OVER THE PYRENEES
My deal with the innkeeper is that I will leave the key behind in my room, crawl quietly down the stairs, and exit through the front door, which will lock behind me. At that point I know there is no turning back. So, I spend long minutes checking and rechecking to see that I have everything, and that my stomach is settled for the start. When I have gone through my mental (and physical) checks a dozen times, and to the point of exhaustion, I make my move. I edge my way soundlessly down the stairs, like a blind man with a stick that he must not tap, and out the door. I am locked out now and must move forward. Forever forward.
It is very dark outside, but there are a few electric lamps to guide the way. I move toward the Porte d’Espagne, see a couple of other walkers stumbling in the dark. I snap a selfie under the church clock tower, walk through the archway, pass the columns of the Porte, and am on my way.
The way is still, tranquil, and only gently uphill. The early vistas are shades of purple and ethereal blue; as the stars slowly fade, the sun moves ever so tentatively toward the sky. All around are the mountains, which are gentle at this hour, and without snow at this time of year. They seem welcoming, not intimidating. In the distance, a vast blanket of fog hugs the valleys; the mountains poke above it, like islands in a gray-white sea. Inch by inch, some distant life awakens. There is the sound of a rooster from somewhere. A horse that cannot be seen neighs in the distance once. The world slowly awakens.
As I climb higher, things turn green. A rich carpet of green, like a velvet dress on a woman playing Renaissance music on the harp. In this weather, at this time, everything seems rich and inviting. There is no hint of danger on the trail or in the surroundings. Strange that the journey has acquired such a fearsome reputation. Reaching the small café and albergue at Hunto, I see a sign in English and French forbidding anyone who is not a paying customer from using the restroom. I decide, as I often do in these situations, that I am actually illiterate. I march right in and make a small contribution to the groundwater of the Pyrenees. And then continue on ahead.
On the way up, there are markers of religious faith—a gaudy statue of the Virgin Mary atop a rocky outcropping, and a cross (“Cruceiro”) a mile or two later. People stop to pay their respects. I take a photo, then continue. Beyond, in a mountain pass, is a small stone emergency shelter, a last resort for those lost in a storm. Further on, there are markers with the names and dates of the fallen, whose journeys ended up here, for reasons unsaid. These are sober reminders that not every day on this mountain is placid and peaceful.
As we climb through the verdant hills, there are few signs of human habitations or local people, but there is much animal life coming from somewhere. There are cows with their bells sounding from the distance, chickens clacking, horses fattening themselves on the cornucopia of green grass, and grazing sheep hanging at almost perpendicular angles as they feed voraciously. But the only humans visible are the small groups of pilgrims moving silently forward.
At some point, we reach a place called “Frontera”—the “frontier” in Spanish— which is the border with Spain. This is the strangest border I have ever crossed. There is nothing here but a cattle guard across the dirt road, whose apparent purpose is to stop cows from one country from escaping into the other. There are no buildings, no border guards or customs officials, and no Spanish or French flags. The only flag, sitting at this border crossing, is of unknown origins: It is not French, Spanish, or even Basque. (I later learn that it is the flag of the Puerto Rican Independence Movement. But I never learn how it got here, or why.) Whatever the flag’s origins, one thing becomes quickly apparent from other signs, including political signs, nailed to trees along the trail. This is Basque Country; and in the view of the Basque people, we are entering their country, in the province of Navarra.
Upon entering, the vegetation changes substantially. The open, wind-swept areas on the French side (called Navarre in France) soon yield to forests on the Spanish/ Navarra side. The trail passes around and through thick mats of trees. From there, it reaches the highest point, the Col de Lepoeder, at 4,750 feet. Visible below is the tiny town of Roncesvalles, the “valley of thorns” as its name means, and the monastery there, which is today’s destination. Seeing it lying below for the first time, I know that yes, I will get there today, and stay there tonight.
The first day’s doubts are fading. But the final approach is not easy. It is hours of walking down the steep side of the mountain, some through dirt paths, but much of it along the rocky basin of what must be covered with a torrent of water at other times of the year. The rocks are treacherous; a single twisted ankle can end this trip in a moment. This is when I first realize the value of Big Stick. Three legs are much more stable than two. Big Stick creates a tripod for me, and leads me safely, inch by inch, down the path to Roncesvalles.
Exactly eight hours after walking through the Porte d’Espagne in France and onto the Camino, I make it over the Pyrenees and arrive in Roncesvalles, Spain! It was a tough, tough road—less than 16 miles, but with a vertical climb of about 3,800 feet, and then a long descent (almost 2,000 feet) which was almost as tough as the climb. What made it tolerable, and even very enjoyable, was the gorgeous weather and the beautiful, relaxing countryside. It was truly a perfect walk.