Whispers From the Camino: Day One

Finally, Day One of the Camino de Santiago—Camino Frances route.

I got up early from my cot that was stuck in the far corner of the dorm room. I had to walk past sixteen other sleeping pilgrims hoping that I would not bump them, trip on some loose item, or wake up those who were hoping for another hour of sleep.

I had reasons for starting early. First, it just happened that the toughest physical challenge of this particular route was on Day One. We would start in Saint Jean on one side of the Pyrenees and end 25 kilometers later in Roncesvalles on the other side of the Pyrenees. This would require 4,000 feet of altitude gain on the first day. That is a lot for any pilgrim hoping to use the first few days of the pilgrimage to get their trail legs going.

The Oregon Cascades' 12-mile hike that gave me confidence

Of course, the second reason is that I hadn’t really tested my injured leg from the January before. I had postponed this trip by three and a half months when my recovery was not on track. I had been on a cane through March and only slowly building back the torn calf muscle through the spring and summer. Part of what gave me confidence that I was ready for the pilgrimage is that I hiked an ambitious 12-mile rugged trail in the Cascades of Oregon with a friend the month before.

I had already committed to this September pilgrimage, but in the weeks prior I was keeping myself open to doing some of it by bike or even using a taxi, if needed (of course, anyone who knows me would know that would have been an absolute last ditch option!). After the successful 12-mile hike I was convinced I would be able to walk the whole 500 miles even if I had to monitor how many ambitious days I strung together in a row.

The albergue had a packaged breakfast ready for me. It was still very dark outside, at least an hour before sunrise. I ate some of the food and packed the rest for the road choosing to eat as needed while I walked rather than delay getting out any later.

I didn’t know exactly the way to the beginning of the pilgrimage, but I did know to look for the scallop shells as well other pilgrims getting an early start. There were hundreds of us in town the night before so I knew it wouldn’t be long before others started emerging from their albergues and lodging.

Immediately as I emerged from my albergue, I saw a lanky man with a headlamp and a backpack just below me on the road. Following him made sense. He was about two blocks ahead of me, but as long as he led me to a steady stream shells marking the route I knew I would be fine.

It wasn’t long before I saw my first shell. There weren’t many of them, but between following the shells and the light from his headlamp I felt confident that I was on the actual Camino Frances finally.

We reached the edge of Saint Jean and were guided through lovely farmland and a couple of small villages that were just big enough for a small one-room school, but had no other amenities to speak of. My lanky friend was clearly in better shape than me or more ambitious. I lost him up the road probably 45 minutes into the walk, but I wasn’t worried.

About an hour into the walk I did find myself puzzled that I hadn’t seen any more pilgrims by that point. Surely with the hundreds who were in town there should have been a handful ahead of me or, more likely, younger, spryer pilgrims catching up to me. But I saw no one. Hmmm.

Also, there were no more shells, but arrows now and they were getting more difficult to follow. At many junctions there were two sets of arrows in different colors. I knew to look for the arrows, but I wasn’t prepared to distinguish between competing arrows.

I made the best judgments I could. At one T-intersection there were no arrows and I decided to go to the right. A half mile later I had seen no more arrows or pilgrims and made my way back assuming that I would take the left this time. But when I arrived that didn’t feel right either. So I walked the half mile back to the little village where I had seen the last arrow.

Gratefully, a man was coming out of a small hotel and I asked him if knew which way the Camino went. I told him I hadn’t seen any arrows outside of town. He quickly pointed to two arrows in the same intersection that I was standing that guided me on a small village road between a lovely old church and community building. I simply had walked right past them.

I breathed a sigh of relief and with confidence began the significant climb up the Pyrenees on this narrow country lane. I was till puzzled by the lack of pilgrims. In the distance, I had seen one young couple walking, but they weren’t close enough to confirm my concerns.

The climbing became steeper, but the arrows were becoming more consistent. I was clearly following one distinct path now. I could hear a cyclist coming up from behind me. I waved him down. “Am I on the Camino? Are these the arrows I am supposed to follow?” He didn’t know English well, but confirmed that I was on the Camino and pointed his finger in the direction I was going as if to say, “Yep. Keep going. You are on the right path.”

But a quarter mile later, the arrows took off the paved road and onto a rugged trail that clearly was meant to take one over a rugged part of the Pyrenees. If I chose this path I would need to know for sure that I was headed in the right direction. Otherwise, I could find myself stranded in mountains at night with not enough time to find my way back to civilization. That was a risk I could not take.

I finally pulled out my phone to see if I could see get my bearings. I knew I had walked about four miles already. If I was on track I should have been close to the little respite spot called Orisson which was about 4.7 miles from Saint Jean. I could see no sign of Orisson on the mountains ahead of me. I didn’t dare head into those mountains without certainty.

My phone pinpointed my position and as I expanded my map view, I could see that Orisson was about five miles away as the crow flies. I had been walking at a 90-degree angle away from Orisson all morning. I sat down and thought through my options. There was really only one option. Given the original length and challenge of Day One there was no way I could return to Saint Jean (making eight miles already) and then restart this 15-mile climb over the Pyrenees.

I would return to Saint Jean, find lodging, and make another attempt the next day.

I had a lovely, leisurely walk back into Saint Jean. The countryside was bucolic and magical. I did meet another young couple who were walking up the hill as I made my way back. I told them my story and that’s when I got part of the picture of what happened. They shared that there were on a pilgrimage route as well following these arrows, but that they weren’t the Camino Frances arrows. “Those go another direction!”

Finding lodging in Saint Jean without planning ahead was difficult. All the albergues were filled and I finally found an Airbnb at five times the amount I had hoped to spend. I bought French bread and brie for an out on the deck impromptu dinner, plucked on my ukelele and then regrouped.

I just had one task before bed. Find the actual start of the Camino Frances and locate it during the daylight hours so I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. I walked the ten blocks from my Airbnb to the center of town. Only a couple hundred meters from my starting position from earlier in the day, I could see the numerous signs and arrows marking the start. They were just in the opposite direction that I took in the dark of the morning.

I had followed a Camino route, but it was a mountain bike route that had crossed another shorter Camino route the young couple was on.

I arrived in Saint Jean knowing that I would need to follow the shells. Then I started following the arrows. I just got the wrong arrows!