Day 9: Logrono to Najera

Colin from London, and one of my original Camino family from St. Jean Pied du Port, was sleeping in the room above our dungeon- like bunk room. He told me later that it had been a sleepless, spooky night with footsteps up and down the room, doors slamming, and pilgrims huddled together in fear. All I can say is that my own experience of the night in the refuge was maddeningly loud. The street parties were still going on at 5am and the smell of urine seeped through our one barred window. At first light I raced to pack and made a run out of the city!

Poor St. James gets stamped in Logrono street art.  

Street drunks formed gauntlets of passage for us fleeing pilgrims. Anna and Kurt were already gone in the dark, but Sugire and I jogged through the taunts and teasing until we came to the city park and the trail out! A pick-pocket tried to jog along, offering us sunglasses to view the moon while he patted my pack for "friendly encouragement" and the chance to lift a treasure. All my possessions, however, were safe inside my pack and I jogged to lose him. Sugire was far ahead and I felt a little afraid. So I jogged faster. Finally, out of the city and alone on the dark path, I could turn and see that the sun was about to rise.

Out of the city and back to the countryside.

This was going to be a long day. I was already exhausted but knew that another 16 miles of trekking was in store. This is the hardest thing about this hike - the part where your brain argues with your body. But the birds were singing, a few pilgrims passed me with cheerful greetings, glad as I was to be out of that awful place.

Approaching the tablelands of La Rojia.  

Almost ten days into this hike across Spain and nearly 175 miles on my dusty boots, I can say that for a solo hiker, it is not easy. Although solo hikers can choose to be alone, nobody really is. A look far ahead are friends, a look behind and the groups of pilgrims walking together are crowding the trail. The constant shifting of pathway from paved roads, gravel paths, tractor lanes, and the dreaded cobble trail, cause my feet to ache. But I am used to the weight of my pack and it feels good to carry. I look forward to second breakfast and catch up to the Austrians, Danes, and Germans. Then off again across ten miles of open tablelands with wind blowing so hard I had to stoop forward and pull my neck scarf up around my nose and mouth.

My muhadin look.

Hiking hard into the headwind I tried to think about other things than how far I had yet to go to Najera. There are the constant introductions that include your name, where you are from, and why you are doing the Camino. I've stopped saying I'm from the United States, and say instead Pennsylvania. This keeps the Donald Trump comments away. Europeans are amazed that this reality TV clown is an actual contender. There are many parallels drawn between Franco, Hitler, and Mussolini. My Danish friends say that the U.S. electon cycle is a laughing stock for northern European people. We talk politics only at dinner, and quietly among ourselves. I wish I knew what to say to explain things, but I don't understand it myself except to say, that with history as a guide, a big ego and playing off people's fears is a recipe for diplomatic disaster.

Snow pack still visible on the highway peaks. 

Five miles to go to Najera and I was hiking hard into the wind with so much to think about. Black kites soared over the fields and the high peaks of the mountains framed the plateaus on either side if me. A lone hiker stayed with me about 50 meters behind, drafting me it seemed. I imagined camels and horses trotting across this long, lonely stretch of red clay soil long before the endless fields of grapevine and wheat.

Roadless crossing.   

Finally within a few miles of Najera the lady drafting me catches us. She introduced herself as Maria from Milan and complimented me on my fast pace. She noticed my Camiga patch back at second breakfast and thought it would be wise to follow me across. We finally arrived at Najera, the city built into a high cliff of red rock full of caves and the ever-present Virgin Mary statue stories. These kinds of stories are as common as the "Indian Princess and Warrior" cliff jumping to their death stories from the U.S.

After 18 miles, Najera!  

I found a beautiful hostel to stay in and was soon joined by Colin who told me all about the ghostly night in the refuge in Logrono. I found Anna and Kurt for dinner, but was happy to fall into my bunk bed for a good night's sleep as it thundered and rained outside. Click told ghost stories from his work as a restoration carpenter until we both conked out.

