A Million Steps Read online

  Roberta, who is a big fan of caller ID, answered the strange number with quite a bit of trepidation. When she realized it was me, she sounded excited at first. However, her enthusiasm seemed to deflate after just a few minutes. I was confused by the brief conversation. While I had been planning the trip, she had seemed enthusiastic and supportive. Ellie seemed to be dancing on air after speaking with her husband. I was envious.

  Around 8:30 that evening, my tired body was ready for some serious rest, and I slept.

  Day 3

  Historic Pilgrimage

  Upon waking, I was pretty concerned about the proper functioning of my knees. With quite a bit of hesitation, I rolled out of bed to give them a spin. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that my body had taken care of itself. My knees, although sore, were not a showstopper. I began the day’s walk around eight, with Ellie by my side in her rainbow headband. This glorious day greeted us with perfect temperatures and an abundance of sunshine.

  By nine, we found ourselves at the walls of Pamplona, the first of four major cities on the Camino. As a medieval city, Pamplona had surrounded itself with five kilometers of stone barriers to protect a pentagon-shaped military fortress. Through time, the city dismantled portions of the ramparts and bastions to allow for the expansion of a beautiful and vibrant community. Ernest Hemingway wrote about the city in his 1926 novel, The Sun Also Rises, which featured the famous running of the bulls during the San Fermin festival each July.

  On our Camino walk, the fortress walls of Pamplona seemed completely at odds with the peaceful, spiritual journey that has drawn pilgrims to Spain for hundreds of years.

  El Camino de Santiago is an ancient pilgrimage route. There is nothing comparable anywhere else in Europe. The remains of other Christian pilgrimage routes are only fragmentary, and no other has been used continuously for centuries.

  The route began with St. James the Greater, one of the 12 apostles chosen by Jesus to spread Christian teachings to all nations. St. James is believed to have traveled to northern Spain. In 44 A.D., he returned to the Holy Land and was promptly beheaded by King Herod and made a martyr. Legend says disciples stole his body, placed it in a sarcophagus of marble, and transported it to the Iberian Peninsula via a small ship. When the ship sank, his body washed to shore where it was covered and preserved by scallop shells (another symbolic meaning for the scallop shell that I carried on my pack). When found, the body was quickly buried in a non-descript tomb.

  In the ninth century, the St. James legend continued when a shepherd named Pelayo was drawn to a certain field by a shining star. The Latin word compostela refers to the “field of the stars.” A bishop was notified of this event and initiated an investigation into what was believed to be the body and relics of St. James found at the site. King Alfonso II declared St. James to be the patron saint of the region and built a chapel on the site that eventually became the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

  During the medieval period, people throughout Europe embarked on the sacred paths leading to the cathedral to seek penance from St. James. Many returned to their homes with a Galician scallop shell as evidence. During this period, over one million pilgrims undertook this arduous passage, the gold standard for a Christian pilgrimage. At that time, there were no trains, cars, planes, taxis, or subways. Pilgrims typically started walks from the front porches of their homes spread throughout Europe. After arriving in Santiago, pilgrims turned around and walked back.

  Today, at least nine established routes converge at the apostle’s tomb in Santiago. The internal grooves on the scallop shell come together at the base as a metaphor for the different trails. Most modern-day pilgrims walk the Camino Francés (The French Way). The roughly 500-mile walk begins in St. Jean Pied-de-Port. A strong infrastructure has developed to support the estimated one million additional pilgrims who have made the pilgrimage in modern times. These numbers are exploding, with an estimated 200,000 pilgrims arriving in Santiago in 2012.

  The modern-day walkers come in all sizes and shapes from every corner of the planet. Some seek religious affirmation while others aspire to a spiritual awakening. Many are there solely for the physical challenges of the adventurous journey. It provides an appealing escape from the day-to-day routines of our busy lives.

