fear Archives - Nadine Walks

Solo Travel on the Camino

June 10, 2016

The school year is ending and summer is approaching and that means I’ve been asked, a lot, about my summer plans. I find myself explaining to a whole crop of new people that I’m going to walk the Camino. “What’s the Camino?” they ask.

It’s always the first question.

And the second question, once I’ve explained that it’s a long walk across Spain, is invariably this: “Who are you going with?”

But I had a strange experience the other day: I was talking to a principal at one of the schools I work at, he was telling me that he and his wife and kids are doing a big cross-country road trip this summer. He asked me what my plans were, and I started like I normally do. “Well, I’m going to Europe, to do a thing called the Camino de Santiago.”

His eyes lit up. “The Way? Seriously?”

Turns out he knew all about it, and we got into a long conversation about the outdoors and hiking and the beauty of moving yourself across a great distance.

But it wasn’t until I was driving home from work that I figured out what really struck me about the conversation, more than the fact that he actually knew what the Camino was. He didn’t ask one question about who I was going with, if I was doing it alone. It hadn’t even seemed to matter.

And I really loved that. I get why people want to know if I’m going alone or not, but sometimes I get a little tired of all the explaining I have to do. Like, “It’s actually really safe, you meet loads of other people, there’s always someone walking nearby.” Even with these explanations, people still sometimes give me a look. They’re confused, they feel sorry for me, they look at me as if I’m a bit strange for wanting to do something like this alone.

But after two 500-mile treks across Spain over these last couple of summers, I have to say, I’m beginning to think it would be difficult to walk with someone.

There are lots of benefits, certainly, to have a walking partner, or a small group to go with. Even I have to admit that sometimes, I’m a little envious of the friends that come to the Camino together. I’ll pass them, sitting tight around a table at lunchtime, bottles of wine and beer and baskets of bread and they’re laughing and joking. They get to share this great experience with someone who knows them really well. I think that would be a cool thing to do. And sometimes- even in a crowd (most especially in a crowd, perhaps)- the Camino can feel lonely. There were a few nights on my Norte last summer when I envied the pilgrims who never, ever had to worry about eating dinner alone, who always had a companion with them.

And there’s the safety issue, too. To be honest, I very, very rarely felt unsafe on either of my treks across Spain. Nervous, sometimes, when a dog barked loudly. Anxious when I hadn’t seen a yellow arrow for a long time. But never unsafe. That’s not to say that bad things can’t happen on the Camino, and as always (and especially as a woman), I needed to keep my wits about me, to be observant and aware, to do my best to not put myself in a compromising situation. And I continue to do that, any time I travel.

But these points aside, I really love my solo-Camino time. In some ways, it feels like one of the most special things I can give to myself at this time in my life, and I know how lucky I am that I can spend a month being totally and completely selfish. I walk when I want to walk, I stop when I want to stop, I can walk a 50+ kilometer day and I don’t have to try to convince anyone to do the same.

A solo-Camino might not be for everyone, but I think it’s a wonderful experience to have. Two summers ago, when I started walking away from St Jean Pied de Port, I was so scared. I’d barely slept the night before, I froze in my bunk because I was too nervous to get up to close the window because I thought I would disturb the person sleeping beneath me, the clothes I’d washed hadn’t dried, I wasn’t even really sure how to get out of the town and onto the path of the Camino. But then I started walking, and that first day still goes down as my absolute favorite Camino walk. It’s hard to describe the sense of achievement, bravery, energy, love, peace, pride, solidity that I felt as I moved myself across a mountain. Others who had come alone were already pairing off, walking in groups, finding their “Camino Families”, braving the Pyrenees together.

I walked alone.

I eventually made friends, and there were times- especially on the Camino Frances- when I felt like I wasn’t as alone as I would have liked. But here was the beauty of coming into this experience myself: at any time, whenever I wanted, I could separate myself. I could walk with others, I could walk alone. I could take a rest day, I could walk a great distance, I could eat french fries for twelve days in a row and no one had any idea.

And it wasn’t just being alone whenever I wanted, it was the ability to be with others. I still think that a solo-pilgrim on the Camino attracts others in a way that pilgrims in pairs or groups don’t. Many, many people approached me to say hi, to start a conversation, because I was alone. And I, in turn, approached others when I was feeling a bit alone. You’re going to meet people on the Camino regardless of whether you’re alone or in a group, but the opportunity for new friends increases, I think, when you’re solo.

People help you, too. They look out for you, they take care of you, when they know it’s just you (well, they help you if you’re in a group too- Camino angels help everyone). On the Frances, I had so many mothers and fathers out there. I even had a little sister and a little brother, and someone who reminded me of my own grandfather. People who asked me how I was doing whenever they saw me, asked if I was wearing my sunscreen, made sure I had a place to sleep, that I had enough to eat.

One time, on the Primitivo, a Spanish guy had been walking ahead of me. We’d left a cafe at the same time and he was fast, and soon he disappeared down the path. But a little later I saw him standing off to the side of the trail. He was waiting for me, and he explained that there was a large dog up ahead. “I didn’t want you to be afraid, so I waited for you, to help you pass,” he said. The same thing happened a few days later- a different guy, and this time, a cow.

I wish I could explain about all of this, when anyone seems concerned that I’m going off to Spain alone. I wish I could explain that I’m never really alone out there, that in fact, I think the Camino Frances is probably one of the safest places in the world for a female to travel solo. And I wish I could explain that going alone isn’t so bad, that actually, it’s quite wonderful. That sometimes it’s good to do things by ourselves, to learn what we’re capable of, to remember what we’re capable of.

I’ve got another Camino coming up- soon- and once again I’m going alone. One of these years I’d love to share this experience with someone, and I have no doubt that I will. But for now I’m solo, and I couldn’t be happier.

Beware the raccoons!- Cumberland Island Camping Adventure, Part One

March 25, 2016

I’ve mentioned here before that I have next to no camping experience, but also that I got a tent for Christmas. One of my goals for 2016 was to take the tent out into the great unknown- “into the wild”- and use it, and I’m here to report that I survived my first ever, solo-camping trip.

