Today, like most days, I walked alone.

My path takes many forms. Sometimes I follow a great asphalt snake, winding horizontally along one hillside or another. Its blackness is intensified by the cool spring rain that falls sometimes only for a moment, or a whole afternoon. The weather is indecisive. Periodically the sun will appear, forcing me to remove a layer or two, only to dissappear once I have brandished my pack once again.

Often, the Way leaves the paved path, trading the scent of damp tar for clay and sandy loam. Here my feet awaken, each step finding a new rock, a pleasntly soft texture underfoot, or the snapping of a twig unnoticed.

I round a wooded corner, and see a pilgrim ahead. Their backpack is bright orange, a color that pulls my eyes from the company of my path. It reads ‘Deuter’ across the back.
“They must be German.” I think, or maybe they just bought a German backpack from REI like I did. The pilgrim tick-tick-ticks along the Way, matching each footfall with a tungsten trekking-pole tip. I push up the a hill behind them, closing distance with each step. “Hola.”
“Hola.”
I pass the pilgrim with a smile and a nod.
“Buen Camino.”
“Buen Camino.”

Another hill or two and I have evaded the tick-tick-ticking of the pilgrim.

Utilitarian eucalyptus stands, planted in row after row, give way to  a more lush forest. The first ferns have begun to emerge from the humus, and they occupy the space between creaking white oak and cypress trees. The way is lined here by ageless stone walls. Their facade is oftentimes concealed by a veil of thick moss, which glistens and drips with drizzle. When I am lucky, a shy breeze will disturb the treetops, glittering the Way in cherry blossom or tiny white petals.

A robin leaves it’s roost and hops through a puddle in front of me. I slow my pace, to allow ample time for my friend to bathe himself.
“Hello bird.”
“Tweet.”

Back on the asphalt again, the hillside is bald. To my left, a row of wind turbines swing their great arms without sound. To my right, wind-chimes…..no…..cowbells tink and dink, but their owners are out of sight.

A frenchman gave me a nectarine the night before. He had bought two too many. I bite into it, and the juice runs into my beard and down my chin. It is brilliantly sweet, and perfectly ripe. Again the trail slinks into the forest. I follow, my fingers sticky, smiling.