From Jerri:
September 13
This is the semi-true story of our adventures. Not that it is not the truth but that Beth and I have blocked out some of the story or we are never going to tell all the gory details.
The beginning of this, the second day's hike, was about like the first day, very steep, but the main problem was the fierce wind and rain blowing right at us from the side. Karen's poncho was billowing all around her and Beth and I expected her to take off like the Flying Nun at any moment. However, my guaranteed-to-stay-on-in-40mph-wind hat did stay on. Because of the thick fog, we couldn't actually see the scenery, but perhaps we didn't want to peer at those steep mountains anyway. Despite the wind and cold and rain, I was sweating but stopped wiping my face, as I was just spreading the rain and salt on my glasses. After a while, I noticed a big, white blob on one knee and realized it was all the snot dripping from my nose onto one leg (both Beth and Karen thought that was not a detail they needed to hear).
We stopped at a little stand that was advertising “the last sello in France" to collect it but, after going up the hill a very short way, we sent Karen back to get a picture and agreed to meet her in a few steps. Meanwhile, a small truck stopped just ahead of us and out stepped our friend Dee from Orisson (a little overweight and out of shape). She couldn't deal with the blasts of wind and had asked a farmer for a lift for a short while. He dropped her off up the hill a bit (past the turnoff that we didn't notice through the rain and fog and our sudden preoccupation). Beth and I ran up to talk to her and the three of us continued on the road.
The weather actually cleared a bit and we were enjoying the respite from that and the hard climb. We thought it a little strange that Karen had not yet caught up but were not worried. After 2-3 km, a passing farmer stopped to tell us we were going the wrong way! (We saw a skeleton by the side of the road and thought it must be that of another peregrino who had made the same mistake.)
We met several other hikers on the way back so we didn't feel so bad. But it was easy to see how someone could get lost despite the very large and numerous signs pointing to the correct direction that were obvious when we got back to the trail. The actual Camino left the road and went up a steep, muddy hill, not an attractive path after the nice road we had been on.
We lost Dee during the climb while dealing with wind and pouring rain. Water ran in huge swaths down the path, which was rutted and full of fist-sized boulders that rolled whenever we walked on them--not fun in any weather.
We saw our Swedish friends from the night before. Swedish Mom is 78 yeas old and just plodded right on through the weather and horrible conditions, slowly but steadily, and seemed to have no problems. Miss Sweden, the daughter, maybe in her 40s, had on shorts and a rain poncho over her backpack. She said she was cold and kept running a few hundred yards ahead of her mother then back to her, back and forth so that she was doing triple the distance of the rest of us (with no effort, not even wheezing).
After a while, Beth and I were alone again on the path and started to see markers for the Camino with a drawing of a telephone on them and the number 112, which is the equivalent of 911. We wanted to know how that was going to help us. We had no phone; even if we did, we don't speak French and we didn't know where we were, and how would a rescue vehicle get up the path when people could hardly make it?
Of course, right after that, I fell in a deep crevasse, with one arm and pole in the rut and me and my backpack wedged sideways in the rest of the slot while water and mud ran all over. I couldn't get out and Beth couldn't untangle herself from her poles to get down to where I was. My free hand was caught in my pole and too frozen to undo my backpack straps. Also, naturally, not a single peregrino came along. Eventually, I stuck my free pole in the ground and managed to pull myself up on it. I was wet, cold, and completely covered in mud.
We plodded on and saw a marker that read “Santiago de Compostela, 765 km" (which was not reassuring), but no sign of Karen. We figured she was waiting ahead for us. Miss Sweden kept coming back and forth by us. (Belatedly, we realized she was checking on us, Dee, and a slightly elderly Chinese couple.) We never saw a marker when we left France and entered Spain, but the Camino markings got dramatically better with tall, bright, numbered poles about every ten yards. Eventually, the light bulb went on in my head--I realized they were made to keep people on the path in snow and fog.
Just add in here a lot of water, mud, rocks, and unhappiness. Then we came to a little shelter at the top of the mountain (did I say we were hiking up all this time?). Miss Sweden and Mom were there and offered us some whiskey. There was a notice on the wall that said something like, “This shelter was built because this stretch of the Camino is extremely dangerous with many injuries [it politely didn't mention deaths] since it is at high altitude and exposed to extreme weather. Only the very fit should attempt this route." Beth and I wanted to know what you were supposed to do once you were already this far. She thought they should substitute “fat" for “fit" and we would be fine.
The rest of the way should have taken about two hours, but Beth and I made it in four. We were frozen, and downhill offered no improvement. First there were very steep descents with layers of squishy, rotting leaves, going through an incredibly dark, scary Hansel-and-Gretel forest. Then, at an even steeper grade, the terrain changed to rolling boulders and running streams. We fell so many times we ended up walking about one mile an hour, using our poles as crutches for every step. Miss Sweden came by several times to offer us an apple and to tell us it was getting warmer farther down. Meanwhile, mountain goat peregrinos flew by us at high speeds all afternoon.
We were pretty sure that Karen must have finished long before us and we figured she would be anxious. We were even a little worried that she might try to come back and find us. Miss Sweden had not seen Karen in all her travels.
By the time we got to Roncesvalles, we had no idea where we were or where the path went. We followed some people to a building with a volunteer helper posted at the entrance. He asked us if we needed a bed. I could only croak out, "No" and that I couldn't really talk. He asked us what we needed. When I said, “My sister-in-law," he broke out in a giant smile and exclaimed, “We've all been waiting for you. She is just inside!"
There is a lot more to the story but it'll be another day, as I am typing this at the Pamplona Biblioteca and my free hour is up.