I would almost go so far as to say that not only did I survive… I thrived. Though that might be pushing it a bit. Still, I’m racking my brain to think of something that went wrong, something I was woefully unprepared for, something that made me say, “I’m never going camping again!”

There was nothing. I wish sleeping on the ground had been a little more comfortable… and three days without a shower is a little much (there were cold water showers at my campsite, but I chickened out)… but this is camping. Being clean and sleeping comfortably are things I do in my every day life, and if a little dirt and discomfort were my biggest worries, then I’d say that my camping trip went pretty well.

But really, this trip ended up being about so much more than learning how to sleep and eat outdoors. It was elevated to another level by the location: Cumberland Island, a barrier island off the southern coast of the US state of Georgia. At 17.5 miles long, it has stretches of undeveloped beaches, salt marshes, maritime forest. It was designated a national seashore (and national park) in the 70’s, and is largely unspoiled and unpopulated. There is no bridge to the island- you need to take a ferry- no paved roads, no amenities. There are a handful of private homes but most of the island is designated as a wilderness area. There are birds and turtles and raccoons and armadillos and several hundred wild horses, that roam all through the island.

I’d anticipated that I would be blogging while I was there- that, since I was alone, I’d have nothing to do in the evenings and would use that time to write. But somehow, the days just slipped away and before I knew it, the sun had set and it was 8pm and I was ready to tuck into my tent with a cup of wine and cookies and my book (yeah, I brought a bottle of wine. I liked the idea of toasting my camping success each evening! So, not totally roughing it just yet).

Now I’m back, to my comfy and cozy apartment, and I imagine that I’ll devote a few blog posts to this trip. So here is part one: “Beware of the raccoons!”

I heard this warning multiple times- from a girl on the ferry ride over, from a park ranger giving us an orientation when we got to the island, from campers who had been there before.

“The raccoons are sneaky,” said an 11-year old girl on the ferry. “Last year, they took our pasta, and that was my favorite meal!”

I never got the name of the girl on the ferry, but she befriended me instantly (I always seem to make friends with the kids), and talked my ear-off on the 40 minute ride from St Mary’s to the island. She told me that this was the second year her family was camping on the island; she reported that last time, she’d pet both an armadillo and a horse (statements that I’m now questioning, considering how fast armadillos scurry away and by how many times we were warned to stay away from the horses). “I love this place,” she said, a slight southern accent to her voice, her blue eyes opened wide. “I hope we get campsite eleven again, that’s the one closest to the beach.”

As she talked, I found myself growing increasingly nervous. I’d felt the nervousness in the days leading up to my trip, and on the night before I began the long, 12-hour drive down to Georgia, I questioned what I was doing. Laying in a warm bed, four walls around me, a kitchen full of food and a bathroom with a hot shower, I wondered why on earth I was going to go camping for 3 days. This happens to me from time to time- I decide to do something and throw myself into the preparations, then just before it’s time to leave I get overwhelmed with the reality of what I’ve gotten myself into. I begin to think I was crazy to want to try something new, I begin to think that it would be so much easier to just stay home.

But that’s just fear talking: I hear it a lot, but I’m getting used to how it sounds. I’m also getting used to ignoring it, and then going and trying something new anyway.

By the time I was on the ferry my nervousness was mixed with excitement. Dozens of people were crammed in the cabin of the ferry- it was windy and cold outside, so we all squeezed inside, standing in the aisles. As the 11-year old continued to talk, I looked out the window: we were surrounded by blue water and strips of green land, deep colors with sunshine washing over everything.

Once the ferry docked at Cumberland Island and we all unloaded our stuff, the day-trippers went off to rent bikes, to trek over to the beach, or the ruins of the old Carnegie estate (more on that, later). The campers had to gather together for a quick talk from the park ranger, and then we were assigned campsites.

I felt a little awkward, sitting among groups of people: families who were loud and laughing, couples sitting close together with great, hulking backpacks. Everyone seemed surprised to find out that I was alone, and maybe moreover, that I was a girl and I was alone. But the woman next to me smiled and introduced me to her college-aged children, sitting behind us. And the 11 year old girl was in front of me, and gave me a high five and whispered, “Good luck” when I went to the front to get my campsite.

I chose the smallest site, and set off for the half mile walk to the campgrounds. I was loaded down with my stuff- my Camino pack on my back, a smaller backpack strapped to my front, a large duffel slung over my shoulder. But as soon as I moved away from the office building and began walking down the path, all of my fear left me, and I walked with a big smile on my face.

I was surrounded by so much beauty: a hard packed sand trail, bordered on both sides by a dense layer of palmettos- “little palms”- with their long, bright green leaves. Overhead were the twisting, gnarled branches of live oak trees, covered with draping Spanish moss, and the sunlight filtered through, giving off a shimmery, magical kind of light.

And once I got to the campgrounds, it was even better: those palms and the the Spanish moss were everywhere, creating natural borders between the sites, and a canopy of branches and moss casting shade over the ground. My campsite felt perfect- just the right size for one or two people- and I was able to set up my tent in a little area that was tucked away, totally invisible to anyone passing by on the path. I quickly stored all of my food in the food cage, and loaded up my pack with basic hiking/exploring supplies: lots of water, items for lunch, a first aid kit and a towel for lounging on the beach.

Just before I set off to explore part of the island I looked back: to my tent, hoping that I staked it down right, that a gust of wind wouldn’t knock it over. And to the food cage that held all of my food for the next three days, that I hoped was secure and raccoon proof. To the picnic table and the fire ring and the draping Spanish moss. This was home for the next few days, and I felt amazed and lucky that I had gotten myself there.

Stay tuned for more of my adventures (including some of those wild horses, a big black snake, and a Carnegie).

