The future does not exist, nor does the past. All we have is the present moment, this exact space in time and in the cosmos. Everything else is just a thought. Humans are unique in their ability to become slaves to thoughts and ideas that are not grounded in reality; that have no place in the present moment. We worry and fear things that we cannot touch. Stress from deadlines in the workplace and pain in out personal relationships dries the lush fruit that can be here and now, into something dull and stale. I am no exception to this truth, but in the past several days, El Camino has been far too flavorful for the mind to wander for than more than a few moments.

My first day on my Camino was baptized in pouring rain. The moody violet sky had no intention of welcoming myself and my fellow pilgrims warmly. I set out not alone, but in the company an Argentine named Daniel. Working our way through the cobbled streets of old Irún, we chipped away at the linguistic barrier between us. He spoke little English, and my conversational Spanish usually only yields a bus ticket or glass of wine. Nonetheless, I learned that he was a lawyer, father of two, and was recently divorced. Later in the day when he told me that he had spent time outdoors to ”find himself”, I couldn’t help but think that he might fit in pretty well at Evergreen. We worked our way onto the hillcrest, battling the typhoon like wind, biting rain, and even a momentary barrage of hail. It began with a sudden clap of thunder, and immediately we were bombarded by thousands of icy pellets, sent by the furiously whipping wind. We ran for cover under a small bridge, shielding our faces, sacrificing our hands. When we set out soon after over piles of balled ice, my hands were covered in countless small red welts; my first battlescars of El Camino.

In the same day, having become lost, were joined by a small black and white dog named Wayuu. He followed us eagerly, up and over the hills of Irún, always laying in wait on one side of a fork in the trail, showing us the way. He must have accompanied us very far from his home that day, because for over ten kilometers, from Irún to the ferry at San Pablo, he was by our side.

Arriving in San Sebastian, we found no beds in which to rest out tired bones. Thoroughly whipped by the wind and having walked across the whole city, we had few remaining options. We had managed to reserve the last two beds in the next town of Orio. At over ten kilometers away, the distance would be breaking after an already long day. Our only option, it seemed, was to take the bus. Wet, tired, and hungry, I did not think once about what taking the bus on day one meant for my pilgrimage. The whole ride, I was lost in the damp countryside and river along which we wound. We arrived at our home for the night. We were led by blaze yellow arrows down and around a farmhouse, to a door that led into the cellar. Inside were near twenty bunks, dimly lit and crammed close together. Daniel spoke with the owner too rapidly for me to follow. He told me that this was not where we would be staying. After having our credeniáls stamped, we were received by an old plump woman, who graciously led us into her beautiful hilltop farm house. The albergue had been full, so this lovely neighbour had offered to put us up in a guest room of her house. Our first experience of incredible love and charity on the camino came in the form of soft beds, a closet full of blankets, and a delicious three course meal.

The next two days took us out along the slithering coast line, past some of Spain’s longest beaches. By the afternoon we had turned from the coast to the lush rolling hills of the countryside. Brilliant green pastures had been squared off all over the bubble like geography of the campo. Gorgeous as it was, the continuous cycle of rise into the country and descent to the coast was taking its toll. A tendon in my right knee was becoming quite inflamed, and El Camino did not become less dynamic as the day continued.

By the next morning, waking in the second story of a train station in Deba, I had decided to take a break. I would walk the five kilometers to the next town, and rest for the day, perhaps two. As we began our way, the pain became impossible to ignore. My limp was impossible to ignore, making the ascents both physically and mentally taxing. Coming to a panoramically positioned church, it dawned upon me that the town I had elected to stay in was behind my group and I, far off the marked Camino. I would have to walk the severe, seventeen kilometers to the stage finish. I began to lose sight of my way. I scourned myself for not having trained more. I focused almost solely on the pain, like a knife’s blade jammed into my knee. I wanted to be home, or far away from this mountain.

As I receded into my thoughts, I came to a junction in the trail. Only one path was marked, turning abruptly down to the coast, toward terracotta rooftops hidden in the forest foliage. The straight path had no marking in sight. I was genuinely unsure which path to take. and in that moment, I was overtaken my a great wave. An unconscious flood of emotion took me, and a great grin drew itself from within. How wonderful was this, to be lost in the north of Spain? What adventure, not to know the path to the next town, hundreds of years old, or the glistening Atlantic? I was here, facing challenges of “The Way”: Pain and Navigation and my own thoughts. In that moment I became aware of my surroundings. The constant whisper of the ocean breeze in the treetops, accompanied by a bright, ceaseless symphony of birdsong, crescendo after crescendo, the likes of which I had never known. The scent of blooming spring filled my lungs, and I was here in the middle of it all, facing down a dilemma standing between myself and my goal. No longer lost in my path, I walked on, lost in every present moment. That is adventure; awareness so powerful that it holds your mind and spirit captive.

I walked the next seventeen kilometers in pain, but smiling the whole way. I lost my toxic state of mind in that forest. The next day I planned to be short in stead of my folly in the country. And yet again, I was challenged. Reaching the town of Munitibar, we learned that the local albergue was closed for months. While I wanted to walk on with friends that had become like family, I knew that my knee, now knees, would only worsen. To my dismay, I hobbled my way to the bus stop, humbled. It was somewhat humiliating, waiting for the bus, in a town where pilgrims are frequent, with that white shell dangling from my pack. But to walk another ten kilometers would not see me healed. If I was to avoid injuring myself further, I had to leave my pride at that bus stop. It was my pride that had gotten me there, charging up and down trails, hard when I should have rested.

I have taken a day off from my Camino. The other pilgrims with whom I had formed an incredibly close family in a matter of days, have walked on. My Camino however, has only just begun. I will see you all on the Francés.