Winter Pilgrim's Winter Pilgrimages

Day 149: Je suis arrivée!!

2012-02-25T15:29:00.000+01:00

At last my feet are standing at your gates, Jerusalem.

What a long way to come by foot, passing through the wilderness, coursing through the millennia, mingling with distant neighbors. Love your neighbor, we're all told. Easy to do when our neighbor lives next door and looks just like us; more interesting to go far afield to meet the ones that are less like ourselves. I've met a lot of neighbors. It's overwhelming, really, as always at the end of the path.

It was not possible to know when I started out that I'd arrive in Jerusalem during the 'high season' when pilgrims are plentiful but accommodations harder to find - bus pilgrims, of course, I haven't seen any other foot pilgrims or even bicycle pilgrims. Pushing outward, I found a quiet monastery of St Martha outside the walls in Bethany at the traditional site where Mary and her sister Martha lived when their brother Lazarus was raised from the dead. The three Passionist priests give me just the solitude I need for the conclusion of my trek. See the sights, plan the return...

I sit with mixed feelings, of course: I've arrived! Yeah!! Delivered from evil!! Yeah!! but the pilgrimage is over. Boo =( Time to make my way back across the globe.

Day 146: Bad Samaritans/Good Samaritans

2012-02-25T15:06:00.000+01:00

(I wasn't able to post this when I wrote it...)

For the first time in all of my pilgrimages - over 15,000 kilometers by foot - something 'bad' happened =( Two men tried to rob me of my leather bag that holds my pilgrim credenziale, the book that contains the record of all the places I slept, the stamps from churches and monasteries, notes and signatures from the various hosts, etc... In the souk I visited in Monastir, Tunisia, I was stripped of my reading glasses and my wee little pocket knife, but there was no violence involved, so it wasn't such a horrible experience and I dismissed it as a simple annoyance.

Walking through richly historic Samaria in Palestine, midway between Nazareth and Jerusalem, I came down from the terraced olive groves where the road winds tightly between some mountains... I like the groves, muddy though they are, but geography overrules at certain points and roadside walking is required. Not many cars or trucks pass along the modern highway, so it's not too stressful for a pedestrian pilgrim. Idiot drivers honk their horns as they pass, though, which I distain as much as I cannot imagine what possesses them to cause such unnecessary stress to a complete stranger... 140 decibels is unpleasant... morons disturbing my tranquility... whatever.

One of the idiot drivers who honked as he came up from behind me shouted 'where are you going?' I waved him off and he drove away, only to return from the opposite direction a few minutes later. The passenger got out of the car and said he wanted to help me. I don't need anyone's help, thank you, goodbye. He got back in the car and the two men drove off again, turning around a few hundred meters further along, and passed me in my same direction. They disturbed my tranquilty once again stopping only long enough for the passenger to alight. ´Imshee!´ I shouted at him to leave me alone and went from the shoulder of the road to the center, though there were no cars at that moment, if one came by, he'd have to stop. The man told me straight out, rather politely I can honestly say, ´I want your bag,´ pointed to the leather pouch. ´You won't get it, I'm a pilgrim and have no money, there're only books (in English)...a traveler only on foot and with no money (in Arabic).´ He laughed and said of himself, ´but I'm crazy.´ ´Still, I have no money, leave me in peace.' The moron then made an effort to reach for my bag. I whacked him hard across the chest with one of my hiking poles. Though the lightweight titanium just bounced off the solid muscle, it sent the message that his petty theft wouldn't be a painfree one and thankfully at that moment, a car came around the bend a half kilometer away. The crazy would-be thief thought better of the situation and ran off in the direction of his conspirator waiting in the getaway car hiding behind the other bend. Then a steady stream of cars came by in both directions and I saw the car of the two men pass me in my direction again, waving a twisted fist. I wrote down their licence plate number, for what it was worth, but the ordeal was over. I was through the windy part of the mountains within a few more kilometers and returned to the tranquility of the olive groves and sheep pastures.

I certainly wasn't afraid of either of the morons - what could they do in the middle of the highway while I was armed with two hiking poles, two very heavy hiking boots, and a backpack for ballast? Thieves should really think these things through a bit more. It was just sad that after all this distance, days before completing the pilgrimage, I had to encounter 'bad' people. There's always something 'good' about the people I meet, even if they're pesty morons. It's hard to convince myself that they're really 'good' guys just having a 'bad' day. Heavy sigh. Bad Samaritans.

Continuing on, I entered the outskirts of the city of Nablus. I asked a few people where to find the Catholic church and was pointed toward the Greek Orthodox one high up a mountain. I asked more people who directed me to the farthest end of the city, high up another mountain. Once again, Greek Orthodox. Next door, there was an insurance agency. I popped my head in the open door and asked for help. The kindest of men stopped what he was doing to help... phone calls, directions, Google Maps... he offered coffee. Settling on the location of the church, he offered to accompany me there since it had gotten dark. It was back toward the first Orthodox church, which was too far for his legs, so he hailed a cab and escorted me there. It turned out to be a Melkite Catholic church and a friend of his new the son of the priest. More phone calls, invited in to spend the night in the rectory with the priest's family, cake, sparkling wine, festivities followed... Good Samaritans. Happy ending.

Day 144: Closing in

2012-02-21T19:39:00.000+01:00

Only the quickest of moments here at the computer...
I've got a whole new impression of Israel now - it's green! Not quite the 40 shades like Ireland has, but a few days of rain and all the land is lush, wildflowers, flowing water in the streams, gooey cow patties underfoot. It's wonderful to see the Sea of Gallilee with verdant slopes full of such history... Cana, Nazareth... pick a place mentioned in the Bible, I've visited it or am about to. Four more days until Jerusalem, unless I take another lap around the Dead Sea... Pilgrim fun, but the only other pilgrims I've seen have been the bus variety, no other foot pilgrims.

Day 137: The Dead Sea, the West Bank

2012-02-13T19:59:00.000+01:00

Desert pleasantries...how to fit them all in one blog? Amid covered farmland, smelling sweetly of hidden herbs and vegetables, I never would have guessed that 'sawadie-kaa' would be a useful greeting in Israel, but it's been mostly Thai field workers who supply me with requested drinking water. It's a small world, after all.

Friendliness and openness, warmth and hospitality; Israel is good pilgrimland. Two winters ago, I read whatever I could about the great Greek philosophers as I approached Delphi; now I'm strolling through Old Testament territory, and though much of it recounts wars and general violence, some of it is very intriguing being in the presence of history... I climbed high and licked the skirts of Lot's wife! Salty, no surprise. She was a big woman. Sodom's not much to write about. Gomorrah's gone, too...

After twisting my ankle on some rough terrain, I thought how good it would feel to soak in a salt bath... Doh! the Dead Sea served the purpose well, though any pilgrim will have scrapes and scratches...oooh how the salt stings! As the air is thin in mile high in Denver, it's thick a quarter mile deep, which is the current elevation of the salty surface. Breathin's been easy.

Partying with diverse groups every evening... The only challenge is the heat - high 20s/low 30s - which requires high water consumption, which adds kilos of weight to my pack. A side benefit to the Dead Sea is the protective shield of the evaporative layer... No sunburn!!!

Off to the Sea of Galilee next...

Day 130: Meanwhile, back at the kibbutz...

2012-02-06T20:48:00.000+01:00

Delivered safely from the land of Egypt, a most exhausting country full of extremes. Sinai was a challenge the passed much too quickly. 'Tourist Police' seem to think that the best way to keep tourists safe is to not have any. And since they need tourists in Sinai to keep the artificial tourist cities in business, they want the tourists to stay in their all-inclusive Club Meds and travel around only in tour buses. Like I encountered in Algeria, having no clearly written rules means that any self-authorizing individual can make up rules that suit him and there's nothing to be done to challenge the rule. Anyone venturing outside the tourist town of Sharm el Sheik must have a permit to be there (so the Tourist Police decided.) Walk through the mountains [where Moses and the exiled wandered for 40 years] to the Monastery of St Catherine? Permit Denied. No reason needed. Denied. Get on a tour bus like everyone else. Not even if I would pay a Bedouin guide. Denied, Where are the 'Pilgrim Police' when you need them?

So off to the monastery by car - a kind and honorable young Camino graduate who lives part time in Sharm el Sheik offered greatly needed assistance... military checkpoint all along the way, very curious about my nationality. We found out that that very day two Americans with their guide were abducted by 'bad' Bedouins and held in exchange for an imprisoned drug dealer... the Egyptians paid up thus setting the exchange rate. Americans are high-value assets. But I'm just a pilgrim, safer on my own in the mountains than with an unarmed security post in the car on the highway. Isn't that obvious? Argghh.

The monastery, anyway, was fabulous and the monks let me stay at their guesthouse gratis. Joining the tradition, I got up in the wee hours to climb the 6-kilometer well-marked path loaded with heated rest stations and lined with Bedouin hawkers offering every sevice and commodity under the stars to aid in the ascent. Seeing the sunrise from Egypt's highest peak and the site where God handed down the commandments is a unique experience that I shared with about 400 bus pilgrims. Cautioned very sternly by one of the 'good' Bedouin coordinators not to reveal my nationality to anyone, I tagged along with a group from France and spoke nothing but French except to bark at the boy hawkers aggressively convincing walkers to ride their camels (the Bedouins conduct business in Russian or English). Many of them were incessantly asking 'where you from, lady, where you from?' I always had the idea that Moses had the mountain pretty much to himself... oh, but for a moment.

