Burgos to Leon

This story continues in Burgos.

I ended up getting a VERY late start (11:40 AM) from the hotel, but mainly because it had very good WiFi and breakfast, and I took full advantage of both before leaving. I even packed out a fresh chocolate chip muffin to eat as a snack later on. I would've also been perfectly happy with packing out the cold cuts, fresh cheese, croissants, and individually packaged boxes of AMERICAN cereal (definitely a rarity; shout out Toucan Sam), but after considering the fact that I really didn't NEED to carry that much food, the notion did seem a bit extreme.

I had planned to do a 26 km day to a hostel called San Bol. My book described it as "recently renovated with running water and electricity" but still having a "rustic feel." That sounded alright to me. I had slept in worse places, and after two nights in a very nice hotel, it didn't sound like too terrible of a place.

After hiking along at a decent pace for several hours and passing through a number of nondescript Spanish countryside hamlets (towns that generally follow the naming convention "Something de Something Elsos", have a medieval church in various stages of disrepair, several Camino-side cafes, and a small shop with overpriced junk food), I finally hit the last town before the hostel, and, like the rest, proceeded through it fairly quickly. I was just clearing the last few houses in the town when I heard a voice shouting from behind me

"OYE! PEREGRINO!"

I turned. A man was lying in a doorway about 50 feet away in a vibrantly blue sleeping bag. Concerned that he was a fellow pilgrim who may be possibly sick or injured, I headed over to him. As I got closer, I could see that he had other pieces of gear strewn about in the doorway as well...a backpacking stove, a walking stick, hiking boots...but something just didn't seem right...like somehow these items were more like props than actual gear...

"Hola Peregrino. A donde vas ahoy?"

I was a little apprehensive about telling him where I was going, but now that I could see him close up, it was obvious that he wasn't a pilgrim. He was lying on several layers of cardboard, and at least one partially full wine bottle was within arm's reach. I had found the town drunk.

"Albergue San Bol."

One must at times entertain town drunks. Because they will all but certainly entertain you.

"Ah! No! San Bol es CERRADO!"

Not what I wanted to hear. Apparently San Bol was closed. I could have used more information on this, but I figured I'd change the subject and get my town drunk entertainment for the day.

"Tu eres Peregrino tambien, verdad?"

I asked him if he was a pilgrim, too.

"Si! Pero tengo muchas problemas."

He then went into a long story which made little sense about how he had hiked farther on but got in some kind of accident "on the mountain" (generically stated with no additional detail) and had to backtrack, but couldn't stay in the town hostel because they wouldn't let him in for some reason. He continued to ramble on for several minutes, but by that point I had tuned out and was waiting for a gap in conversation to politely exit both it and the town. But none came. So I tried a different approach...

"Mira! Quieres un este Euro?"

I then reached into my pocket and produced a Euro coin. He stopped talking and his eyes lit up. What do you know, money is loud enough to even talk over town drunks. Amazing.

"Si! Si! Gracias!
"De nada. Yo voy. Aidos!"

I flipped him the coin and headed out of town. No way to tell how much time I had lost. But I wasn't too upset, either. And I did get the heads up from him about the hostel being closed. But then again...if he's been in town the whole time, how does he know that San Bol IS in fact closed? Of course he was full of shit otherwise, but I suppose it makes sense to wonder why he would be sleeping in a church breezeway when he could be sleeping at a hostel.

I continued through the town and pressed on several more km. It was getting late in the day, and my 11:40 AM start time had put me much closer to sundown than I wanted to be. Yet when I reached San Bol, it was indeed closed:

And not the kind of closed where hikers can still get in just fine and "closed" is merely a beureacratic abdication of operational responsibility on the part of the owners. The kind of closed that consists of several layers of boards over windows and doors and nails followed by regular checks by property managers to replace any broken/rotting/rusting components. Damn near air tight. Alright town drunk, you're worth the Euro.

 Although that didn't stop the San Bol fountain from still being on:

Legend has it that anyone who puts their feet in it will be cured of foot pain. I passed on the opportunity. At this point I'd prefer a time traveling delorian.

I headed out to do 6 more km, but before I left I stopped at the end of the side trail leading to the hostel to make a more official indicator that San Bol was closed:

It's not much, but hopefully it'll help some other Pilgrims out.

