“Peregrina, Peregrina we’ve been waiting for you,” said the Hospitalero – the volunteer that cares for Pilgrims at the refugee – as he ran down the embankment, past the clothes line and across the yard. “You have?” I asked quizzically. “Yes, a young woman at dinner said she passed two old ladies on the top of the mountain. We were worried about you,” he said in his oblivious way. The seventy-three year-old German woman I was walking with didn’t seem to mind and honestly, at this point, neither did I. It was 8 p.m. before we reached Roncesvalles, the first stop on the Camino Frances route to Santiago de Compostela. By the time I checked in and changed my shoes, I had missed Mass, dinner and the opportunity to wash my clothes. I was sunburnt, soaking wet from a slide in the snow and my feet were beet red. I felt all of my 45 years and 30 more.  Maybe I really did look like an old lady.

I had time only to unpack my things, shower, meet my bunk mate, grab a croissant from the vending machine and go to bed. Welcome to Spain!

The next few days would be spent fighting snow flurries and biting rain with intermittent moments of spring showers that allowed one to enjoy the wild flowers, waterfalls and centuries old farm houses along the Camino.  The time goes by quickly as we are all still trying to find our “Way”. Which Pilgrims speak English and which ones don’t, who is it that stops to enjoy the grazing animals or a road side church and who doesn’t, who trained with her backpack and who didn’t think she really needed too and it is now weighing heavy on her back – oops did I do that?

A Frenchman keeps passing me by, checking in with me, “Ca va”? (How’s it going?) “Ca va,” (It’s okay) I reply and he is on his way again.

We all herd westward like a pack of sheep, all of us following the now famous little yellow arrows. They began in Roncesvalles, painted on street signs and lampposts, guiding us over bypasses and river beds. “And you will see a thousand more just like these before reaching Santiago,” the Hospitalero said as we left Roncesvalles. Interestingly enough, these arrows on which we depended so fervently were placed here only in the 1980’s, by a priest named Don Elais Sampedro.  Because of his dedication to its maintenance, the Camino has seen resurgence in the last 20 years.

Waking in Pamplona, the sun shone brightly on this city made famous in Hemingway’s account of its all night festivals and the running of the bulls.  The streets glistened in the morning light, wet from an over-night rain shower. I departed early on this Sunday morning, hoping to compensate for my slower pace.

The Camino’s yellow arrows led us through vast acres of rolling green fields, farm land of yellow mustard in full bloom and lurking storm clouds off in the distance. Pilgrims stopped to brace themselves in the whipping wind, which was getting stronger as we reached the peak. Our uphill journey to Alto del Perdón, a 400 meter ascent to a ridge above Puente La Reina, marked Day 4 on my Camino.

At the top of this crest lies the iconic monument to Pilgrims – metal cut-outs depicting Pilgrims on horseback. A plaque near the monument reads “Donde se cruza el Camino del viento con el de las estrellas” (where the path of the wind crosses that of the stars).

I’m cowering at the base of a concrete monument trying to shelter myself from winds blowing so strong that bicyclists have been walking along side us for fear of being toppled off the side of the mountain. Windmills line the ridge taking advantage of nature’s natural energy source. Staring across a small road that crosses our path, the familiar yellow arrow is mounted to a small wooden stake and points downward. Before me, the road vanishes, like water flowing off the edge of an infinity pool. I stare at infinity for a good long time, thinking I might be blown off the hillside. Finding the nerve to approach the edge, I look down to see a wide rocky path with no cliff in sight.  All that awaits me is shelter from the wind.

With a new found confidence I begin my descent down a fairly easy grade covered in small boulders. Lots of small boulders, held together with other small boulders. Trying to make up for my moment of panic at the peak, I take the hill as fast as I can. And it happened.  That seemingly insignificant moment that changed everything.  I fell.

French guy passes by, “Ca va?” “Ca va.”

And now I’m here in Los Arcos, icing my foot, sitting next to a vending machine trying to catch the WeeFee signal (WiFi) from the government building across the yard, when my phone beeps: “Walk with grace in 30min.”

To be continued next week.