Into the Wild: Fear and the Unknown

February 14, 2016

I got a tent for Christmas. It’s a small and simple thing, maybe the smallest and simplest kind of tent out there: long and narrow and fits a single person, white nylon and a sea-foam green colored rainfly. I had to learn what a rainfly was when I was researching tents, and I had to learn how to set up a tent, too. I opened the drawstring pouch and pulled out a mess of nylon and polyester and aluminum poles that, surprisingly, snapped into place with what seemed like a mind of their own. I tugged the material down at the edges and unzipped the large, semi-circle door and crawled inside. It smelled new and my socks squeaked against the floor as I slid them down the length of the tent and then laid there, all stretched out, with enough room to flex my toes. I was in my own little kingdom.

I haven’t taken the tent outside yet; it’s the middle of February and the coldest it’s been all winter. So it’s been sitting in my living room, all folded up and sometimes I think about taking it out and setting it up, just for practice. Because my plan is to use the tent a lot this year.

tent view, shenandoah national park, virginia

This is not my tent. But it is the tent I slept in on one of my very few camping experiences.

Before I walked my first Camino, I had a lot of fears (and to be honest, I was pretty nervous before my second Camino as well, even though I had a good idea of what to expect). I wrote a post, nearly two years ago now, about bravery and fear and what it meant to me to be afraid of something, but to do it anyway. It’s something I still think about a lot, the idea of fear, and how to move through it.

A friend that I met on my first Camino told me something that has stuck with me. He was talking about his own fears, and told me the story of how he went into a forest and slept out in the open. He was so afraid of being alone and unprotected in the wilderness- afraid of wild animals, afraid of a wild man, afraid to be vulnerable.

So he decided to face the fear, and went out in the woods with only a sleeping bag and he stayed there overnight.

“Were you scared?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, laughing. “I jumped every time I heard a branch snap. I barely slept at all.”

But when it was over, he found that he didn’t have the same kind of fear about being out in the wild as he did before.

A lot of people have stories like this, how we are afraid of something and then we face it and even if some fear lingers, it’s not as bad as it was before. Because we need to have the experience to know that we can do it, to know that it is not as bad as we might imagine. And when we do something again and again, sometimes the fear goes away almost completely.

Until a few years ago, I hadn’t ever given much thought to camping or backpacking or being out in the wild, at all. Despite having been drawn to survival stories for nearly as long as I can remember (I was captivated by the book The Hatchet when I was in elementary school, and I’m one of the few people who is still watching the television series ‘Survivor’), I was never really interested in spending a significant amount of time out in the woods.

And for a very long time, I just assumed that it was something that I wasn’t into- it wasn’t me.

But it turns out that there’s a big difference between never being exposed to something, and not liking it. Just because you’ve never done something before doesn’t mean that you won’t like it, or be good at it, or couldn’t learn to love it.

Three summers ago I went to France and stayed in the mountains in the south and hiked every day. It opened up something in me- the possibility that I might love the outdoors, and climbing things, and pushing myself. I might not even mind a little dirt and a little sweat.

Then I walked the Camino and it solidified the feeling I’d had in France, the summer before: I did love being outside. I did love pushing myself and doing something physically challenging. I loved hiking and walking and trekking. I loved the mountains.

cows and mountains, camino del norte, spain

Cows and Mountains, on the Camino del Norte

So you’d think after these experiences I wouldn’t question myself so much anymore, that I would throw myself into all things outdoors, right? And people have asked me about this, time and time again: “So, when are you going to hike the Appalachian Trail?”

And every time I would laugh and say, “Oh, maybe I’d do a few days of it sometime. But I really like having a bed to sleep in at night, and coffee breaks during my hike, and a bottle of wine in the evenings, etc, etc.”

And I do like those things. But I was also assuming that I wouldn’t like camping and roughing it and not showering and sleeping on the ground and strange sounds in the night. I wasn’t thinking about the other parts, though: the challenge of carrying everything I need to survive on my back, of setting up a little home every night, of the satisfaction of cooking my own simple meals and falling asleep under the stars and waking up to a sunrise, and all of that fresh, dewy air.

sunset, shenandoah national park, virginia

Sunset in Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

Here’s the thing: I’m still not sure if I’m going to like camping, or backpacking. I have a lot of fear about it. Fear that I’m going to be too uncomfortable or cold, that I won’t be able to figure out how to use a camping stove, that I won’t set up my tent properly. That my backpack will be too heavy or that I won’t like being dirty. Bears. Or that, after all these years and after challenging so many of the assumptions I have about myself, I still don’t think I’m the kind of person who does this kind of thing. I’m not an outdoorsy person. I don’t camp. I’m not a hiker. I’m not a backpacker.

But whenever I start to think like this and the worries and the fears creep in, I tell myself to remember the Camino. Remember the Camino! The lessons come back to me in a rush. When I started out, I didn’t know a thing. I didn’t own one piece of trekking gear. I didn’t know if I could do it. I was so afraid, and then I walked 500 miles, and I came home, so confident in my ability to just figure things out. I felt capable.

So I’m facing a fear this year- I’m going to go out “into the wild” (or maybe just down a trail) with my tent and I’m going to sleep outside and I’m going to do it alone. I’ll do it with others, too, if the opportunity comes up, but I also think it’s important that I do some of this by myself.

I’ve been researching places where I can go camping, and I’ll probably start out with car camping first, then maybe I’ll look for a bigger backpack and try out a couple days on a trail somewhere. Baby steps, single steps- I’m a big fan of them as you know. Maybe it will all lead up to something bigger, or maybe it won’t.

But none of that really matters right now. Now, it only matters that I’m going to try. I hope to write about my experiences of going out into the wild, and share them here. I have a little spring break coming up in March, and some ideas brewing, so stayed tuned!

A Camino Lesson, A Life Lesson: Loving and Letting Go

January 17, 2016

Harry looked at me from across the table. He wore round glasses with thick frames and a scarf was still draped around his neck. “I’m sure you’ve already answered this a lot today, but do you have plans for another Camino?”

There were about 12 of us seated around a long table, at a restaurant in Chestnut Hill. I was with the Philadelphia Area Camino group and we’d just been on a 5-mile walk, and now we were putting up our feet and grabbing a bite to eat, just like we’d do on the Camino.

