A sleepless night in Leon was followed by the realization the next morning, that I would not be doing any walking for at least a couple of days. My right knee was noticeably swollen and difficult to walk on without support from other objects or my hiking poles, and for the first time, I began to ponder the possibility of abandoning the trek to Santiago. If it seems like a rush to judgment on the outcome of the journey, it's somewhat indicative of the amount of pain I was in. I had to be out of the bunkhouse by 8am, so I packed my things and walked across the street to the cathedral square and sat down on a nearby bench. I felt dejected as I watched other pilgrims - the early risers - stream through the cathedral doors and head through to the other end to join the Camino.
I wanted to find a pharmacy, but being a Tuesday morning, nothing would be open until at least 10am. I found a hiding place inside a small breakfast tavern and had a pity party over burnt toast and frothy café con leche. I was upset that I wouldn't be able to keep to my original itinerary as a result of the injury and sent a text home bemoaning my current state, searching for some source of encouragement, even if it was the middle of the night back in Austin. Before leaving the tavern, I rummaged through my bag for a moment in an effort to locate my phone and cash, when I pulled out something Adrian had given me before I left home. When he gave it to me, he said "Here daddy, you can take this with you, in case you get hungry on your hike." I smiled and felt homesick.
I was afraid. Specifically, I was afraid of failure. I had planned out every detail, asked others to participate and come with me, and I was now faced with the very real possibility that I wouldn't be able to go forward, at least not as planned. Krista texted back a short time later: "Have your cry, then make a plan. Don't plan under duress." She was right, I was in pain, and needed to deal with that first. I'd make it to the end of the road one way or another, even if it wasn't exactly the way I planned. I went over to the pharmacy door, sat down on a bench, and bought a train ticket from Leon to Ponferrada. I'd cut out a substantial portion of the trip, but by getting ahead of where I was supposed to be, I would buy myself some critical time to rest. If the reports are accurate, there isn't much to see on that stretch anyway (or at least, this is what I told myself).
I fell asleep on the train ride over, exhausted from trying to prop myself up and overthink everything. When I arrived at the station in Ponferrada, I went down to the local laundromat to take some precautionary measures against los chinches given the previous night's events. I emptied everything out of my bag and threw everything that could stand 115-degree heat into an industrial sized dryer, including my pack. I took off my shirt, socks and shoes, and threw those in for good measure too. I sat down to wait, when a gentleman walked in and greeted me in a heavy Portuguese accent. He was the proprietor and was checking to make sure I had what I needed. He saw my passport on the table and immediately switched into English. The condensed version:
"I'm from Connecticut. Property taxes there are terrible there. Living here is cheaper."
Turns out his family is from Portugal, which is how one finds themselves in this hidden corner of the world, running a reasonably successful chain of laundromats. We chatted for a while, and he seemed relieved at running into someone from back home. The will of the chinche now firmly extinguished, I re-packed my rucksack, thanked him for the conversation, and headed for my hostel for the night. I wasn't sure if I was going to walk from Ponferrada in the morning, but I was going to try. For a brief moment, I contemplated eating the smiling little lollipop Adrian gave me, but I decided to hang on to it just a bit longer, knowing I might need a crutch to lean on in the days to come.
--
Wednesday morning roared into my window on the back of an epic Castilian thunderstorm, which kicked off the power in our wing. My bunkmates and I packed and walked downstairs to eat a cold breakfast in the dark before offering different approaches for how best to wander out into the rain. 5 out of 6 were on metal bicycles, so their trepidation was understandable. Once the storm was far enough away, I took a few creaky steps out the door and headed towards the Knights Templar castle that crowns the city skyscape. It was painful, but functional, and I took it extraordinarily slow. For the next 10 hours, I'd wander into some of the most amazing scenery I'd seen on the Camino since the initial stage from St. Jean to Roncesvalles, but I'd only manage to cover 15 of the 21km I needed to walk. As I shuffled past a small winery, the woman at the desk came outside to assess my situation, and decided I needed a cab. I tried to argue, but unless you've ever tried to argue with an old Spanish woman who was trying to feed and heal you, you'd have a hard time understanding what I was up against. 5 minutes later, I was in a cab the rest of the way to Villafranca del Bierzo.
Villafranca del Bierzo is a picturesque but crumbling little town in El Bierzo, very close to the boundary of Leon and Castille to Galicia. I had booked a room near the castle for the evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of the historic quarter. The hostel, of course, was at the top of a long hill, with rooms up 2 flights of stairs upon arrival. I decided to stay in. The hospitalero generously offered to take me to the town medical center to see a physiotherapist. I agreed, and we were zipping back down the hill 10 minutes later. I walked into the clinic, and the following exchange took place shortly after the doctor flexed my knee until it screamed:
Doc: "Bueno, yo no te aconsejo que abandones, pero estas bien jodido, vale?"
Translation: I'm not tell you to quit, but you're pretty [expletive], ok?
Me: [Nodding in agreement]
Doc: "Mejor te quitas la montaña mañana, y descansas, o te veo hecho mierda."
Translation: You should forget about the mountain tomorrow and rest or you're going to be [expletive].
Me: [Nodding in agreement]
Doc: "Claro, si subes, tienes que bajar, y la rodilla no to va valer ni un culo."
Translation: What goes up, must come down, and your knee isn't going to be worth [expletive].
I'm still getting used to the way Spaniards speak sometimes, but the message was clear - without rest, I was done. So, I opted to skip the mountain he was referring to, O Cebreiro, which is touted as one of the highlights of the full journey across the Camino Frances. Skipping this stage and taking another zero-day meant that I was being forced to the 100km boundary, which pilgrims are required to complete in full, on foot, in order to be recognized as such in Santiago. I wasn't happy with it, but my choices were now to give myself a shot at meeting my goal or conceding defeat and going home. Plan C was in motion, and I was on a bus to Sarria in the afternoon, not yet knowing whether it meant anything at all.
My dedication amid my personal turmoil is for my children. They are my center in this universe, and there isn't a bad day they can't turn right-side-up. Adrian, Gabriella, and Sarah are the brightest stars in my galaxy, and I knew that they'd be cheering me on from back home, no matter what the circumstances might be. In the end, letting them down would be failing to forge ahead, whatever that might mean. Sometimes plans change, and we have to be wise enough to know when to turn over control, and let a higher power call the shots.
"Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress. He sent out his word and healed them."
- Psalm 107:19-20
A very special thanks to Krista, Jay Guerra and Fr. Daniel for attempting to assess my physical (and mental) state from afar and stepping in to provide the positive reinforcement I needed to keep moving forward. I was standing on a pig farm for much of those conversations, so moving on was wise counsel indeed. Thank you, gentlemen.
Will