Returning to the monastery, the Tourist Police officer, wouldn't let me leave the monastery except in a car with an escort and directly to the border crossing. I've grown so weary of trying to explain why I want to go on foot. The fat man who couldn't walk as far as the gate of the monastery will never get it. Though I doubt his authority entirely - he just makes up rules that suit him - the fight is out of me and I only gave him enough of a hard time to make him earn an hour of his paycheck. Deposited at the border town of Taba, I walked the last half kilometer out of Egypt. Robbed of the weeklong walk through the Sinai mountains, Africa is prematurely behind me.

Ah, but a half-hour interview with the senior officer of the Israeli border guards - refreshingly a woman - was deemed necessary once posed the question of what countries I visited in the last year. I'm not sure if it was just Libya that sent me up the chain or the itinerary as a whole. Walking on foot? No money?? Alone??? okay, in the end, a one-month visa granted. The clock has begun.

The scene in the Wizard of Oz where the world changed from black and white to technicolor mimics well the emergence on the Israeli side of the border... everything so clean and orderly, tidy gardens, sidewalks, pavement, no taxi drivers chasing me down, courtesy, silence, beauty... the pilgrimage is not over yet - a month to tour the famous historical sites of the Holy Land - but the dangerous part is in the past. Delivered from dangers, the dangers posed mostly from the security forces. The Egyptian people were by and large very good to me - where there was good, it was very very good; where the good was lacking, it was very very difficult. Extremes. In the first town on the Israeli side, I asked for a Christian church - none I was told - so I found a synagogue and asked a rabbi for some help. Sure we can help you, but you can go to the Christian church around the corner if you'd like... Catholics. People who understand about pilgrims. No explanation needed... of course we'll take you into our home for a place to shower and sleep... ahhhh

A marked hiking/biking trail parallel to the highway... quiet, peaceful, scenic, with informative kiosks describing nature and wildlife management programs in place.. houses in orderly kibbutzes...Maps - real maps, accurate so far... maps for touring Christian sites, Jewish sites, nature trails, water points, rest stations... this is all so promising for a person on foot. Happy pilgrim...

Day 125: The Wadi of Wonders

2012-02-01T10:48:00.000+01:00

The wilderness is a remarkably safe and beautiful place, a feast of visual diversions!. I loved every minute of my walk once I finally got to a starting point I could reasonably place on a GoogleMaps printout. I admit that with the proper basemap, a GPS unit would have given great assurance of my location, but it didn't make much of a difference. Walk up the biggest wadi then southward across the plateau and down the next biggest wadi. Water was the limiting factor that kept me from reaching St Anthony's Monastery by foot.

Nonetheless, I had four wonderful days in a spectacular canyon walking up the unnamed wadi eastward from the Nile. The impossibility of my mission became apparent by the end of the first day. The labor of dragging the sled - whooshing quietly across the sandy stretches but noisily along the rocky sections - made me thirstier than my allotment of water allowed and the added distance from the tightness of the canyon made it pretty clear that it would take a day or two longer than I originally hoped. I couldn't haul more weight in the sled if I could get it... a donkey is really necessary. I followed the fresh tracks of two small-footed soft-soled men, a small dog, and one camel. I didn't think camels did so well over such rocky terrain. Pack animal with water is the key.

Realizing this, I wasn't going to squander my opportunity in the wilderness. I continued on to explore in solitude. The canyon, steeply sided, sometimes even vertical, for heights of 300 meters/1,000 feet - echo-y, soaring with ravens and a few raptors, full of petroglyphs. I copied a selection of them in my little sketchbook but the camera on this computer doesn't present them in focus, but I'll try to update this blog with a photo of my sketches when I find a better camera. The petroglyphs are remarkably similar to those I saw in the Chihuahua desert last winter - male figures and animals mostly. The animals here are camels - men riding on them with lifted spears - and gazelles with their graceful long horns. Fascinating. They suggest that people have not only visited this particular canyon throughout the ages but that they considered it sacred in some way.

The modern additions were limited to some boundary markings - Latin alphabet, not Arabic - that seem to me to be from mining surveys and a small abandoned settlement of buildings with a palm grove of sickly looking date palms. The collection of seven or eight buildings were built within the last 30 years but look like they never were used. I speculate that some mining firm had some ideas about the chalk and other mineral resources but it never materialized.

On the ancient side again, I poked my head into several caves in the canyon walls; one with petroglyphs as well but the passage was blocked after 10 meters. Ropes, shovels and lighting could lead to a good time in the mountains there. (And a partner for safety.)

The other remarkable feature that I contemplated was that the steepness, color and dimensions of the canyon walls clearly gave inspiration for the great pyramids from the time of the Pharaohs... the pyramids of Giza, less than 100 kilometers away, look just like them. Even the step pyramids mimic the nature here because the rocks of the canyon are blocky limestone, some sandstones, silicious and calcitic inclusions - lots of chert/flint - and form natural steps. If I were a Pharaoh with all the money in the world, I suppose I could command a mountain be built out behind the palace and expect that it look just like the mountains in the canyons beyond.

I had no problem making a camp each night - the blocky chalk makes nice sleeping platforms and a framework for my wee little tarp. I gathered enough small branches from the scrubby vegetation to have a fire for several hours each evening just after sunset to warm my little space and heat small rocks to bring inside after the fire died down. The temperature only dropped to the mid single digits (40s), so it's not like 'real' winter camping in the European or North American sense. The crescent moon didn't overpower the glorious canopy of stars and my planisphere made for dimlit entertainment before bed. A note for the 'fraidy cats out there: no water in the canyon means no fearful wild animals; the only noises at night were the occasional distant rockfalls echoing through the canyon. Peaceful music. Sunsets, sunrises...two days up, two days back down. Lovely solitude.

Knowing I had to retreat back to the highway, and that it's too dangerous to walk along the highway, I exited to a military checkpoint and had them flag me down a car to take me to the destination. Minor adventures only, but I got the the monastery late in the afternoon. I wish I could say I was well received, but these things don't always follow script. The monk assigned to greet all foreign visitor was a cranky old grouch and gave me nothing but a hard time. That I'm not a regular tourist was of no issue to him; that I was on foot meant nothing. He brushed his hands together and told me where I slept was not his problem but it wouldn't be within the extensive and lengthy walls of the monastery. It was an ugly situation and in the end, with no help, I could think of nothing to do but sleep another night in the desert outside the walls. I asked for something to eat - got a small bowl of cold soup; I asked for a place to wash - got a cold shower in a filthy bathroom; I asked for an extra blanket since I wouldn't have the luxury of a fire - got a stinky, mildewy filthy old thing. Ah well, I was too tired to suggest they rethink their idea of hospitality. A shame, though.

I saw the monastery properly very early in the morning, before the rainy dawn, and climbed up to St Anthony's cave 1,000 feet higher up the canyon wall and enjoyed the tiny space with three Ukrainians - one a priest - who were having a little service there. Experience on my pilgrimage to St Andrew two years ago allowed me to jump right in and join in the 'hospady pomiloy' chorus. The rest of the soggy time at the monastery was soggy as well - I dared to ask for something to eat again and got a small bowl of cold beans and some cold feta cheese. I still had some chocolate bars and peanuts the wonderful Coptics of Cairo set me off with. It wasn't an issue of going hungry.

The monks refused outright to tell me the way over the mountain to the monastery of St Paul of the Desert, my next destination. They were adamant that only by paying a Bedouin guide 1,000 pounds could I even consider it, but because I'm a woman, it's far too dangerous... arghhhhhhhh
Uncooperative at every turn.... they wouldn't reason with me and I was far too weary to fight... the Ukrainians came to my rescue and took me there by their little tour bus. I enjoyed St Paul of the Desert only as a tourist, not as a pilgrim. Still too beaten down by mean monks to argue, I took the sympathetic and well-intended advice of the Ukrainians and carried on with them to Hurghada where I can get a ship across the Red Sea to Sinai and continue on. I want to walk, really and truly, but no pilgrim can do it without help. The sexist pasty monks who live in modern comfort and have never left their walls on foot were unwilling to help and the Ukrainians helped the best they could. Ukrainians have so often been extraordinarily good to me =)

The Coptics in Hurghada are making up for the sins of their cloistered brethren (it's pretty sinful to deny hospitality to a pilgrim). I'm being well taken care of now as I wait until the ship sails tomorrow morning. Onward to the monastery of St Catherine, a Greek Orthodox community and I'm assured they have guest houses just outside the walls to accommodate pilgrims. The great pilgrimage continues.