After continuing on for several hours (and legitimately being concerned that I had lost the Camino on accident and followed a tractor path by mistake) I happened upon this sign:

A billboard. On the Camino. With distance info. All three are rarities...most of the time the signs you see for hostels are small pieces of 8 1/2 x 11 advertisements nailed to telephone/light poles in town. But to get all three on one sign was a welcome relief. And to top it all off, the hostel (Albergue) looked to have a pretty decent array of services. And, after walking further, I encountered another billboard:

Also with distance info. I decided right then and there I would stay there on general principle; distance updates late in the day on an approach to town are always a welcome sight. And, sure enough, I made it to the hostel a bit later than usual, and ended my 30 km day at around 5:30 pm.

I was absolutely wiped when I arrived, and the Albergue (which also appeared to double as the town's main watering hole) was crowded with both pilgrims and townsfolk alike. The intense noise of the bar combined with my exhaustion from the day and being in a state of mild dehydration all compounded at once, and I began to feel a bit disoriented. Yet the barkeep seemed to notice this, and immediately turned away from a group of patrons to address me.

"You stay here tonight?" 

English! I was incredibly relieved to not have to scale the language barrier at this level of exhaustion. But even then, I was too tired to speak. I nodded instead.

"Credencial por favor"

I produced my pilgrim passport. She stamped it.

"Five euro"

I gladly handed over the five euros and followed her back to a decently crowded bunk room. I had fully expected all the bottom bunks to be taken this late in the day, but as luck would have it, one was still open. I grabbed it, then immediately headed for the showers. I was debating on going to bed right afterward, but I opted to head to the bar instead; I was decently hungry, and the small glimpses I got of the menu on the way in looked good. But first things first

"One beer, please" 

I ordered in English from the barkeep that helped me earlier.

"Oh, so where are you from?"

The bar was crowded, and I had ordered my beer while standing directly over a group of girls seated at the bar. One of them had turned around and started talking to me. She looked to be about my age, with short brown hair and fair skin. 

"USA. Just outside Washington DC"

"Ahhh. Very cool."

She expressed a slight accent on the word "cool." Sounded German.

"Yes. And you are...a German?"

She laughed.

"No, actually, I'm Swiss"

Well. That would be the first Swiss hiker I've met. Ever.

"Well okay then" I said, smiling. "Do people make that mistake a lot?"

"All the time, actually!" She said.

This then spawned a long conversation about the Appalachian Trail, the differences in Scouting between our two countries, the rank of Eagle Scout and its various nuances, the Girl Scout gold award, Tea, Cake,  and we were just starting to talk about my beloved Corvette when chow call was sounded for the Pilgrim's dinner and we broke from the bar to head to the seating area. We continue to talk through dinner (along with getting to know pther Pilgrims as well) and stayed up until lights out around 9 pm.

Her name is Karin. She is a 28 year old language teacher from a place in Switzerland called Basel. She teaches high school English and Italian primarily (indeed, her English was excellent), but also knows German, Spanish and a good deal of French (languages which come in quite handy on the Camino, where often times no less than three of them are spoken in any room of socializing pilgrims at any one time). And, in addition to her work as a teacher and interests in most all things outdoors, she was also a 10 year student of martial arts (Judo, and most recently Tai Chi). Karin had set out on the Camino with her mother, Lotti, who had put the Camino on her bucket list and picked this season to go. 

A mother/daughter team hike the Camino. If that's not a plot for a shitty Lifetime movie, I don't know what is...

The next morning, after a decent pilgrim breakfast at the Albergue of a fresh chocolate croissant and coffee with milk, I set out around 7 AM. The weather had been good so far, and it looked like it was going to hold for another day.

After about an hour into hiking, I came across this rather interesting monestary:

It was around this point that I heard English being spoken in the distance, though I couldn't make out what was being said. I looked down the Camino. In the distance where two figures, one slightly taller than the other, though aside from the colors of their packs (red and black) I couldn't discern much else. Though curiosity got the best of me, and I closed the distance between them and myself in very short order. Luckily, the road was wide enough to walk three abreast when I caught up with them.

They were two guys on the older side of middle aged. One slender with glasses and short hair (red pack) and the other with a bit of a larger frame (not a nice way of saying fat, the dude does actually have a large frame) and longer hair (black pack). And yes, they were without a doubt speaking English.

"Mornin' gents"

I began to walk alongside the two men. Luckily the trail was wide enough to walk three abreast. The slender one returned my greeting:

"Ah, you must be the lone American!"