I stabbed my fork through a tomato and looked back at Harry. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet.”

There had been a lot of travel talk that day, about past Caminos and future Caminos, about other places in the world we wanted to go, the things we wanted to do. These are things I think about a lot: the next place on my list, the next trail to walk.

In some ways- in many ways- it would be so easy to walk a third Camino this summer, and indeed, I might. But there are a few other things I want to do as well, one thing in particular that has been ‘on my list’ for nearly as long as I can remember: drive across the United States.

It was something my best friend and I talked about in high school. “When we graduate, lets do a cross-country trip!” We were serious about it, but not serious enough, and in any case, things changed and the plan never happened. But I’ve wanted to do it ever since. Sometimes I worry that my vision of the trip is too different, that it can no longer be the young, carefree, wide-eyed adventurous sort of trip that I’d always envisioned it would be. And of course, it can’t be, because I’m not 18 anymore, I’m not in my mid-twenties anymore either.

But the thing is, I still haven’t been to Nebraska. I still haven’t seen the Grand Canyon or followed in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s footsteps. Those were the things I wanted to do all those years ago, and I still want to do them. But now? I want so much more, because I know so much more. I want to hike and to camp and to spend time in as many National Parks as possible. And I want to drive far and wide to reach as many family and friends as I possibly can. When I was 18, nearly everyone that I knew lived in my town. Now, I have friends and family spread across the country.

(Just so you know, this is going to be a topsy-turvy, disjointed kind of post.)

I still hesitate about doing this cross-country trip for one reason: my car. I have an old car with a lot of miles on it and every single time I get inside to drive somewhere (even just a mile down the road to buy some groceries), I feel slightly stressed. I’m so alert and aware of every shudder and jerk, every creak or whirr from the engine. I’m sure it’s because I’ve recently had to have the car towed, twice in less than a month, and now I almost expect that it won’t start, or that it might stall.

Soon, it will be time for a new car. And if I’m being honest with myself, it was probably time for a new car two years ago, but for me, this is nothing new: it feels like I’ve always driven an old, slightly unreliable car.

I love the idea of taking this car (if it makes it to the summer), on this epic cross-country trip, and basically driving it until it dies on me. But that’s probably the worst idea in the world, given that I want to actually enjoy a trip like this and not be constantly stressed over the fact that the car might leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere.

The answer is, of course, to buy a new car. I started thinking about this last night, why it feels so difficult for me to say, “Okay, that’s enough, it’s time to buy something new.” My thoughts started going deeper and deeper and finally I came up with this, a statement so simple and true that I’m amazed it’s never occurred to me before:

I love things to pieces.

I’m sure I’ve known this about myself- I DO know this about myself. And yet, last night, it all seemed so remarkably clear, in a way that it never has before.

I’ve always been like this. When I was a toddler, I had this teddy bear and I loved her so much. She was already with me in my very earliest memories, I see her glued to my side in photos that I can’t remember. I carried her with me and slept with her for much, much longer than kids normally do. Her fur became matted and mangled, her nose fell off, she began to resemble something more similar to E.T. than a teddy bear. But she was so much a part of me, that she became something very real to me.

It’s not just stuffed bears, it’s other stuff too, everything: a scuffed pair of Doc Martens that I wore every day in high school and are- at this very moment- sitting underneath my bed. It’s the jobs I’ve held, the friendships and relationships I’ve had, the cars I’ve driven. I’ve watched things break down and fall apart and crumble around me, and that is how I finally walk away, because I have to. Just after I graduated high school I drove out to the parking lot across from the vacant movie theater where I used to work and watched as a wrecking ball smashed into its brick walls. I drove to a bridge just outside of Philly and parked my car and watched from a distance as The Vet- the stadium where I’d spent years watching Phillies games- imploded. I’ve owned two cars in my life and drove the first one into the ground. My mechanic handed me five twenty dollar bills. “This is how much the parts are worth.”

Others leave, I stay. I stay and I stay and I stay, and it’s because I have a deep connection to the people and places and things that I’ve learned to love. I don’t want to leave them, I don’t want to leave any of them.

And often, this quality of mine- my respect for tradition and ritual, my appreciation for the things I love, my commitment- it’s a wonderful thing. I have decades-long friendships that I cherish, an old apartment that I find beautiful and comfortable and so uniquely me, a connection to the students I work with that I recognize is very rare and special.

But there’s a problem here, too. Lately, I’ve been wanting to change some things in my life. I’m still working on what and how, but I’ve opened myself up to new opportunities and now I want more. I want to explore more, I want to do more, I want to learn more and see more. But change often requires that we let go of something, that we give up something that we’ve learned to love, and that really scares me.

I started practicing this on my first Camino- loving and letting go, loving and letting go- but I didn’t quite get the hang of it. It’s probably one reason that I went back for a second Camino, I just wanted more practice. Walking through a place and to a place and then packing up and leaving. Over and over again. Meeting people and getting to know people and feeling connected to people and leaving. Over and over again.

I got good at it on the Camino- it took me 1,000 miles, but I finally got the hang of it. But now I’m at home, and don’t they say- don’t I say- that the real journey starts when the walking ends? In the last year I’ve recognized that I am going to need to change a few things in my life if I want to ever try and go after some of my dreams. Eventually, I’ll have to leave this apartment. Eventually, I’ll have to quit my job. Eventually, I’ll have to buy a new car.

And I wonder if I could start there. If, rather than letting the car die on me a dozen more times, I could say, “I’m walking away from this now. It’s time for something new.” It’s something so small, so obvious to most people, but it feels really big to me.

I mean, maybe I’ll go back to Europe this summer and do another Camino and spend some time in France and hold onto my little clunker of a car for another year. It’s a fine option. But this weekend I spent a lot of time thinking about a different option, one where I let go of something I love in order to go after something new. I think it could be good for me.