Days 69 to 102 Tunisia and Libya

2012-01-25T12:36:00.001+01:00

069 Tunis again...
070 Tunis

071 Khladia 2053 kms
072 Zaghouan 2091 kms
073 Enfidha 2132 kms

074 Sousse 2181 kms
075 Monastir 2207 kms
076 Bekalta 2241 kms
077 Rejiche 2271 kms
078 Rejiche 2271 kms
079 Chebba 2306 kms
080 El Louza 2344 kms
081 Sfax 2391 kms

083 Nakta 2417 kms
084 Mahdas 2453 kms
085 Skirra 2493 kms
086 Akrit 2530 kms
087 Gebes 2567 kms

088 Zircene 2597 kms
089 Arram 2623 kms
090 Saadame 2659 kms
091 Chahbania 2695
092 Ben Gardene 2742 kms
093 Ras Adjir 2778 kms
094 Bukamas LIBYA 2804 kms
095 Zuara 2844 kms
096 Sabrata 2880 kms
097 Jadda'aim 2926 kms
098 Tripoli 2968 kms
099 Tripoli 2968 kms
100 Sidi Burrum 3008 kms
101 Tripoli 3044 kms
102 [flight to Egypt]

Day 118: Fits and False Starts

2012-01-25T11:54:00.005+01:00

Thomas Jefferson said in reference to Grey's Rebellion that 'a little revolution from time to time is a good thing.' But the one here in Egypt is interrupting my pilgrimage =(

I'm still enjoying Cairo - the quarter called 'Garbage Town' - because today's the first aniversary of the revolution and the demonstrations against the interim military control has created a bit of instability among the citizenry. I've got a route figured out but need to be taken about 40 kilometers south of the city to a point where I can begin. Knowing the starting point with certainty is a key element of the successful arrival at the destination. Today's not a good day to travel, everyone among the warm Coptic community tells me. Tomorrow's better. Enjoy the Egyptian hospitality and cuisine. I can easily and enjoyably do that!

This pilgrimage differs from all the others I've made. Each time previously, I got up and walked each day, except the very few days I had good reason not to - head cold, boot repair, holiday... This pilgrimage my steady program of walking has been punctuated with extended time-outs... I've hunkered down for planning and thinking quite a few times now... would it have been the same if I had been able to start on the day of St Michael the Archangel instead of St Jerome the thinker? The point is moot. Tomorrow, inshallah, I'll finally be able to begin the desert trek - eastward up one long dry wadi to the top of a plateau then southward down another... Doh! it rained last night in Garbage Town... I hope my wadis are still dry!

Oh, and boot update... The durable, inflexible, heavy soles have been holding up remarkably well. The interior lining at the back of the heal have been troublesome having gotten warn and frayed cutting into the skin on my Achilles giving me blisters. Each repair has only lasted a short while. Calluses are thick by now, so it just doesn't matter any more. Sitting idle in Cairo, I thought I'd go ahead and have the extra heals I've been carrying put on for the last rather rocky 1,000 kilometers I face but the cobblers I've talked with don't have the tools to deal with molded soles. It's all been a folly. Lackaday!

Day 115: The Edge of Tranquility

2012-01-22T18:00:00.002+01:00

Visiting the ancient monasteries of Wadi Natrum has been the sought calm after the storm - the fact that it's the placename for the sodium's symbol of Na is just a passing bonus. Both the approach to and continuance from Alexandria have been noisy and chaotic un-pilgrimy settings. I seek tranquility and nature during my daily walks; not much of it is to be found within the over-populated delta. Within the 9th century stone walls of the 4th century hermitages and monastaries where the Coptic monks carved little cells into the rock... finally, peacefulness. Ahhhh.

The Coptics, lacking the concept of pilgrimage in their culture, have been wonderful to me. More than cordially listening to my pilgrim tales, there has been a lot of knowledgeable referencing to biblical citations and historical records making for lively discussions. Though many have urged me repeatedly to stay for days or weeks - even in the ancient monasteries of men that otherwise forbid women within the walls overnight... exception made for a pilgrim =) - I'm residing for a few days in the strangely serene noisy carved-in-a-quarry monkless modern monastery of Saint Samaan the Shoemaker while the little team of workers here help me prepare for the next stage of the adventure.

In order to arrive next at the first ever Christian monastery, that of St Anthony of the Desert, I must cross the desert. (Truthfully, I could take a significantly longer route alongside a major highway along the right bank of the Nile, but I prefer the shorter and quieter approach through the Egypt's Eastern Desert.) I've calculated 5 days, perhaps 6 on a route with no water and thereby no towns. A few Bedoin families, I'm told, but the roving type who live in tents and therefore not marked on the map. I'm looking forward to this stage and have been from the time I left Santiago. I agree with the advice of the cautious Coptics that walking out of Cairo will not only be urbanly unpleasant but rather dangerous through the suburbs on the fringe. I'll accept a ride therefore to the edge of tranquility - not fully into it out into the desert, just to the edge so that I can enjoy all of the serenity on foot.

Carrying water is a necessity; food advisable, though who eats much when they have to carry it? Earlier, I thought about using a donkey for this stage but have leaned against it lately. I know nothin' 'bout donkey husbandry, and for just a short duration, I think it may be more effort than it's worth. I'll either bond with the wee animal and not want to part with it or resent it and not want to endure it. The die would be cast. A camel's out - they prefer being part of a train rather than a lone beast of burden. So I'm having the boys fabricate a little sled of my design that I can leash to my hipbelt and tug across the sand. Very simple to anyone who was a four-year-old in the snow but oddly exotic here. They're all a-tither about the idea of a woman venturing off into the desert but they're all in awe that I've walked here from Spain, so this 150ish kilometers of effort pales in comparison. Lots of support, lots of companionship in this chaos that is very smoggy Cairo.

Please note that there will be no opportunity for me to update the website, so my faithful e-visitors, don't get your undies in a knot if a few weeks pass without a new post. I'll try at the earliest opportunity, really. The monks at the monastery are aware of my plan (no one, it seems, would consider walking there from here). Everything's fine fine fine! =)

Day 112: Bedoiun Bedfellows

2012-01-19T10:40:00.004+01:00

Wandering around in a strangely lawless post-revolutionary society has its challenges of course, but I'll find the silver lining in any situation - I've had many glimpses at ancient monuments, pre-Roman even, and all to myself. The police are gone and the military guard the shoreline... there's general immorality in the towns and when I get frustrated at the young boys throwing rocks at me, the mothers only say boys will be boys and if there are no police to stop them, then that's what they'll do. Every other society I've visited has had the parents stepping up a bit more actively in cultivating their son's behavior. Odd. But the Bedoin families have been taking me in with open hospitality and smiling friendliness under their black face-covering veils. The desert is nice when I can find it and the shoreline duney and tranquil, though absent gulls, seashells, or fishermen. Unexpected. I've passed through Alexandria and am heading toward Cairo visiting the oldest Christian sites I've seen. Otherwise, lots of date palm farms and fig orchards and noisy tuk-tuks careening along sand roads. Computers are hard to find... I'll look again in Cairo in a short week or so. Safe and sound and occasionally up to my ankles in da Nile =)

Day 105: Flight to Egypt

2012-01-13T14:07:00.004+01:00

Rats rats and rats again, an issue of security as I approached Misrata... lacking a official visa, I was invited to leave the country 'immediately' by the Minister of Internal Affairs. Detained, deported on Day 101, onward to Egypt by minivan. The overland flight lasted 16 hours and though I saw a good deal of the Sahara in the area of Ben Waid, the mountainous, more interesting parts passed me by during the frigid moonlit night. Heavy sigh. The Libyan people I met were all very nice. The country has a lot of patriotism, a lot of natural resources, a lot of potential. One day, the political climate will be better suited to a pilgrim by foot.

Because the minivan to Egypt passed across the border at 4 in the morning, the driver wouldn't let me out until either I was with a man (no volunteers among the other 4 passengers) or until it was daylight. I finally descended about 250 kilometers over the border in a town called Fuka and resumed my walk without a hitch. New culture, new food, new atmosphere entirely, and only Arabic is spoken... I'm learning quickly; immersion is really the only effective way to pick up another language.

More later... I'm safe and well along the Egyptian coast heading toward Alexandria - 3 more days, I reckon, and not many internet opportunities.

Summary of Days 37 to 69 Morocco to Tunis

2012-01-05T17:46:00.001+01:00

037 Tanger 1377 kms MOROCCO
038 Tanger 1377 kms
039 Tetouan 1434 kms (arf!)
040 Amsah 1464 kms
041 Taryah 1500 kms
042 Znasniche 1542 kms
043 El Jabha 1567 kms
044 Tazayrt 1617 kms
045 Raoud 1657 kms
046 Al Hoceima 1687 kms
047 Ouled Amrad 1730 kms
048 Dawar Chabe 1768 kms
049 Nador 1818 kms
050 Zaio 1925 kms
051 Tefaghalt 1963 kms
052 Oujda 2017 kms
053 Algerian Border/Nador 2032 kms
054 Aboardship 'Wisteria' back to SPAIN
055 Almeria
056 Murcia
057 Benidorm
058 Hospitalet de l'Infant
059 Barcelona
060 Aboardship 'Barcelona' on to ITALY
061 Civitavecchio
062 Aboardship 'Sorrento'
063 Tunis, TUNISIA
064 Tunis
065 Tunis
066 Still in Tunis
067 Tunis
068 Tunis
069 Tunis again...