...Lone American?! Nonsense. And furthermore...what?

"I'm famous?"

The slender man laughed

"Oh no, we heard you talking at the Albergue last night, eyh"

'Eyh'...well if that doesn't stick out like a sore thumb in terms of a dialect, I don't know what does.

"So you guya are Canadians?"

"We are indeed. Ottowa. Where are you from in the states?"

"Virginia, just outside Washington D.C."

"Oh, really? My dad lived in Arlington for many years. I had my hunting dog trained by a guy in Virginia, too!"

The two Canadians were named Malcom (slender guy) and Ken (shorter, larger-framed guy). Both from outside Ottowa, they had been friends since high school. They had taken many a trip together in the Canadian Outback (canoe, fishing, hunting, etc), and were as close to "real" Canadian mountain men as I had met (which I imagine are a lot like American mountain men, but much nicer and even-tempered). Yet Ken had done the Camino over 10 times previously, and finally convinced his friend Malcom to go with him on this trip. 

I spent some time talking with them on our approach to one of the tallest mountains on the Camino, but by the time our group of Pilgrims hit the base of it we all spaced out and got ready to climb:

I dug my trekking poles in hard and powered through without stopping. Lessons from the AT teach you the best way to hike a mountain is to punch it to the top and rest when you get there. Stopping along the way only makes the climb harder. Yet on the Camino, climbing a mountain really means just following a nicely graded foot trail to a neatly formed terminus at the top:

Complete with a shelter and accompanying views of the countryside/town below:

The rest of the day was spent hiking in insanely flat terrain. Such as:

And ended in a fairly nice hostel. With, coincidentally, Karin, Lotti, myself, and the two Canadians. Always a pleasure to see people you already know at the end of the day. Saves time with the stupid "get to know you" questions and allows you to just hang out in a friendly setting without having to run through the small talk b.s.

The following day, the weather took a turn for the worse, and the trail mainly stuck to the side of an old canal:

The wind blowing off the water was brutal, and the flat countryside offered little protection in terms of a windbreak. Yet in the end, our little band made it to a fairly decent hostel in an old monestary (to be shown in a separate entry) and had a decent meal at a local restaurant.

Then, early the next morning, I hit the most underwhelming halfway point in existence:

A small trailside collection of picnic tables. No halfway sign. No photo op. Nothing. In fact, if you didn't have any knowledge about where you were or simply weren't paying attention, you'd miss it entirely. But. That's that. And anyway, Jesus knows it's halfway, and that's what matters out here, right? Right.

Our little band continued to hike together for several days. Ken, with his extensive knowledge of all things Camino, was a wealth of good intel about which routes to take, places to eat, things to see, and hostels to stay at for a good night's rest. We all trusted him, and it tended to pay off well for all of us.

We also picked up some others who hiked with us for a time. A French woman, Dominique, a German lawyer, Karim, and a group of friendly Basques.

The hiking, however, was a bit tiresome. The section of trail we were in, called the meseta, was nothing but extremely flat farmland with no wind break for days and days

Though I did encounter a (Spanish) Panera:

And this creepy airport:

Until finally we ended up in the city of Leon. Known best for it's insanely awesome cathedral:

My opinion on European Cathedrals tends to be that once you see St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican, there isn't really another one you'll ever see that will come close. So save your time and money, cuz the rest are filled with similar stuff, but just not as good.

And while that did hold true for this Cathedral, it was still cool to check out, anyway.

The most interesting part of the backstory is that it started to crumble in the 1800's, so they hired an architect to fix it. Who proceeded to do ingenious things like remove load-bearing sections of wall and protective surfaces like windows and ceilings. Which was as terrible of an idea as it sounds. So they fired him, and hired on another guy who spent almost his entire career as architect fixing it.

Living proof: it's a hell of a lot easier to do a job wrong than it is to do it right, and some engineers are a living waste of life.

We also met up with a group of Koreans (even a few who I started with several weeks ago) and took turns taking pictures in front of the cathedral. 

Our crew:

Ken, Malcolm, Lotti, Karin, Myself.

The hike out of Leon was excellent. Good weather, and we were finally heading back into the rolling hill country and out of the Meseta (less wind). That, and there were plenty of interesting things to see...

