “Buen Camino” in unison. I smile, no longer bothered by soggy socks or drenched pants. In town, a man from Barcelona asks how far I’ve traveled. “About 250 kilometers,” I guess. He is not unimpressed. I tell him Spain is the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen. He smiles, unmoved by my words. He acts as though I’ve just told him the sky is blue.
In Llames, I meet a Hungarian engineer named Gabor. “Please don’t tell me you’re from Oregon,” he says. “Every American I’ve met so far is from there.” “No,” I assure him. “But not far.” We walk several miles and have lunch together. He’s good company, but we lack the rapport I found with others. The conversation feels strained, the silences uneasy. He is dry and still clings to some questionable theories about women no doubt influenced by an ex he tells me left him for her professor. We eventually part ways in Celorio — a picturesque beach town I soon regret not staying in.
I continue to marvel at how the Camino encourages a rare kind of vulnerability among strangers. Inhibitions are freed, defenses lowered. There is a longing to know more about oneself — a desire to circumvent small talk for depth. I meet the mother of a heroin addict who has spent life in and out of jail, an OBGYN who cannot have children, and a customs agent who secretly longs to be a photographer. Almost all of these admissions are shared within minutes of meeting one another.
Perhaps the most remarkable person I meet is a seventy-something Spaniard who has lived in Holland for the last twenty-five years. Maria is the only person I see on an otherwise sunless day. Neither the rain nor my unbridled thoughts will abate as I pass her in hopes of avoiding conversation. My mind has gotten the best of me this day. I have not been good company to myself and fear I will not be for others.
“Hola,” I say, trying to walk around her. She puts her camera down and stops me as I try to round a bend. She wants very much to talk. Her English is rough but still better than my Spanish. Maria is in awe of literally everything around us — the bird perched on a branch, the shape of a rock, the sound of a nearby brook. Seven decades into life, her childlike wonder is unscathed. Who is this woman? I wonder.
We talk for half an hour when it becomes clear she also senses the pain I’ve tried to mask. Maria somehow tells me what I need to hear. “Lo que quieres no siempre es lo que necesitas,” she says. “What you want is not always what you need.” I am filled with emotion as we hug and part ways. For a moment, I think she may have been an angel. I’m half-convinced if I turned around she’d be gone.
My journey is nearly over as I watch my clothes spin in a neighborhood laundromat in Grado. Children play in this popular hangout on an otherwise quiet Sunday evening. A stout middle-aged man named Domingo waits patiently, watching the final minutes of a dryer tick down. We talk for several minutes as he explains how he works for a local albergue. “I’m here doing laundry for the pilgrims,” he tells me in Spanish, a language I’ve finally begun to speak and understand. “Mucho gusto,” I say as he gathers a bundle of clothes and heads to his car. I’ll never see him again, I think.
I will sleep well tonight. My feet are sore and my eyelids heavy from another long day. But for now, the sound of tumbling clothes has never been more soothing. I have no concerns when it dawns on me my mind is finally still. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
I finish folding my laundry and place my clothes in my bag. Just as I am about to leave, I see a car pull up. It is Domingo. He hands me a shell and a pin in the shape of the yellow arrows on the trail. I realize he must have raced to the albergue and back in time before I left. I am touched, but somehow not surprised. “Buen Camino,” he says.
