CAMINO DE PORTO

Walking the Camino Brings up Issues From Deep in The Soul

Today’s walk was one of those interesting days

15 October 2023

Today I cried. I didn’t cry a lot, but I came close. I chose not to and worked to shut down my tears fast. I needed to breathe well.

My walk was brilliant, although it started out hard. Currently, I’m walking the Camino Porto in Spain.

My 200-mile walk began in Porto, Portugal, and I’m fifty or so miles shy of my destination, the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral. This is a good thing.

There were days I nearly stopped.

Night before last, I stayed in a miserable little hotel. It was clean enough, but I could scarcely turn around in it. When I got out of bed, I couldn’t find my blue light-weight wool shirt.

I must explain. I have two shirts, only two. The long-sleeved light blue shirt, and the blue tank top. That’s it. For three weeks in Portugal and Spain, two shirts.

Along with a cozy little black jacket, I also have a Gortex rain jacket. I’m walking with a twenty-pound pack — -everything in an Osprey backpack.

When I woke up, that damn blue shirt was nowhere to be found. I decided that if I couldn’t find it, I’d throw in the towel. Screw the Camino! My heat rashes, my aching legs, my sore body, long days under a hot sun, and one day under drenching rain.

Then, I found the shirt.

As I got dressed, I reminded myself, “You always wake up in a bad mood. You need coffee, and then you can start walking. Everything will improve.”

And it did. I ran into one of my Camino pals, and he was a hero. He was right there when I needed someone to hold my poles for a minute. We went to an outdoor store in Vigo, where I got some new hiking shoes. My other shoes caused me extreme pain, and I shipped them home. On Camino, there’s nothing like a true friend, and he has become one. We chum around with a woman from Germany — -in essence, they have become my Camino family.

While we don’t walk together most days, we often find each other at night. I’ve wandered streets packed with Spanish folks eating dinners on stone pavements, whooping it up, drinking, and eating. And there are my friends! Friends are good when I’m exhausted from kilometers of walking.

And why did I cry this morning?

I cried because I remembered, at around the seventh walking mile, reading a story aloud in an auditorium. I was twenty-five years old. I was a writer then too. My story had been chosen by a college professor to be featured, so I stood center stage. I introduced myself to the packed audience, and I stood tall at the podium.

When I was a ten-year-old child, with an older sister and younger brother, Dad and Mom took us on a camping trip to a mountain river. Dad was downstream fishing, and Mom lit the propane stove to make dinner, as we children played outside.

The camper exploded in a ball of flame, and gray smoke poured out of the trailer vents. Our mother screamed inside. My father, downstream fishing, heard the explosion. He ran. His rod flew, his hat fell as he ran, he scrambled out of his waders and he dropped his tackle box. He jumped through the flames and threw my mother out of the trailer. Then, he used a fire extinguisher and put out the fire.

My mother stood, her legs shiny and red. My siblings and I ran to the fast-flowing Clackamas River with little pans and a yellow bucket, and we put out the burning towels, clothes, and cushions. Our trip was over. Our mother was seriously burned, and the incident scarred me and affected me for months. I was ridiculed by a teacher who didn’t understand why a ten-year-old girl was coming to school in mismatched clothes, with a lunchbox of odd food— like one potato.

My mother was unable to move, as she lay in bed healing. I was on my own, and I felt desperate and miserable in school. It was a hard time.

As I finished reading the story at the microphone, the auditorium was silent, then exploded in applause

Looking out and smiling, and bowing graciously, I saw my father.

He was crying, staring at me, and beating his hands together for all he was worth. I saw him turn to people on either side and mouth the words, “That’s my daughter. That’s my daughter.”

Remembering his pride, and how he loved me so hard and abundantly, I nearly cried today. I stopped myself in my grief at losing him and reminded myself of how lucky I was to have someone love me so hard, and for so long.

One of the advantages of walking Camino de Santiago is you remember and think of so many people and incidents from years past. Because I walk alone, I remember decades of incidents.

There is simply no predicting what memory or conversation will float into my mind, especially when my body is screaming with the pain of walking half-marathons for days on end.

I trudge along in driving rain, headed to Santiago de Compostela.

When I arrive, I will cry with relief and joy. And I will cry in gratitude for this walk through time. Perhaps I will cry because I’m relieved to have remembered such love from so many people.

It has been a good walk, a buen Camino. Four more days to go, friends. Four more days.