The next morning the hostelero at Roncesvalles has everyone

hustling to be out the door by 8 A.M. sharp. He is a stocky man

in his mid forties with an air of terse politeness. Pilgrims

socializing as they pack are encouraged not to dally as the

hostel must be cleaned up and ready for those arriving today. As

I came to learn very soon, every refugio has its own style of

operation determined by the volunteers who run it.

The volunteers are always seasoned pilgrims themselves who feel

especially connected to the Camino and wish to give something

back. Some refugios are run with a no-nonsense military attitude

while others are more relaxed. But even the most relaxed refugios

have you on the road bright and early, and nothing short of a

doctor's word will get you more than a single night. Every

refugio has a doctor or clinic on call, free of charge to any

pilgrim carrying certified pilgrim credential; the passport that

is stamped at every refugio as you progress along the Camino.

While some refugios have paid caretakers who run the place on a

more or less permanent basis, most have volunteers who work for a

few weeks before moving on. More often than not the volunteers

are not Spanish, but represent the entire spectrum of pilgrim

nationalities.

Outside the hostel I met up with the Australian, Tim, and we set

off towards Burguete, the next town, 3.9 kilometers away. It was

a clear invigorating morning and we took to the road at rapid

pace set by Tim. Fortunately the road was flat, but right away I

knew I was in trouble trying to keep the pace. Every bone in my

body was creaking from yesterday's ordeal, while Tim, who was

just beginning his pilgrimage, was fresh as a daisy. Not wanting

to sound like a weeny on my third day as a pilgrim, I kept the

pace while filling Tim in on the miracle of St. James. The fact

that he knew nothing at all about why pilgrims were taking this

route made his impromptu decision to join us even more

impressive. As we walked into Burguete we passed a bar where the

German lads were having beer for breakfast and marveled at their

stamina. The town itself was clean and tidy, but a bit austere.

Somewhere near the center of town, a few hundred meters in, we

located Howard's hotel and found him finishing breakfast in the

dining room. The hotel was exactly like the town, clean and

proper. The waiter asked Tim and I to move our packs out to the

entrance hall while we ate breakfast. We ordered coffee and some

pastry and chatted with Howard, looking at his guide book and

discussing the road ahead. Behind us on the wall hung a newspaper

clipping with a photograph of Ernest Hemingway writing in the

very room we were in. Very impressive and a huge claim to fame

for the hotel, I'm sure. We got ourselves together and walked out

to the narrow sidewalk and along the main street. Just before the

Camino broke off to the right, we came upon the church of San

Nicolas de Bari where I stopped to photograph the beautiful

San Nicolas de Bari.

baroque portal. Tim and Howard lingered a moment but were more

interested in walking and continued on. When I finished and

started to walk I could see them up ahead engaged in conversation

and walking at the same quick pace set by Tim. I worried about

Howard because of what he had told us about the physical

difficulty he had crossing the Pyrenees and having to rest for a

day before continuing, and I knew from earlier in the morning

that Tim's pace was too quick for me so I decided not to try and

catch up. That was the last I was to see of either of them. My

concern for Howard was well founded since I heard later from the

Danish couple, Sune and Henrietta, that Howard had to take

another more extended break since he had developed serious

blisters that day. Not just ordinary blisters, but blisters with

blood in them, and also that he was determined to finish the

pilgrimage even if it took him until September.

El Camino.

As I continued to walk through the countryside, and after passing

a few towns, the road began to rise steeply to the Alto de Erro.

This is Charlemagne country. It was in Burguete that Roland,

Oliveros, and King Marsilius (the Moorish caliph) were defeated

in battle along with 40,000 Christian and Saracen soldiers.