  Ellie and I found breakfast at a bakery and explored the historic sites in Pamplona, including one of the streets where the bulls run each July. We talked about how thankful we were to have made the commitment to walk the Camino. I shared with her a recent experience that had contributed to my decision to take on the challenge.

  Earlier in the year, my friend Jim spent four months lingering between cancer diagnosis and death. He lived in another state and did not share any details of his deteriorating condition with anyone beyond his immediate family. After his death, his wife asked me to be one of the speakers at his service. I agreed, backed out, then called and forced my way back onto the list. It would have been hard to forgive myself had I not spoken at the service.

  Jim had a major impact on my life. Born a million miles away from a silver spoon, he eventually became the Vice-Chairman of Micron Technology, a NYSE company. He hired me for sales in 1986 and became my mentor. I never met one person who did not like this man. He was extremely personable and could always defuse a tense situation with his seemingly endless supply of humor. Long after our business careers, the friendship grew to the point where he became a father figure in my life. All the way from his home in Austin, Texas, he always had time to listen to my woes. I found his advice invaluable.

  After recovering from my initial shock and grief, I was honored and frankly surprised to be selected as a speaker for his service. I spent several days gathering my thoughts and put an outline on paper. When the scribbles turned into spoken words in front of my master bathroom mirror, I had a complete meltdown. I could not imagine sharing these words with the most significant people in his life.

  In February of 2012, I found myself at the podium and managed to deliver a heartfelt eulogy for my dear friend. I spoke about his stellar ascent up the corporate ladder, told a few humorous tales from our business travels, elaborated on the importance of his friendship to me, and finished with a story about his family. Just like his death, he held everything close to the vest. I wanted his family to know that he may not have shared his feelings with them but constantly told me of their importance.

  His wife sent me a thank-you note that still sits on my home office desk. “I am so glad you did not wimp out,” she wrote. “I want to thank you for all your support through all this for Jim and me. You were probably his best friend.”

  I had no idea.

  After hearing my story, Ellie opened up and told me about her life. Prior to walking the Camino, she sent letters to eight of the most significant people in her world. She wrote the letters as if she were speaking at their funerals. It bothered her that people only shine a light on the good parts after a person is gone. She shared her true feelings while they were alive. I admired her actions but was shocked to learn that her mother did not make the list.

  Ellie had a baby girl at age 16, and her mother abandoned her to express her discontent. This was a very cruel and unusual punishment. One year later, Ellie suffered a rape in South Africa. Ten years later, her daughter told her that she would like a father and recommended the current boyfriend of four years. The formal proposal occurred at the Eiffel Tower in Paris. They were all happy and on top of the world.

  A few years later, they found themselves involved in a Christian cult religion. Four years into this experience and drained of their finances, the pastor encouraged the breakup of their marriage. They finally saw the light and abandoned this lifestyle.

  “What was worse,” I asked her, “the religious debacle or the sexual assault?” Without hesitation, Ellie responded, “The cult was a thousand times worse because they raped my soul.” At this point in her life, she considered suicide. But
instead of taking that drastic step, Ellie posted a video on the Internet, told her life story, and asked for donations to allow her to walk the Camino de Santiago.

  Ellie shared all this with me over a four-hour period. At the end, she put her head on her arms and shook with heaving sobs. When she calmed, we talked about how people hurt, but we can only accompany them; we can’t fix them. Instead, we learn, grow, and keep on trudging. In that spirit, she urged me to continue on. I hugged her and bid farewell.

  I continued up the hill en route to Alto del Perdón. The crest of the hill provides a view of Pamplona and another valley on the opposite side. This location bears an iconic monument depicting a number of pilgrims on horseback or walking toward Santiago. The Spanish sign translated to English means: “Where the path of the wind meets that of the stars.”

  At this spot, I met Tony from London, a Camino veteran, and his understudy, Amir from Turkey, who was walking for the first time. Tony shared data about the path ahead. He had walked the Camino the year before and began spewing facts and figures about the days ahead. It was a bit overwhelming. I realized I truly was becoming a pilgrim. My focus was on today…not tomorrow.

