After a short rest I continue on the now gently climbing road

noticing the numerous shooting blinds hunters have built for the

migrating birds who take this route south. Rain is threatening and

I make sure I have my poncho ready for action in it's pocket on

top of my pack. When I reach what I hope is the very top of the

pass heavy rain with accompanying wind begins and I whip out my

Looking back.

rain poncho for the first time and struggle trying to figure out

its system of snaps, fighting the strong wind. The poncho is

designed to cover me and the pack, and I'm glad there is no one

around since I must look like a dog chasing his tail trying to get

the thing on properly in the wind and rain. Finally I am

successful and after a about twenty paces the rain stops abruptly.

Good practice, I tell myself, and continue for half an hour or so

before taking off the poncho, folding it up, and replacing it in

it's pocket on my pack. I've bumped into several groups of hikers,

some of whom have started from St. Jean in France and have

undertaken the trip to Roncesvalles and back as an overnight trip.

Others who drive part way up, walk to the French-Spanish

border and back.

Frontier marker.

As I continue on a few kilometers, it becomes obvious that I am

nowhere near the top of the pass, but the road becomes enshrouded

in a heavy fog, beautiful and mysterious. I hear a group of school

girls singing and laughing as they walk long before they suddenly

appear out of the fog a few feet from me. I am busy photographing

the beech wood trees wrapped in mist; we greet each other briefly

then continue our separate ways. The road remains flat for a

while, and I pass the marker for the frontier before it begins

gently sloping downward through the forest. Soon I emerge onto a

rougher road that looks like it has been excavated recently for a

construction project and begins to climb again. It's not a steep

climb, but for me it's difficult and seemingly unending. It's late

afternoon, and as I struggle up the hills with my heavy pack, I

find I have to stop frequently and rest since I'm getting worn out

already. Actually, I'm exhausted and hoping the upward part of the

journey will end soon. Now and then a pilgrim or two would pass me

and we'd usually exchange a few words. I could see the concern

about me in their eyes, and the hope that the pathetic creature

I've become will wait to drop dead until they get over the next rise.

I am beginning to have serious doubts about my ability to complete

this pilgrimage if my current difficulty is any indication of

what's to come. My resolve is high, however, and I know that I

must make it to the monastery at Roncesvalles before nightfall, so

I trudge on and upward. At long last I reach what seems to be the

summit at Lepoeder where the dirt road meets a paved road. I put

The summit.

down my pack and take a few photographs, but it's bleak and

distinctly anticlimactic since the summit is large and mostly flat

with no commanding vistas. A Land Rover with four men crawls up

the paved road and takes a cart path up towards the top of an

adjoining rise, groaning slowly in low gear. Thankfully, the path

takes a turn and begins the downward to Roncesvalles 3.5

kilometers away, according to my guide book. Going down isn't the

relaxing piece of cake I thought it would be. Did I mention that I

was tired. I am thankful for the walking stick I bought in St.

Jean Pied-de-Port since it is very helpful negotiating the

sometimes treacherous ruts in the path. Going down uses an

entirely different set of muscles than when climbing, and after

about one kilometer my legs really begin to feel it, in addition

to the blisters that are forming. The dirt path through the forest

is very beautiful, though, and near the bottom I begin to hear

Forest on the decent.

voices and can't help wondering if I am hallucinating. As I

progress slowly along the path, step by step, and feeling every

inch, I turn to find two young men a few feet behind me. They are

walking briskly, talking, and showing no signs of fatigue

whatsoever. Ah, youth. For them this is like a stroll in the park,

while I am inching along in what is probably the most torturous

physical endurance test of my life. Polite greetings and they're

gone. Eventually, I come to my first sighting of the Roncesvalles

building complex with its uncharacteristic metal roofs on the

otherwise ancient edifices. After crossing a small stream I

entered the grounds from the back and walk along the rather

stately and well kept grounds to the building where I am

registered and my pilgrim's passport is stamped. Since Madame

Signing in.

Dubril didn't have a proper pilgrim credential, the officiating

priest prepared one for me with the appropriate stamps. The German

youths who passed me on the road registered at the same time. As

part of the signing in, pilgrims are asked to fill out a form

which asks the reasons you are embarking on the pilgrimage. The

choices are: Religious, spiritual, cultural, other. A check-box

for each. I check off spiritual and return the form which looks

like a Xerox in its thousandth generation of replication. We get

the run-down on the rules: find a bunk in the refugio (dorm), mass

at eight (about an hour away), dinner immediately afterwards in

the restaurant on the grounds (pilgrim discount), lights out at

ten, sleep, on the road by eight in the morning.

Hostel and Collegiate Church.

