September 27th, Burgos to Hontanas (34 kilometers):

Since I started the Camino, I’d been hearing people talk about the Meseta – a long, mostly flat region of grain fields, sunflowers, and farmland that defines the terrain between Burgos and Leon.  For the most part, I’d heard about its’ desolation and loneliness, the lack of landmarks and the empty quietness that would follow pilgrims for mile after mile.  

For the record, the Meseta was my favorite segment, by far.  The skies opened up across the entire horizon, peppered with clouds high in the atmosphere, and try as I might I couldn’t capture the sense of largeness and distance, or the deep blues and intense yellows of the landscape.  It was literally humbling, it felt much like walking into the wilderness in a physical, frontier sense, and it was here that I felt the first, deepest stirrings of God’s voice.  

The plan of the day was to walk from Burgos to Hornillos del Camino with Susannah and Linde, and so we set off from Castle Peregrino early in the morning full of energy and sarcasm.  It was brutally cold by comparison to my earlier walks, but the company and chocolate kept my spirits up as we left the city suburbs and made our way to Rabe de las Calzados to stop for brunch.  At the café there we found a new use for John Brierley’s guidebook (aka, the Book of John):

Climbing the 200 meters or so onto the Meseta effectively removes you from civilization, and although my feet still hurt and my body was aching, I found myself in good energetic company with the Musketeers (and Jari) and all the random folks we run into along the way, headed to Santiago.  Sometime in the middle of the day I snapped what may be my favorite picture of the entire trip – it seems to capture that joyful energy I remember from the Meseta, how we were dirty and tired but cheerful, together at times and apart at others, all moving toward the horizon and our sense of purpose:

As we approach Hornillos, the steep downhill abuses my legs and when we walk into town, my physical pain has left me convinced there won’t be enough room in the one albergue there.  There are beds left, however, my company decides they want to go another 12 kilometers to Hontanas instead because Hornillos doesn’t seem all that impressive.  

This is one of my decision points – I’m tired, I’ve been set on stopping in Hornillos for the past couple of hours, and although I know by now to trust my gut when it comes to hostels, the prospect of two to three more hours’ hike leaves me literally angry at my friends.  I feel trapped – stay here, alone, or punish myself to stay together.  Rather than commit, I punt by demanding some nap time on the steps of the church while they eat lunch and I weigh my options.  

If there’s one thing I can do well, it is sleep in any and all circumstances, so stone steps aside, I caught a solid nap and wake up ready to walk on.  It’s not easy, it’s not fun, and I’m worried the entire time that when we shuffle into Hontanas at 5 or 6 that evening we’ll be out of luck for beds.  But I keep telling myself to trust in Providence, and the gals do a fantastic job of keeping us all motivated, and we make it to town together.  It’s a good choice.  

We’re placed in the overflow building, which has its’ own showers and bottom bunks, and we are basically alone.  Immediately after showering up, I realize I can’t get myself warm and so I pile on the layers to go to dinner across the street, but by the time the waitress comes around I know I’m fighting some sort of sickness: I’m shaky, feverish, can’t concentrate, and I keep having hot and cold flashes.  My natural instinct is to go back to the beds and pass out, but the Musketeers more or less force me to eat the first dish (chicken soup, no less) first.  Sharing the end of our table are several people from the U.S., a couple of very nice brothers who want to start a conversation but between my illness and ability to concentrate, it falls a bit flat.  I feel guilty – it’s not how I want to welcome other pilgrims at all – but try as I might, I can’t rally.

Then Jari asks Susannah and I about the difference between Catholics and Protestants, and I get sucked in immediately.  You know how I like history, and as I’m explaining the roots of church history (in broad, very basic terms), I end up using a napkin to draw out a timeline with ballpoint pen.  After a while, Jari interrupts me to point out that, while talking about the church, I’ve lit up and become energetic again.  It might have been the soup, or not, but her timing strikes home.  

For most of my early adulthood, I fought against the idea that I was good at the things people kept telling me I was good at (teaching, patience, compassion, listening, basically showing care for others) and fought hard to convince myself I was better at the things I ultimately don’t have the heart for (aggressiveness, being ‘high speed’, whatever).  The past year has taught me on a more fundamental level that I can accept who I am in that regard and, when I do and when I embrace those areas – follow God’s gifts, as it were – I am able to live joyfully and easily, without the self-doubt and self-questioning I have otherwise.  

Pursuing that gift, as I understand it to be more God’s direction than my own, is a large part of why I went on pilgrimage – to see where it leads now, to commit, to accept and let go of whatever I think is best.  Let’s face it, that shit don’t work.  

So to hear it succinctly named by a person who I’ve only known for 24 hours scares me a little bit.  Ok, a lot.  It’s an experience I’ll have again and again in the coming weeks on the Camino – being asked, in different ways, if I’m interested in religious life or whether or not I’ve ever considered seminary.  The first time it happens, given that after that time in Los Arcos I haven’t talked about it explicitly, it’s pretty unsettling.  

The next morning when I woke up, I felt fine.  We’re only planning on going 15 kilometers or so the following day from Hontanas, so we can have a leisurely breakfast, and I remember how the conversation was both intense and fun with my beloved Musketeers.  In fact, if I remember correctly, breakfast is the first time the analogy clicks in my head and is mirrored by Jari’s declaration that I should be a priest, Linde should be a caregiver, and Susannah is our heart and our glue.  Look it up: Aramis, Athos, and Porthos all in a row like magic.  It damn near knocked me off my chair, and still does.

To the Musketeers – I love you dearly.  I love Susannah's fearlessness, Linde's kindness, and Jari's relentless sense of curiosity.  I miss our laughter and ridiculousness, I miss how well we dealt with the hard parts while making it all seem a giant Charlie Foxtrot, I miss our arguments and sour moods, I miss the times coffee would already be waiting and paid for when I got to the café, I miss the times I could pay for y’all’s as well, I miss walking ahead and walking behind, I miss the endless search for pharmacies, I miss us at the pilgrim’s masses and the night skies after.  I miss you deeply, and I’ll see you again.