The End of Day Two:Roncevalles

Where to start? I took pictures all day, so I’ll go back and review them. I tried to include them but the blog won’t post. It’s why the last entry was a day late and appears twice. I’m lying in bed at 5, having gone to sleep at 9:30, and taking a minute to keep you guys updated. I figure text is better than nothing. (Note, my next alburgue has MUCH better WiFi. Pictures are going in.)

I couldn’t get my poles together so I had a choice. Struggle alone in my room or get help. A very nice Chinese family helped me out. Poles assembled, I went to augment my hostel breakfast. I got Basque cake. Its a little like chess pie, but with an almond flavor. It is good stuff! Then I set out.

As I climbed I passed sheep, goats, cows, and horses all grazing in the open. Some, not all, with cowbells. I couldn’t decide if they were the responsible or the irresponsible ones. The goats and sheep ere spray painted.

I also passed piles of rocks with abandoned books. I’m glad I got rid of my book in the airport.

Climbing was hard. There are two options over the mountain. The road, called the Napoleon route (and the one the pilgrim office recommends) and the trail, which is closed in winter. As I huffed and puffed, my 53 year old knees and sea level lungs straining, I gave myself permission to take the road. It wasn’t failure, I reasoned, but reality. Accommodation for the reality of who I am right now. Pride ( and a touch of obstinacy, since it seemed everybody was saying YOU should take the road) had said take the trail, but pride was dissolving with each gasp for air. Then I got to the trail.

Oh, did I mention it is 27 km to my alburgue in Roncevalles? That’s about 16 miles. Up and over a mountain.

I took the trail. Not from pride, but because no one else was taking the road. I came to meet people, and I reasoned that if I had a problem I needed to be where people could solve it.

The trail was pure mud, churned by the boots of who knows how many pilgrims. The weather was cool and cloudy, something I was repeatedly grateful for throughout the day.

Not far in my boots began to rub my heels just a little. Knowing how quickly a small problem can turn big, I stopped to put on some moleskin. I had wisely put it in my top pack pocket. I had NOT put in the scissors to cut it. I did have my knife,so I used it. (Yes, family, I did cut myself but it was just a knick. Two licks and it was done.)

Feet taken care of, I went on. The mud stopped, thank God, and there were even roads intermittently. The alburgue Orisson is 8 km in. I left at 8:45, and got to Orisson at 11:30.

“I did it!” just kind of resounded through my whole body. I got a slice of tortilla. I resisted more Basque cake, but I should have gotten coffee. The tortilla, which was a slice of crust less quiche with potato and ham, cried out for it, and I think some caffeine at that point would have helped.

I went to use the toilet, but a young man who needed it said, “It’s locked.” It was a locked toilet that caused my two hour sojourn through St. Jean, and I know there is literally not another one for miles. So while he went in search of a key I turned the handle. It wasn’t locked. I offered it to him, but he said go ahead. I think he wanted time for his face to change back.

Once again there is no toilet paper,and I bless the top pack pocket and my wisdom in putting tissues in it. Then I start back.

I can’t describe the climb without pictures. (Thank goodness I can put some in now.) Stunning beauty, painful knees, hurting hips…I stop and stop. For water, since I can’t reach my bottle myself and I have no one to help, food ( thank God Ryan insisted I get both), air, and sometimes pain. My left foot is structurally damaged, and it decides to remind me in various painful ways.

At one point I stop and lace my left boot differently. I saw a poster on the Camigas Facebook site, and I think the high arch lacing will help the numbness in my toes. So I lace the first two notches vertically, then begin the crisscross. My OCD is bothered by the fact that my boots don’t match, but my right foot doesn’t have a problem. My OCD can get over it.

I come to a spot where, unbeknownst to me, the trail splits into easy and hard. I don’t realize this, and unknowingly take the hard trail. Suddenly the pilgrims who have consistently been passing me are gone. So are the yellow arrows. I’m going downhill now, and my toes are jamming in to the front of my boots, especially on the left. I stop and relace into a crisscross.

I keep going, but the lack of arrows worries me. I stop and pray for a sign. “God, I just need a sign. Right trail, wrong trail, just tell me.” 20 feet on there is a yellow arrow on a tree.

Okay guys, I’ve been typing now for an hour. The alburgue is coming alive, so I am going to continue later.

Continuing.

The trail continues to go sharply down. I finally reach my alburgue at 6;45, ten hours after I started. Quint and Heather, whom I met at the Fountain of Roland (no picture, google it) are arriving from a completely different direction. That’s when I find out I went the hard way. By the time I check in my dinner is in 5 minutes. No time to clean up.

I go to dinner ( for which I paid in advance), but I’ve arrived so late I’ve missed the chance to get my laundry done. I also miss the pilgrim’s mass because I’m taking a shower, but I can’t stand myself. It was bad enough inflicting my smell on my dinner companions. (This is necessary information for Day Three.) I am bunking with Eddie from Florida and his wife, whose name I still don’t know, and a German man who never introduces himself.

The plug is too high on the wall to charge my charger, and the light on my adapter doesn’t work so I think somethings defective. I don’t charge anything. Big mistake.

We are all sacked out by 9:30.