Day 8: Torres del Rio to Logrono

The path is teaching me to walk with intent. But it is still painful. Old blisters have healed as new ones form. I have no complaints, however, as I watch others struggle across the miles. A husband with Parkinson's is walking short ten mile sections each day as his wife drives ahead to arrange for a room and meal. A mother with her adult Aspergrers son grind out the miles as he joyfully translates every word spoken and written in Spanish for her. She limos with a bad knee, and he knows he is going too fast, so he waits for her at every hilltop with a drink of water.

Hills roll on. So do the pilgrims.

The walk to Logrono began early, before the dawn. I wandered out of the town of Torres del Rio by street light, squinting to find yellow spray-painted arrows on curbs and stone walls. I love walking up the sun rise and being alone for the first few hours. But a few have left before me- Anna and Kurt from Holland, Jacob and his brother Christian from Austria. I'll meet them at second breakfast in some roadside cafe and listen for Jacob's deep baritone voice "Vast have taken you so long!" Behind me the man with Parkinson's shuffles to a plastic chair, orders his coffee, and calls his wife.

An elder armer checks his wheat.

Honestly, I'm getting a little tired. The albergue scene has played itself out with me. Little sleep, morning commotion to pack, and grumpy hikers fussing over a single toilet, make for a quick, though groggy departure so it us nice to sit with the early second breakfast group and enjoy their smiles. The ext few hours I hike alone through the Valley of Hermits, a vast ravine where the bird life is rich and wetlands trees and shrubs cool the air. Stone huts line the hillsides where Christian Hermits lived in extreme poverty and discomfort.

One of dozens of 4x4 stone hermit huts in the Valley of Hermits.

No room to stand or lie down. 

I felt queazy. Then my stomach churned. Then I got sick along the narrow valley trail. Up came last night's pilgrim meal, the greasy bean soup the obvious culprit. A hiker scurried past me with a terrified look. Oh well, I thought, it's all out here for everyone to see - our health and our sickness.

Horseback riders wish pilgrims a "Buen Camino!" 

Feeling much better, despite a steep, breathless climb out of the Valley of Hermits, I continued along busy highways, through industrial wheat land, and over a series of rolling hills. Word traveled to pilgrims in the beautiful town of Visa that our destination for the night, the city of Logrono was having a festival. There were no beds to be found. The ups and downs o the Camino. I ate a very fast lunch and picked up my pace, hoping that I could beat the big bubble of pilgrims coming along behind me. Maybe I could find a room, a bed. A doorway?

Sugire and I claim our doorway with ice cream. 

Coming into the city the traffic was intense and it was only noon! I caught up with a Camino friend from many days ago, Sugire from Paris. She had spent her first day in the Pyrenees pushing her disabled sister across the mountains and over the Col in high winds and fog. Exhausted by the time she and several American hikers had completed the journey, she and her sister were rescued by firemen on a rainy, exposed road coming in to Rochesvalles. She and her sister received a special at the Pilgrim Mass the next day, the day I was hobbling along out of Zubiri. But here we were. Her sister, safely home in Paris, Sugire was enjoying the challenge of hiking alone but we were both discouraged to find no beds in Logrono. We sat eating ice cream in a doorway next to the Cathedral when along came a monk carrying two large bags of toilet paper. He smiled at us, dug a key from his pocket and invited us inside. "Please stay here," he said in broken English. Inside he opened a second door to the basement bunk room. We could have cried.

Street musician roams the Square. 

The priest said that we could drop our packs , claim a bunk, leave and come back after we'd had a good lunch. A few more pilgrims arrived by the time had changed clothes. Then a few ! more. We returned at one to register, bellies full, to find the refuge overflowing with pilgrims. No one was being turned away. Priests brought out stacks of thin gym mats. Rooms above, the hallways, and offices filled with over a hundred weary pilgrims. I was happy to see my friends Anna and Kurt had claimed the last two bunks. By three, the whole city was on siesta and a hundred tired pilgrims, me included , slept in their creaky bunk beds or on thin mats. By dinner time, late by American standards, at eight or nine pm, the city was booming with music, cheering at big screen soccer matches, overflowing bars, huge groups of celebrating young people, families with young children, and exhausted pilgrims trying to find cheap food.