The Shire in Spain:

Breaking 300k to Santiago:

And beautiful weather/countryside/towns throughout:

Next leg: Leon to Santiago de Compostela.

Stay tuned, folks...

Free wine, Boots not made for walking, and Prehistoric Camino Pilgrims

First things first: my knee is much better. With the rest day I took in Pamplona combined with steady use of the knee brace I got, I'd say it's probably at about 90% or better. I can easily walk without a pack with no pain at all, and I have been hiking brace-free for about two days now with no real issues. Although it does start to hurt slightly after 6+ hours of hiking, I think this is probably more to with the fact that I am indeed walking on a hard surface for many hours on end rather than an indication of a more serious issue with my knee. But I plan to have a separate post on that specific issue (the trail itself), so more on that later...

My Camino narrative picks up during the rest day in Pamplona. At that point my knee was still very much in recovery mode, but I was able to take some time to tour Pamplona and do some sightseeing. Some highlights include...

The wonderful hotel where I stayed:

The stadium/entryway where the famous running of the bulls ends:

An artisan chocolate shop:

A rod and gun club:

And really, just the historic look of Pamplona in general:

I also took full advantage of the opportunity to stop by the post office and shuck some of my extra gear. Comparitevly speaking, my pack was already much lighter than I had carried on the AT, but as it turns out I was still carrying too much stuff; tent, sleeping pad, small cooking set (no stove), extra clothes...all things that could be sent home. Well...that was the plan, anyway. Until the lady at the post office informed me it would be 127 euros to get it stateside. She suggested instead that I mail my gear to the post office in Santiago, then pick it up on my way out once I get there. And it would only cost 20 euros. Great idea. It ended up saving me over 7.5 lbs. And as an added bonus, I was able to conduct the entire transaction in Spanish. Glad to see that three years of high school Spanish finally came in handy.

Yet while my rest day was very much needed on my part, the downside of it could not be ignored: my prior hiking crew had gone onwards, and I was now back in the mix of the nameless pilgrim herd. But all was not lost. Lessons from the AT dictate that it is highly likely I will see them again, so really I wasn't too dissapointed about being separated for the time being.

The next morning I got a late-ish start, but was able to make it to the next destination (Puenta la Reaina) with plenty of time to spare. The most notable landmark along this section, Alto de Perdon, is an iconic location of the Camino (featured in the movie The Way among many other places):

I also saw a basquetball court (seriously, look it up)...

And beautiful Spanish countryside...

With small countryside towns...

On repeat. For several days. From just after Alto de Perdon all the way to the city of Logrono. Featuring such towns as Ciraqui, Los Arcos and Estella.

Particularly interesting parts of this section include the free wine fountain of Irache:

(It was decent wine and refreshingly cold, but I hit it early in the morning and had zero desire to play slap bag with a camelback)

The houses in Estella with submerged backyards:

An odd building in a wooded area looking very much like some kind of bunker:

And the entrance to the water temple from Zelda:

There was also this odd arrangement of rocks I encountered just outside Estella:

It looked to be a religious wishing well of some kind. People had stacked rocks and left objects, notes, pictures, business cards...various odds and ends...even the remains of an Ocarina:

Remember kids, always carry a few extra faries in your first aid kit.

And speaking of first aid kits...I hit a good deal of trouble on my hike from Los Arcos to Logrono.

Since my hike started, I had been having trouble with my feet. They were always EXTREMELY sore at the end of the day, and I had been getting a steady stream of blisters. Initially I figured this was just typical early-hike lack of fitness...my feet weren't adjusted to prolonged walking yet, but I figured that eventually they would cease to hurt and the blisters would stop. Yet my hike from Los Arcos to Logrono was the tipping point where it became apparent that my issue was much worse.

For starters, it was the longest day I had attempted so far on the Camino (18.73 miles). I started out after a good night's sleep in the early morning, yet by 11 AM I was already starting to feel my feet hurting. So I stopped at a cafe and spent some time drinking coffee and hanging out with a fellow pilgrim until the pain receded. The weather was good, and the Spanish countryside is a pretty picturesque view to take in over morning coffee. Feeling better, I decided to continue to press on. But the pain quickly returned.

I could feel every rock I stepped on. I could feel every bit of uneven pavement, every dip in the dirt path, and every bit of every metal, wood, or concrete surface the trail went over. It was incredibly painful. Every step felt like I was walking on needles. And to make matters worse, my guidebook underestimated the distance between the two locations...I had likely exceeded 20 miles!

