The last five days have carried me in a quiet drift through the far northwest corner of Spain — Santiago, A Coruña, Fisterra — each place leaving its own soft mark on me.

Last Friday, our little band of pilgrims dissolved into different directions: some partings final, some temporary, some full with promises of future adventures. Usually, when I finish a Camino, I retreat inward, drawn into a private cocoon of reflection. But this time felt different. When I left for A Coruña, I carried a quiet joy in my chest, knowing I would see an old friend and then reunite with new ones for the journey to Fisterra.

A Coruña felt like a gentle reentry into urban life, its old town inviting me to get lost among tapas bars, its beach alive with the laughter of locals, the marina pulsing with the energy of wandering visitors. It was a soft landing, yet it reminded me how long it had been since I had let myself drift anonymously through a bustling city.

On Sunday, the train and taxi carried me quickly to the halfway point of the Camino de Fisterra. Tor and Hok were already waiting, and Eri arrived soon after. We shared drinks and dinner, our conversations spiraling into philosophical questions that only the Camino seems to inspire.

Monday’s walk to Cee was gentle, almost too easy, 20 kilometers along gravel paths and winding farm roads. We watched green hills roll past us until the sea revealed itself at the final turn, a sudden horizon that felt like a gift. We arrived in town, showered off the dust, and spent the afternoon in unhurried wandering and playful talk of creating a pilgrim’s albergue, a true oasis for souls like ours.

Tuesday brought a short 12-kilometer stroll to Fisterra. Those last 4 kilometers, we slipped off our shoes and let the Atlantic waves wash our feet, an unspoken ritual of release. I did not want to put my shoes back on; my feet felt baptized, unburdened.

That evening, we met Pav from the Czech Republic, who carried a kindness that felt rare and luminous. She gathered us all to the beach with a picnic she had assembled from the local market. We watched the sun slip beneath the sea and shared a simple meal, salt in the air, laughter curling into the dusk.

Wednesday morning came too quickly. My friends walked me to the bus stop; we lingered in that last stretch of togetherness before scattering again. On the bus, I found an echo of the past weeks, a family from California we had crossed paths with many times. We shared a fleeting reunion before they vanished into Santiago’s labyrinth of streets and faces.

Today, Santiago feels different. The errands I had to run pulled me through its winding lanes, but beneath each step there was a low hum of melancholy. The familiar post-Camino ache settled into my bones, the tension between belonging and returning, between motion and stillness.

I realize now that my sadness is more than just an end-of-walk melancholy. It points to something deeper. In California, my social life has thinned over the years. Working from home, scattered friends, long quiet evenings, I have grown used to a certain solitude that no longer feels like choice. On the Camino, that solitude dissolves into shared meals, spontaneous laughter, the warmth of strangers who become family for a few days or a few weeks.

I can feel the shape of a question rising. What comes next? Paid work seems to be fading from my horizon, but what will I reach for instead? Social projects? Volunteering? Another country? Another Camino?

The Camino always has a way of peeling away the layers, of showing me what I did not know I was missing. And maybe this one is not quite finished with me yet. Maybe I am not quite ready to return. Maybe I never will be.

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This is my final blog post from this Camino, and I want to thank each of you for following along with me, for walking beside me in spirit, sharing in the small joys and quiet reflections. If any of you have questions, thoughts, or simply want to talk more about the Camino, please reach out to me directly. I would be happy to share a conversation, just as I have shared these miles.

Arriving in Santiago always feels like stepping into a dream that you are not quite ready to wake from. Today marked our final day walking together, the last physical steps of this long, winding Camino. We gathered at Monte do Gozo, finally reunited after being scattered across various albergues and reservations. With hugs, bright smiles, and a rousing “Happy Birthday” for Ana, we set off in a lighthearted, celebratory mood. At a luxurious 8:30 start, practically midmorning by Camino standards, we ambled the final 4 kilometers, arriving at the cathedral around 10:15, give or take a few spontaneous photo stops, café breaks, and extra stamps for those who wanted to squeeze in one last sello.

