On Friday, I walked for seven hours directly into the wind. Neither one of us would change direction and so we faced each other head on. After more than three hours, I wasn’t sure I could go any further. The app said 1.5km to the town where I planned to eat lunch.
Okay, I thought. That’s 1500 strides. You can do this.
I set out with purpose, Sara Bareilles in my ears, counting steps.
1, 2, 3, 4… 97, 98, 99, 200.
1, 2, 3, 4… 97, 98, 99, 400.
By the 1500th step, the town was in sight and I had reached its entrance, the path sloping downhill into a small ravine that provided some protection from the wind. Within minutes, I was inside a restaurant, relishing both the sustenance and the absence of wind in my face. An hour and a half later, I set out to face the last five miles.
The day before, it had been cool and windy, too, but by the early afternoon the sun had burned through the clouds, turning it into a warm and windy afternoon, which was still difficult, but tolerable.
The next day, the sun had no chance and its absence made the wind that much more punishing. At certain points, I would encounter a barrier of some kind—a billboard, a large pile of stones, a tree—and I would sit or stand in its shelter with my back to the wind and my hands over my ears or face, just to feel a few moments of respite from the incessant onslaught.
About two hours after lunch, having walked 10 miles with two more still to go, I reached a crossroads in the goat path at the bottom of the hill. To my right was a flat patch of short grass sheltered somewhat from the wind by an embankment of earth covered in vegetation. The small patch of grass beckoned me to sit, so I did. My feet were hurting—I hadn’t been able to remove my boots at lunch as I typically would—so I untied my boots and pulled them off, lifting my hot feet into the wind. I smiled. At least it could do some good to some part of my body.
Even in this place of moderate shelter, I could still feel the wind gusting over the embankment into my face. Something had to give. I lay down on my side, closed my eyes, and put my face into the crook of my elbow. The plush of my fleece felt so lovely and warm on my face. I pulled my day pack up beside me to shield the left side of my head.
Is this what it feels like to be an ostrich? I wondered.
And then, blackout.
Some time later, I came to with a start. It took me a moment to remember where I was. I looked at my phone. I had been out for a full 30 minutes.
I guess that’s what happens when I don’t get a cortado after lunch, I thought.
It was well after 3pm now and I still had two miles left to walk. I could see the town where I was headed on the horizon. I looked around me, marveling at the desolation of the place. Not one house, car, or living creature in sight. I could scream until my lungs collapsed and no one would hear me. A few minutes later, a lone car trundled down the road in the distance. It was there, and then gone.
Right, I thought. Either I stay here and die, or I keep going.
So I turned on a podcast, picked up my sticks, and started walking. I tried to relax my shoulders and just focus on the sound of the voice in my ears. The path here was flat pavement which made it easier to put one foot in front of the other, letting my trekking poles keep my momentum for me.
I am coming to appreciate all the ways in which Camino is a metaphor for life, but the walk into the wind was extremely on the nose. Too many times in the last seven years have I felt those headwinds and wondered, Why? Why me? Why now?
And yet sometimes that is just life. Life has its uphills and downhills, and its flat straightaways that feel never-ending. It has freak snowstorms and 30 mph winds.
Forrest Gump was right. In that box of chocolates, you just never know what you’re going to get. And sometimes the lesson is facing what comes with equanimity and perseverance.
About 90 minutes later, I walked into town and immediately felt the muscles of my face, neck, and back relax as the proximity of the building began blocking the wind. I sat down on a bench and breathed a sigh of relief. I had arrived.
Such a vivid description of what a very challenging day. I can almost feel the plushness of the fleece as you took a brief shelter from the wind!
Ironically, as I read this, the TV screen was showing me Olympic sailing.