Day One

Walking Day One from St. Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles OMG as they say.  What a day!  What a nightmare!  I knew our climb would be difficult.  I watch the Tour de France.  I see them ride their bikes over the Pyrenees over the Col de Loepoder.  However nothing on tv gives you even an inkling as to how difficult it is to climb 20 kilometers over a mountain. We spent the evening before in the French town of St. Jean Pied de Port after traveling by plane, train, taxi and van from Madrid.  Our hostel was an absolutely wonderful place run by pilgrims, for pilgrims.  Tom and I enjoyed a communal meal prepared by our volunteer hosts.  We broke bread with people from around the world:  two young women from Taiwan, a gentleman from Australia, several from Germany, the Netherlands and one from Norway.  Everyone spent the evening getting to know each other and their personal stories.  Their reasons for doing the Camino were as varied as each person.  Richard, from Melbourne, was actually walking in reverse from Finnesterre, which means the end of the earth, to the Mediterranean.  He was very delightful and told some wonderful stories about his experience on the Camino going backwards. Everyone was anxious to get started early the next day as the first day is a daunting walk, 26 kilometers, 20 of which are uphill.  Tom and I left in high spirits, although a little nervous.  There is really no where around the Twin Cities to prepare for such a climb.  Our first difficulty turned out to be acclimating to the altitude.  The climb started right out of town and we were carrying fully loaded packs.  The first kilometer, Tom and I were huffing and puffing something serious.  We almost called an audible to change our plans and cab it back over the hill. But we were already an hour into our walk and we both didn´t want to retrace our steps.  If we knew how the day would end, we would have without a doubt.  After we got accustomed to the thinner air, we were able to pick up our pace.  Our self-assuredness returned and we actually felt a little smug.  Big mistake.  We were quickly disillusioned and soon disheartened.  As we climbed higher, a mist settled over the mountain.  I told Tom it would blow by and we would soon be fine.  I was wrong.  Ptretty soon, we were drenched by a downpour.  We hurried to find some shelter under a tree to cover our backpacks and ourselved.  At this point, I discovered I left my fleece jacket at the hostal.  I needed it.  The wind started picking up and with our weight on our backs, we had a difficult time walking.  I was soon drenched and cold.  There was no place to find shelter and we knew we had to keep going.  We still had some 15 kilometers to go to finish our day and there was no shelter ahead until the end.  We did not want to go back.  As we reached the top of the mountain and the border between France and Spain, the rain subsided to a drizzle but the winds still threatened to knock us off our feet.  All we could do was lower and heads and keep going.  Some school kids from a local camp were also climbing the mountain but they only had small personal backpacks and they kept passing us like little mountain goats, singing and laughing.  I was not pleased.  We kept trudging along the top of the ridge and we did take time to enjoy the most spectacular of views.  The valleys below us were emerald green dotted with pockets of white where the villages were located.  We thought that the downhill would be easier and we would make it to Roncesvalles in no time.  It was a great day for being wrong.  The rains had made the uneven trail very muddy and made footing very treacherous.  After walking that far, we did not want to risk slipping and falling.  It would have been a long way to get help if there was a serious injury.  All told, it took us 11 hours to go over the mountain and finally reach Roncesvalles at nearly 7:00 that evening.  I was wet, cold and hungry.  Our provisions for the day were long gone.  We checked in at the official office of pilgrims, only to be told the albergue (hostal) was full.  However, as they for days like the one we experienced, they had a room set aside for stragglers.  We were two of ten people that came off the mountain at that late hour.    We quickly showered to warm up and hung our wet things off to dry and then headed to the nearby bar.  They had a pilgrim´s dinner available, so we ate, drank some wine and shared stories with some of the people we had met the day before.  We then headed back to the albergue for some well deserved rest before our walk the next day. In our small room of ten, it was great to be with people, who although were strangers that morning, now had something in common that would unite them in a bond.  No one can really know how difficult our experience was except for those on the mountain that day.  Those that left early and were able to walk fast missed most of the storm.  But they were all in the other hostal, all 112 of them!   I must stress that Tom was an absolute trooper.  When I kept doubting the wisdom of my folly...he urged me on.  When he doubted the wisdom of my folly, he accepted without hesitation that at some point the day would end and tomorrow could only be better. (please excuse typos and grammar errors, I have limited computer time to type!) Cris www.stutler.blogspot.com

D-Day - Departure Day!