The sleeping area is on the third and top floor of an ancient

building adjacent to the church. I was a little apprehensive since

I had never stayed in a youth hostel before and didn't quite know

what to expect. My previous experiences with communal living were

Boy Scout Camp at age thirteen, and first year at college where,

due to a shortage of rooms, I was placed in a large room with five

other students for several weeks. Both were situations were you

needed to stay alert and defensive to avoid falling prey to a

prankster or some other mischief. Once up on the top floor, I

entered a common room with a long table. There are notices and

posters relating to pilgrim life on the walls and the showers and

bath rooms are on your left. At the end of the room on the right

is the door to the sleeping area which is one large room filled

with double decker bunk beds. I entered the room and was put at

Sleeping quarters.

ease immediately by the calm relaxed atmosphere of everyone, men

and women, going about their business of unpacking and finding

what they needed for washing up, changing clothes, and socializing

with one another. I selected a lower bunk and spread out my

sleeping bag, found my towel and a clean shirt and had a shower.

Everything went along smoothly.

After getting settled in, I decide to walk down to the gift

shop/bar in search of a phone to call my wife, Cameron. I find the

phone alright, but can't seem to make it respond to an

international call, nor can the bartender. There is a single

customer sitting at a table who speaks English and intervenes as

translator on my behalf, but in the end we all decide that the

phone simply isn't wired for international calls and give it up.

Meanwhile, the good samaritan and I introduce ourselves and have a

brief conversation. Turns out he is Howard from Australia, who

arrived yesterday or the day before. He advises me to scurry up to

the restaurant before mass and put in my reservation for the

discounted pilgrim dinner. Somehow these instructions passed me by

as I was checking in, which is no surprise since the priest spoke

mostly Spanish. I rush up to the restaurant and duly place a

reservation just in time to make the mass. Mind you, I'm not

Catholic, nor even a practicing Episcopalian as I was raised, but

I reasoned that attending the mass was in some way my pay-back for

the free room and in my condition, well worth the price. Actually,

I had never attended a full-fledged Catholic mass before and was

looking forward to the experience.

Mass in Collegiate Church.

The 13th century Collegiate Church was quite full as I entered a

few minutes late. While I recognized some of the pilgrims from the

refugio, most of the congregation consisted of visitors and people

from the community. I really didn't know quite what to expect, but

as the mass progressed I was very moved by the beauty of the alter

with its roof supported by four posts, and the sing-song chanting

of the priest. Near the end of the mass, the pilgrims were asked

to step forward and approach the alter for a special blessing.

Speaking very little Spanish and less Latin, I didn't understand a

word that was spoken but simply followed the other pilgrims. As it

turned out, while I was to attend many masses in some very fine

and ancient cathedrals before my pilgrimage was over, this was one

of the most beautiful. Perhaps it was the novelty for me, but I

felt that the quality of the organ music as well as the priest's

talent for the job, and the feeling of community with the

congregation all worked together to make this mass stand out.

The dinner was at the restaurant across the compound and directly

on the road. There was a single table of pilgrims. Howard the

Australian I met earlier in the bar was there. Sune and Henrietta,

a young Danish couple, Manuel, a Spaniard, myself and Tim, another

Australian. Here we all were, thrown together as strangers to

enjoy a meal together before continuing our journey. Tim, it turns

out, is a very outgoing adventurer who likes to travel when he

isn't working as a foreman on a diamond mining crew. He was on a

tour bus as it was stopped in Roncesvalles, one of the scheduled

sights and when he saw the pilgrims carrying backpacks milling

around, he asked the driver about it and learned about the Camino

de Santiago. He had never heard of it before but decided right

then and there that it was more interesting than his tour bus, so

he got off and instantly became a pilgrim. It happens that he had

a backpack and hiking boots with him so he was perfectly equipped,

making the decision easier. The other Australian, Howard, was

older, in his late forties, and quite a character. He told us he

was a free lance writer, photographer, and teacher. He had

traveled quite a bit and oddly, he did not have an Australian

accent. When I first met him earlier, I took him for an American.

He told us that he had a very difficult time crossing the Pyrenees

and almost required medical treatment for his ailing legs and

feet. He had arrived a day or two earlier and was resting before

going on tomorrow. He announced that he was planning to walk at a

leisurly pace and invited anyone who was interested in joining him

to meet at his hotel in the next town in the morning for coffee.

Tim and I agreed to do so. Sune was doing graduate work in

political science preparing for a career as an environmentalist,

and Henrietta was a nurse studying to become a midwife. Manual was

a student from Madrid. The menu was a choice between meat or fish,

with wine and a vegetable. The fish was great, especially since I

hadn't eaten since breakfast at the B & B that morning. We chatted

a bit, enjoyed each others company, but couldn't linger very long

since the refugio's ten o'clock curfew was coming hard upon us.

Perhaps it was the wine at dinner, but I was surprised that I

wasn't feeling more sore and tired after the days ordeal. As I

settled into my sleeping bag, the man in charge of keeping the

refugio running smoothly urged everyone to settle down as he

turned out the light.