Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (3 page)

“
Why
is French bread so good? Seriously, what do they put in this stuff?”
Amy asks with her mouth full of baguette.

A
man walks by with wife and small daughter in tow and offers a
friendly, “Bon appetit!”

“
¡Gracias!”
I reply as Amy slaps me on the shoulder.

“
We
are in France, not Spain, you idiot! Wrong language,” she jokes.

I
am giddy with excitement, fear, and butterflies as Amy and I start to
strategize our plan of attack for tomorrow. We decide getting a good
ni
ght’s
sleep
is definitely the best way to begin this adventure and head back to
the
albergue
early.

The
room had filled to capacity with pilgrims while we were gone. I have
never experienced such a somber and quiet mood in a
hostel
before.
After the polite “
holas”
and
“
hi
how are you
’
s”
everyone
is completely silent as we all become lost in our heads contemplating
the long road ahead. A thousand thoughts swirl around the room like a
silent swarm of bees. Some feverishly write in journals and others
simply stare at the ceiling while lying on their beds. Many are lost
in prayer, their lips moving silently with their thoughts.

We
have given ourselves 30 days, a slightly quicker pace than most, to
walk from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela. A journey
that will take us approximately 490 miles through the northern part
of Spain. My head fires off questions as I lie down, trying to get
some sleep.
What
will it be like? Will I find
the
answers to my questions? Who will I meet? Will Amy and I fight? Will
I be physically able to make it?

Tomorrow
we cross the Pyrenees Mountains and the French-Spanish border. As the
sun sets and the lights go out, I cannot
sleep.
I feel a large pit form in my stomach as I wrestle with nerves.
Rest never comes as I am lost in my thoughts. Tomorrow we begin.

Trail
Day 1

Before
the sun is up, our room is bustling with life. I glance out the
window, and through the morning fog I spot two pilgrims silently
gliding past below. A shock of electricity hits me. This is actually
happening! No one speaks as we pack our backpacks and head downstairs
to start the day with what is arguably the worst breakfast ever.
Black burnt toast and coffee with the flavor of funk. We drink our
coffee from a cereal bowl as our cheery French
hospitalera
,
t
he
famous Amandine,
tells
us the custom of this region. “We use bowls because it is easier to
dip your croissant in your coffee,” she explains.

We
gulp down the funk, strap on our 7-kilo packs (15.4 pounds) and after
three years of planning we are finally walking! I am filled with
adrenaline and our beginning pace,
despite
everyone warning us to take it easy, is quick. We start a beautiful
climb through forests, fields, and increasingly spectacular views of
the lush green Pyrenees Mountains.

We
walk relatively alone during the morning hours, and I immediately
notice the peaceful feeling of just walking. The hikers are all still
mostly quiet and contemplative as they walk. Amy shares her mantra
for the day, which I adopt, “I am light and I am strong. I have all
of the answers I need inside of me.” I am apparently married to
Buddha or at the very least a much wiser soul than I. My focus is on
this thought off and on for the next few hours.

I
already find myself deep in thought, hoping to be hit on the head
with a bright flashing light offering me the clarity I am seeking on
this trip.
What
is my next move?
I
spent my 20s as a radio disc jockey, Travel Channel host,
videographer, webmaster, and recruiter for a study abroad program.
Those sound like great gigs—and they were—but nothing panned out.

I
loved hosting a radio show, and landing the night show at a big top
40 station in town was the best job any junior in college could ask
for. I remember the first time someone asked me for my autograph. It
was thrilling and an immediate drug-like injection straight to my
ego. I wanted more. I graduated from Colorado State University and
landed a job as a Travel Journalist on the Travel Channel. I got to
travel the world, be on TV, and get paid for it. Photo shoots in Los
Angeles, press conferences in Hong Kong, and when I got back home,
even more people stopped me for a photo and an autograph. Life was
good. But alas, the show was temporary, and I had to figure out what
I wanted to do next. I tried radio again, but it felt different.
Somehow stale. I wasn’t fulfilled, so I quit and felt crazy for
doing so.

I
moved to Denver to move in with Amy as things were getting the way
they do when you fall in love. I got a job for CBS updating their
websites with content, and after four long months, I told Amy that it
was a job that “crushed my soul.” So again, I quit.

The
insanity escalated. I begged for my previous radio job back. I
remember being so lost in a constant state of anxiety not knowing
which direction to turn. I met with my old boss and tried to explain
why after having quit my hosting gig on his radio station
’
s
morning show only four months ago it was a good idea to take me back.
I explained how CBS crushed my soul, how things would be different,
how I had found my passion for radio again and why I deserved a
second chance. He told me he would have to convince a lot of people
that it was a good idea to take me back. After a week, I was offered
that second chance, and in an epic move of career suicide, I turned
down the job. I told him I had changed my mind, again.