The moment we stepped into the Praza do Obradoiro, it felt as if our hearts all spilled out together into the square. We were happy, overwhelmed, and somehow already nostalgic before we had even finished hugging each other. Reaching the cathedral is beautifully bittersweet. There is joy in the accomplishment, pride in the perseverance, but also an ache because we do not want it to end. These weeks of laughter, blisters, shared dinners, and philosophical rants under thundering skies have welded us together in a way that feels deeper than everyday life allows.

After a storm of hugs and the usual group photos, some with tears and some with goofy faces, we dropped our packs into storage, perhaps the greatest act of freedom after weeks of carrying them like a second spine. We slipped into the cathedral to pay our respects to Saint James, a quiet, reverent moment to thank him for his silent companionship on this wild journey.

Soon after, we found ourselves around a table at a nearby café, beers in hand, grinning like kids on the first day of summer. I tossed out a question that took everyone off guard: “What have you learned about yourself on the Camino?” One by one, each person shared, and it felt like we were opening little treasure chests. There were stories of discovering personal strength, learning to lead rather than follow, finding peace in solitude, embracing vulnerability, and affirming old truths. It was as if the Camino had turned us inside out, and in that messy unraveling, we had each found something worth keeping.

The real question now is how do we carry this home? How do we keep the Camino alive inside us, not just as a story we tell, but as a quiet force that shapes us? I do not have the answer, but maybe it starts with remembering. Remembering each sunrise start, each unexpected act of kindness, each conversation that meandered deeper than we thought possible. Perhaps we live the Camino daily by walking through life with the same open heart we carried across Spain.

We scattered to run errands, prepare for Ana’s big birthday lunch, and tie up the final pilgrim tasks. That birthday meal turned into something beyond food and cake. It felt like the perfect ending, or rather, a new beginning. We celebrated not just Ana turning fifty, but also the family we had chosen along the way. We came from every corner, every background, and yet here we were, sharing a table as if we had known each other forever. We honored each person for who they are, and in that acceptance, found something beautifully human.

After lunch, one by one, we drifted away, some to visit family, some to catch flights, some to stay a bit longer and soak in the magic of Santiago. Each goodbye tugged at the heart a little more. But there was no sense of finality. Plans are already brewing, more Caminos, a potential pilgrim spa, even dreams of opening an albergue together someday.

None of us knows where the next path will lead, but we do know this: we are forever connected. We carry each other in our hearts, like little stamps from our journey, silent proof that we were here, we walked, and we loved every step.

Last night as I arrived at the albergue, slipping in along a quiet back road. From the moment the gates came into view, something felt ominous. Iron bars wrapped the entire property, creating a sense of imprisonment rather than safety. Though unlocked, they looked designed to keep people from escaping, not to keep them safe. The Camino is a place of openness and trust, but here, everything hinted at secrecy and control.

Ana, already having arrived and always alert, quietly pointed to the reception and warned that the staff were unfriendly. Inside, a blond woman sat behind the counter, her eyes sharp and watchful. Without a glance, she continued a tense phone call in her Eastern European language, her voice cold and dismissive. There was no warmth, no greeting, just a sense of strict control and hidden tension that poisoned the air.

In the bar, a young woman from Peru worked under that same heavy atmosphere. Her strong Andean features stood out, but her eyes were downcast. For a brief moment, when I spoke to her in Spanish, her spirit flickered to life. That light died immediately when the blond woman entered and spoke to her sharply in her language. The young woman shrank, replying in short, subdued Spanish, her entire posture that of someone conditioned to obey without question.

Later that evening, the blond woman’s husband arrived. Heavy and commanding, he moved like a man used to ownership, not partnership. The second young Peruvian woman called him “Papa” with a tone that did not match any natural affection. The sisters kept working late into the night, tirelessly tending to chores and guests. Meanwhile, two small children of the older sister ran around the compound, their features hinting at a connection to the dat man. There was no sign of a father, no partner, no hint of freedom or choice.

The next morning, a simple breakfast became another display of dominance. As the younger sister began to process the payment, the man intervened. He seized the card terminal, entered the amount himself, turned the screen away, and quickly snatched it back. Only later did a bank notification reveal the charge was twice what it should have been.

As we walked together sharing our experiences, the unsettling pieces began to form a horrifying picture. The forced silence, the controlling behavior, the fearful glances, the unexplained children. All of it pointed toward something far darker than a strict workplace. Though there was no direct proof, it felt unmistakable. This was a place where freedom had been stripped away, where human dignity had been erased, it felt like human trafficking. I feel that it should be reported but without proof, it makes it difficult to do so.