Legend holds it was the Basques in collusion with the Moors who

attacked Charlemagne's rear guard, commanded by Roland. As I

climbed the steep trail, winding through brambles, hazel and

beech trees, I came across the famous stone known as Roland's

footstep, which is about two meters long and appropriately

marked. A good thing it has a sign on it, I thought, since I

Roland's Footstep.

undoubtedly would have walked right by it. As I become more

fatigued with the passing kilometers, I become less and less

attentive to the environment. Eventually, after a difficult trek

I came upon the Venta del Puerto (Inn of the Pass). In and around

the building, which is now a cowshed, a herd of fine looking

Venta del Puerto.

golden brown cows are grazing which startled me a bit since they

sported very sharp looking horns and didn't seem to appreciate my

sudden appearance. After deciding that I wasn't a threat they

lost their curiosity in me and went about their business. Through

an opening in the trees, I could see an industrial plant far in

the distance spewing a thick cloud of white smoke over the entire

valley it was in. Hoping that the plant wasn't my destination for

the day since it looked much too far away, I decided to stop and

have lunch. I didn't have a guide book yet so I really wasn't

sure about my destination. I'd lost the guide book I bought in

Pamplona which was in Spanish anyway and of limited use to me.

All I had was a couple of Energizer Bars that I had brought all

the way from home and water. By this time I was really quite

tired and appreciated the rest, and what more fitting place than

an ancient inn. It was about 12 noon and after about half an hour

I struggled to my feet, bid adios to the cows and continued. Like

the day before, the downward walk turned out to be the real

challenge. Not only because the way became seriously steep and

rutted with loose stones, but also because the way down is at the

end of the day when I am more tired. Now, as it would many more

times as I continued, the Camino became a true test of endurance.

My over-weight pack was beginning to really become a burden and

my spirits were starting to deplete along with my water supply.

El Camino seemed endless, but there is no choice but to walk on.

Although it isn't really that far (about 4 kilometers) from Venta

del Puerto to Zubiri which was to be my destination, it seemed a

lot further because of the very rough terrain and my poor

condition. Finally, I come to a clearing and see that the cement

plant with it's billowing smoke stacks is indeed my destination,

Factory at Zubiri.

and soon walk out of the hillside and onto the paved streets

of the town of Zubiri.

After crossing the bridge which seemed unremarkable to my weary

eyes, despite the fact that the Zubiri means "village of the

bridge" in Basque, and the bridge has two Gothic arches, I came

to the main street and asked directions to the refugio. I was

directed to turn right and continue down a bit where I would find

it on the left side of the road. Zubiri is not an especially

picturesque town as Spanish towns go. It is built on the river

Arga which runs parallel to the main street and the town is

dominated by the cement factory at the west end. In fact, the

whole of the immediate river valley is dominated by the factory

which is responsible for the polluted air from its smoke stacks.

There is lots of construction going on to put up mini high rises,

and with the exception of the bridge, not much to see of

architectural interest. The whole town has the appearance of

having built within the last decade or so.

This being my first refugio except for Roncesvalles which you

couldn't miss, I must admit I had some difficulty identifying it.

As instructed, I walked down the main street and first looked at

what seemed like a high-rise condo which clearly wasn't a

refugio. The next set of buildings had a playground for

youngsters in front of it with long buildings going away from the

road. Obvious as it must have been to any seasoned pilgrim, I

remained baffled and walked down to the end building and opened

the door to find an gym. Feeling the full impact of being a

confused foreigner, and realizing that I had no idea what to

expect, or what a refugio actually looks like, I cautiously went

to the next doorway which had a door on the left and right of an

open shower-room door. This looked very promising, but the left

hand door was locked. I opened the door on the right and entered

a room filled with bunkbeds and a single patron sleeping on a

lower bunk at the far end. At last, refuge for a weary pilgrim.

On the wall just inside the door was a drop box for donations,

about 200 pesetas. ($1.50) plus a little extra for a shower. The

room was about 30 feet long and 12 feet wide with windows and a

long table on one side and bunk beds lining the other long wall

and the end walls. I entered, selected a lower bunk nearest the

door and unpacked my gear in preparation for a shower. After

taking a shower and returning to the bunk house, my fellow

pilgrim was stirring and we soon discovered that we had no

language in common. He was French and spoke a little Spanish but

no English, and I spoke no French. He was to be known thereafter

as the French Guy. Since relationships on the Camino are

fleeting, people were usually reduced to their most salient

characteristic in lieu of proper names. There was the American

couple, the Norwegian couple, etc. I learned later that the

French Guy was also known as Mr. Quick because he walked very

fast. So there we were reduced to pantomiming but able to

communicate surprisingly well. We motioned and groaned about the

difficulty of the last bit of Camino, and then the subject of

food came up and we decided to investigate the possibilities. My

new companion was a short, balding man in his late fifties with a

tanned complexion.