I
buried myself in self-help books.
What
Color Is Your Parachute?
I had no idea. I took career tests, made endless lists of possible
jobs including ridiculous options like helicopter pilot and career
coach. Amy
helped
me realize that being a career coach was probably not a great idea
for someone in my situation. She suggested maybe I go see a career
coach for some advice instead. More than once I wondered if I should
ask for a third chance with my old boss. Thankfully, I thought better
of that idea.

Leveraging
my video skills and radio background, I eventually landed a job
creating video content for a cluster of Denver radio stations, and it
was fun. I got to interview big name bands, host a weekend show, and
produce entertaining video content for the
station’s
listeners.
But instead of the rush I used to get from being in this exciting
world, I felt like a fish out of water. For me it lacked purpose, and
the agony of feeling like you are not on your true path is hard to
handle. I became frustrated with the advice that I should follow my
passion. “Don
’
t
worry, just go for
it,”
my well meaning friends would say. But I didn
’
t
know what
it
was. If I did, I would have been going for
it
!

As
we trek up a steep trail, questions about life bounce around in my
head:
Do
I start a business like I have always wanted? What about the risk?
What business would I even start?
The
true question underneath them all continues to surface:
What
is my purpose in this life?
I am now 32 and desperately in need of direction. We stop for a break
to take it all in, and I try to focus on keeping my head clear. I
grab the small journal from my pack and decide to write. For me this
is a calming exercise. Writing is a sort of meditation.

Amy
and I sit for a while, l
istening
to the birds singing, the rustle of the trees swaying in the wind,
and the soft call of the mountain sheep that are hidden in the
clover-covered hills. Watching the clouds roll around themselves
below us, stress melts away. Even the blades of grass and honey-bees
buzzing from flower to flower seem to add to the perfect symphony of
sound.

“
What
if we want to do this again?
”
Amy breaks the silence.

“
Let’s
make it through one day before we start to plan our next trip,” I
say and smile in return. And then doze off into an unplanned nap. I
wake up, surprised to see Amy in downward dog.

“
What
are you doing?” I ask.

“
What
does it look like?” she replies. “Yoga! Stretching feels so
good!”

I
shake my head and sit up to take a look around. There are a handful
of pilgrims pointing and giggling as they pass. Amy was going to
bring her yoga mat with her, a point of contention in our planning
process. I ultimately won, convincing her that the weight would be
worse for her joints than the benefit of actually doing yoga. She has
apparently decided to use the soft grass as her yoga mat.

“
Well
get it in now. I don’t think we will be able to move with so much
ease in a few days,” I say. She has made her way to tree pose.

“
Nonsense!
This is precisely why I will be able to move with ease in a few days,
you’ll see!” she argues while twisting into a pretzel.

This
stage has an elevation climb of 1,390 meters (4,560 feet), and we
make it to our high point of 1,450 meters (4,757 feet) after six
hours of trekking, snapping pics, and setting our quick pace. Near
the summit, I spot a fellow pilgrim with a bright white beard and
notice something peculiar. He is walking barefoot! I notice the look
of happiness on his face. His pace is similar to ours so we walk
“with”
him
for about an hour.

He
takes time to dip his feet in a mountain stream, feel the grass
between his toes, and every once in a while pauses to take a deep
breath of fresh mountain air. He looks euphoric and completely at
peace surveying the incredible mountain scenery. The weather could
not be better and the panoramic views of the mountains all around us
are breathtaking. He sits near us as we take in a particularly
spectacular view and decide to have a snack. “Beeeuuteefull yaw!”
he yells to us in broken English. I nod back with a giant smile in
agreement.

Here
is a man who has a simple pack and no shoes, while I spent months
debating between hiking shoes or trail running shoes. Agonizing over
what backpack would be most comfortable and purchasing specialized
socks that allow your feet to breathe yet stay insulated. I laugh at
myself and mentally thank him for teaching me to not take things so
seriously.

After
our break, I yell, “Buen
Camino”
to
our nameless friend and continue on. I can already feel the effects
of walking with a pack, so we decide to take it slow on the steep
decent into Roncesvalles, which proves to be more challenging than
the ascent. Most injuries happen here as still excited pilgrims
descend too quickly with their heavy packs. Small tears in your
tendons begin and develop into more serious problems with every step
you take.