Alone on the Camino

By Linda Roy Cross

"Alone on the Camino" is one woman’s solo journey, with a fully loaded backpack, sleeping in bunk-beds and co-ed shelters, called albergues, sometimes holding 100, or more pilgrims. The author walked across Northern Spain on the 12th century path leading to the Cathedral of St. James at Santiago de Compostela. While living in the Tucson, Arizona Sonoran Desert, and after making airline reservations, she thought of Jesus' forty days in the desert. Walking alone, in a new environment, would be a silent retreat for the body and soul. A time set apart to focus on, and bring the exterior and interior worlds together. She soon regretted the too few 31-days allowed for the 500-mile pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago, walked by believers and non-believers alike. Her children grown and husband retired, she trained for over a year, and felt confident she was ready to accomplish one of her dreams. A few days before departure, her right foot was injured from improperly fitted, newly purchased shoes. Nevertheless, as a healthy 66-year-old, she felt ready to stretch her physical and spiritual muscles. Enchanted with the international appeal, without knowing but a smidgen of Spanish, she wanted a challenge to be hers alone. In turn, the petite, retiree got more than she bargained for. Through the first person account, the reader feels her anxiety the first day high in the Pyrenees, facing a deadly wind, and the death of a stranger. It sets the tone for trepidation throughout the entire journey. With doubt planted, the daily pain dampens her morale and expectations. Apprehensive, with the slow pace the injury forces, she arrives at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela completing one of her dreams. Put to the test, her journey was profound, finding joy and the divine in the least expected places, and in the kindness of strangers. Through a roller coaster of emotions, uncharted and unlikely, her true self is tested. Facing a dichotomy, when alone she feels the stress of fending for oneself and yearns for companionship; when forced to listen to incessant chatter, she wished to be alone. Encounters with each difficult and needy fellow pilgrim became teaching moments, and soon she realized her journey, and growth of the soul, comes from the unfamiliar. The year Cross walked more than 192,000 pilgrims, from around the world, received the certificate of competition after completing a minimum of 100 kilometers on foot, bicycle, horse, and a few in wheelchairs. With the smorgasbord of characters she meet, each expressed a variety of reasons for walking and some, like her, weren’t certain of the reason until it becomes apparent later. There were many serendipitous and coincidental moments around each curve in the road. Memories delved into, from decades ago, became the source of her biography once she returned home. Each Camino can be personally adapted, to what millions have experienced while walking Roman roads and bridges trod over in centuries past. Cross felt especially humbled knowing she followed the footsteps of historical figures such as El Cid, St. Francis of Assisi, King Phillip II of Spain, Lorenzo di Medici, Charlemagne, and others. She shares practical and spiritual lessons, introspection, mishaps, and she lets her soul and insecurity tell her deeply personal story of walking daily with physical pain and enduring embarrassments. After returning from the Camino, she has spoken to many arm-chair pilgrims, allowing them to relive the journey vicariously when no opportunities are presented due to physical, or other limitations. She gives practical advice when someone her age says they couldn’t make the journey, and has inspired other senior groups, and younger would-be walkers to make their own individual Camino, long or short, by foot and backpack like she did, or the various options, including the bus. At age seventy, she walked a second Camino, the Portuguese Coastal route, with a small group, and staying in hotels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Roy Cross
• Release date: May 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370238385

Linda Roy Cross

Linda Roy Cross traveled to the Holy Land in 2019 and returned home with more questions than answers. Immediately, Cross began researching the back stories of each site. Just as the book rolled off the press, Jerusalem and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the place of Jesus’ crucifixion and death was closed indefinitely due to the Corona virus outbreak. Look for and pre-order “Reflections on the Holy Land: A Pilgrim’s Guide for Travelers.” She is also the author of three more works of non-fiction: “Alone on the Camino” (available in paper or Smashwords.com), “Cowboy to C.O.P.”, “An Ordinary Nun” as well as several travel websites after traveling to Brazil, Europe, Cambodia, Mexico, Canada, and on medical missions in Nepal, Guatemala, Ecuador, Peru and Belize. She earned a degree in organizational communication at University of Colorado, Boulder. Before retiring, she worked at the Boulder (Co.) Daily Camera, and Pensacola, Fl. News Journal newspaper. When not writing, Cross is involved in various charitable organizations and researching her French-Canadian genealogy. In addition to Colorado and Florida, she and her husband have lived in Idaho and northern Virginia. They retired in Tucson, Arizona where they are surrounded by the peaceful Sonoran Desert at the foot of the Santa Catalina mountains. They are the parents of two sons.

