Today’s adventure began with a masterclass in disorganization. Our Camino family had somehow managed to scatter across three towns overnight. Some took taxis. Others walked alternate routes. A few of us slept in and indulged in the rarest of Camino luxuries: a leisurely breakfast. I believe that was the last relaxed moment of the day.

J&T and N&T, ever the pragmatic pairings, decided to ship their packs to Berducedo. Not a bad idea, considering T&T’s injuries and the minor detail of a 1000-meter climb crammed into the first five kilometers. I debated following suit, but the logistics of carrying water, snacks, and my indispensable bag of mystery trail mix without a pack were unappealing. So I pulled a “Camino Special” — emptied my gear into two of the pack to be sent them ahead. Naturally, I didn’t pay attention to which packs i out my stuff in.

The climb itself was less of a surprise and more of an ambush. We had done worse on the Primitivo… just not all at once and first thing in the morning. By the time we reached the junction, my calves were writing strongly worded letters to my quads. I slowed down, partly out of wisdom, mostly out of necessity.

Then the wind showed up. At first, it was the polite kind that cools your back and gently nudges you forward. By the time we crested the ridge, that same wind had morphed into a sassy teenager with a grudge, threatening to launch us into Galicia without the courtesy of a landing strip. Luckily the sun stayed behind high clouds, saving us from both sunburn and needing to wear our sunglasses inside like rockstars.

Up top, we passed herds of cattle and horses. This sparked a debate: wild horses or meat horses? Bells and brands were scrutinized. A few of us leaned into our cultural assumptions with the confidence of people who once watched a documentary half-asleep. Verdict: wild horses. Probably. We all felt better with that consensus.

Our group of ten stretched and contracted like an old accordion in a French café. Some wandered off to climb bonus peaks. Others rested or refueled. But even at its most stretched, we were never out of auditory range—thanks to the never-ceasing conversational beacon that is J&N. Frogs in springtime have nothing on those two.

The descent. Oh, the descent. Eight hundred vertical meters of rock-surfing and knee-clenching joy. I remembered this section well, mostly because I left a piece of my dignity (and a meniscus) here nine years ago. This time, we all made it down intact, albeit scattered across several kilometers like dropped breadcrumbs.

At the albergue, a few bags had arrived. Well, not my bag, just the bag I vaguely recognized and hoped had something useful inside. The rest had taken a detour, likely enjoying a sangria at another albergue.

Enter my new Norwegian friends. They invited me to lunch and I, still smelling of honest sweat and bad decisions, joined them. We were deep in conversation when our waitress—bless her soul—attempted to carry our drinks. Attempted. She tilted, physics took over, and I was baptized in Estrella Galicia. The Norwegians applauded my beer-dodging antics. I stood there, drenched, dripping, laughing.

“It smells better than sweat,” I said. And then I gave the poor waitress a hug, because there is no shame in a little spilled beer when you are surrounded by kindness.

Today was hard. And beautiful. And hilarious. And exactly why I keep coming back.