Now, on to the lighter side of things.

The last two days on the French route have been everything you might expect and then some. From Melide to Arzúa, we practically had to learn crowd-surfing techniques to navigate groups walking four or five across, oblivious to anything smaller than a bulldozer. Then there were the bicigrinos, cyclists who apparently think bells are optional accessories, perhaps to be swapped for a second water bottle or an extra selfie stick.

We decided to skip the circus of Arzúa and head to a smaller town, a tactical move designed to slide between the pilgrim waves. This plan worked brilliantly. Once we left Arzúa, we finally had room to swing our arms without smacking someone’s wide-brimmed hat, and the bird songs returned to us like old friends.

This morning, we left our albergue with a ten-kilometer buffer in front and behind us, Camino solitude at its finest. We floated down the trail like phantoms, greeting the few souls we encountered as though they were long-lost cousins.

We opted to stay at Monte do Gozo, five kilometers shy of the cathedral. The place looked like a Cold War military base retrofitted for pilgrims and youth groups. We arrived just in time to be engulfed by a sea of Italian teenagers in matching shirts. I briefly feared being conscripted into a spontaneous soccer match, but thankfully our private room spared us from group singalongs and late-night pranks.

The four of us were piled into the room, enjoying what can only be described as a world-class siesta with the windows wide open and our collective snoring surely harmonizing with the birds outside. Just as we had all drifted into that blissful stage where you start dreaming of tortilla de patatas and ice-cold Estrella Galicia, a young girl’s voice suddenly sliced through the air like a surprise bagpipe in a yoga class. “Cris, Cris…” she called, sweet and insistent. In my half-asleep daze, I instinctively answered, probably sounding like a startled goat. The next thing we heard was the frantic scurrying of teenage feet sprinting away, echoing down the hallway like a herd of startled cats. We all sat up, bleary-eyed, looking at each other as if we had just been woken by a cosmic prank. Now my friends are mimicking her voice calling out my name at every opportunity, turning every quiet moment into a chorus of “Cris, Cris” that I may never live down.

Despite the mob scenes, this has been my favorite final approach to Santiago yet. The quiet mornings, the tactical leapfrogging of pilgrim hordes, the discovery that I still possess some ninja-level evasion skills, all of it a reminder of how unpredictable and charming the Camino can be.

And through all of it, I am grateful. Grateful for the dear friends who share these steps, grateful for every croissant (even overpriced ones), and grateful for the kaleidoscope of people and moments that make each Camino unique. Even the awkward, even the suspicious, they all weave into the tapestry of the journey.

After 30 days on the trail, I can no longer tell you the day of the week, let alone what planet I’m on. On the Camino, time is measured in kilometers, café con leches, and how many times someone’s snoring made you question you’re walking the Camino. Dates? Those are for train tickets and doctor’s appointments back home. Here, the only thing we schedule with any seriousness is our next stop at a bar/cafe.

Except… when you get close to Santiago. Then suddenly people start muttering words like “deadlines” and “reservations” as if we were all high-powered executives instead of professional blister collectors. In the last 100 kilometers, reservations get made with fierce determination at 7 am, then canceled by 9:15 am because someone decided they wanted to walk a bit slower to enjoy yet another cow pasture. Plans made months ago? Untouchable. Plans made this morning? Gone before the second café con leche.

Last night’s accommodations were a charming example of Spanish rustic minimalism, which is a polite way to say it felt like we were sleeping in a converted horse stable, complete with flies. The rooms were about the size of your average wardrobe, the air hotter than a tortilla griddle, and the only thing missing was a pile of hay on the floor. J, T2, Em, and F had the wisdom to book private rooms, leaving the rest of us to slowly melt into our bunk beds like forgotten ice creams. Ed made a midnight escape to the common room couch, which probably saved his sanity and gave him the best seat in the house for the 3 am mosquito rave.

Today’s hike to Melide marked the end of the Camino Primitivo and the start of the Camino Francés. We only have three days on this new stretch, so we will see if it’s as crowded and “lively” as we remember. (Spoiler alert: probably yes.)

