Foncebadon.

The morning was bright and clear as I set off on my uphill trek.

After a short bit on a dirt path, el camino continued on the paved

road, winding upward. For awhile I could see the other pilgrims

who had left Rabanal at the same time I did up ahead on the road.

Eventually I was on my own walking upward on what seemed a freshly

paved asphalt two-lane road. I felt better as I walked since it

seemed the steepness of the road would not be terribly demanding

physically, which turned out to be the case. After about 5 km I

reached the ancient ruins of the town of Foncebadon which I had

been looking forward to for quite some time since I had read about

it in various pilgrim accounts. I guess I over romanticized it in

my imagination because when I walked through the town with its

fallen down buildings with thatched roofs, it didn't seem all that

magical. As with everything, another day, another year, and my

response might have been different. Foncebadon is just off the

paved road and its main (and only) street runs parallel for a few

hundred meters. According to my guidebook, it was an important

stop on the way and appears in records as early as the 10th

century. "The hermit Gaucelmo (who died in about 1123) built a

hospital and hostelry here for pilgrims crossing the punishing

Foncebadon pass." I took some photographs and was surprised to see

that at least one building at the top of the street was inhabited.

Why not, I thought, but it must be very lonely.

Author at Cruz de Ferro, highest point on El Camino (4512 ft).

Cruz de Ferro is an iron cross on top of a long wooden pole on top

of a large pile of stones. As I understand it, tradition holds

that pilgrims who add a stone to the pile will have their sins

forgiven and join a ritual that predates the Romans. I not only

placed a stone for myself, but also for every member of my family.

I rested, took a few photographs, and also took a snapshot of a

Scandinavian family for them using their camera. While I was very

pleased to have reached the summit, it really didn't seem like a

momentous event. Perhaps my senses have been dulled by the fatigue

and monotony of walking almost every day for the last 25 days.

Still, there was no doubt that I had reached a milestone and I was

happy to acknowledge that before moving on.

Prayers and momentos at the base of Cruz de Ferro.

I continued on the paved road for a bit and came to a makeshift

refugio of sorts flying a flag with the red cross that I associate

with the Knights Templar. As I approached, the host rang a large

bell that was hung outside to announce to the spirits that yet

another pilgrim (or fool) has managed to climb to this remote spot

at the top of a mountain. I entered the encampment which seemed to

be a combination of ancient stone buildings and temporary summer

camp, and exchanged greetings with the man in charge. Since I

don't speak Spanish we really had little to offer each other but I

sat for awhile on one of the benches and rested as I took in what

seemed like an eccentric yet welcoming refugio. I had the feeling

that here was a fanatically dedicated proponent of the way of

Santiago. If there is a secret cult of the Knights Templar, this

man is certainly a chief officer and has a radio hidden out back

that he uses to communicate with Louis back in Aroyo de San Bol

outside of Burgos. There was no evidence of any other pilgrims and

my host buried his head in some work at a bench.

Summit refugio.

If the Cruz de Ferro offered no particular thrill for me, walking

along the summit of this pass did. Here, in the rarified

atmosphere of the highest point of an ancient tradition, the

mountains themselves came alive and spoke to me. I felt embraced

by their presence, as powerful and mysterious as any experience of

nature I have ever felt.

Magical mountains.

Now the road began to descend steeply and walking on the paved

asphalt which I have been on since leaving Rabanal became a chore.

As I learned on the second day of my pilgrimage as I descended to

Roncesvalles - going down is more painful than going up. A whole

new set of little used muscles come into play and they complain

bitterly about being pressed into service. After several

kilometers el camino veers off the paved road onto a footpath

which is very challenging. It is a narrow path with loose stones

and broken shale ledge that can be very slippery and difficult to

negotiate. The fact that I have already come about 13 km since

this morning adds considerably to the difficulty I'm sure.

Looking back at the loose shale.

About three kilometers before reaching El Acebo the signs started.

They were hand painted and attached to a stick hammered into the

ground next to the footpath. Every twenty meters or so I came upon

a new one urgently advertising the best bar in Acebo. I must admit

that I was a little put off by the blatant advertising which I had

not previously encountered on my pilgrimage. The bar being touted

was Jose's, and being jaded as I am by overexposure to

advertising, I was deeply suspicious of the quality of Jose's bar

simply by the presence of the aggressive signage. I thought no

more about it and entered the town and strolled down the main

street. About halfway down the street I was accosted by two men

who were overly friendly and suggested I stop for refreshments at

the bar which was right there. I could hear the music from a radio

playing and see the patrons inside the doorway. Quite tired after

the arduous descent, I entered the bar and ordered a beer. As I

sat I realized there was something a little off about the place

that I instantly disliked. It was owned and operated by a father

and his two sons who quarreled constantly as the father lorded

over them. I'm not sure if it was the bickering or some other

aspect of the bar that made me uncomfortable, but even though was

hungry I drank my beer and left immediately. As I went outside the

father was working the street, cajoling new arrivals to town to

enter his bar. Down at the end of the street was a mural with

another advertisement for Jose's bar and I made the left turn up

to a small plaza where the bar was located. As soon as I entered

Jose's I knew I was in the right place. Don Jose himself was open,

warm, and friendly. He understood enough English to get by and we

hit it off immediately. It was clear that he loved his bar.

serving people and making them happy. Open on a small table in

front of the bar was an album filled with postcards and letters

from Spain and elsewhere from patrons he had served well. Here is

a case where my suspicions about the aggressive advertising were

ill founded. I could see why Don Jose felt the need to advertise

since the Brothers Grim up the road did their best to prevent

anyone from passing without entering their bar. Also Don Jose's

bar was the second one you come to and it was a few steps off the

camino putting him at a clear disadvantage.