September 13
This is the semi-true story of our adventures. Not that it is not the truth but that Beth and I have blocked out some of the story or we are never going to tell all the gory details.
The beginning of this, the second day's hike, was about like the first day, very steep, but the main problem was the fierce wind and rain blowing right at us from the side. Karen's poncho was billowing all around her and Beth and I expected her to take off like the Flying Nun at any moment. However, my guaranteed-to-stay-on-in-40mph-wind hat did stay on. Because of the thick fog, we couldn't actually see the scenery, but perhaps we didn't want to peer at those steep mountains anyway. Despite the wind and cold and rain, I was sweating but stopped wiping my face, as I was just spreading the rain and salt on my glasses. After a while, I noticed a big, white blob on one knee and realized it was all the snot dripping from my nose onto one leg (both Beth and Karen thought that was not a detail they needed to hear).
We stopped at a little stand that was advertising “the last sello in France" to collect it but, after going up the hill a very short way, we sent Karen back to get a picture and agreed to meet her in a few steps. Meanwhile, a small truck stopped just ahead of us and out stepped our friend Dee from Orisson (a little overweight and out of shape). She couldn't deal with the blasts of wind and had asked a farmer for a lift for a short while. He dropped her off up the hill a bit (past the turnoff that we didn't notice through the rain and fog and our sudden preoccupation). Beth and I ran up to talk to her and the three of us continued on the road.
The weather actually cleared a bit and we were enjoying the respite from that and the hard climb. We thought it a little strange that Karen had not yet caught up but were not worried. After 2-3 km, a passing farmer stopped to tell us we were going the wrong way! (We saw a skeleton by the side of the road and thought it must be that of another peregrino who had made the same mistake.)
We met several other hikers on the way back so we didn't feel so bad. But it was easy to see how someone could get lost despite the very large and numerous signs pointing to the correct direction that were obvious when we got back to the trail. The actual Camino left the road and went up a steep, muddy hill, not an attractive path after the nice road we had been on.
We lost Dee during the climb while dealing with wind and pouring rain. Water ran in huge swaths down the path, which was rutted and full of fist-sized boulders that rolled whenever we walked on them--not fun in any weather.
We saw our Swedish friends from the night before. Swedish Mom is 78 yeas old and just plodded right on through the weather and horrible conditions, slowly but steadily, and seemed to have no problems. Miss Sweden, the daughter, maybe in her 40s, had on shorts and a rain poncho over her backpack. She said she was cold and kept running a few hundred yards ahead of her mother then back to her, back and forth so that she was doing triple the distance of the rest of us (with no effort, not even wheezing).
After a while, Beth and I were alone again on the path and started to see markers for the Camino with a drawing of a telephone on them and the number 112, which is the equivalent of 911. We wanted to know how that was going to help us. We had no phone; even if we did, we don't speak French and we didn't know where we were, and how would a rescue vehicle get up the path when people could hardly make it?
Of course, right after that, I fell in a deep crevasse, with one arm and pole in the rut and me and my backpack wedged sideways in the rest of the slot while water and mud ran all over. I couldn't get out and Beth couldn't untangle herself from her poles to get down to where I was. My free hand was caught in my pole and too frozen to undo my backpack straps. Also, naturally, not a single peregrino came along. Eventually, I stuck my free pole in the ground and managed to pull myself up on it. I was wet, cold, and completely covered in mud.
We plodded on and saw a marker that read “Santiago de Compostela, 765 km" (which was not reassuring), but no sign of Karen. We figured she was waiting ahead for us. Miss Sweden kept coming back and forth by us. (Belatedly, we realized she was checking on us, Dee, and a slightly elderly Chinese couple.) We never saw a marker when we left France and entered Spain, but the Camino markings got dramatically better with tall, bright, numbered poles about every ten yards. Eventually, the light bulb went on in my head--I realized they were made to keep people on the path in snow and fog.
Just add in here a lot of water, mud, rocks, and unhappiness. Then we came to a little shelter at the top of the mountain (did I say we were hiking up all this time?). Miss Sweden and Mom were there and offered us some whiskey. There was a notice on the wall that said something like, “This shelter was built because this stretch of the Camino is extremely dangerous with many injuries [it politely didn't mention deaths] since it is at high altitude and exposed to extreme weather. Only the very fit should attempt this route." Beth and I wanted to know what you were supposed to do once you were already this far. She thought they should substitute “fat" for “fit" and we would be fine.
The rest of the way should have taken about two hours, but Beth and I made it in four. We were frozen, and downhill offered no improvement. First there were very steep descents with layers of squishy, rotting leaves, going through an incredibly dark, scary Hansel-and-Gretel forest. Then, at an even steeper grade, the terrain changed to rolling boulders and running streams. We fell so many times we ended up walking about one mile an hour, using our poles as crutches for every step. Miss Sweden came by several times to offer us an apple and to tell us it was getting warmer farther down. Meanwhile, mountain goat peregrinos flew by us at high speeds all afternoon.
We were pretty sure that Karen must have finished long before us and we figured she would be anxious. We were even a little worried that she might try to come back and find us. Miss Sweden had not seen Karen in all her travels.
By the time we got to Roncesvalles, we had no idea where we were or where the path went. We followed some people to a building with a volunteer helper posted at the entrance. He asked us if we needed a bed. I could only croak out, "No" and that I couldn't really talk. He asked us what we needed. When I said, “My sister-in-law," he broke out in a giant smile and exclaimed, “We've all been waiting for you. She is just inside!"
There is a lot more to the story but it'll be another day, as I am typing this at the Pamplona Biblioteca and my free hour is up.
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