But the highlight of the day, no sarcasm here was celebrating T3’s birthday. A big shout-out to him for surviving another year with his trademark giant grin and unstoppable good spirit. He is the kind of person who makes you believe that happiness really is a choice, and he chooses it every single day. His son Er joined us today for the hike, though they started late and did their best impression of mysterious forest creatures, only emerging at dinner. We all gathered to celebrate, laugh, and toast to T3’s infectious joy. What a wonderful family they are.

Cheers to kilometers, camaraderie, and birthdays on the trail, exactly the kind of time that really matters.

I do not know what day it is today. I do not know what year it is either, come to think of it. At this point, I am lucky to remember my own name and which foot goes in which shoe.

Europe is in the middle of a heat wave hotter than the surface of Mercury. Spain has been clocking in at 110 degrees, but to keep it fun and spicy, yesterday and today were each a cozy 97. My personal thermometer only goes up to “sweating through your socks,” and we passed that somewhere around 8 a.m.

Yesterday was a rest day. We called it “rest,” but really it was an advanced exercise in horizontal living. We explored Lugo in a haze of ice cream, shared a lunch that turned into an accidental multi-hour hydration fest, and took naps so profound they probably qualified as spiritual awakenings.

Then came today. L had the bright idea to start walking in the dark to escape the heat. At first, she proposed midnight. Midnight! The hour reserved for vampires, and raccoons. Through vigorous negotiation (bribery involving croissants), we compromised on 4 a.m.

The early start was genius. We floated along the moonlit path, feeling like a band of confused ghosts. Today’s stage was a robust 27 km, full of asphalt radiating heat like a griddle at a pancake festival. To make it extra memorable, four of us missed our albergue and kept going. Like lemmings in neon vests, we went a full kilometer too far and then had to trudge back uphill. Total for the day: 30 km. My feet are so angry they have started composing a manifesto.

Today is bittersweet. T1 and N had to peel off to catch flights back to the States. L, fueled by caffeine and apparently the spirit of some ancient marathon deity, decided not to walk back with us. She kept on to Melide, another 20km away and who knows, she might have kept going to Portugal for dessert or a music festival.

As I looked through photos from the past days, I stumbled on one of R and H. In the picture, R is deep in conversation, hands moving like he is orchestrating an opera. H, meanwhile, is either contemplating life’s deepest mysteries or quietly slipping into a heat-induced coma. Hard to tell. Either way the audio stimulation tripped his breakers.

Even with the sore feet, missed turns, and tearful goodbyes, I cannot help but feel grateful. This Camino keeps throwing curveballs, but it also hands out unexpected laughter, unforgettable bonds, and little snapshots of pure joy. We might be a few friends lighter tonight, but the spirit of our wild, wandering little tribe is very much alive — heat waves, pre-dawn starts, and all.

Today was what some might call a “down day.” I call it a “strategic masterstroke of self-preservation.” After all, I have been walking since June 1, and though my feet and legs are still in shockingly good shape (probably because they’ve already accepted their fate), my energy reserves have taken a vacation to somewhere with colder beer.

So, when the plan for today involved a stage nicknamed “the leg wrecker” in low 90s heat, we did what any wise, experienced, slightly lazy pilgrims would do: we called Rocio.

Ah, Rocio. Our taxi driver, our savior, and, apparently, part-time Formula One driver. When she saw us again, she thought it was pure chance. Little did she know, we actually requested her, she the woman is faster than a Galician gossip chain. She did not disappoint. In fact, she delivered us to O Cádavo in one piece, but I suspect we arrived a few years younger due to her near light-speed driving.

As we zipped along, I watched the Camino crisscross the highway like a confused snake. Each of those gentle undulations that looked so scenic from the passenger seat would have translated into 15 to 20 minutes of sweating, huffing, and me questioning all my life choices. Instead, we covered it all in about 25 minutes of joyous wind-whipped laughter.

Tomorrow’s plan? A casual stroll from O Cádavo to Lugo — just 30 kilometers, which sounds charming until you add 93-degree heat and realize there is exactly one bar after 8 kilometers. After that? Nothing but an endless stretch of personal reflection and possible hallucinations about ice-cold Kaz de Limón.

T1 and I bravely tackled the first 8 kilometers before our collective common sense (and lack of additional bars) persuaded us to call Rocio again. Meanwhile, J and T2 took the day off entirely and wisely called for a lift from their own starting points.