  My walking day ended at the fabulous Albergue Jacques in Puente la Reina. This hostel was unique—a four-star hotel with a pilgrim “refugio” in the basement. While paying my eight Euros for a bed, another pilgrim asked me if I had some laundry that needed to be washed. The facility provided some machines and she had only a small load. The generosity of strangers was becoming a common occurrence. I was so excited to have clean clothes that I forgot to leave much behind to wear. I was commando in gym shorts and my windbreaker as my clothes took a spin in the washer.

  When I found my bed, my detective friend Peter turned up in the bunk about two feet from my mattress. It was a pleasant surprise as I never expected to see him after Roncesvalles. I received a formal introduction to Olivier, a young man from France with a beard and long, wild hair. We had been at the same hostel four consecutive nights in a row. As you might imagine, around six in the evening Ellie appeared at the entrance to Jacques. Again, it was becoming clear that meeting these people was not a random occurrence.

  After retrieving clean clothes, I ambled into the city with my pals Olivier and Peter. We peeped inside the Church of the Crucifix, one of many beautiful churches along this route, each with its own history and features. We enjoyed some tapas, mainly chopitos and gambas, at a local bar. We sat outside under the bright afternoon sun. Our table was an old Spanish wine barrel on a cobblestone street. I sipped on my café con leche while my friends drank Tzakoli, a very dry white Basque wine. Olivier could not help his insatiable appetite for flirtation and quickly made an excuse to introduce himself to a local beauty queen by asking her to take our picture.

  Upon returning to our albergue, we found Ellie and all enjoyed a nice dinner together. We ate at my one and only dinner buffet on the Camino. In the center of the restaurant, five buffet islands offered up everything from olive salad to gelato. Separate tables at the front of the room served meat and fish. The selection was excellent and I enjoyed everything.

  For some reason, my appetite seemed to be suppressed on this trip. It is odd, because after a three-hour mountain bike ride at home, I can easily devour a significant portion of an enormous combination pizza. The physical demands of the long walk were much more than a long cycle ride, but my appetite was just not as robust. I had no explanation for the phenomenon, but like everything else, going with the flow was the answer to everything on this trip.

  I’d like to say that I was already a wise pilgrim at this point on my journey, but the truth is that I was still ruminating on why, exactly, I had come. Two recurring thoughts seemed cliché: “If you love something, set it free” and “To find yourself, you must lose yourself.” I decided that maybe my purpose on this trip was simply to combine the two sayings and experience the result.

  Day 4

  Camino Wine

  On the fourth day of my trek, I departed the facility by 6:30. The day before, I had purchased my second walking stick, a longer one that was more in tune with my size. As I stopped at the designated area for boots, poles, and walking sticks, I was able to give my old one to a new acquaintance. At the time, I had no inkling about my future attachment to the new walking tool.

  My Black Diamond Storm headlamp soon shone on a stellar Monument al Peregrino. This particular statue stands where two popular Camino routes (Camino Francés and Camino Aragones) become one en route to Santiago. Just down the road, I crossed a bridge with six arches spanning the Arga River. This Roman masterpiece remains unchanged from its origin around the eleventh century.

  As I crossed, I imagined the ranks of Romans and millions of pilgrims who crossed before me. I felt an attachment to my predecessors and became charged with the energy they left behind.

  I was walking in the footsteps of two million people and leaving my own prints as a welcome mat to those who would follow me. Knowing that these people had been here allowed me to feel a connection to a community when none was present. Even though I walked by myself 80% of the time, I was never alone.

  While walking along the dark road in a complete state of peace and happiness, it suddenly dawned on me that this entire experience would cease to exist upon my arrival in Santiago. This may sound obvious, but like a young man, one rarely concedes that there is an end to everything. In that instant, I looked at my future with a much different perspective. Instead of worrying about whether I was physically or mentally up to the challenge, instead of wondering if I would successfully complete the trip, I viewed the remainder of my time as roughly 25 more joyous days of meeting new people, lavishing in nature, enjoying the scenery, eating new foods, and learning many lessons from this powerful path.