Once I got to Logrono, I resolved that I would NOT be leaving the city with the boots I came in with. My Merrels, my beloved Merrels, the same kind of boots that had gone through the AT with me and performed so admirably, had failed. I would need new ones. Further, I resolved that I would book a hotel room in Logrono and possibly take a rest day. I would likely have to do major foot maintenance, and it is better to do such things in private where a hostel full of hikers don't try to help you by telling you things you already know and go about shoving stacks of first aid supplies you already have in your face.

Yet my rough day wasn't over. I was about to learn a valuable lesson about the Camino: all hotels at the same price point are not created equal.

After entering Logrono in the very late afternoon, I hobbled my way down the Camino to a hotel my guidebook mentioned. 60 euros per night (about what my hotel in Pamplona was), free WiFi, restaurant on premises, and close to major shopping districts.

Perfect. I figured I'd get a room, soak my feet in the tub for a while, disinfect them, cut any dead skin, pop blisters, bandage them up, and use the remaining time in the day to shop for new shoes, using my flip flops to get around in the meantime.

As soon as I walked in, however, it was clear that this place wasn't going to live up to my experience in Pamplona. The man behind the desk appeared to be older (70's), wore a full suit, and definitely seemed to have this air of ego about him. The kind of guy who wants to do everything short of looking you square in the face and telling you he's the man in charge.

"Hi. One room, please"

I spoke in English because the posters in the lobby mentioning meals and special drinks had several languages on them, including English. I assumed he would accommodate in kind. Instead, however, he frowned. I prompted him again in Spanish.

"Hola. Una habitacion, por favor"

He sighed and rolled his eyes, then reached under the desk and pulled out a notepad. Without looking up, he uttered one word.

"Pasaporte."

Mind you, this is not a sentence. He did not say "May I see your passport?" Or even "Passport, please." Nor did he qualify WHICH passport he wanted (pilgrims generally carry two, the one for the Camino and the one for their respective country of origin). And I did, in fact, address him politely in Spanish after receiving a negative reaction for using English. So by all accounts, this guy was being a total dick.

I handed him my US passport. And, continuing with his apparent loyalty to the omerta of douchebaggery silence, he proceeded to take it and disappear into a back office. While saying nothing. He reemerged moments later with a photocopy.

"Tarjeta de Credito."

Wtf is this guy's problem? I WANT TO PATRONIZE THIS ESTABLISHMENT!

I handed over my credit card. So far I was getting nothing but a bad vibe, but I figured I could always leave if he kept being a dick and the room sucked or something. Generally hotels only run your card after your stay anyway, so there wasn't anything keeping me at this particular--

"WHIRRRRRR!....BIP!"

The credit card machine on the desk had spooled up and printed my receipt. That asshole had run my card.

"You. Sign."

He plunked down a room agreement written in Spanish on the counter I'm front of me. I started to read it.

"You. Sign."

I nodded, and continued to read it. After a moment, he interjected again.

"YOU. SIGN!"
"YES! I'M READING! OK?!"

Well. He dropped the Spanish, so fair's fair.

"Oh. Ok..."

I signed it. Nothing crazy in it, but given what had just taken place, I figured I couldn't be too careful.

"Seiscientos ay Una"

He handed me a room key. But not in the traditional sense as room keys have been for the last two decades in hotels. I mean he gave me an ACTUAL key. Which, surprise, had an ACTUAL mechanical problem. The door to my room wouldn't open with the key. Forcing me to return to front desk asshole. Who then looked at me like I was the asshole forcing him to do his job. He called a maintenance guy, who went back up to my room with me, and of course, opened the door first try.

"The lock sticks. When it does, just move the key a bit to get it loose, and the door will open."

...So...maybe you wanna fix it, maintenance guy?

The fun continued once I got to my room....as if out of spite, the front desk guy gave me the handicap room. No separate shower, and no tub:

Plus the whole place looked like it hadn't been updated or renovated since before Franco died. And to top it all off, the bed was extremely uncomfortable.

Add in that I was extremely tired, dirty, hungry, in pain, had pressing gear issues, and had just been robbed of 60 euros,  all in all I was not having a good day. BUT. No sense in dwelling on it. My pressing issue above all else was to get new boots. However long it was going to take.