Book preview

Introduction and History of the Camino

and St. James the Apostle

After I made airline reservations, I thought of Jesus’ 40 days in the desert and regretted the short time I allowed for walking the Camino de Santiago. Would this be a type of silent retreat for me? A time set apart to focus on, to ask, to consider and respond to basic questions of the spiritual life? I live in, hike and love the Sonoran Desert. However, a new environment would be as much a part of the retreat.

In recent years, in certain circles, it has become politically incorrect to profess a religious, or spiritual reason for walking the pilgrimage route. Some now claim the Camino is an adventure, a walk with nature, or a physical test of endurance and willpower. That is partially true, but this isn’t just a Sunday stroll in the park.

Before leaving, I purchased books and read religious history on the Internet of the more than 1,000-year-old Camino de Santiago pilgrimage, across northern Spain, to honor St. James. Camino means the way: Santiago translates to Sant Iago, or Saint James.

Among the first of the 12 apostles were James the Greater (the Elder), and his brother John the Evangelist. The brothers were nicknamed the Sons of Thunder, for their fiery tempers. Their father, Zebedee, was a wealthy fisherman; their mother, Mary Salome, was the sister of the Virgin Mary. James and John were cousins of Jesus.

Jesus commanded his disciples to go far and wide to preach the gospel. After Jesus’ crucifixion, James traveled to the Iberian Peninsula where he spread the Christian gospel. It is written in Acts of the Apostles 12:2, Herod Agrippa the First had James beheaded, in 44 A.D., after he returned to Jaffa (Palestine). James’ disciplines (Athanasius and Theodore) carried his headless remains, by sea, back to the Iberian coast (Ira lands) near Padron. Following Roman persecutions of Spanish Christians, his tomb was abandoned in the third century.

The legend continues: In Spain, the hermit Pelagius rediscovered what is believed to be St. James’ tomb in 814 AD. Pelagius witnessed strange lights in the night sky, or had a vision of a star, or a field of stars, a galaxy called the Milky Way, leading to an ancient tomb containing three bodies. The Bishop of Galicia claimed these to be the remains of James and those of two of his disciples. The same Bishop then named St. James the patron saint of Spain. The path of the Milky Way became The Way.

In correspondence, with my friend, the Vatican Observatory astronomer, and Jesuit priest, Father Christopher J. Corbally S.J., he explains the strange lights. Galicia, Spain is at latitude +42.5 degrees. The Northern Lights (Aurora) have been seen down to +35 degrees, and I saw them once as a faint colored glow to the north from Star Island, New Hampshire, at +43 degrees. So my guess, as to the ‘strange lights,’ is that the Sun was particularly active when the hermit Pelagius was about to rediscover St. James tomb. The strange lights are ‘a star or a field of stars’, but there is no explanation why these should be consisted strange. A massing of planets could be the reason. It is like the Star of Bethlehem: several theories, and not sufficient evidence to choose between them.

During Middle Ages, pilgrimages began from near and far, at the front door of wherever the faithful lived, to the site of Santiago del Compostela. (Compostela can have two meanings: field of stars, or burial ground.)

Many miracles, large and small, were attributed to the site then and are now to this day. Pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela, and to Rome and Jerusalem, have the same result in plenary indulgences freeing those from penance due to sins. Legends hold many contradictions, but that did not stop pilgrims in centuries past or present.

Medieval pilgrims were known as Peregrinos, a term still used today. Over the centuries and along the way, infrastructures were established with the building of hospices (places of shelter for travelers), the beginning of hospitals.

For nearly a year, I trained for this strenuous journey. It’s not unusual for most people walking the Camino to sustain some injury; some die. I managed to hurt myself before the trip; I injured my right foot from over-training, resulting in a possible stress fracture. The constant pain is an unpleasant companion throughout the long walk.

In Spring 2012, I took a trans-Atlantic flight from Tucson, to Paris with a fixed return date. After taking two trains, I arrived at night, in St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, France. The next morning, I began the French Route, which traditionally traverses the Pyrenees and in days after the cities of Pamplona, Burgos, Leon, and Ponferrada, as well as medieval hamlets, until reaching the cathedral honoring St. James the Apostle, in Santiago de Compostela, in the region of Galicia.

Upon returning home, my body healed while the mind and spirit churned after a solo journey of a lifetime. I placed the training, and planning part of my Camino, at the end of this book. However, if you are in a hurry, and have not prepared yourself - let the walker beware.

For now, come along as this adventure begins. Have a nice day, a good walk, or Buen Camino, as pilgrims say to greet each other along the way.

