October 21st, Arriving at Santiago de Compostela (21 kilometers):

               The last morning of my Very Long Walk, I got up and slipped out onto the Camino and into the darkness.  Fittingly, very fittingly, the trail soon plunged me into a eucalyptus forest that blotted out all light and felt for all intents and purposes like plunging into a cave.  My feeble headlamp barely illuminated the immediate area around me and I began to feel uneasy.  The forest stretched in all directions and dampened all sound, and I felt nothing more as if I’d left the Camino and found myself in a dark cave where I was afraid and lonely.

               It hit me then, the proverbial ton of bricks.  I reached up and switched my headlamp off and stood quiet in the darkness for a few minutes, and when I turned my light back on I kept it on the low red light, trusting the path, the arrows of the Camino, the footprints of pilgrims, and God. 

               I’ve read, discussed, taught, and pontificated on the Hero’s Journey for years at work.  It was taught to me by the therapist for whom I worked, and I helped teach it to countless students and staff during my time in the woods.  I’ve read variations, accounts, analyses.  I’ve talked until blue in the face to parents of students about the Hero’s Journey.  But this was the first time I really felt it, and with such a direct metaphor it was almost ridiculous.  A month before, I’d felt pulled to a foreign land, I’d left everything I knew that was comfortable and safe, I’d jumped into a situation I did not know would not destroy me, and I’d been taught lessons that had reshaped me into a new person.  And here I was, walking into the cave, afraid of what I’d find. 

               I had no idea what ending the Camino would be like, how it would affect me.  I had gone searching for meaning in an event, a journey, and I was looking directly down the path at my journey’s end.  The event would finish, and what would I be left with?  Would I return back home changed?  Would my experiences further separate me from the people and places I knew and loved?  Or would I carry the Camino with me in joy and love and return home to thrive and grow? 

               I came out of the eucalyptus and into a field of grass, under a perfectly clear dark sky dripping with stars.  The moment was perfect – both so foreign, so filled with wonder and joy, so connected to the historical pilgrimage of which I’d become a part… and simultaneously so familiar.  As a teenager I often snuck out of my house to lie on my back in a hayfield looking up at the stars, lost in the feeling that if I wished hard enough I’d find myself in a different time, with different people, in a different history.  I think I started to feel the presence of God first in those moments.  It was perfect, singular, and complete.

               This was the last time my Camino held onto the feeling of exploration.  As the sky grew light and the Camino wove more and more into suburbs and the outskirts of Santiago, I could see less grass, fewer views unobstructed by gas station signs and apartments, but I didn’t mind.  The pilgrims had fallen into the final slide toward Santiago and my excitement was growing.  I ran into the Virginia ladies, thankfully, as I don’t remember now if we’d planned to come into Santiago together.  I was so grateful for the company, for companions, and their giddy energy infected me as we bounced along the path.  We co-opted a Taylor Swift song for our own ends, “We are going going going, to Santiago!”  I was clown-like with joy. 

               We stopped at a café just on the edges of the ‘souvenir’ bubble: there were stands selling all manner of Santiago and pilgrimage-themed kitsch outside and I realized I’d soon have to buy my family gifts even though I had no idea how to fit anything more into my backpack.  Breakfast was massive, and delicious, and the coffee served by the barista was American-sized, which meant twice as large as the normal Spanish cups.  I didn’t complain, even when she asked us if we were hiking the pilgrimage because we’d seen ‘The Way’ with Martin Sheen.  Ridiculous!  We were hardened pilgrims, veterans of nearly 500 miles of Northern Spain, compatriots of 1000 years of pilgrims.  But we laughed, and walked on.  Soon after we passed Angela and Martina having their own breakfast, and I took a snapshot that remains one the ‘iconic’ images in my head of life on the Way: two pilgrims, strong, taking breakfast on a stone wall, focused, flush with the walk.  I wanted to grab their hands and kiss them on the face out of exuberance and camaraderie.

               We passed Monte de Gozo, the Hill of Joy, atop the final hill prior to the plunge downward into Santiago de Compostela.  We stared at a giant abstract sculpture there, surrounded by tourists shuffling off their buses, and peered through the fog to the spires of the Cathedral de Santiago several kilometers away.

            We made our way into the city proper where I tossed my hiking poles into the first available garbage bin.  We passed sculpture upon sculpture signifying the Camino’s history, including a massive tribute to famous historical pilgrims replete with almost life-sized reliefs.  We debated checking out the hostels along the way and I didn’t put much effort into the process because I trusted that things would work out no matter what happened.  We found ourselves winding deeper and deeper into tight, compacted streets as the Camino left the modern sidewalks of the city outskirts and threaded into the comforting stone of the oldest part of Santiago.  The girls talked about running into the square holding hands when we finally reached the cathedral and I told myself I’d walk with dignity and grace and let the moment sink in. 

              And finally, like the sharp intake of breath, we came within sight of the square and I found my hand intertwining with Katie’s and all four of us galloped into the bright, open sunlight of the cathedral square, laughing and crying and gasping for air.  Santiago de Compostela, the cathedral, the shrine, the end.  I was within walking distance of the tomb of James the Apostle who had walked with Christ.  I was stopped in my tracks staring at the cathedral whose spires reached higher than I could comprehend, amid a massive stone square flanked by equally gorgeous buildings and full of other pilgrims buzzing with joyful energy.  I was there, and all I could do was smile, and fumble for my camera, and try to hold back tears.  There aren’t words. 

               And of course, inevitably, perfectly, I hear a shout across the square – “BLACKBERRY!!”  I’ll let the pictures say the rest.