I decided to go out and make a phone call home at a phone booth a

few meters up the street. When I returned to the refugio, the

French Guy was outside talking to a native in French. I couldn't

believe it. Just by chance, in the middle of Spain, the French

Guy finds someone who speaks fluent French. Turns out the French

Guy is very easily excitable and is in a perfect snit. His guide

book indicated that there would be a restaurant nearby and open,

and the native has informed him otherwise. I suggested we find a

bar which seemed like a stroke of genius to my new friend, and he

proceed to chat with the native about this idea. Apparently

satisfied with the natives response about the whereabouts of a

suitable bar, we set off down the road to the center of town

about 400 meters away, but not before he cautioned me not to

leave any money at the refugio.

The bar turned out to be a small husband and wife market where we

bought food for dinner and had our credentials stamped by the

proprietors. Being a novice pilgrim, I followed the lead of the

French Guy in buying some blood sausage, an item seen hanging in

any market but one that, for some reason, I had never associated

with food. We also bought oranges, canned peppers, wine, cheese,

and bread. I bought a couple of cans of Naranja (orange drink)

which I was becoming addicted to. I knew I was also buying

tomorrow's lunch. We walked back to the refugio and ate our

sumptuous dinner at the long table. During dinner the French Guy

told me that not only was this his third pilgrimage, but that

he'd had triple by-pass surgery. He pulled open his shirt to

reveal a huge scar running down the center of his chest, then

pulled up his pant-leg to reveal another scar where they had

taken a artery. I was very impressed. Since I hadn't eaten all

day, the meal was extraordinarily good. The combination of canned

peppers, oranges, and blood sausage was totally new for me. After

dinner, we cleaned up the table and I set about washing my socks,

underwear, and T-shirt in preparation for the next day's walk. I

hung my clothes out to dry on one of the playground's fixtures, a

circular ride made of iron bars which made a perfect clothesline.

I was finally beginning to feel human again and the French Guy

suggested we go back to town for coffee which I agreed to. We

found a little bar that seemed to double as a teen center, sat

down at a table and ordered coffee above the very loud music. We

both ordered cafe solo which was served by a waitress who was

doing her best to hold back a laughing fit. I have no idea what

exactly, about the two foreigners, struck her so funny. I don't

think the French Guy noticed and we enjoyed our cafe solo in the

disco and walked back to the refugio. The French Guy and I were

sitting on the stoop and it was beginning to get dark when the

French Girl arrived, walking alone, deep in her own world. She

was in her mid-thirties, slim and attractive, and, like the

French Guy, well tanned. We all greeted each other and she went

in after a brief conversation with the French Guy and myself. She

spoke English as well as French. I was glad to see another

pilgrim arrive since, while the French Guy and I were getting

along well enough, the language barrier is like a wall that takes

a little getting used to. Shortly afterwards, the American

couple, Ron and Linda, arrived. Both were short and stocky and

looked as though they could hike anywhere. They were carrying

huge packs and looked tired. Ron immediately asked, "Who's in

charge?" I responded, "I am." Obviously he didn't believe me

because he asked again and I told him about the honor system and

the locked drop box inside. They went in and settled in. After

about half an hour, the French Bikers showed up. They were doing

a whirl-wind pilgrimage and expected to be in Santiago de

Compostela inside of two weeks. Everyone did their thing,

showering, clothes washing, and sitting around chatting. The

nearly empty refugio had suddenly turned into a bustling hostel

with pilgrims talking and laughing while they prepared for the

night's rest and the next day's challenges.