Last night was my idea of luxury: an Airbnb apartment right above all the bars and restaurants of Riaño. Which is to say, it was both a prime location and an acoustical nightmare. See, Spanish nightlife and pilgrim bedtime do not play on the same team. Just as my eyelids were getting heavy around 10:00 p.m., the streets below roared to life. Children were squealing, glasses were clinking, and someone, somewhere, was clearly arguing about ham.

But I had a secret weapon: earplugs. Industrial strength. The kind that block out everything from dance beats to existential dread. Once those were in, I was out like a light, and woke up at 6:30 feeling like I had borrowed someone else’s well-rested body.

Breakfast was at the hotel across the street at 8:00 sharp, and by 8:30, I was stepping onto the viaduct that spans the reservoir. It felt like walking into a postcard, mountains towering in the distance, the water below still and glassy, the morning air crisp and full of promise.

Soon came a fork in the trail: a new route over a 200-meter climb and 6.5 km of mountain pass, or the old Roman road that followed the highway with almost no gain and a longer distance. I chose the Roman road, because if you’re going to skip a climb, do it with the blessing of empire.

That old road snaked through rich farmlands and into the shadows of massive limestone cliffs. Eventually, it guided me through an 850-meter tunnel, dark and cool, and out onto the dam. The dam itself was an impressive work of engineering, probably not Roman, but it felt spiritually aligned. The trail veered left and dropped sharply to the river, picking up the Roman road again, this time wilder, weedier, and generously sprinkled with what I can only describe as bear-sized bear scat.

Crossing a rickety footbridge into Salas, I was immediately hailed by the town’s Council of Abuelas. They informed me, each with varying degrees of authority that the only bar in town was on vacation. I took the news bravely and retreated to the riverbank, where I produced a modest feast from my bag: venison sausage and smoked cheese, both purchased days ago in a moment of prophetic wisdom. I dined under a fig tree like some tick-covered Roman poet.

Yes, ticks. As I leaned back, basking in my smug riverside satisfaction, I noticed that my arms were speckled with dots. Tiny, moving dots. Upon closer inspection: ticks! Dozens of them. Not your run-of-the-mill forest freeloaders either. These were micro-ticks. So small they could have passed for dust mites with delusions of grandeur.

I brushed myself off with all the grace of a man trying not to panic, repacked, and,when the trail offered more overgrown Roman road I gave it a firm no gracias. The highway may be dull, but at least it doesn’t try to colonize your ankles.

Crémenes welcomed me like an old friend. I had a beer and a Kas Limón at the bar, found my room, showered off any lingering six-legged companions, took a well-earned nap, and made it back to the restaurant before the kitchen closed.

There, in a delightful twist, I ran into the three women I had met two nights earlier in Portilla, two German friends and their Aussie Camino companion. Stories flowed. Laughter returned. Pilgrimage reconnected.

By the end of the day, my feet were tired but solid. My body felt sturdy. My spirit, buoyed by conversation, scenery, and the good fortune of fig trees (minus ticks)—was in a very good place.