Looking toward El Acebo.

I had a brandy outside until the rain came too heavy and I moved

inside to a table in the back since there were customers at the

two tables in the front room. Before going inside, I enjoyed

seeing the mobile market pull into the plaza and do business with

the women of the town. These trucks service the towns that are too

small to have their own market and I had seen variants of this

small truck in several towns along the way.

Once inside, I ordered the day's special of lentil soup, chicken,

fries, and salad with rice pudding for desert. I had several cafes

as well and the bill was 750 pts. The food was delicious and more

importantly, I felt relaxed and ready to continue to Molinaseca

another 8.5 km. I resolved to send Jose a postcard from Santiago

when I reach it.

It continued to rain intermittently as I walked out of El Acebo

past the memorial to the pilgrim killed while cycling. Although my

guidebook mentions a forge at Compludo it is a 5 km detour which I

had no inclination of making. I walked mostly on the road to

Molinaseca through beautiful mountains and gorges. The actual

marked camino takes a foot path which ran parallel to the road,

but my feet and legs were so tired from the descent from Monte

Irago, that I thought it might be easier though longer due to the

switchbacks. The flies were beginning to become a serious bother

until I noticed that it was the sweat on my hatband that was

attracting them. This meant the end of a comfortable hat that had

served me well up to this point. As I entered Molinaseca at 5:30

it began to rain heavily and put my pack down in the covered

courtyard of the Capilla de la Virgen and went in and watched a

service in progress. This is a fine little chapel and the service

gave me a chance to rest for a few moments before crossing the

picturesque bridge into Molinaseca proper and checking into the

Refugio From Hell at the far end of town.

Switchback road before Molinaseca.

That was my name for this, the most poorly operated refugio I

would encounter. The facility itself is actually quite reasonable

and large. There is a large room as you enter the front doors

which leads to the shower, toilet facilities, and stairs to the

second floor where the bunks are located. On the front and sides

of the building there are covered porches. On the day I arrived

one side porch was entirely occupied by tents, one tent

immediately next to the other. The big problem for an otherwise

reasonable system was overcrowding. There were simply too many

pilgrims vying for space in an overcrowded facility. I awaited my

turn to register with the man in charge and after one or two

pilgrims ahead of me were checked in and stamped my turn came. I

could see that the host was completely overwhelmed, a fact which

he freely admitted. He was entirely alone in managing the refugio.

I commiserated with him a bit both out of genuine compassion and

also to learn more of the depth of the crisis he was attempting to

manage. He assigned me to a spot in one of the tents on the porch

and we walked out the front door and around the side so he could

show me the exact tent. When we came to the tent he folded over

the entry flap and as we both peered in, the stale musty air

escaped past us as we gazed upon a tent completely crammed with

sleeping bags filled with dozing pilgrims. My heart sank at the

prospects of squeezing into this human sardine can, and,

incredibly, he started to wake people up and instruct them to move

around in order to accommodate my sleeping bag. I told him as

firmly as I could to give it up, since I had no intention of

squeezing into the tent and I asked about an increasingly

attractive spot on the floor between the coat rack and a first aid

cabinet. At first he adamantly refused on the basis of access to

the cabinet, but eventually gave in after coming to his senses and

recognizing the insanity of the situation. By now new pilgrims

were being turned back to town to find shelter elsewhere. After

staking out my claim to the floor, I checked out the showers and

toilets which were filthy with soaked floors. Then I went outside

to the porch where there were benches and tables and just sat for

awhile while my host operated a kiosk with beverages and t shirts.

After a short while I decided to do a little sightseeing and

walked back to town. I admired the mansions with their coats of

arms on the front and the lovely little bridge over the river

Meruelo. I was also investigating possible places to eat but

didn't see any that suited me. Either they were too formal or just

a bar with tapas. I chose the latter, and had a glass of wine and

a few assorted tapas in an otherwise deserted bar with a blaring

television and bright fluorescent lights. Certainly a big step

down from the cordial lunch at Don Jose's bar in El Acebo but it

would have to do. The rain had calmed down and after returning to

the refugio, I watched the lightning over the mountains to the

east. The huge pilgrim population of the refugio had not calmed

down, and groups of young people sat around in groups on the front

steps long after 11:00 preventing any sleep. They seemed to

delight in the locals who stopped by on motorcycles and zoomed off

back to town. Eventually, well after midnight, they decided to

pack it in and things quieted down. Then at about 2:00 in the

morning the overhead lights went on inexplicably. I got up and

tried every switch in the building but could not find the one to

turn off the lights. I would be leaving here at first light.