After all the planning and packing, the day of arrival is here. Tom and I are headed to the airport with bags in tow and a little bit of nerves along for the trip. It should take us about 24 hours of travel from our door to our arrival in Madrid. We'll rest there overnight, before heading off to Pamplona by train, taking a bus to Roncesvalles on the Spanish border and then a cabbing over the Pyrenees to St. Jean Pied du Port. If all goes according to plan, we will start our journey on Friday. As wi-fi permits, I will keep this blog updated!

Getting Ready

Just a little under a month before Tom and I leave for our Trip to Spain. We are both excited and looking forward to the challenge ahead. I look forward to keeping this on-line blog of our journey.
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Sent from a PDA - please excuse any typos.

Almost Done!

When we awoke just outside Sarria, we realized our trip was almost over. We went to breakfast to figure out our route for the day, since our search for a hotel took us out of our way. At the table next to us, we met a gentleman from Barcelona who was also biking to Santiago, but while we hoped to finish in two more days, he would be arriving that evening. He would be biking 150 kilometers to achieve that goal. He told us we could follow an alternate route so we would not have to double back to Sarria and avoid some climbs. We looked at our maps and decided to follow his advice. We should have followed him. We turned onto what we thought was the suggested turnoff. We encountered a climb but felt assured it wouldn't be a long one. It would be the last thing we would be sure of for most of the morning. As we continued to climb and then eventually push our way, we realized we were going over a mountain. How big we did not know. We were too far committed to turn around so we kept on going up. The good news was that there was absolutely no traffic and the scenery was just beautiful. Along the way, Paul and I had a lively discussion about whether the Spanish gentleman decided to pull one over on two Americans or whether we took a wrong turn. Wanting to believe the best, we chose that we just turned onto an unmarked road. At one point into our several hour sojourn up the mountain, we were able to ride. It was a good thing because as we were passing a field of sheep, we encountered a large pack of very protective barking and growling sheep dogs in a variety of sizes and degrees of ferocity. It was the little ones trying to nip at my feet that made me the most nervous. We pedaled faster trying to outrun them while we heard a male voice shouting from behind a brick wall. We weren't doing so good at getting away when suddenly out of the field came our rescuer in the form of a petite wizened old woman brandishing a long staff. She began waving the stick furiously and yelling loudly at the dogs. The dogs quickly backed down. Paul and I got out there fast but later we wished we had gotten a picture of the old woman. She looked like something out of National Geographic. She had no teeth, she was wearing her
apron over her work clothes and her hair under a scarf. I was amazed by how fast she ran out of the field to call the dogs off because she was so tiny and looked emaciated. On our way again, we went back to climbing. Eventually, we reached the summit. We knew this because it's where the communication tower stood and all the trees were gone. All told, I think we climbed for about ten kilometers over several hours. And we still weren't sure where we were since it was clear we were on an unmarked road. Once at the summit, we started heading down. We thought we could see our destination off in the distance. St every fork in the road we headed towards what we thought was our goal. After descending somewhat blindly, what should we see but two peregrinos walking toward us and our shining beacon, the yellow arrow on the side of a building which also had a Grateful Dead Graffiti on it. Boy, were we relieved. We followed the camino down and after having spent a rather quiet morning disturbed only by the howling dogs, it was a little disconcerting all of a sudden to be caught up in a traffic jam of walking pilgrims, bikers and especially cows! At one point, we passed a group of pilgrims, but were caught with about a dozen other bike riders behind a herd of cattle being driven down the road by their mistress, who just kind of shrugged her shoulders as if to say, who knows when you'll get to pass. One of the bike groups was a little more aggressive and managed to spook the cows into letting us pass. We eventually arrived at our pre-destined lunch spot where we took a long-anticipated break. We sat and ordered lunch and then flew into panic mode...Paul could not find his BlackBerry. Now, this is a big deal. Aside from being our lifeline back home, it was also allowing us to communicate within Spain. We frantically called the hotel we left hours before only to be told by the hardest working man in Spain that we didn't leave it there. We immediately set to pulling everything out of our panniers to see if it got mixed in with our clothes. We still didn't find it. After resigning ourselves to its loss, we checked Paul's bike trunk bag one more time and low and behold, we found it hiding in a pocket where we had been certain it could not have been. Paul says we had a hard climb out of our stop, Portomarin, but to be honest, all the climbs are beginning to blur. My recollection is that the rest of the day was uneventful as we pedalled to our evening destination, Palas de Rei. After our debacle of the previous day, we had called ahead to make a reservation for the night. Only when we arrived at our hotel, they had no reservation and no room. I was very upset. I showed them Paul's phone and the log which proved I had called them the day before. When the man looked at the number, he indicated although I had called a hotel with their name, it was not their number. I called the number only to be told the hotel we wanted was a few blocks away. Problem solved and we were done for the night,

