A magical beginning; hiking the Camino de Santiago

Beginnings are often mystical. There are questions unanswered, content unknown. And there you are — holding the book's cover, standing at the trailhead, dangling your feet out of the plane. Leap.

Today marked the beginning of my mom’s and my journey backpacking across Spain on the Camino de Santiago. We started our walk in Saint Jean Pied de Port, a small town at the southern edge of France. To get there we traveled from Los Angeles to Paris, then took the high-speed train and a bus (after just missing our train connection).

Missing that train meant four hours exploring historic Bayonne, and also giving up our plan to start hiking that afternoon. But as we were soon told, "Trust the Camino, the trail takes care of people." (Spoiler: this is proving to be true).

Arriving late in the afternoon yesterday, we found the pilgrim office, got our stamp passports, and booked two bunks in our first albuerge. After dinner, showers, and a stroll through the picturesque town of Saint Jean Pied de Port, we were fast asleep in our sleeping bag liners and eye masks... adjusting quickly to the Camino way of life!

It was dark when we woke to the sounds of giddy hikers scraping plates and zipping their packs. By seven, we were out the door, stealing through town at dawn, winding our way up a cobbled road to the mountains.

We passed white homes with red roofs and trim and gardens filled with pumpkins and trellising tomatoes. Then fields and rolling hills as the town slipped out of view and we began climbing into the Pyrenees, the mountain range that divides France and Spain. It was a gnarly ascent.

Stopping only to wipe our sweat, stretch, and admire flocks of sheep, we wove our way up to the first stop at Orrison where we celebrated completing the steepest part of the day with bowls of vegetable soup.

As we continued walking, we entered straight into the clouds. They engulfed us. It felt as if they hung right around my shoulders like a second skin. I couldn't see but 15 feet in any direction for hours. Magical, a bit disorienting, and humid as hell. I could hear the bells of cows and horses long before I could see them.

Somewhere up the hill a guy comes every day with his food cart and sells exactly this: hard-boiled eggs, hard cheese, coffee, bananas, and slices of bread. I smiled for the simplicity, for the systematic garbage bins for peels, and another for the used plastic coffee mugs. What a sweet routine to every day bring hard-boiled eggs up a mountain and watch hungry hikers crack them open on rocks or bare knees.

Little white petaled flowers bowed with the weight of dew. Moss warming trees. Ferns unfurl quietly. It was a soft, subtle wildness the rest of the day as we moved off the road to dirt trails.

Reaching our albuerge in Roncesvalles after 15 miles (25km) was much needed for my tired knees and feet. We got our bunks, showered, and did laundry (I only have three outfits so already needed to wash!) Seated with eight others from China, Taiwan, Trinidad and Tobago, Denmark, England, France, and the US we shared a pilgrim dinner to end our first day. We toasted to the beginning of a life-changing walk.