Reunited in Lugo, we did what any triumphant band of tactical pilgrims would do: checked into a semi-fancy hotel. We pretended to be civilized adults as we unloaded our bags and immediately transformed the room into a drying rack for sweaty socks. Lunch followed, complete with a generous serving of Xeato (Galician ice cream), which might just be the pinnacle of human achievement.

I have to hand it to my companions. They were all smart enough to listen to their bodies (and perhaps their stomachs) today. As for me? I have learned that sometimes the most heroic act on the Camino is not to march uphill in punishing heat but to lift your arm, call Rocio, and buckle up.

Day 26: Of Rolling Hills, Lies, and Fly-Filled Skies

Today was billed as an easy 25-kilometer walk over “rolling hills.” This turned out to be a cruel euphemism, what we faced was less a gentle ramble and more an unsolicited audition for Everest Base Camp. Right out of the gate, the path tilted skyward with such enthusiasm that our calves filed formal complaints. And as if climbing Mount K2’s little Galician cousin were not enough, both cafes listed on every reputable Camino app were either shuttered forever or practicing their best impression of a haunted house, completely lifeless.

With coffee dreams dashed, we slogged upward. As the air thinned and our oxygen needs increased, we were instead treated to lungfuls of buzzing flies. These little winged demons orbited our sweaty heads like caffeinated satellites, each one determined to tap a vein and file a flight plan for the promised land of forehead salt.

Then, like a vision from some alternate Camino dimension, R from Poland came bounding up the trail, pack on, singing, glowing with vitality. “I feel great!” he declared as he pranced around the bend. We assumed he had just been assigned to mock us by the Camino gods. Moments later, he reappeared—showered, shaved, and dressed like he was ready for a dinner date in Madrid. He smiled wide and asked, “How was your morning?”

At kilometer 15, a café appeared like a mirage. Beer was ordered. Tortilla devoured. Hopes, slightly restored. T&T, dealing with battle-worn knees and hips, suggested we cab the last 10 km. My stomach, still furious at the pork belly extravaganza of the night before, quickly joined their union and demanded representation. A taxi was summoned. J&N, ever the overachievers, left their packs with us and charged ahead on foot.

Life, as it does, had other plans. The taxi took so long we had time to age gracefully at the bar. We finally rolled into A Fonsagrada just as J&N arrived, sweaty, triumphant, and only slightly smug. They kindly refrained from gloating. Probably.

Sometimes, the Camino gives you a mountain when you expected a meadow. And sometimes, it gives you a taxi… eventually.

A from Portugal walks the Camino as if it were a part of her soul, because in truth, it is. Her pack is patched with stories, a living archive of the many roads she has walked and the lessons she has gathered. Her Camino tattoos mirror my own, not just in ink but in meaning, symbols of transformation, resilience, and devotion. She lives right on the trail in Portugal, where every journey begins at her front door, as natural to her as breathing. For A, the Camino is not a trip; it is a way of life, a calling that continues to shape and refine her spirit.

I think of her as our trail angel, ever-present in the most surprising and beautiful ways. One moment she is behind you, then ahead, then appearing just when someone needs a gentle smile or a word of quiet encouragement. Her energy is calm and kind, like a balm for tired souls. She too is walking a path of deep change, and in that, I feel a shared understanding. Her presence reminds me that the Camino brings the right people into our lives exactly when they are meant to arrive. And A, lighthearted, grounded, full of grace is one of those rare gifts the Camino gives when your heart is open.

Ah, life in the albergue, where snoring is a symphony, morning alarms start at 5:12 AM sharp, and personal boundaries are a faint suggestion at best. But nothing quite prepared J for the man in the thong. To this day, no one really knows what the thong was. A loincloth? A minimalist Speedo? A pair of boxers that had lost the will to live? Whatever it was, it had surrendered the battlefield of modesty entirely, leaving his butt cheeks gleaming defiantly in the lamplight like twin moons rising over bunk bed ridge.