Thanks for bearing with me, through this long, rambly post. This is one reason I love to write, even if the things I say don’t really come together well or are all about teddy bears and old cars. It just helps to get stuff out on the page, to make sense of my self and my thoughts- it helps to organize life, in a way. 🙂

Me and my car

10 days, Calm and Ready

June 7, 2015

A year ago I wrote a blog post called ’10 Days, rain, and stress’. I was- as you can guess- 10 days away from leaving for my Camino, and my days were consumed by- as you can probably also guess- rain and stress. I felt mildly panicked about everything: I hadn’t trained as much as I wanted, and for some reason I thought that I wouldn’t be remotely prepared for the physical part of the Camino if I didn’t get a chance to practice with back-to-back 15-mile hikes. I can’t remember what my longest training hike even was, last year; if it was 15 miles it only happened once, and it wasn’t with a loaded pack.

The rain was getting me down, I had two huge work presentations that were scheduled for the days just before I left for Spain, and I was terrified of walking the Camino. I was excited, too, but terrified: the Camino was calling me, loud and clear, but I didn’t know if I could handle it. I was so intentional about the decision to walk and the preparations and the training but suddenly, with 10 days to go, it felt a bit absurd- what in the world was I thinking? I was about to walk 500 miles across Spain??

This year is different. 10 days to go, and I feel… calm. Mostly. I actually don’t feel like I’m about to leave for Spain to walk another Camino, and maybe it’s because the stress and the fear isn’t there in the same way that it was last year. It just doesn’t feel real, but then again, things like this never feel real until I’m sitting in the window seat of a large aircraft, with my pack stowed above me and my journal open to a fresh page. That’s when it really hits- the excitement and the fear. I’ve had moments of each but I think they’re going to hit hard, and all at once, when I’m sitting on the plane.

But for now, everything feels controlled and calm. I’m not exactly sure who this person is, sitting here, writing about how calms she feels about a month-long trip to Europe to walk across a country… because months ago, I suspected that I would be a bundle of nerves at this point. Second-guessing everything, wondering if I was fit enough, worried that I would be too shy to make friends, worried about everything that could go wrong.

Instead, I feel settled. Despite spending hours, day, weeks, (months?) earlier this year, struggling to figure out the ‘best’ thing to do this summer, I think I always knew that I wanted to walk another Camino. And I can feel that, now. I feel it strongly: walking another Camino is exactly what I want to do this summer. I wrote about wanting to be ‘open’ on this Camino, and it’s been like a very tiny mantra that I repeat to myself every day, as I organize my gear, as I climb up small hills in a park: “Open. Open. Open.”

I’m ready for it NOW. Yesterday I hiked 15 miles with a loaded pack and I felt good. Tired at the very end, but mostly strong. Not everyday will feel like this, and I still worry that this Camino will be tougher on me than the walk last year… but I’m ready. After my hike, I bought the last few items I need for my trip: a bar of soap, a fresh t-shirt. My pack isn’t put together yet, but I have everything I need. No scrambling for last minute items. I’m ready.

Last year, I asked myself- what do I want out of my pilgrimage? I had some ideas, but I wasn’t really sure what the experience would be like for me. On the plane ride to Iceland, I wrote these words in my journal: “Connection. And fun.” Sometimes it shocks me that I was able to identify what I needed, because those were, perhaps, the two things in life that I needed the very most at that time. To feel strong connections, and to have fun. And man, did the Camino ever provide those things to me.

This year, I kind of want everything- sunshine and beach days and endless cafe con leches and Javier Bardem. And time to myself and time for connections and fun. But I expect nothing. If my days are beautiful and I meet incredible people and I have amazing days full of laughter and joy… then it will be a good Camino. And if I walk in nothing but rain, if I walk alone and stay alone, if I spend more time writing than socializing… then it will be a good Camino. My only goal, I think, is to be open- to accept what’s before me, to talk to the people around me, to take each day as it comes, with whatever it brings.

I still suspect that my next blog post, the one just before I leave or the one I write on the plane ride over, will sound completely different than what I’ve just written. That I’ll be saying things like, “What in the world am I doing?? This Camino is more isolated and it’s more challenging and WHAT IF IT RAINS EVERY DAY???” But right now, I’m not saying those things. I’m saying this: Camino #2, I’m ready for you.

Some of you expressed interest in the lacing advice the ‘REI guy’ gave me: see the right shoe. I was amazed that I could hike with a shoe laced like that, but I can! And it feels great!

The Good and Beautiful Days of Patience

May 5, 2015

I’m sipping a glass of wine (a tempranillo, got to prepare for my Camino!), and eating a small bowl of potato chips. At some point along the Camino, potato chips became my go-to snack (I don’t think this counts as tapas) to go along with a glass of wine. I think it was my friend Mirra who first introduced me to this combination, when we took a bottle of Rioja and a bag of papas fritas down to the banks of a river in Najera, to sit and talk and stretch out our legs after a long day of walking.

In the last week or so, I’ve been consumed with memories from the first portion of my walk on the Camino. I think it’s because everyone’s on the Camino, these days: blog friends and Philadelphia Camino friends and even a real-life Camino friend, from last year. They’re posting blog posts and photos- “I made it over the Pyrenees!”, and “Here’s Belorado in the rain” and “Passed through the small, quaint village of Ages”.

I’ve loved seeing these updates; I click on every photo so it enlarges on my screen, and I press my face in close to examine the image for the tiny details that I might have forgotten, to peer at each stretch of road, knowing that I walked the same path nearly a year ago. It almost makes me want to return to the Frances, to walk that road again.

But it’s too soon to go back to that particular path, not yet anyway. The Norte is still my plan for June, although I have to say- this year’s preparations and anticipations are completely different from what I experienced last year.

Maybe that’s one reason this blog has been a little quiet. I assumed that by now, I’d have a lot to write about- my training and the things I’ll be packing and my thoughts and impressions of a second Camino. I’ve had so many thoughts, but they’re all still muddled up there in my head. Sometimes, I still wonder if I shouldn’t be spending the month in France, writing, instead of walking. Sometimes I worry that I’m going back to look for something I never found on the first Camino, something I can’t even identify. Sometimes I think I want a re-do of certain aspects from the end of my Camino. Sometimes I think that if I had figured out more about my life in this past year, I wouldn’t feel the need to go back for another Camino.