Day 97: Taste of Freedom

2012-01-05T16:54:00.002+01:00

Now literally on the shores of Tripoli... rainy shores with flooding in the streets... and a few minutes on the computer of the underused library of the sole remaining Catholic church in Libya.

The weather for weeks has been pleasantly in the upper teens (60F) but for the last few days downpours. I plod on, of course. People continue to be kind - finally recognized as an athlete, they drive by slowly to hand me a bottle of water, a banana, a juicebox, a Snickers bar out the window, coffee with too much sugar, when it's been particularly wet, and a hot sandwich or two... really terrific. The beach has become too interupted with industry to walk along for the final approach to the capital city, but the typical urban unpleasantness is spiced up here with colorful graffiti capturing the new found freedom of expression.

The graffiti alone is an expression, but that some of it is written in English - Libya Tastes Freedom! - and some in the heretofore oppressed Berber language with an amalgam of Greek and Cyrillic letters with what look more like Phoenician characters, is a secondary reality of the moment. It's no longer forbidden. There's a sense of law and order; I've not seen anyone with sidearms or other weaponry except for the clearly marked citizen patrols, their outfits looking more like the pages of a Cabela's catalog than Soldiers of Fortune. The citizen patrols are patriotic, dutiful, and accepted as an interim solution - so many of them told me (always offering me a chair for a rest, some cigarettes (don't smoke, thanks), and some food) - a dentist in real life, an office worker, an accountant, a mechanic... One fellow told me that the remaining outbursts are only the result of alcohol being now more widely available to people unaccustomed to it. Frat-boy behavior.

I still see fragments of the Roman road lacing together time and distance... onward and eastward...

Day 96 To the Shores of Tripoli!

2012-01-03T18:55:00.002+01:00

And I'm in =)
Lots of negotiations at the border, hours and hours of champion-building, finally, an unrestricted stamp in my passport free to travel through Libya for up to 3 months. I'm one happy pilgrim. The people have been terrific - scores stopping to take their photo with me, happier to find out I'm an American. All the men telling me 'I'm your brother' in a warmly protective manner. It's been terrific. The only trouble has been getting internet service as the country transitions from free service for all to privatized capitalism. So, I apologize for the delayed update. I've been walking for three days, mostly along the quiet beach, popping out to the road from time to time, but to do so is to be politely and tactfully approached for a photo op. People calling out to me 'welcome to Libya!' 'thank you for coming!' 'tell the world we're free!'. Really, though I've only got a minute here on an i-phone, it's been a grand three days... yes yes yes, I'll be prudent in the unpopulated stretches, but be assured civil order exists, no violence, calm commerce, everyone's getting on with life. I'll try to update at least once a week, but the reliability of the internet service isn't a sign of bad tidings, just positive transition. Happy New Year!

Day 92: Barefeet and Dune Skiing

2011-12-30T19:07:00.005+01:00

How I would have loved to stand and watch the display of the distant thunderstorm for it's duration but the sun was beginning to set behind the clouds and I could see at least three deep gulches that needed to be crossed in order to reach the small cluster of houses I could see on a ridge about three kilometers away. At just that minute there, I decided that that extended family compound would make a fine place to end the day's cross-country walk. In the Tunisian countryside, all of these families offer incrediably warm reception; everyone since leaving Gebes after my Christmas rest has urged me strongly to stay for several days. They all consist of at least four generations. The brothers each build their own house before marriage and raises his family together with cousins, aunts, and uncles. Like the borscht in Eastern Europe, the potage in France, the frijoles in Mexico, each woman makes a slightly differnt couscous.

That day on the ridge, the typical adolescent greets me in French. The women of her mother's generation rarely speaks French and the fathers return from work in the olive groves, livestock grazing, plowing or fishing just after dark. They often speak a little French, but often enough too little to have much of a conversation. Teenagers learn at school but only the brighter students can actually speak fluently. Nonetheless, the girl that evening did a respectable job speaking on behalf of the family to invite me in and show me around. It's difficult to get all the names down; but to be sure, there's always a Mohammed and an Ali among the men.

I noticed from afar that there were no powerlines leading to the houses and no solar panels. No matter. The houses are similar in construction and these were particularly plainly adorn. I could see in the twilight that a trace of a Roman wall was visible at the ground surface and near where the oldest wall of the oldest house was, it had been stripped of its masoned outer surface, these making up the cornerstones of the oldest house. The girl gave me a tour of the mangers - looking exactly like the standard Christmas nativity displays - for the donkeys and horse; the domed pens of woven palms for the sheep and goats; and the glen where the five camels spend the night hobbled. Small children fed the fowl and some boys chased the chicken for dinner We walked through the ancient olive groves that go on for hectares toward the dry wadi and the vegetable gardens where carrots, turnips, fennel, and hot peppers are grown for both animal and human consumption and various herbs are grown for 'tea'.

The lack of electricity and running water made the estate appear rather timeless. A peek into the cooking-fire house - different than the kitchen for some reason - led to an introduction to Grandmother in her traditional costume before a fire of sticks made on the pounded dirt floor squatted, stirring a great dish of couscous. To my astonishment, in the corner of this partially subterranean chamber leaned two amphorae, one nearly as tall as I and the other slightly shorter due to the pointed bottom having been cut off. For olive oil I inquired to the girl but with the universal eye-rolling and tongue-clicking response of a teenager thinking all grownups are duh, like, sooooo stuuuupid, she corrected my ignorance and said impatienrly they were for flour. How old are they, I asked. She translated for Grandmother, and the response was that they've always been there. Whether the grandfather who established the estate and harvested the stones of the Roman wall - at least a century before if it were he who planted the first olive trees of the area - found them in the pickings or bought them as functional reproductions seems not to be of interest to the modern family. Grandmother scooped some flour out as she prepared some panbaked bread. Terracotta potsherds litter the ground surface but my eye is not expert to know if they're just old or really really old. They indicate certainly that people have been here for a very long time. It's all eye candy to an observer.

The day out of Gebes, I followed the lead set by the shore fishermen as they hauled their nets in to the beach and doffed the boots and socks, rolling my hiking pants up over my knees and walked in the broad surf. The wet wadis are certainly easier to cross some meters out into the surprisingly warm sea with the firm sandy base rather than attempt to wade across the sucking mud inward from the beach. Adventures were had to be sure but I haven't got much time this evening to relate them.

The walk continued across the gently ungulating land in some places deeply incised with dry canyons, but nothing nearly as deep as those I encountered last winter in the Chihuahua desert of Mexico. Today, pressing further into the sands of the Sahara, produced a fierce and steady wind and the numerous shifting sand dunes have been blown crusty on the windward side and powdery on the leeward. Steely legs tempered by these thousands of kilometers make the difficult task do-albe. My stiff-soled boots and walking sticks with the snow baskets quite effectively allow me to lean back and ski down the powdery slope - a handy skill picked up also in the Chihuahua. Before I can look back into the wind to admire the graceful ess-turns carved into the slope, the shifting sands erase them. Fun, but tiring. And 47 kilometers of it!

Tomorrow, the border town of Ras Adjir; Sunday, New Year's Day, I'll ask for entry. Another call on the absent Patron Saint of Border Crossings. Happy New Year everyone, and thanks for all the supportive comments =]

Day 86 Joyeux Noel

2011-12-24T19:12:00.003+01:00

My coastal walk has been a trip through a PBS Nature program and now there's a Christmas special. I've transitioned out of the olive and almond groves into the fringe of the Sahara. Camels have joined the sheep and goats grazing along my path. I've studied the wadis from the inside - some wet, others dry. Weasels are the abundant scurriers underfoot and the rabbits leap above the scrub from the salty holes under the banks. I've never seen such fat foxes, sly and shy as they are.

The further south I walk, the greater the unpopulated distances. I have to take care not to get caught out after dark with no village in sight. So far, I've done well. In larger villages, I stop in to see my friends of the Guard National, though, they fall a bit short of the bar set by the Gendarmarie of Morocco... olive drab uniforms aren't so dashing and they lack the endearing palm-forward salute. Nonetheless, they welcome me warmly, appreciate that I check in - pour votre securitie, Madame - and help me find a suitable place to pass the night. I think they're tired of my jaunts across the wadis and urge me always to stay on the highway, but the highway is not my way, so if they insist on keeping a close tab on me, they have to put out a little effort.

I've reached the last town of size before the Sahara begins in earnest, slowing down just a tad to arrive for Christmas festivities. The language of the group is French, yet no one's actually from France... A priest from Nigeria, another from Uganda; some students from the Ivory Coast, others from Gabon, an assortment of Europeans and some missionaries from far afield. Thirty or so in all. Huh, I'm the only pilgrim : )

Merry Christmas to all!

Day 81 Seashore of Yore

2011-12-19T20:54:00.002+01:00

(just a quickie again...)