J was mesmerized. Not in a creepy way, more in a National Geographic, is-it-going-to-fall-off-completely? kind of way. Every so often she would sneak a peek on her way to the bathroom, water bottle in hand as a decoy. “Just hydrating!” she’d chirp while craning her neck like an owl. She became a low-key scientist, observing changes in its position throughout the night: had it crept farther up? Would it finally breach containment protocol and reveal more than anyone paid for?

Such are the mysteries of the albergue. Forget the Meseta or the Pyrenees, nothing tests a pilgrim’s spiritual growth quite like bunk-bed booty and textile surrender.

The shower stall was a marvel of modern engineering, if the goal of that engineering was to trap a full-grown adult inside a damp upright coffin. At approximately 2×2 feet, the space offered just enough room to stand still and contemplate your life choices, but not quite enough to turn around without unintentionally exfoliating yourself on the screws that once held the towel rods. There were no hooks, no shelves, no friendly ledges for soap. Your towel? Slung over the door, half-drenched before you even got your socks off. Your clothes? In a damp pile on the floor, possibly now part of a communal laundry ritual no one warned you about.

The shower head dangled from its cord like it too, had given up. There was no mount, you were the mount. Which meant the bathing process turned into a bizarre solo choreography of “get wet,” “put down the shower head,” “frantically scrub before drying like a raisin with a film of protective… soap?”, “pick up the shower head again,” “try to rinse,” and “accidentally blast yourself in the face or the crotch at high pressure.” Repeat until fully clean or emotionally broken. Nothing says pilgrimage like a fight for dignity with a piece of plumbing in a plastic closet.

L from Italy was not a pilgrim. She was a phenomenon. A meteor in motion. A caffeinated hummingbird in human form. And she did all this at warp speed, in flip-flops. Not high-tech, hiking-sandal hybrids. No. Dollar-store, toe-thong, slap-the-back-of-your-heel flip-flops. The kind of footwear most people reserve for beaches, showers, or brief jaunts to the mailbox. But L? She hiked mountain passes in them. She stormed ridge lines in them. She outran thunderstorms in them.

At one point, the toe piece of her flip-flop tore clean through the sole, and she just… slipped it back in and kept going. Like it was a minor inconvenience. Like it was a sneeze. Lesser mortals would have stopped to cry, patch, or at least swear dramatically. But L just laughed, adjusted her stride to accommodate the flapping footwear, and powered on. Her good mood never wavered. Her steps never slowed. She was a sandal-clad spirit of joy, blazing trails while the rest of us, in our overpriced boots and orthopedic inserts shuffled along in her muddy wake, secretly questioning our life choices.

We began the day with the naivety of lambs. Sure, the sky was grey. Sure, the ridge ahead was wrapped in cloud like some sort of divine warning sign wrapped in cotton. But we were pilgrims! Hardened souls! Trail-tested and foolishly optimistic.

The wind was the first to greet us. It did not shake our hands or whisper good morning. No, it slapped us square across the face and then changed directions just to make sure everyone got a turn. Jackets flapped like torn sails. Ponchos twisted themselves into sadistic knots. And then came the rain.

Oh, the rain.

Not the gentle mist that kisses your cheeks and makes you say silly things like, “It’s refreshing!” No. This was the kind of rain that seeks out the soft spots in your resolve and drills straight into them like waterboarding from Valhalla. It came at us sideways, upward, and then seemingly from within. Packs soaked. Socks soaked. Spirits dampened but not broken.

And then the lightning began.

At first it was distant, theatrical lighting for our dramatic ridge-top march. But our Norse friends, smiling and wide-eyed, made a casual mention of how Thor would be proud of our perseverance.

Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

With their blessing, the sky opened like a trapdoor in the heavens. Lightning exploded so close it carved our shadows into the fog. One bolt struck behind us, a deafening crack that sent us ducking for cover in every direction, like a band of soaked squirrels with trust issues. Thunder followed so quickly it was not heard so much as felt, a rib-rattling crack and roar that made even the bravest of us consider joining a monastery.

We trudged on, or rather, skidded, slid, and stumbled down the ridge as the trail became a rocky riverbed. Water poured in rivulets, then streams, then full-on cascades. Every step forward felt like a challenge issued by the mountain itself. One misplaced foot and you were bound for the reservoir 1000m below via express stream.