But a lot of those thoughts are based in fear and control, aren’t they? I still want to choose the exact, perfect thing to do this summer, the thing that will help me out the most in my life, the thing that will point me in the “right” direction. Nothing I do this summer will really give me that, of course, and finding direction is just about taking steps towards something- anything- and then figuring it out as you move along. And in this past year, I’ve been doing that. I just need to keep moving, and practice some patience.

So that’s been my word, lately. Patience. I tell this to myself as I sit in a long line of traffic on the way to work. I tell this to myself as I hurry through the last miles of a training hike, my voice saying, “Slow down. Not amount of rushing will bring this Camino any closer.” I try to practice patience as I look through photos of friends on their Camino, envious of their days spent walking through Spain. I try to practice patience with my writing, as I wait to hear back about an essay I’ve submitted, as I wait to find the right words to say something.

And maybe the biggest is this: practicing patience about the direction of my life. I’ll get to wherever I’m going, I’m sure of it. I want to be there NOW, I want to have all the answers to so many of the questions. I know that I’m going to be okay, and yet, I just want a flash of an image from my life, 5 years from now, of the 39 (yikes) year old me. Just a little reassurance that the decisions I’m making now, the things I’m testing out now, are going to lead me somewhere good.

So in the meantime I’m just going to keep trucking along- drinking my wine and eating my potato chips, hiking miles through a park, practicing Spanish phrases, writing my essays and making to-do lists for my next Camino. Despite the unknowns, these are such good and beautiful days.

My legs are not what they used to be

April 3, 2015

So just yesterday I was writing about how calm and confident I feel as I plan for my second Camino. And while that is mostly true, I have a small confession: I’m nervous about how physically prepared I’m going to be for the long walk on the Norte.

I know, I know, I was worried about this last year, too, and the training that I thought wasn’t nearly enough proved to be almost more than enough as I set off on the Camino Frances.

But the Norte isn’t the Frances, and if anything, I’m afraid that because of my general confidence with this whole Camino thing, I’m going to relax too much on the training, and start my Camino completely unprepared (which isn’t true because I’m already somewhat prepared… but fear is a funny thing). I’m afraid that I’m going to be in the same boat as so many of the pilgrims I walked with last year: aching legs and sore hips and tired feet and generally just a lot of pain.

I understand that this wouldn’t be such a bad thing- it’s a 500+ mile walk, after all, and what’s a pilgrimage without at least a little pain?

This fear is recent: just two days ago I was talking about how I’m in better physical shape than I was at this same time last year. But already, I’m starting to question that. I did a 3-mile round-trip hike in Virginia earlier this week, up Sharp Top, one of the Peaks of Otter off of the Blue Ridge Parkway near Bedford, VA. At this point, 3-miles is like a warmup to me, so I didn’t think this hike would be particularly challenging.

Well, tell that to my aching legs. The 1.5 mile ascent was tough. Compared to some of the days on last year’s Camino, the hike up to Sharp Top would probably be considered only moderately difficult. Nothing compared to the first day’s walk through the Pyrenees, or up and down the three mountains of the Dragonte route.

But here’s what I’ve learned: while I’ve still been walking somewhat regularly and continuing to wear my pack, my legs are not what they once used to be. Somewhere along the way, I lost my Camino legs.

I don’t think I would be so nervous if I were walking the Frances again. I still have over two months to train and it’s not like I was hiking up mountains every day last year in preparation for my Camino. But the Norte is going to be tough: up and down mountains, sometimes day after day. One reason I loved my Camino so much last year was that I wasn’t in too much physical pain, and I think that allowed me to completely embrace my experience, and everyday I felt so grateful that I got to be outside, walking. I’m afraid that this year, if I walk with pain, I’m going to have a very different experience.

But this is part of it, right? I think this is the beauty of an experience like the Camino- we can prepare and prepare, but we never fully know what we’re going to walk into. And we get to work through whatever challenges we face while on the journey: we have time and space and help and understanding. In many ways, it is the most perfect kind of environment to face fear and challenge.

So if one of my challenges this year is a physical one, I know that I’ll be able to face it. In the meantime, I’m going to keep walking and hiking, but I’m going to try not to stress. I’m going to try to follow one of the great Camino lessons: enjoy the journey. And that means enjoying the preparation part of this journey as well, even if it means sore calves and aching feet.

How to adjust to life after a Camino (or any powerful, incredible experience)

October 19, 2014

As if I know how to answer that question. Yes, indeed, how do you adjust back to regular life after a powerful and altering experience?

I thought it wouldn’t be so hard. Before I left for the Camino, I was reading a lot of blogs from people who had walked, and something I noticed was that many people had trouble readjusting to regular life. I don’t think I’ll have a problem with that, I naively thought. I’m going to be so fired up about my experience that I’ll be able to make the changes I need to make. Or else, I’ll be so drained from all of the travel and movement and stimulation that I’ll want to come back home and just settle in.

I wanted to settle into my regular life for about a week. I cherished the early morning hours of lounging on my couch and nursing a cup of coffee. I loved seeing my friends and my family, I loved being able to cook for myself and eat lots of vegetables.

But then it got old. Fast. And all at once, about a week after I got home from my summer travels, I wanted to be back ‘out’ again. I wanted to be anywhere: on another Camino, traveling through Africa, exploring more of Europe, hunkering down in a small Spanish town and meeting the locals and learning the language. I wanted to hop in my car and take a cross-country road trip through the US, something I’ve dreamed of since I was 16. I wanted to spend a month on the coast of Maine, I wanted to spend a month crashing at my best friend’s place in Virginia.

I wanted to keep experiencing things. I wanted to keep experiencing life.

It’s a little over two months since I’ve returned home and I’m slowly getting used to this regular life, again. The intensity of the Camino has begun to fade a little at the edges, it’s no longer the first thing I think of when I wake up in the mornings. The seasons have changed and I’m accepting that I’m here, and no longer in Spain. When I first came home and strapped on my pack to go on a hike, I was frustrated that I couldn’t summon up my Camino feelings. What am I doing wrong? I thought. I have my pack, I have my shoes, I’m hiking through the woods, why can’t I feel like I did on the Camino?