  I came upon long-haired Olivier from France. He sat on stone stairs above a small Roman bridge with water trickling over rocks below. Because I speak no French, he made the kind effort to speak English to me. I could see his mind spinning as he forced unfamiliar words out of his mouth with a beautiful accent.

  “Kooooooort, mi freend. Please must you join me for some breakfast,” he said with a Cheshire cat grin under the hood of his brimmed hat. “I have juice and chorizo.”

  “Olivier, it is always a pleasure to see you,” I replied. “Your table is ideal, and it would be a luxury to dine with you this morning.”

  “You must eeeeeet and dreeeeeeenk until you are full. Walking without food will make you not have good Camino experience,” he urged.

  I sat next to him. He handed me a hunk of dry bread, a knife, and a foot-long slab of chorizo sausage. Like most sandwiches in Spain, there was no tomato, no mayonnaise, no mustard, no sprouts, no lettuce, no cheese, no onions, no lettuce, or any other item available at a local Subway shop.

  As we ate, he passed over a large plastic bottle of juice to share. I was pretty excited about taking a big gulp, but looking at the label, realized it was sangría. Even when I did drink alcohol, it was never out of a gigantic bottle at nine in the morning while eating dry bread filled with spicy sausage. This close call made me laugh. I explained why I must decline, then asked Olivier to pose with the jug for a photo.

  Alcohol was a major force in my life until I was 37 years old. Although I had been sober for 12 years before starting my Camino pilgrimage, the long hours of solitude and walking in Spain gave me new insights into those years of my life.

  My dad was a functional alcoholic to the nth degree. He was a partner in the largest law firm in Idaho and recognized as one of the sharpest in the entire Northwest. He paraded around the high-end social and political circles in town. I remember meeting many United States Senators and candidates at political fundraisers held in his living room.

  It wasn’t until my high school years that the first cracks began to show in his veneer. These cracks ultimately became gaping crevices. His law firm fell into turmoil and he left with
a handful of other men to start a new practice. I thought it was a courageous move on his part, but it turned out that he was forced to leave due to his dependence on Smirnoff. He never missed a beat and achieved great financial success with his new firm. On a personal level, he torched many bridges with some long-term business partners.

  Like all good kids in my neighborhood, my friends and I collectively discovered Heineken, Maui Wowie, and Marlboro Reds during middle school. As a young overachiever, I excelled in all three categories. I played some sports but my passion was getting inebriated and trying to unsnap bras. A compass and topographical map would have helped with the latter crusade. When I was 13, I fudged my age to get a job washing dishes at a local Mexican restaurant named Poco-Poco. Within a year, I was a waiter and making some big bucks as a high school freshman.

  I sustained employment in the restaurant industry throughout high school and college. I especially loved being a waiter. It gave me a chance to get paid for being part of other people’s celebrations. There is a lot of freedom associated with making $100 per night in tips and not being responsible for paying tuition, room, or board. As part of my parents’ divorce when I was in third grade, Dad was saddled with our college expenses.

  In high school, I always had a job, always had good grades, and was always the first in line to refill my beer at parties. It seems that the alcohol and functional genes were transferred to me at birth. By my senior year, I was drinking on a regular basis and knocking down 20 Marlboros a day. After high school, I went to the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Washington.

  Just like the previous 12 years of schooling, college was a breeze. With a decent amount of dedication, I flew through with a high GPA. My summer jobs included an internship with an Idaho senator in Washington D.C. and a stint as a ranch hand at my fraternity brother’s ranch in Maui, Hawaii. I graduated with a business degree in the standard four years. During college, my dad’s second wife initiated a divorce. A trend of relationship issues had developed, but it obviously had nothing to do with whiskey.