I took a quick shower and tended to my feet for quite some time, researching "boots for Camino" all the while via the WiFi (at least that was working)

I kept pondering what had gone wrong with my Merrels. The most I could think of was that they were essentially mountain boots being used for the wrong application. The Merrels provide excellent foot/arch support and the lacing keeps the boots comfortably tight to the foot. As a result, they make quick work of wooded or loosely-packed mountainous trail with rough, varried terrain (such as the AT). However on a paved, packed surface, this supportive boot may have been working against me; the downward force of my body/pack meeting the unwaivering supportive platform strapped to my foot as it slammd repeatedly into the hard surface of the Camimo for days on end seemed like as good of a hypothesis as any.

My search for better boots had come up with many different options, but many were in a line of trail running shoes from a brand called Salomon. I was familiar with the brand; their shoes/boots were fan favorites of many hikers on the AT and I trusted them wholeheartedly. Now. How to get them...

I tried the path of least resistance first: Googling "hiking boots Logrono Spain." And it freaking worked.

In the list of results was a place called "Decathlon", which appeared to be a chain of sporting goods stores in Spain. It was a good distance away from my hotel, but appeared to be exactly what I needed (aside from a 24 hour REI, of course). Seemed like a great place to start.

And indeed it was. The next morning, I gladly left the hotel as quick as I could and headed straight there. With all my gear. Wearing my Rainbow flip flops (that's the brand, not the color) instead of my boots. My feet were still in rough shape, but after about an hour of walking, I made it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Dick's Sporting Goods of Spain:

Might not look like much, but I was ecstatic. Inside were literally racks on racks on racks of hiking boots, athletic shoes, sporting goods of all types, up to and including clay pigeons and shotgun shells:

And to my overwhelming delight, they had ONE pair of Salomon's left in the store in my size. A pair of black XA Pro Ultra 3Ds. Which made the selection process extremely easy. Though part of me was worried that I was just switching out one set of Camino-defective boots for another, I knew that I didn't want to spend another second in my old boots. So I bought the Salomons. Along with a roll of anti-blister tape.  Which I immediately put on while sitting on a bench right outside the store moments later.

Additionally, also much like Dick's sporting goods, the Decathlon store just happened to be near a busy shopping mall. So I took the opportunity to stop by a pharmacy (ended up being about $45 worth of blister fixing supplies) and a grocery store (mainly to buy trail snacks, though they had NO FULL SNICKERS BARS. Mars Co. is failing Spain!)

I'll back up for a second. I realize $45 sounds like a lot in terms of blister fixing supplies. But this is because my feet were really messed up, and I needed a full spread of disinfectant, bandages, and slew of these things called Compeed strips. They are essentially a much better version of moleskin. They are supposed to be sweat resistant rubbery-plastic bubbles you put on hot spots to prevent from getting blisters. But I have been using them to put directly over popped blisters to prevent further friction with my boots. They're expensive as hell, though...about a buck a piece. And they only come 5 to a pack. So when your feet have about 4 blisters each, and you need 8 Compeed strips per day of various sizes, that's about $9.00 in total when you add in bandages and disinfectant. Per day. Multiply that by 5 days of hiking through small towns (where prices for these items are jacked up even more) to get to the next big city where you have a shot at buying them again for a reasonable price, and you end up with $45.

But yes. I bought all these things, had a quick lunch at a place on the Camino called "The Drunken Duck", and headed out of Logrono for a half-day's hike. And, as IT doctrine would dictate, when migrating hardware platforms, direct cutover is advisable, but only when a rollback is possible. I kept my old boots for a time, but only for my short hike to male sure my new ones were good to go:

Merrels on left, Salomons on right.

I felt terrible about trashing what were essentially brand new Merrels, but hey, when something fails, it fails. I pitched them once I got to a place called Navarette.

It was here that I met Frank the Scotsman.

Frank the Scotsman was from a city called Glasgow. He was an older gentleman (in his 50's), but he was the kind of guy that wasn't about to let that stop him from doing anything, up to and including hiking the Camino for the second time in two years. He said he had gone too fast the first time, and wanted to do it again at a bit of a slower pace. That, and he wanted to go to Finnister, which he had missed out on the first time around. Though there was a significant age gap between us, we became fast friends. Mainly centered around a passion for good drink, sporting nature, and sarcastic humor.