Because real life isn’t the Camino. It’s taken time, but now when I put on my pack and go on a hike, I enjoy the hours for what they are: a hike through the woods of a nearby park. It’s easier, in some ways, to be more content with where I am; the incredibly restless feeling that I had in August and most of September isn’t so present.

And yet, I can’t just come back to life as if I never walked the Camino. I had that experience, and it affected me. So… now what?

Over and over I think about the words I heard repeated so many times during the last few weeks of my pilgrimage: “Your Camino begins when the walking ends.” And for me, this is, I think, where I’ve finally encountered my biggest challenge. I loved my Camino so much, and as I think I said once before, in some ways it felt like the easiest and most natural thing I’d ever done. I knew, without a doubt, that it was the best decision I could have made for myself this past summer. I was happy and filled and energized. I was pushing myself and getting out of my comfort zone, I was examining the lessons that the Camino was giving me, I was thinking about where I wanted to take my life when I got home.

Here were some of my thoughts- when I was on the Camino- about what post-Camino life would look like:

I’m going to go on dates, all of the time! It won’t be nearly as scary or as awkward as I fear it will be! (How many times on the Camino did I have a coffee or a lunch or a drink or a dinner with a good looking European man? These guys just appeared out of nowhere, and it was such a confidence booster to know that I could socialize in this way. But now that I’m home? Where are all the good looking European men?? Why do I suddenly feel so awkward again??).

I’m going to be active, and do so much more! Join clubs and groups, go out to bars and restaurants, meet new people everyday! (The Camino makes you believe that, like dating, this could be possible and so easy. Because on the Camino, meeting new people everyday is easy. In real life, this takes effort. A lot of effort).

I’m going to write a book! (I knew this with certainty on my third day of walking. I still know this and believe this, but now that I’m here, needing to sit down and actually write, I’m faced with the obvious but very real truth: writing a book is hard, hard work).

So here’s the thing: I know that accomplishing anything- dating and falling in love, making new friends, writing a book- it takes a lot of hard work and dedication. The Camino, if you let it, teaches this to you better than anything: I walked 500 miles across a country this summer. It still feels incredible to write that. Is it true? I really walked 500 miles?

I did. Each day I had to put in the work and the effort. I knew that I couldn’t get it all done in a day, or a week. It required time, and work, and sweat, and tears, and pain. I think that maybe anything worth it in life requires these things. So this is what is filling my mind these days: how to sit down and take the first steps with the next big thing in my life. How to live in the moment and let go of the endless planning and the worry and just take a risk and go for it. How to put in the daily steps even though the ultimate destination is still very, very far away.

I did it on the Camino, and completing the Camino is proof- if I need it- that I can accomplish something big.

So, how do I adjust back to normal life after the Camino? I’m not sure yet. Some days are great and fun and I love my routines and my home and my community; I love watching the falling leaves and grabbing a drink at Starbucks and cooking in my old and quirky kitchen. But some days my mind is filled with what comes next. I feel like I’m back in St Jean Pied de Port, holding my newly purchased walking stick that doesn’t feel comfortable in my hand just yet; standing in the middle of the street in the town and looking out into the distance and wondering if I’m going to be able to complete this journey.

Here’s to first steps: scary and hard, but absolutely worth it.

2 days, putting it all together.

June 22, 2014

I leave for Europe on Tuesday. 2 days. I’ve read, however, that a pilgrimage begins the moment you step outside your front door. And if that’s the case, then my journey begins this morning. I’m heading to my parents’ for a couple days, and in a few hours, I’ll have all my stuff packed, my fridge cleared out, my apartment shut up. And my trip will begin.

These last few days- weeks- have been a bit frantic, but this morning I feel kind of relaxed. Most of my to-dos are done. My training hikes are over, and I’ve stopped worrying about the fact that I never did back-to-back 15 mile hikes with my loaded pack.

I got out for a small, 7 mile hike yesterday, which was all I had time for. I filled my pack with everything I’d be taking with me on the Camino, and did my first (and only) test run. Before I left I stepped on the scale to see how much my pack weighed. 18 pounds, with water, but no food. Ugh. I’d been hoping to keep the total weight (with water and food) to 15/16 pounds, and I actually thought it would be easy. No problem! A few tshirts, a few socks, a rain jacket… what else could I possibly need?

But the weight adds up. It adds up fast. As I began my hike and walked through the trails that I’ve come to know so well, all I could think about was how heavy my pack felt. I’d done lots of training hikes with the pack, and in the past few weeks, I’d been carrying about 15 pounds. Why in the world did the extra 3 pounds feel like an extra 20?

I mentally scanned through the contents of my bag, searching for items I could toss. I probably didn’t need to bring a tank top, when I already had two t-shirts. Did I really need the travel neck pouch?

But I couldn’t think of much else to get rid of. I’m taking a few ‘luxury’ items, but these are non-negotiable. I’m bringing a small point and shoot camera, in addition to my iPhone. I know that I don’t need it, I know that the camera, and case, and cord just adds weight. But I want to take photos on this trip, and I don’t want to be limited to what my phone can store. I’m also bringing a journal, and again, I know I don’t need it. But I don’t think I’ve ever traveled without a journal before, and I can’t imagine ever traveling without one.

And yet, my pack just felt so heavy. Uncomfortable on my shoulders. I sort of felt like my pack was betraying me: I’d opted for the really small size because it was the best fit. During all of my training hikes, the pack felt so perfect. And now, days before my trip, I was questioning the decision to buy a 24 L pack for a 5 week trip.

As I walked I thought about how I’d thrown my stuff into my pack at random. And then I thought of the articles I’d read about how to properly load a backpack. Ahh. I found a bench, sat down, and pulled everything out of my pack and then reloaded it, trying to remember the tips I’d read about weeks before. I repositioned my heavier items in the middle of my pack, close to my spine. I squeezed everything back into my bag, put it on, and began to walk.