Having tons of fun and sun walking along the coast - right along the coast...feet in the lapping waves on the beach, and still, the Roman ruins are here to be tripped over. The Tunisian hospitality is right in keeping with their Arabic heritage. A few times I~ve come to a city with a French church and enjoyed the more standard pilgrim welcome. Mostly, though, as the sun begins to sink, I find some friendly women, the younger ones are almost certain to speak French, and soon enough their politely sparring with each other for who has the greater dibs on me. Few women my age or older speak any French at all so my Arabic has been improving by necessity. Women rule the households, so there~s not much gained by asking a man to help me find a place to sleep for the night. It~s all interesting.

By now I~ve had couscous prepared in a number of ways - all good - though the standard food of everyone is spaghetti. Pumpkin, potatoes, long skinny mild peppers, tomatoes, onions and garlic round out the veggi line up. Little meat, and generally chicken is the standard fare, and being along the sea, lots of fish. Small ones, fried whole in olive oil. I~ve toured a few more olive oil factories, the traditional ones just like what I saw in Morocco, and similarly the end product is dark and strong. Lots of other crafts are practiced in the seaside villages I~ve walked through - basketry, stone masons hammering away on columns and other decorative construction pieces, weaving, pottery, woodworking... the doors to the courtyards are generally open during the day and if I peek in as I pass by, it usually turns into a tour of their handcraft operations and a small meal, invitations to stay a few days, discussions of relatives suitable for marriage...

Dates are in season here at the moment and make for good pilgrim food though at the cost of sticky fingers... and on the subject of sticky fingers, walking through a crowded medina in Sousse, I was relieved of both the tiny penknife I keep hanging on my belt and the folding reading glasses in the pocket of my hipbelt. I was occupied protecting my leather pouch that holds my credenziale and my passport with one arm and my hiking poles with the other. How the sticky fingers got passed my guard, I don-t know. Practice I guess. I think the medinas were designed for the benefit of thieves. Ah well. Something good will come out of it.

I set my route based on a Roman road that crossed North Africa. I~ve been finding bits of the Roman road and a lot of ruins, some now protected with archeological status, others just out among the sand dunes. Many of the towns that are hot spots now have been continually occupied since the time of the Romans, so they~re not so much ruins as just remodeled. The architecture really hasn~t changed much. It~s funny to look at building methods when weather-tightness is not an issue. There~s a lot of interesting things around and the area makes for pretty good pilgrim land. I could recommend that they tidy up the trash, though, it~s quite a problem in the towns as well as the countryside.

Yikes, gotta run now, but I~m heading toward Gebes for Christmas - there~s a small European and West African community there, so there~ll be a few Christians around to celebrate with. It will take another week and a half to get to the Libyan border and see what they say about entering. Dear Santa, I~ve been a very good girl and would like a visa for Christmas!

Day 72: Pilgrim Wonderland

2011-12-10T18:44:00.002+01:00

Just a quickie again (and on a French keyboard)

Back on the trail and loving it. It didn't take too long to exit the city noise and confusion for the farm fields and country lanes. As the sun was beginning to sink, I entered a village, sat down for a rest on a molded plastic chair in front of a small shop to give some thought to how to best find a place to sleep for the night. The solution presented itself. Stress-free. The small crowd that gathered in amazement took care of my needs. Nasrine, a very elegant and mature 11-year-old served as translator and hostess. It seems that outside the city, the generation people my age who grew up just after their independence, don't speak French. The current youth of Tunisia learn Arabic and French equally in school and English as the third language, and by the time they graduate high school at 18 learn Spanish and Italian additionally. Remarkable. I think Nasrine is at the head of her class.

Welcomed into the family home, in a short while a trip was made to the local police station to register the foreigner staying under their roof. Quite proud was the family to state and record their hospitality. Nice. They all took good care of me, sharing the family meal of macaroni and spicy tomato-chili sauce, olive oil, and bread, and pulling out another mattrass. Simplicity.

In the morning, side pockets full of snacks for the day, I came to Ouhdna, an archeological site of an evidently grand ville of Roman antiquity. I saw the columns on a hill in the distance and hiked across a fallow field to get there. An arena, work shops, apartments full of mosaics, a temple... tons of history at my feet. Workers chiseling away at their restoration projects shared their tea and bread with me during the short morning break. I left as a busload of Japanese tourists arrived.

The peacefulness of the quiet country lanes reintroduced me to pilgrim life. Village people call me to sit in the shade and have cold water or hot coffee... idyllic now as in the Roman times. Ah.

Day 71: A Pilgrim Again

2011-12-09T10:58:00.002+01:00

The wait is over, but the visa not quite in hand. The struggle's been a difficult one, due to the lack of infrastructure. Lots of misinformation out there, and a predictable level of extortion. People see dollar signs when the hear of an American passport. Lots of phone calls and faxes, but still no visa. Lots of waiting. I'm surprised and amused by the number of marriage proposals I've gotten hanging out in front of the Libyan Embassy... 'married at 5, on a flight to the US by 6'. Sorry fellas, doesn't work that way. I'm done with this life in limbo. I'm walking today. I'm a pilgrim.

The revised plan that precipitated out of the situation is that I'll enjoy the pilgrim experience of Tunisia. It should take around 18 days to walk to the border, mostly along the coast. It's the touristic area, and therefore I anticipate some degree of inauthenticity, but it shouldn't be crowded this time of year. I need to get back to the pilgrim life of 38 kilometers a day, new people to talk with every evening.

When I arrive at the border, I'll ask again for permission to enter. If they say yes, I continue; if they say not without the elusive invitation for a visa, then I'll make my way to a port and find a ship.

Day 68:Waiting...

2011-12-06T15:17:00.002+01:00

Waiting on a sinusoidal wave between a patient calm and a frantic frenzy in the search for an invitation to Libya to be secured before a visa is issued... waiting waiting waiting safely and securely with no troubles except the interruption of my pilgrimage. I'll have to suffer the aches and pains all over again once I restart the daily walks. Ah well. So it goes. Life is still good. More soon, when the waiting is over.

Day 64: The Making of a Champion

2011-12-02T20:27:00.003+01:00

Land ho without any deviation from the plan except a four-hour delay caused by overcrowding of the ship. Why so many people, why so many cars, why so many Mercedes??? I posed these questions to some men I lounged on the chairless deck with eating the last of my Morrocan clementines as we waited in Sicily for more passengers and their cars to board. The ship is loaded with entrepreneurial Libyans, recently able to travel more freely about Europe. My mates: four guys who pooled their funds raised enough money to buy a used Mercedes to sell to an eager market. Buy for €2,000 sell for the equivalent of €6,000. There were hundreds of these cars waiting to be driven the 500 kilometers to Libya.

For 28 hours we crossed together. First carving out space, then becoming friendly with the new neighbors. Easy to imagine, I was the only woman traveling alone. Few women in general, having the time to take a statistical accounting, I computed 1% of the travelers as women... fewer Europeans. So I stood out a bit in the crowd. At least one guy recognized me as a fellow passenger on the ill-fated ship from Barcelona. He commented to me when the announcement was made every hour declaring strict enforcement of the no smoking policy - the fire had been the result of someone smoking in hiding and tossing the smoldering butt among the trucks below. Nonetheless, the cabin was a smoking den as men lit one after another as they played cars.

Sadly, the coast of Tunisia, and particularly the port of ancient Carthage, appeared as but twinkling lights in the distance because of the delay. At last under the bright lights of the active port of the capital, I was eager to get on dry land again to escape the smoke and crowds. Without a dinar in my pocket, I had planned to walk to the city center to find the cathedral, but after dark, the idea begged for revision. It would take until after midnight. Into the mass of barking cabbies I launched myself and found a sympathetic ear among them. Many sympathetic ears, in fact. Once I explained my purpose and situation - no money but wanting to continue my trip - two big men actually shoved each other shouting loudly in the Arabic way - who gets to provide the hospitality of driving the pilgrim to city center. A man with a name that means 'faithful' won the honor and gave me a lovely short history tour along the way. In French. (My head is so slow to switch from one language to another.) Faithful became my champion and didn't release me when we arrived at the cathedral because the gates were locked. Double-parked, he led me around to the entrance to the Archbishop's residence and put me under the care of the night-watchman.

Now the night-watchman, Fahad, became my champion. Though he tried to dissuade me from ringing the bell because the offices were closed until morning, he stood by as I got the attention of a very elderly priest. The priest invited me to enter but said that there was no room at all for me to stay the night. He gave me 20 dinars (the value of which I had no idea) and called back out to the night-watchman to take me to a 'petit hotel' nearby. Fahad took me to many. Most of them fully occupied. Why. A festival? No, Algerians fleeing to tranquility and Libyans in transit, my champion explained. Tunis is a great city, he added. Seems it. Except that the hotels that weren't full were very expensive. My exhaustion caught up to me. Do you know of any convents or communities of religious sisters? Sure, down the alley from the cathedral. This time, my champion disappeared around the corner when I rang the bell. The sisters were at vespers but a young foreign man courteously let me in to wait. The multinational sisters of the Argentinian order not only let me stay but brought me a tray of dinner as well. A hot shower, a comfortable bed, warm blankets, ah, heaven on this pilgrim earth.

