June 21 7:30 A.M.

The French Guy is gone. Everyone else is busy packing and I am

working on a letter and thinking about how I'm going to mail a

package home with the unnecessary stuff I am carrying. After

yesterday's walk I am determined to lighten up my load, both

physically and spiritually. Watching the others pack and talk

among themselves it's easy for me to feel the self-conscious

brooding that can be like a cloak I wear. In a blink of an eye,

it can turn into fear and insecurity. While packing I talk with

Ron and Linda for a few minutes. Turns out that they had a

difficult day yesterday. Linda has back problems and Ron helps

her out frequently by portaging her heavy pack up the more

difficult parts of the trail. Although this makes for slow going

they are in good spirits and I feel a kinship with these fellow

Americans. After finishing my own packing, I head off towards

town in search of coffee and a post office. I stopped in a bar

and ordered cafe solo from a distinctly cool proprietor. The

coffee was good as usual, and after finishing I walked a few

doors down to where I learned the post office was in a hostel.

Zubiri, being a bustling community with a large factory, must, I

reasoned have a decent post office. How would people mail

packages to friends and family in other regions otherwise? After

entering the tiny lobby and confirming with the woman behind the

counter that this was indeed the post office, with my usual

pathetic Spanish and pantomiming, I explained that I wanted to

mail a package home. Her response eluded me for the most part,

and after a while she summoned her husband from the back room.

Eventually it became very clear that I could send letters but a

package was out of the question, especially a package that didn't

exist. I needed to find a box and then wrapping paper and string.

Ok, live and learn. I knew the idea of mailing a package was

going to be a mission, so after eating a croissant that appeared

out of nowhere, I started the days journey. I would be carrying

my heavy load for some time to come. Someone along the way

suggested that an enterprising native could make a good living

specializing in arranging to have all the useless stuff pilgrims

start out with sent home. I'm sure it's true. As I left the post

office and started down the street, I caught a glimpse of Ron and

Linda a few hundred meters away headed back in the direction of

the refugio. Too, far away to hail them, I hoped that they were

alright, since they were not heading out on the Camino. That was

the last I was to see of them.

Factory grounds.

Back over the bridge, I fend off a couple of unchained guard dogs

as the owners half-heartedly call them back, and trudge through

the grim landscape of the factory grounds. From the hill

overlooking the factory, I could see the valley stretching out

below and the road where bikers like the French group who stayed

at the refugio last night were moving at a fast clip. I was glad

to be away from the traffic, on foot, alone. Just before entering

the luscious path that followed the river Arga, I came upon a

note on a marker left in the hope that the intended recipient

would pass by and read it. I thought of all the fleeting

relationships formed on the Camino, and the sweet futility of

this message. How often have we formed brief relationships where

things were left unsaid only to regret the mistake later with no

recourse.

Note.

I found this section of the Camino very refreshing. Walking next

to a river and smelling and hearing its life undoubtedly had a

relaxing effect. The path is narrow and just a few feet from the

fast moving river. At one point a biker came up behind me and

asked if I had seen the rest of his group. I hadn't, but a few

kilometers further on when the Camino joined the highway for a

bit I came upon the group. At about noon, I stopped for lunch in

Larrasoana. While I sat eating my sausage, bread, and cheese, the

old man of the town (every town has a few of these ancient

sentries) told me it was going to rain. After climbing a hill to

Zuriain I met a an old farmer who spoke at length about his

relatives who had moved to the United States. I was unable to

confirm the rain prediction, and as yet there was no sign of

water from the sky. At about 4:30 I stopped to rest at a bridge

and watched some kids washing their car for

a while before continuing.

Sign at a bridge.

By this time I was exhausted. No kick left, but the

section is a steep climb. In the distance coming up behind me, I

saw two pilgrims and I thought, oh good, here come Ron and Linda,

and while they turned out to be an American couple, they weren't

who I thought they were. We met at the top of a steep climb where

the path leveled off for awhile around the base of a hill. They

were Carson and Anna who I was to bump into off and on several

times during our pilgrimage. Again, it was a real treat to be

able to talk with people from home, and compare a few notes on

our impressions as well as to complain a little about the

difficulty. Anna was having serious problems with her feet, and

like Ron, Carson was helping her by portaging her pack up some of

the steeper climbs. I was very impressed with the strength and

stamina of these guys, climbing the roughest hills twice. They

told me that Pamplona was about 10 kilometers ahead. At this

point I didn't have a guide book and was glad to hear that I was

closing in on my destination.

Trinidad de Arre.

On I went while they rested for a while. This last few kilometers

to Pamplona and the following day turned out to be the most

difficult for me. More difficult than crossing the Pyrenees and

even more difficult than climbing to Foncebadon and the Iron

Cross marking the highest point of the Camino later on. This was

due to my as yet unconditioned body and the unrelenting routine

of walking hard every day without rest. It was getting to me, but

there was little choice but to walk. I had severe blisters on my

heels which simply couldn't heal as long as I continued to walk,

but walking was why I had come, so walk I did. At about 6:30 I

was finally approaching Pamplona, the city I had flown into three

days earlier. As I approached from the East I could see the walls

of the city and it seemed as though it would not get closer. Here

was a city founded by the Roman general Pomey around 75 B.C. but

I could care less since every step required a supreme act of

will. I had pushed myself beyond my physical limit and I was

concerned that if I stopped for more than a moment, I would not

be able to summon the courage or will to force my body to move. I

was walking like an ancient traveler, every step considered, slow

and measured. Time stopped. All that was left was the next step

and the pain. After walking past the walls and up the steps to

the city, I entered a street with dingy nightclubs and loud

music. My greeting to Pamplona was the drunken patrons of the

nightclubs lingering at the doorways and spilling into the

street, loud and boisterous, sneering and yelling nasty remarks

as I limped past. I was sure I had just arrived in Hell. Having

lost track of the yellow arrows, I eventually entered a square in

the old section with no idea whatsoever where to find the

refugio. St. James smiled upon me, however, and in what appears

to be a fantastic coincidence, with hundreds of people milling

around, I encountered Sune and Henrietta who directed me to the

refugio located close-by on the third floor of an ancient church.