It was like I had my perfect pack back. Still heavy, but this time my pack felt like it was part of me, rather than some foreign thing that was out to get me.

And this, I realized, is why it’s so important to do training hikes with your pack and everything that you’ll bring on your Camino.

So much has been running through my mind as I get ready to leave for this trip. Some of it is the small stuff, the little questions that linger: is it wise to go without sock liners? Now that my pack is fully loaded and packed to the gills, how in the world will I have any room to carry food? What will it be like to use one bar of soap to wash my clothes, my body, my hair?

Then there are the bigger questions: will I actually get down to St Jean Pied de Port by Thursday morning to begin my Camino? Not only has there been a huge train strike in France, but i just read that air traffic controllers will begin a strike on Tuesday. The day I am supposed to fly to Paris. Oh France and your strikes. They always come at the worst times.

And then there are even bigger questions: am I mentally prepared for this journey? What do I want to get out of it? Can I walk this distance?

But I no longer have much time to dwell on these questions. Now I just need to leave and begin taking my first steps. So for the first time, but most definitely not the last, I’ll say: Buen Camino! Let the journey begin.

This is bravery.

May 20, 2014

A few weeks ago I’d emailed a friend about my summer plans and the Camino. She wrote back, saying how great the trip sounded, and that she wished she had my courage.

My first thought when I read those words was, “No, this isn’t a brave thing I’m doing. I don’t have courage. In fact, I’m really scared.”

This idea of bravery and courage has been rattling around in my head for several weeks now. Am I brave to be doing this? Have I ever been brave to do any of the things that I’ve done in my life?

My immediate reaction is always to think, “No.” I just do the things that I do, and often, those things are accompanied with fear. Any big trip that I’ve taken has, initially, been full of nerves and anxiety. Change stresses me out. One of my nagging worries is that I’m living a small life and fear is holding me back.

I think about this quote: “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” (Nelson Mandela)

So often in my life I think I’ve assumed that because I have felt fear, I was not acting with courage or bravery. My fear usually feels so strong that it doesn’t leave room for much else. How can I possibly be brave if I feel so afraid?

When I went to France for my junior year of college, I was terrified. I was fine in the days leading up to the trip, and okay as I walked onto the plane. But as soon as we began the descent into Toulouse, my nerves hit. And I realized that I had no idea what I had just walked into. I was going to live with a host family- a bunch of French strangers- for 9 months? I wouldn’t go home for 9 months? I’d have to speak French for 9 months?

I struggled in the beginning, missing home and feeling uncomfortable and uncertain. What I was doing did not feel at all brave. It felt just the opposite: like I was somehow failing the experience because I was scared and timid.

Sometime in my first few weeks abroad, I received a letter from my uncle. I was the first ‘kid’ in the family to go abroad, and he told me how proud of me he was. How I had just hopped onto a plane without a clue, and flown to another country, not knowing what would meet me on the other end. That it was a brave thing to do.

He was right. I had hopped onto a plane without a clue. But he was also right in that it was brave. It still didn’t feel brave, but when I read his words, I was able to look at my experience differently. It was okay that I was scared and uncertain. The bravery was taking the steps: making the decision to study abroad, and walking onto that plane and into the unknown.

This has been a slow kind of acceptance for me, that making a decision and taking a first step- any kind of step- is bravery and courage. And that it is okay to have fear, that fear does not preclude bravery.

I am filled with fear for this Camino. Excitement, too, but also fear. So when someone tells me that I am brave to do this, I automatically think that I am not, that a brave person wouldn’t feel this kind of fear.

And that is not true. There is courage in this, in walking across a country in search of adventure and connection and discovery.

This is bravery.

Worries & Excitement

March 11, 2014

As I near the 100-day countdown to my Camino (right now, my projected start date is June 26th), my mind fills with fears. I still have a lot of time time prepare, but also time to think about what could go wrong, what I might not be ready for, the unexpected, etc.

But is it really fear? Am I actually afraid, or am I just worried?

I’m going with just worried. I’ve already written a post about fear, and that was all about the big stuff (mostly, how to change).

What’s on my mind now are the worries, and I have a lot of them. I think (hope) that most will vanish once I start my Camino, but until then, I have a feeling they will be nagging at me.

In no particular order, here are the things that are worrying me:

1. I’m going to get huge, painful blisters on my feet.

2. I’m going to get injured on my walk (and/or sick) and not be able to finish.

3. I’m going to be too shy to make strong connections with other Pilgrims.

4. Bedbugs.

5. Wild dogs.

6. Staying in refugios/albergues (basically, hostels) with dozens of other people.

7. Snoring pilgrims and not being able to fall asleep.

8. Wishing that I could stay put for a few days and not constantly be on the move.

9. Being in the middle of my Camino and wanting to come home.

10. Ending my Camino and not wanting to come home.

11. Not knowing how to speak Spanish.

12. The possibility of having to pee in the woods.

13. Hiking over the Pyrenees.

14. Walking all day in the rain.

15. Losing my way.

That’s a big list. But on the other hand, I’ve got some stuff that I’m not too worried about at all. Here are some things that I’m confident about/excited for:

1. Navigating my way down to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port (and being able to speak French!).

2. Enjoying the food/having enough to eat.

3. Being friendly to everyone I see and saying ‘Buen Camino!’

4. Walking for hours every day (there’s a tiny bit of worry with this, but not much. I think I’m going to love it).

5. Getting to walk to a new place every day, not getting bored.

6. Having a lot of time to think/be alone with my thoughts.

7. Experiencing a different country/culture.

8. Wearing the same clothes every day/simplifying my life.

9. Not making plans and not knowing where I’ll be sleeping day-to-day.

10. Walking in the summer (maybe I should be worried about this one, but I love the heat of summer. Check back with me sometime in the middle of July and I might be singing a different tune, but for now I’m excited for this).

11. Writing about my Camino every day, having something to say.

12. Knowing that regardless of how far I walk, I pushed myself to go on an adventure and a journey.