In the morning, I set out to find the Libyan embassy to know if I'll be able to advance. The tourist information center gave me the wrong address, but when I was wandering around asking the way, a wonderful Tunisian fellow no only told me where to go, but led me there personally. During the 5 minute walk, I explained my purpose - a silent pilgrim does the world no good. He was incredulous but intrigued completely with the idea of my pilgrimage. I must gain entry into Libya! He'll help. At the embassy, surrounded by great coils of razor wire and military tanks and men with guns, he explained in Arabic to guards at different posts. No one is permitted to enter the building; all discussions are conducted in the street below a high window. Shouting to the embassy staff up inside the open window, my champion explained everything on my behalf. The other people crowded below the window became involved with the adventure. What can be done to get the necessary visa to allow the pilgrim to continue? The pilgrim must continue!

With lots of discourse about types of visas and the instabilities in the cities but the kindness of the people, the bottom line is that an invitation is needed. A Libyan man in the street with plans to return to Libya in the afternoon assured my champion that he could fax an invitation from Libya in the morning. The embassy in Tunis is closed for the weekend, so the plan developed, I could return Monday morning, toss my passport up through the window, and have it tossed back down to me with the proper documentation that will allow me time enough to walk across the country. I gave a scrap of paper with the pertinent details to Naghi, the very kind Libyan man, and he gave me the greatest level of encouragement that I could come and stay with him and his family for as long as I wanted.

Returned to the community of sisters, I explained the good news that I can - insha'allah - get a visa for Libya and the bad news that I'd need to stay for three more nights... gulp! the tradition is that pilgrims get one bowl of soup and one night's stay at any religious house... but under the circumstances, the sisters allowed, no problem, stay until Monday. The apartments in the block-long wing of the Bishop's residence, extremely French in architecture, are sublet to international students giving the place a very lively atmosphere, and conversation in English.

The common element to every pilgrim day, unpredictable as they can be, is that a pilgrim needs help. Help comes to those in need, sure, but those in need can get the help a lot more efficiently if they ask. Talking with people is a huge part of the pilgrim life that I like so much. Can anyone give help - freely and earnestly - without feeling good about himself? Champions are those who actively engage in helping someone who needs it. Chivalry is not dead. Life is good.

(To be on the safe side, everyone out there, please cross fingers, press thumbs, start those prayer ropes and rosary beads circulating... whatever can be done to bring good juju to the Libyan embassy in Tunis. Patron saint of border crossings, we could use you now!)

Day 61: More adventure

2011-11-30T10:10:00.002+01:00

The discomfort of inactivity is harsh enough, but without overmuch risk or exertion, time has been crawling painfully slowly across the western half of the Mediterranean. More than a week has passed without the joys of a pilgrim walk filling my day.

Although it's true I yearn for adventure, the broadcat order 'Await the Signal to Abandon Ship' came unwelcomed even to me. At least the fire struck at a respectable post-coffee hour of 9 in the morning. Dressed in a one-size-fits-all life jacket, I assured my designated group leader that I would certainly take off my backpack if and when the order would come to climb into the inflatable liferaft. A lot of people promised the same; everyone I'm sure intending to fight for the contrary.

Billowing sepia-black smoke streamed up from the Fifth Deck, Cargo Vehicles. The slight South Pacific men making up the emergency response team trotted by with air tanks and face masks. My assembly group of largely indifferent passengers was lined up and counted repeatedly on the upper-most deck - smoke 'em if ya got 'em - despite the no smoking signs. Europeans.

The hour passed and we fell out of rank. And the next and computers stashed under clothing came out of hiding and into use, groups of men played cards and dice. I buried my nose in a brittle yellowed paperback of 'Selected Short Stories/Great Authors of English' bargained for 1€ at a street stall near the Barcelona docks. At the third hour of the emergency, passing Corsica where I once spent a lovely New Year's holiday, caffe lattes were passed around, though too quickly cooled in the strong wind. The emergency was soon after declared over though the noxious stench of burnt rubber and melted plastic lingered all the way to Civitavecchia. If nothing else, a length of the 20-hour crossing was shortened by the distraction. And all of the instruction being in both Italian and Catalan helped push the mounted Castillian out of my feeble head and reintroduce the hibernating and unpracticed Italian.

A little sidenote in response to the comments about my boots, which were my biggest concern during the preparation phase of the trip... they've passed the 2,000-km (1,200-mile) mark holding up very well. The super durable Vibram soles of the guide boots have out-preformed the standard issue of hiking boots I wore previously. The trade off has been comfort - at the beginning they were as stiff and heavy as ski boots. Now, still heavy, they've softened up and I wax them every few weeks to keep the leather from cracking at the toe box. I think the heels will need to be replaced after another 500 kms or so, if I can manage to get back on the pilgrim trail!

Day 59: Chutes and Ladders

2011-11-27T08:07:00.004+01:00

Okay, revised plan being implemented... I'm on my way to Barcelona.

We engineers are prone to whip up risk analyses frequently, at least in the nuclear industry. Checking around the shipyards, the travel agencies, various consulates led me to the conclusion the entry requirements into Algeria are vague at best and confusing by design. If authorities wanted, they could find any visitor to their country in violation of something. While the travel agents assure me that I could join on any tour group and separate myself once in country without problem with the police, I give high weight to the fact that the guards at the Oujda border point took plenty of photos of me and scanned my passport, so I'll be on their radar screen wherever I enter. Additionally there was my little flub with the Algerian consulate when I told him verbally that I was on my way to El Quds, Philistine, but on the little map taped inside my credenziale - the same as at the top of this page - I wrote Jerusalem. 'I do not recognize this place,' he said, 'How can I or any Algerian help you get to a place that doesn't exist?' This game could go tilt quickly.

The board game of Chutes and Ladders was a favorite of my toddlerhood - chutes send you back, but their fun, too and they make the game last longer; ladders get you ahead but then the game's over faster (so I concluded as a 4-year-old). So goes the pilgrimage. A chute back to Spain for a ladder around to Tunisia is the best solution, I've concluded with a tinge of regret. I really was looking forward to Christmas in the monastery of St Augustine. Ah well. The chute that could appear if I get on the wrong side of some authority in Algeria could send me straight to prisant and at best a further chute of deportation back to the US. How difficult for a peaceful pilgrim.

This conclusion sent me on a big search for options by sea. Barcelona - Rome - Tunis seems to be the most logical route, and the only workable solution that I found, taking comfort in the precedence that St Ignatius Loyola from Spain made his way to Barcelona to begin his pilgrimage to Jerusalem by ship. Still saddened by the turn of events, I stopped by the Bishop's office in Almeria to get guidance on ways to get to Barcelona by Monday when the ship sails. Guidance was given me by a friendly priest - a combination walking and hitchhiking - and when I asked his name, could you guess, Father Ignatius. Eerie but confirmatory and I've been happily working my way up the coast.

A normal level of adventure has ensued and I should reach Barcelona this afternoon - insha'allah, of course - to work out the next set of details.

There seems to be an opening in the world of Saints for a patron of border crossings.

Day 55: Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T15:31:00.002+01:00

Searching for the answer here in Almeria, Spain, I stopped in at the church of Santiago to seek guidance from the priest. Kind man he is but has little to offer in terms of advice for a pilgrim to Jerusalem. What he said, though, made my arm hairs stand on end: 'when I need to think hard for a solution, I think first of St Jerome.' Geronimo! I'm sitting going through the possibilities over caffe con leche and churros... where will St Jerome fit into the picture?

Happy Thanksgiving, fellow Americans =)

Next post will include the revised plan.

Day 54: Princess Pilgrim

2011-11-22T10:02:00.004+01:00

'Pour votre sécurité, Madame.'

To a comical degree, my dear escorts in the countryside have hardly left my side. Following me from the moment I departed the church (turns out, Spanish, not French) in Nador, as I made my way along a quiet backroad through the agricultural countryside, the unmarked car followed me at my walking pace. After some time, as I enjoyed the sights of the orange and clementine harvest, another car joined the parade - a change of regions. Eight men in two cars driving on the shoulder 100 meters behind me at 5 km/hr. When I wanted water, a slight nod from me brought a car forward and a bottle was offered through the open window. When I wanted a rest with some tea, another nod and a car drove ahead to the next village and a suitable house readied itself for the event - always involving an assortment of Moroccan snacks. When a young man on a moped drove up along side me, greeting me with a smile and words of encouragement, my escorts thought him too close, came to a skidding halt to block him, and chased him to the dirt as he tried to escape across a field like a Starsky-and-Hutch episode. Arggh. I managed to slip away for a few moments into an olive grove to answer nature's call, but the men were displeased with my brazenness. This continued for the three days it took me to reach the bordertown of Oujda.

The landscape of the broad irrigated valleys full of fruit, nut, and olive trees is lovely. At one point, passing an open door of a small building, a man carrying a plate of food saw me and invited me to join him for lunch, such is the Moroccan hospitality. Raindrops were getting heavier and I enjoyed the idea of a small rest, I accepted (upsetting my plain-clothes friends) and entered into an artisanal olive press where the two workers took their lunch break and we all shared in the great plate of tangine chicken, orange squash, vegetables in a luscious spicy sauce eaten with torn pieces of flat brown bread. Delicious, and I learned all about the age-old efforts to turn the plump black olives into thick strong oil. Accostumed to the light-colored extra virgen olive oil of northern Europe, the product here is formidably powerful -- as the typical diner coffee in the US compares to turkish coffee. I emerged through the small dark doorway smiling, fat and happy thus relieving my chaperones of further concern. These guys are constantly on their mobile phones and I can imagine their relating my every move to some guy sitting in an office somewhere who's hearing the whole thing like a radio soap opera. How dull his day must otherwise be.