We descended into the canyon of the Embalse de Salime, soaked to the marrow, blistered, bruised, and bellied up with adrenaline. Ponchos clung to us like shrouds. Waterproof pack covers? Utter lies. They merely delayed the flood by five minutes. Maybe six, if you offered them a prayer and a bribe.

But then, as all great storms do, it passed.

The wind softened. The clouds parted. Somewhere, a bird chirped, an actual chirp, not just a cry for help. We emerged like shipwreck survivors, soaked, muddy, laughing like lunatics. There we stood, trail-worn and thunder-kissed, shaking our fists at the sky and thanking whatever gods had decided to spare us this time.

We were no longer individuals, we were bonded by bolts of sky-fire and rivers underfoot. And though the Norse may need to work on their divine intercessions, we will always remember that wild descent not just as a test, but as a triumph.

What is a Camino without a little weather trying to kill you?

Today, I was given the quiet honor of being entrusted with someone’s truth, not the version polished for the world, but the raw and tender story that lives beneath the surface. One of our group, with a courage that humbles me, chose to share the profound weight of what they have carried, and the long, winding path that has led them here. Life, or perhaps something deeper, grace, chance, faith has offered them a second chance. And somehow, in the strange alchemy of the Camino, I was invited into that sacred space of their unfolding.

There are moments on this path when time seems to stretch and contract, when the usual defenses fall away and what is real rises to the surface. I have had the privilege of listening, not just with my ears, but with my whole heart. The kind of conversation that changes you in ways you will not realize until years later. To be seen as a brother, to be invited into the heart of someone else’s reckoning, is something beyond words. It is a gift I do not take lightly.

The Camino has many teachings, but perhaps none more powerful than this: when we walk with openness, we meet each other at our most human. What has formed here is not a fleeting acquaintance, but something enduring, a friendship etched deep by the steps we have taken, the tears we have shared, and the silence we have honored. This, I will carry with me always.

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.

Today’s trail had it all: ancient Roman roads, lush green forests, airborne menthol, and one surprise shortcut so bold it could only be accidental.

Let us start with T&T, our beloved hobbled heroes. They limped out of town like two retirees heading to bingo night and promptly vanished into a fog thicker than the mist in a Stephen King novel. The rest of us assumed they had been swallowed by a cloud or wandered into a mossy alternate dimension. But no, they reappeared hours later ahead of us, having taken a wrong turn so catastrophically wrong that it was somehow right. They looked victorious to see us. We looked surprised to see them. The fog is clearly sentient and has a wicked sense of humor.

Meanwhile, J&N were doing what J&N do best: talking. Constantly. Loudly. Endlessly. Their cheerful conversation echoed through the valleys like a social GPS beacon. Wherever their voices rang out, discussing injuries, relationships, or whether goats can cry, we pilgrims knew we were still on the right track. Their chatter might be the only reason no one else ended up in Portugal.

We made generous use of our designated injury breaks, also known as two-hour pop-up pharmacies. There were shots of orujo to “numb the knees/ankles/feet,” along with heroic quantities of ibuprofen and prednisone to keep us upright. Menthol cream was applied so liberally that the resulting fumes singed the inner lining of our sinuses and reset our childhood memories.

By evening, the group had split in the great albergue lottery. Most of us, in a rare logistical win, booked out the good one, a charming place with hot showers, cold beer, and chairs that did not collapse when you sat on them. Four others were not so lucky. T&N stopped for a short day and will catch up to us via taxi in the morning for breakfast. The Norwegian duo found themselves in an albergue so dilapidated that bar service did not start until 7pm. That is criminal.

While they huddled in silence and spider webs, the rest of us lounged in what might as well have been a five-star spa. Beer was flowing. Food was hearty and delicious. Someone might have even ironed their socks. Most of us are in awe to find a mini golf course at our albergue. What’s next?

The trails today were stunning, ferns so green they looked Photoshopped, cow pastures fresh enough to remind us what we stepped in, and ancient Roman roads that once bore the sandals of empires and now carry our tired feet. We walked through actual clouds. It was all up and down, but nothing new for our tired legs.

This ragtag crew, our pilgrims of pain and philosophy we come from everywhere, yet somehow we click. Between the silly jokes, the shared injuries, and the accidental existential debates, we have found something real.

I love these people. I really do. They inspire me. They make me laugh. And if nothing else, they always carry extra ibuprofen.