The Big Climb!

Paul and I awoke with great anticipation for the big climb up to O Cebriero. It's a straight climb of about 10 kilometers. On our last trip, I remember it being a brutal day of pushing my bike uphill for four or five hours. It was very cool and the mountain was covered in mist. Paul waited for quite a while at the top while I slowly made my way up the mountain. On this trip, either I was in better shape (again, I like to think the ten extra pounds I am carrying are all muscle) or the angels and my dad were pushing me up the mountain. The day was not nearly as hard as I expected and I arrived at the top about 45 minutes after Paul. I only had to push my bike twice and for only short periods. I was astounded as was Paul. Perhaps I had trained better than I thought. We took in the sights at the top and celebrated with those we met as we climbed up together. It is something joyous to celebrate a shared effort with complete strangers who become instant friends as you climb together. What Paul and I had forgotten is that the arrival at O Cebriero is not the end. It marks the beginning of Galicia, which is a region of lots of ups and downs. The area is very hilly so there is no real respite from a hard day's ride. Following another set of climbs, we finally began our descent into Galicia. Paul took the downhill carefully as he was nervous about the performance of his bike. The back wheel was rattling something awful and he had to loosen his brakes to make the climb. Our goal for the night was Samos, a small town with an impressive monastery and a 900 year old church that is quite a sight to see. It's a good thing we saw it on our last trip because there was not a room to be found in Samos. After our long day of climbing, we were forced to continue onto the next town. We felt reasonably assured we would find something there since it was a larger city. We couldn't have been more wrong. Like Mary and Joseph, we went on a hunt for a room, only to be told time and again, there was no room. We were very nervous at this point. It was getting late and we were tired. After getting a list of numbers to call, we finally found a place 5 kilometers out the city. With trepidation, we had no choice but bike on. As we pedaled on, first downhill and then up, we started wondering whether five really meant ten kilometers and if we were ever going to arrive. We did and quickly settled in for the night. Our clerk who checked us in, became our candidate for the hardest working man in Spain. After we cleaned up, we headed down to the bar for a drink. It turns out he was also on bartending duty. As the restaurant filled up with the dinner crowd, it became clear that he was also the waiter. In between orders at the bar and in the dining room, he also answered the phone and continued to check in arriving guests. When he took our dinner order, I jokingly asked if he was also cooking. With a bemused smile, he said sometimes. When we went down to breakfast the next morning, there he was again.