The end of that day necessitated a grande montée - 800 meters in 8 kilometers/2,500 feet in 5 miles. Googlemaps guided me to a dirt road up through a small village to the town at the pass. Though even the shepherds I asked urged that I stay on the paved road, the 7 additional kilometers and the fact that I so distain the highways were too strong for me to heed the advice, so off I went across a freshly harvest field to the track I could see on the hillside. The boys were not amused. Once we met again on the dirt road, they stopped and asked me why I wasn't afraid. Afraid of what? The wolves, they told me as though it was so obvious it didn't need to be stated. I laughed. There are hundreds of sheep around. What wolf would view me as better prey than a lamb? 'Je n'ai pas de peur, messieurs, mais si vous avez le peur, restez dans la voiture'. See you at the pass.

My rewards for staying on the dirt track were many. As it turned out, there had been a wedding celebration at the mountainside village and the celebrants made a great parade down the path I was climbing, singing joyful chants, firing off shotguns and blowing great horns throwing flower petals. Small old hacienda homesteads sat in tranquility with smoke coming from dinner fires. Some deer were grazing by a brook. A shepherd boy was playing some handmade pipes quite melodiously on a rocky perch. A girl leading her donkey back to the isolated farmouse, sang a lilt sweetly. I loved it!

Everyone I passed smiled and waved vigorously. It's not often that a stranger - especially a European (so I appear to them) with a backpack - passes by foot on an autumn evening. When my escorts decided that the path made for donkey carts was too steep and bumpy for their car, one of them - the youngest and most athletic among them - was compelled to get out and walk. I waved for him to join me rather than walk the 100 meters behind. We talked along the way, but the labor of his breathing inhibited much conversation. He had to stop frequently to catch his breath and then got on his mobile phone. Silly boy, 'slow and steady sets the pace, slow and steady wins the race.' He was incredulous that I wasn't afraid of being alone and out in a strange place at dusk and dark and that I had no apprehension about not knowing where I'd pass the night. He clearly had all these fears. Experience goes a long way. The small town at the pass would have some place to accommodate me, I was sure. And so it was. The police - who babysit me in the village of their domain as opposed to the Gendarmerie who take their posts outside of the villages - were waiting. The capitan, in fact, who joined me for dinner at the wonderful auberge run by a transplanted Breton, and a fabulous dinner at that with a French twist on Moroccan food. To top it off, a bottle of Moroccan wine, a fruity Beaujolais ended the day in energized harmony. How perfect the pilgrim day, despite the close surveillance 'pour votre sécurité, Madame'.

Things have sullied just a bit... I reached Oujda at the end of the third day and went to the French church. The priest in Nador had called him at my request to prepare him for my arrival. Nonetheless, the elderly priest greeted me but not only refused my request for hospitality, refused my request for a credenziale stamp. 'Bonne route, bonne chance, au revoir, pélèrine.' He turned his back and closed the door. Dejected, I asked the police standing by for assistance and they got me a gratis hotel room. Always a sad way to end the day. Always a sad thing when a priest turns his back. He even denied that the Nador priest had called him three days earlier. Sigh. Onward.

In the morning, I led my escorts the 13 kilometres to the border point. It took a half hour for the surprised Moroccan command to give me permission to exit Morocco. Twenty men in suits and uniforms stood by with hands on hearts and palm-forward salutes as I walked the last bit through the gate to the two-meter wide lane between the flagpost of Morocco and the flagpost of Algeria. At the gate, since no one among the armed guards greeted me, I shouted across to the guardshack in French: I'm an American and would very much like to enter Algeria, if you please.

Another dozen Algerian men arrived from the building at the distance and finally the guards emerged and asked for my passport. I handed it over the gate with some reluctance. I'd rather stay with my passport than stand in the neutral slice of weedy land, but they have the guns. A man in a dark suit and sunglasses approached and spoke in very poor French that I would have to wait a 'petit moment'. I managed to squeeze the words about my pilgrimage and show the map of my route in before he walked off with my passport and the dozen men.

A half hour later, he returned and said simply: 'Negatif, Madame.' My request to speak with a diplomat only got me the advice that I'd find one in Oujda. Au revior, Madame. Pass the Moroccan flag again, I got another entrance stamp in my passport to the great disappointment of the Moroccans. From their perspective the borderpoint is open; it's the Algerians who view it as permanently closed, since 1994. I'd been asking the Gendarmerie everytime I encountered them - can I leave Morocco through the border at Oujda? Yes. Wrong question, it turns out. Can I enter Algeria? No.

The consulate was of little help. Friendly enough, with words of 'I want to help you but because you are not a resident of Morocco, I can do nothing.' He told me that I can only enter by air or sea and that I'd need a visa, only attainable in my country of residence and costing 120USD. This last bit surprised me, since I checked into this before leaving the US. Stuck for the moment. Need a new plan. No time for distress. When in need of calmness, find some tea. Sit, rest, maybe eat a bit. A plan will emerge.

With the aid of the Gendarmarie and police, some travel agents... here's the plan that evolved: retun to Nador (by car as there's no need to walk the same path twice) take a ferry to Almeria, Spain and another to Algeria. The travel agents I spoke with all assured me that I don't need a visa and can stay for up to six months. I'll only need six weeks - insha'allah - once I get to Algerian soil. One little hitch is that it seems I may need to spend six days sitting around Almeria as the ship only sails once a week. A wee hiccup. The pilgrimage continues!

Route through Spain and Portugal

2011-11-22T09:58:00.003+01:00

For economy of space in the sidebox, I've summarized the route I followed through Spain and Portugal, Days 1 through 36:

001 Bandiera 33 kms from Santiago de Compostela, SPAIN
002 Dozón 66 kms
003 Ourense 102 kms
004 Sandias 143 kms
005 Velín 184 kms
006 Sá, PORTUGAL, 228 kms
007 Mirandela 262 kms
008 nr Chaçim 306 kms
009 Mogadoura 351 kms
010 Bemposta 384 kms
011 Trabanca, SPAIN 419 kms
012 Ledesma 460 kms
013 Salamanca 494 kms
014 Valdecarros 529 kms
015 Muñico 569 kms
016 Avila 604 kms
017 San Bartholome 632 kms
018 San Martin de Valdeiglesias 674 kms
019 Torrejos 721 kms
020 Toledo 753 kms
021 Las Ventas con Peña Aguilera 789 kms
022 Pueblonueva 830 kms
023 Piedrabuena 867 kms
024 Tirteafuera 907 kms
025 Brazatortas 933 kms
026 Fuencaliente 975 kms
027 Montoro 1029 kms (yip!)
028 Villafranco de Córdoba 1055 kms
029 Córdoba 1081 kms
030 Montemayor 1119 kms
031 Puente Genil 1157 kms
032 Sierra de Yeguas 1197 kms
033 Cuevas del Belcerro 1239 kms
034 Atajate 1285 kms
035 Jimena de la Frontera 1327 kms
036 Algeciras 1369 kms

Day 49: Chaperones and Prosperity

2011-11-17T15:50:00.004+01:00

Another quickie...

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, but certainly full of hope. It's hard to believe that I'm about to walk off the map of Morocco (though I never actually found one). In three days, I'll be at the frontier with Algeria and the Gendarmerie have assured me that I'll be able to pass freely.

The wonderful men of the Gendarmerie have become my most fraternal chaperones. I stopped at a pastural farm with a magnificent view of the sea yesterday afternoon and asked a Berber woman toiling in her kitchen garden for some water. Her husband motioned me to come up the slope and sit in the shade. Cold water was poured. The grown daughters of the house finished unloading sacks of manure onto the terraced garden and joined us. A short table was rolled out, a caraffe of coffee, another of hot milk... then some cookies, then a plate of olive oil and bread, a few fried eggs... a dish of olives, some dates, tangerines... laughter abounds. My lack of Arabic was hardly the issue, it was the lack of Berber that stunted the conversation until another daughter, one who'd lived in Spain for a while, joined the impromptu party, and communication began. Though an early end-of-day for me, based on time and distance, I asked if I might pass the night, and once more food started coming out the door. Yes! Of course! They wouldn't have it any other way.

I wasn't inside the house for ten minutes before the boys in red-trimmed steel grey showed up to interrogate the man of the house. There's a foreign woman inside this house; no harm will come to her. An unnecessary command, but it shook up the cheerful family who'd never had need to encounter the national police before. The women were suddenly in a tizzy. Lots of shouting going on. The Gendarmerie had been following me at a distance (I noticed from the hillside glints of sun on their binoculars like a spaghetti western) since I departed Al Hoceima, but to put pressure on this nice family was a bit close for comfort. I got a bit riled - politely, of course - but pleaded that they put the family at ease or I'd have no place to sleep. All was well within a quarter hour, but really, it was a short-lived ordeal.