Day 1

May 16, 2012

Heading to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, France

"Aren’t you afraid? Friends repeatedly questioned my sanity before I left, knowing I’d have nothing but the clothes I’d be wearing and a backpack weighing 20-pounds, including water. I’ll tell you when I return in 31 days," I said with a bit of trepidation. I plan to walk alone and know little Spanish, except for basic words such as: bano, vino tiento, cerveza, and donde esta.

Prior to walking the Camino de Santiago, I lived in my comfort zone. I led a busy, predictable, everyday life. I came to understand that periodically it’s good to break free, slow down, and experience the unpredictable, which can open possibilities. What am I looking for on this journey? What will it bring me?

After flying to Paris and riding the high-speed TGV train to Bayonne, a local train carried me through the Basque countryside overlapping France and Spain.

More than 24 hours earlier, I had left my home in Arizona to be a pilgrim for a month. Tonight, I’m unable to see the steepness of the Pyrenees, which I will face tomorrow. Closer to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, I see the dim lights of distant hillside houses.

The train, scheduled to arrive at 10:27 p.m., is a few minutes late. A quick headcount counts six pilgrims getting off. The entire town appears asleep. Because no taxis will be found at this hour, I must find my way alone and walk from the train station to the village. Quickly, I spot a mother and son who look confident. I hurry to tag along and learn they are from Koblenz. I ask whether they have reservations for the night. No. Neither do I. As it turns out, the youth-hostel-like shelters, albergues, do not take advance bookings.

The two ahead of me are fast walkers and I drag behind with my aching foot that I damaged shortly before leaving and would haunt me throughout the Camino. Nevertheless, I don’t dare let them out of my sight, otherwise I will be lost.

It’s impossible to consult a map in the dark. After several wrong turns, our party of three arrive in the village proper. The German mother spots a sign: Albergue and knocks loudly on the door.

The hospitalaria (female innkeeper) comes out, and shushes us to be quiet much like a scene in the movie, The Way. Everyone is asleep. Everyplace in town is full, she insists.

We walk to a second albergue and are told the same. We walk to a third albergue where one of the few people, awake in town is chatting with several pilgrims. We tell the hospitalario our dilemma. The Basque man replies in English, Get in the car. I think I know someone who might have space. Once we fasten our seat belts the man remarks, You are trusting to accept a ride.

I’m in the front seat and blurt the first thing that comes to my travel-weary, addled mind, We are pilgrims. We think the best of people.

The friendly man, who took pity on us, drives across town and, upon arriving, knows his way around the as-promised dwelling in the dark. He opens several bedroom doors and turns on lights. Sleepy travelers, who will be pilgrims come morning, moan from the disturbance. After trying several doors, our midnight-angel finds an empty room with three single beds. After two days of travel, with an international flight and riding two trains, I consider this a small miracle. Our encounter with the driver took less than 30 minutes and, to this day, I remember his kindness by going out of his way for us.

I quickly learn of the Germans’ hardy constitution. The mother and son open the window to let in the chilly night air and I realize it was a mistake to purchase a lightweight silk Sleep Sack, instead of a heavier sleeping bag. I don’t sleep well; nevertheless, my spirit soars in expectation of the days to come.

Day 2

May 17

St. Jean-Pied-de-Port to Roncesvalles

Awakening to the sound of other pilgrims stirring, I dig out supplies and wait my turn for a quick shower. A posted sign encourages pilgrims to conserve water and clean up after themselves. Washing up the night before would have been too disruptive to the sleepers we had already disturbed; the last warm water touching my skin was 50-some hours ago.

As I head out the door, I’m in surprisingly good spirits. I trail behind long strides of the German duo heading toward a Pandaria (bakery) where I discover the delights of local pastries. I would have shunned these sinful calories back home, but soon realize I won’t have to worry about counting, or consuming calories on the Camino with the amount of energy burned.

I follow the mother and son to the Pilgrim’s Office where I show my U.S. passport. A volunteer makes a notation in the permanent Camino record book, returns my passport, and issues me a pocket-size, accordion-shaped Credencial del Peregrino (Pilgrim’s Passport). In the days to come, and upon showing the document, I learn pilgrims are allowed to stay one night, per albergue, for a minimal fee. We pilgrims receive more than we give on the Camino, and I rarely spend more than $25 a day for food, shelter, and incidentals.

From a box on the floor, I select a scallop shell. This is the traditional symbol of St. James the Apostle, who was a fisherman. The shell represents the physical and the spiritual – both of which will be tested during the days ahead. I tie the shell onto my backpack from where it will sway the rest of my journey along the Camino de Santiago: The Way of St. James.