Now I have always prided my heritage on being of Scotch-Irish descent, but after meeting Frank, who was also Scotch-Irish (emphasis on the Scotch), it became quite clear that I didn't have a freaking clue. And after hiking with Frank for several days, evidence of this began to mount. Here are a few examples from the various interactions between Frank and I of me clearly not being on Frank's level of Scotch-Irishness: wit, culture, or otherwise:

Frank: That's quite a Surname you got there
Me: What, you mean McCabe?
Frank: Yes. I've known quite a many McCabes...none of them honest...You gamble, do you?
Me: Yes, I do like poker.
Frank: Of course you do...

Frank: So it looks like we've got nye 11 kilometers to the next Albergue (hostel) according to my book.
Me: Nah, my book says 8.8.
Frank: What makes your book so much better than mine?
Me: My book is correct, of course.
Frank: You know they say that about the Bible...

Frank: Are you sure this charger will work for my phone?
Me: Yes. 100%.
Frank: I've had many an engineer tell me that. Usually it's about two weeks before their last day...

-Middle of the day in sweltering heat. I order a soda from a cafe just off the trail-
Frank: What's that you're drinking?
Me: Coke
Frank: Oh. I could've sworn you were a man.
Me: What?
Frank: Oh nothing. Didn't anybody tell you? Men drink beer.

-Frank and I exit a small corner pub after several beers. I pause just outside the door. Frank immediately crosses the street and opens the door to the other corner pub several feet away-
Me: What are you doing?
Frank: Oh. I thought we were going out for a beer.

Frank and I's gallavamting aside, the hiking was somewhat dismal. The day after the bad weather was in the forecast, I wanted to make sure my rain gear was out from the bottom of my pack and ready where I could get to it. But long story short, my rain gear was missing.

I'd like to be able to say that I lost it, but that doesn't even sound plausible to me given that I know everything I am carrying and where in my pack I keep it. But I also know it is a far stretch to claim that someone stole it. Yet I also know that it is a highly desirable item in bad weather, that a good many people go out on the Camino unprepared, and that a good many hostels do not have lockers in which to put gear. It could have easily been taken out of my pack without me noticing...I kept it in the bottom pocket of my pack in a zippered pocket along with my waterproof pack cover. Pack cover was there. Jacket wasn't.

I had no choice but to hike on. But I was pissed beyond belief. I spent the first part of the day stressing about it to no end. It wasn't raining yet, but storm clouds were rolling in and the temperature was dropping. And hypothermia is no freaking joke.

Yet about 2/3 of the way through the day, I hit a town called Najiri. I took a break for lunch, still stressing about my rain jacket. How was I going to get one? I had been in a Decathlon less than two days before! I could've bought one then! And it's not like this random Spanish town was going to have a random sporting goods store anywhere near the Camino. Fuck it. No choice but to hike on.

I began finishing my soda and got my guidebook out to check the milage to the next town. It was then that I just happened to glance at a map of Najiri included in my guidebook and had an incredible stroke of luck. A picture of a tiny boot placed on a cross street not one mile from where I was.

A damn sporting goods store. In a random Spanish Town. Just off the Camino. I practically ran to the spot on the map. And sure enough, there it was:

An incredibly small shop. But they had rain jackets. Nice ones. Even nicer ones than the beat up mountain hardware one I was carrying before. And they had one left in my size.

What are the odds of getting both the last pair of boots I desperately needed AND the last rain jacket I desperately needed in places I just happened to be in at the exact time I needed both those items.

One of my fellow hikers said it best: On the Camino, there is no luck. Only God's will.

So now I am in Burgos taking another rest day (Frank had already seen the city on the first go around and decided to hike on). I got a GREAT hotel (a bit pricey, but still under $100 a night!) and I spent today touring the city. They have a great museum on human evolution. The quick version: they found some of the oldest human remains in history less than 50 km from the city at a place called Atapuerca, just off the Camino:

Dig site:

And put them in this museum:

I also checked out the museum of military history, but it didn't have much. The coolest thing they had was an original early Enigma machine made in 1923:

I also did a resupply on trail snacks and Compeed (though at this point my boots are doing very well and my feet are much better), and did an extremely overpriced load of laundry at the hotel. But only because the only laundromats are three miles away and I would've lost almost 4 hours of my day doing it...

And now, with all of that done, I prepare once again to head back onto the Camino. The weather isn't so good, but it could definitely be a lot worse.

I suppose it's all in a day's walk out here...