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spring 2010

The Road to Santiago

by Jennie Helderman

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Eight hundred years after James, apostle of Christ, was beheaded in Jerusalem, a hermit discovered his remains -- in northern Spain. The bishop confirmed the miraculous find and the saint's bones were enshrined in a cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. Since the ninth century, believers and skeptics the world over have made their way to his crypt. They and their reasons are as varied as the routes they take. Charlemagne, St. Francis of Assisi, and Shirley Maclaine all walked the Camino, or Road of St. James. In June, young people from All Saints’ will make their pilgrimage. I made mine in June, 2000, with my daughter and five others.

The Camino is actually a network of trails that weave into one as it reaches Santiago. It passes along major highways and city streets but the greatest part is rural -- through villages, pastures, fields and forests. Most pilgrims walk. Some ride bicycles, horses or buses. And some, like we did, walk and ride.

We rode in a blue van into the Pyrenees and disembarked where Charlemagne planted his cross more than 1,000 years before. A mist settled over us so heavy we could barely see the cross or the thicket of crude stick crosses at its base. Being careful not to step on a cross, each hung a scallop shell around her neck, the shell being the symbol of the pilgrim. And then we set out on foot, down rocky paths under tall trees, past ferns and flowing water, to Roncesvalles below and our meeting place with the blue van at nightfall. Santiago lay 450 miles ahead. Of that, we would walk 125 miles.

The mist was fitting. It lent an unearthly, ethereal atmosphere which separated us from home and each other. It allowed the inner journey to begin. Or continue. I had been deep in contemplation when I broke in my boots. What was I thinking? Was I physically able? Would I be a pilgrim?

Now that I wore the shell, had I become a pilgrim?

Over the next days our path crossed scenic vineyards and golden-green wheat fields broken by crops of potatoes and white asparagus. But always we plodded in the open, baking, 100-degree sun. The first aid kit was in a backpack, and its thermometer registered 120 degrees. One moment I was exhilarated and the next barely able to fold into the washtub at the inns where we stayed.

We had stopped for a picnic lunch and blister care at the eight-sided church in Eunate. Small, golden-colored and majestic in its simplicity, the church sits alone in the center of a wheat field, and we were alone with the church. The anthropologist with us pointed out unusual stone capitols and Visigoth carvings, examples of long-ago recycling by its 12th century builders, possibly the Knights Templar. No one knows who built it. Mysterious in origin, solid, well-grounded, alone and ancient -- this church is etched in my memory.

Blisters meant big trouble, so blue gel and moleskin ranked just below water as backpack essentials. We often stopped at spring-fed fountains to resupply our water. A roof shaded one 12th century structure with steps down to a blue pool. Suddenly, like kids, we unlaced boots, peeled off thick socks and plunged our feet in the icy water. In that moment I understood the ritual of foot-washing.

Still the unrelenting pounding heat took its toll. I had a vicious sun rash, sore calves and shriveling confidence. With a steep incline coming up, followed by seven miles with no way to replenish water, doubt hung heavy over my head. Water was key, yet the more water I carried, the heavier....

I opted for the water - 2-1/2 liters in a platypus bag, two bottles in my pack, one clipped to my waist, a banana and a ripe pear---and started climbing. The trail rose quickly to a high plateau with rolling hills. Small oaks and pines offered occasional shade and lavender, vetch and pinks lined the trail. I began to swing my arms as I walked.

My arms set a rhythm, and seven miles allowed time to think about rhythm and how it relates to balance, evenness and progress. I recalled a story of pilgrims walking together with sticks, each planting his stick as he stepped. Eventually the whole group fell into the same stride with the sticks making a clicking sound in unison, which the storyteller found comforting. Being at one...something was surfacing...not yet complete.

I drank until I sloshed but something clicked that day. I caught my stride and reached St. John of the Stinging Nettles just behind our two marathon runners. Other inclines were more steep, especially the climb into Galicia, and I struggled but never did I lose my confidence again, not even on the mesata.

Many people dread the mesata. It's an even higher plateau, where there are no trees at all. Nothing breaks the horizon, there is no end in sight, no way to mark progress or reach a goal. Dull, empty, depressing. To others it is wide open, vast and freeing. I loved it. Green wheat fields under a blue sky, a chalky white path and fields of red, red poppies. But I crossed it in June.

Past the Iron Cross, through the Valley of Silence to the Mount of Joy, five days later we reached the cathedral and reliquary holding the remains of St. James. At the Pilgrims' Mass, a silver botafumerio nearly the size of a Volkswagen spewed incense from overhead. We had reached our destination. Too soon.

Like some pilgrims, my daughter and I kept going, although we rented a car. One-hour west, Spain juts out into the Atlantic at Finisterre, land's end, the end of the ancient world. A good place to sit on a crag, look at the ocean and reflect on my journey.

I had a solid sense of belonging, of being connected to other pilgrims past and present through the shared journey. It began with an awareness of my feet and built on movement and rhythm. The success of the journey depended on my feet. Planted on the dirt, mud, even the dung, they forged me with my surroundings. Stepping in the footsteps of others drew me closer to them. Rhythm leads to unison, or being at one. I had swung my arms; later I bought a stick. All fostered a heightened awareness of self, of overcoming the blisters and weary muscles, discovering anew my inner strength and feeling at peace.

I thought back to the church at Eunate, how it sat alone in the wheat field, how solid, enduring and well-grounded it was. That is the sense the Camino imparts. That is its lesson, its gift, and its lure as it entices pilgrims to continue the journey. Pilgrims like me.

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