No doubt, the Germans’ brisk volksmarching pace was learned at an early age; I took up hiking a year ago, only recently. I part company with the two, or perhaps I should admit, they didn’t wait for me.

I plan to find Gale, an American friend-of-a-friend I had met the previous week in Tucson. She suggested I stay an extra night in St. Jean-Pied-de-Port to have a relaxing meal and walk with her group of four, who will sleep in hotels along the way and have their luggage and backpacks transported by van. I’m not prepared to share my private pilgrimage experience with four women I barely know, even though they are only walking halfway. I stick with my decision to walk alone.

According to John Brierley’s highly regarded book, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago, it’s recommended to make the long haul over the Pyrenees early in the day and descend into Roncesvalles before nightfall. Good advice, but I’m already late. Clearly, I do not have my bearings, but soon realize all I have to do is follow some determined-looking soul carrying a backpack and walking sticks. Pilgrims are easy to spot. I should have learned to ask, "Donde va el Camino?" Which way is the Camino?

Within minutes, I pass under the arch leading out of town and over the Nive River. I’m officially on the Camino de Santiago, a skip of excitement in my heart and suddenly light-footed, I begin my way up a lower ridge of the Pyrenees.

I read enough in advance to look for the ubiquitous, yellow scallop shell painted on a blue background, or common yellow arrows. These designate the path. In the days ahead I find the signs are typically painted above eye-level high on the sides of buildings, although I find them at knee-level, and occasionally behind waist-high weeds.

Staying in the moment is difficult as I walk the path of my dreams. Often, I think of the past or the future. A voice inside speaks and it’s tough to quiet. Trying to focus, and stay in the Now, I hum a few bars of a song I used to sing years ago to my young sons, The bear went over the mountain … to see what he could see.

Stripped of my material-girl possessions, with each step upward, I’m slowly getting in touch with why I’m here. There is nothing but adventure and beauty before me. I think mid-May to mid-June is a lovely time to be on the Camino because of the weather and blooming flowers. Pausing occasionally, I snap the first of more than 800 photos, capturing bucolic scenes of rolling hills, valleys, leaning fence posts, and fields so green I imagine Ireland. The elevation steadily rises. Cattle roam freely and share paths with hikers and bicyclists.

Higher still, I take a photo of the first of many cairns, which are monuments or tombstones along the route. One cairn holds a narrow, foreboding sign pointing toward Roncesvalles. An important scene comes to mind from the movie, The Way, where a fictitious pilgrim (Emilio Estevez) loses his way near here in severe weather.

Occasionally, I pause to catch my breath. It’s fortunate I’m content alone with my thoughts, because it seems my injured foot forces me to walk slower than everyone else. My ego is only bothered slightly when stragglers pass me by, with a Buen Camino. I realize this uphill climb is a metaphor for life. The downhill segments, too. This path will seldom be flat and, as in life, it’s the ups and downs that build our spiritual muscle.

After six miles, I pause at Albergue Orisson long enough to even out wrinkles in my socks. I discard the stiff, hiking boot insoles and change to a pliable, more comfortable pair. A pilgrim, who has the sense to stay here for the night, suggests I’d best be on my way because rain is forecast in the afternoon. I continue, not knowing I will see Orisson again.

I’m well trained and prepared for the elevation; still, I huff and puff. I figure this will get me in even better shape for the Himalayan trek I’ve planned for next year. Upward I go, amidst emerald pastures, as I snap more photos along the way of free range cattle. A few determined bicyclists pass; they are prepared for rain that does not come. Bicyclists can finish the 500-mile Camino in two weeks. Me? I’ve got a long haul ahead and have completed 14 kilometers, just over eight miles. I’m okay. I’m determined to do this. My foot hurts; I push on.

Sometime after noon, out of nowhere, the wind spins into a gale force. I stop taking pictures and suddenly find myself fighting Mother Nature and unable to gain distance. I’m pushed four or five steps backward, and sidewise, for each step forward. Even though I’m strong, I’m small at five-foot-three. I struggle to keep my balance and inch ahead.

Over the next hour, I gain some distance, but progress is slow. I notice a college-age woman ahead. She stops often. Perhaps to catch her breath. I can tell she knows I’m behind her, glancing over her shoulder when she pauses. I wonder; is she waiting for me? The mist is figurative and literal. Perhaps she is an angel in human form to protect and watch over me. Is this an unearthly experience? I’m a pragmatic sort, yet this is different, and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

Two men, who alternate gaining distance and falling behind, as a result of the wind, are no longer on the path. They must have turned back, were injured, or got lost. My antennae go