That they mean well is unquestionable, but from their perspective, it's not that I'm a foreign woman passing through their domain that necessitates the close oversight, rather it's the demonstrable insanity - walking all the way to El Quds, Philistine [insha'allah] when I could easily hop in a taxi or hitch a ride through Morocco - that proves I could use extra help. They're really so sweet, all of the ones I've spoken with, and exhibit a level of gallantry beyond Jane Austen's descriptions of soldiers of equal rank.

Approaching the city limits of Nador today, I asked my assigned escort who'd been leap-frogging past me in an unmarked car every kilometer or so for the best way to get to city centre where I'd find the French church. I took the rare opportunity to accept a ride from him - entering any city by foot is mundane at best. First, though, we sat for some civilized tea - ultra sweet and stuffed with mint leaves. The questions that had mounted in my mind over the last few weeks about the conditions I see were all answered... the new houses come from the prosperty stemming from government programs - King Mohammed VI is apparently very well loved - and rather than bring electricity and water to the old-style adobe haciendas, new houses with integral utilities are being built. It's clear that the architectural style changes with such design criteria... the courtyards were needed to bring light to the small cubical rooms; electricity supplies the light in modern homes, thus, the new have no courtyards... Paved roads, irrigation systems, other civil projects are widespread... Trees are being planted in tidy rows for their agricultural virtues - almonds and olives I see a lot of - which will revegetate the denuded slopes stablizing them and reducing the dust... fisheries and commercial fishing co-ops are being created. Anyone with investment money wanting beautiful seafront property should buy it soon. My guess is that in ten years, this will be the hotest real estate around the Mediterranean.

Day 46: Same Same but Different

2011-11-14T20:31:00.002+01:00

To look around and see through time and space, connections become clear. Most of the architecture I see on my coastal frollic through the mountains is modern. Odd in a way because people have evidently lived here for ever, yet nearly every house is built of modern hollow brick. Most houses are in some stage of construction, suggesting a level of recent prosperity. Yet there have been glimpses of the past in some isolated overgrown house of more traditional construction - mud covered adobe bricks sprung up from the earth... single story with wood posts protruding just below the flat roof; small rounded-cornered windows; blankets covering the doorway. With their center courtyards, these look exactly like the adobe haciendas of New Mexico and Mexico. The nopales cactuses - ever so ripe with fruit these days - cluster around them... In the yard of nearly every home, an adobe horno beehive bread oven, charred with use, for the yummy rounds of flat brown bread - just like in New Mexico. Same same, just different. A series of timelapse images from the 14th century to present would be fascinating to see the development on both sides of the pond.

I've noticed the women's dress... layers of colorful pants and tunics with a vibrant blanket tied around the waist; on top of the nearly-ubiquitous headscarf, a tall straw hat, sometimes colorfully adorned with ribbons or silk flowers. Very reminiscent of the hats of Bolivian women. Speaking in French with a host one night I made this comment. The hats, he told me, are made in China and are very cheap, so the women buy them to wear in the fields. Same same, just different.

Lots of agricultural activity in the steep fields... men plowing small irregular plots holding a wooden pole, the tip wrapped with metal, and drawn by a team of two little donkeys. There are a few motorized tractors, but the steepness and irregularity beg for the simple method. The soil is rocky, but the effort of the men with the donkeys doesn't seem so laborious. Another man with a basket supported by a string around his neck, broadcasts seeds for the next crop of alfalfa. The abundant mushroom-shaped haystacks would give Monet something to paint - they're everywhere.

Most families, it seems, live multigenerationally in the same big house... ten children, more... everyone sleeps on foam mattrasses under thick fleece blankets. I've stayed in many such homes by now, one more person always seems to fit in comfortably. I'm a pilgrim, a hajaa christiana... welcome.

Day 43 Loving it!

2011-11-11T16:35:00.003+01:00

I've just got a sec... finding computers is not so easy...
The ruggedness of the Barbery Coast is incredible; worthy of legs that have walked a thousand miles. Progress is greatly inhibited by two significant factors: first, I'm following 'la piste' -the path of the road being constructed for many years now - beautiful as a earthen footway but within each hour of walking I've gone in each direction of the compass, so serpentine is the coastline, and ascended and descended hundreds of meters/a thousand feet, so mountainous it is. No exageration... my legs, my lungs, and my eyes get a workout - the views are spectacular, hidden coves, caves, beaches sometimes far below, sometimes underfoot. I can easily project my peaceful 21st century thoughts into the minds of pirates of yore and conclude yes, this would make a lovely place from which to launch my maleficence.

Villages are abundant. Fishing boats are pulled onto the beaches, wee goats and donkeys graze the slopes. This is the source of the second inhibitor to progress. The people are so overwhelmingly friendly, it's difficult to proceed. Earnest invitations to come and have some food (still tasty mutton left over from the holiday), sit and talk for a while, drink mint tea, please stay in my house, stay for some days... I was slipping out early one morning before breakfast when one of the boys insisted I have a bite. Another boy was sent into the yard to catch a chicken; two hours later, we were eating skewered morsels over a fire in a terra cotta pot. To sit for a rest and sip of water is to invite the village to join me, goats and all. It's fabulous. No problems, no fears, no dangers... sure, plenty of 'keefer' being smoked in long narrow pipes by most of the men, but I've seen tranquility, not violence from it. Sleeping in a private house has always come with a boy posted outside my locked door; my page for the night ensuring me a sound sleep (as if a pilgrim will have any other kind of sleep). Proud is the boy chosen for the duty.

So sweet the people, so gorgeous the coastline, so few computers (and those with French keyboards°#!@).

Day 38: Tangerines

2011-11-06T18:14:00.003+01:00

Another very quick post on a borrowed computer...

Chaos isn't always such a bad thing. A rough and stormy crossing - bracing - across the Straits and the plans I had to meet with the brother of a friend for a few days of rest failed to execute. Props for the young Polish travelers who let me borrow their I-Pad and mobile phone anyway in the attempt to make contact. No worse for the wear, I made it to noisy and congested city center on my own and shortly after early darkness (slipping an hour across a time zone change again) found a French priest for the requisite stamp in my credenziale and assistance with lodging. Persistance is a blessing in such times, but all really is well that ends well.

As it happens, I've arrived in this Islamic land just in time for the killing-of-the-sheep festival. The weekend is pretty well devoted to the preparations. The actual ritual slaughter of the animals today being bought and sold on street corners is to happen tomorrow (Monday). Hemming and hawing all day about whether to continue on my way or stay an extra day in the Sparten pied-de-terre next to the church, I've concluded that to continue is the best thing to do... everything will be closed for the next two days because of the festival and there wouldn't be much for me to do in the cosmopolitan city.

The flip side to the decision is that it's often difficult to find people in a position to accommodate a pilgrim on a big holiday. I haven't walked on Christmas day for these last few years for this reason. Onward, though, is the right thing to do in this circumstance, so determined after many consultations with both some Tangerines I've met and many members of the thriving expat community... on a Sunday abroad, the local Anglican church in any big city is the place to find savvy English speakers.

Tomorrow, bright and early - assuming the rain dissipates overnight - I'll continue eastward to once again shout out 'catch me!' as I confidently fall back into the arms of humanity with the expectation that someone interesting will help me on my stroll. A stamp in my book, a place to sleep, and guidance on the next day's journey... As my French creeps back in and the Spanish takes a seat further back in my crammed head, I've been informed with nods of sympathy that I shouldn't expect farmers and villagers of the countryside to speak anything but Arabic... time to get out the cheat sheet I made and polish a few sentences by tomorrow!

Day 36: Perched on the Edge

2011-11-04T20:13:00.002+01:00

...muy rapido, I'm borrowing a laptop from a kind fellow who was once a pilgrim to Santiago...

With a fanfare of rolling thunder and abundant rain, I've arrived at the edge of my map, the edge of Spain, and the edge of the continent. Tomorrow, Africa... wow.

I realize that many a pampered pilgrim would have given in and called a cab or flagged a ride or otherwise taken public transportation rather than slog through the last mountains, but snug under my raingear, I enjoyed the enhanced fragrance of eucalyptus towering above and mint being crushed underfoot, and came upon some water creatures as I forded the muddy brooks and some wild pigs feeding on acorns as I bushwhacked across a meadow... life goes on, even when wet. Time to dry off and get the last of the Spanish wine before the next gastronomic adventure begins.

Just as the darkness of nightfall encased the world around me, a small sliver of the setting sun broke through and illuminated the Rock of Gibraltar. The moon shines through the thin clouds that remain. Tomorrow, I'll glimpse the other Pillar of Hercules. Hasta mañana!

Day 35: Walk like a Goat

2011-11-03T19:51:00.002+01:00

It's clear from my history of pilgrimages that I like to chose a route of historical significance but that I don't particularly like the crowds of the conventional trails like the Caminos de Santiago. I also shy away from highways - carretera in Castillian; estrada in Gallego and Portugese. A busy stressful motorway is a terrible place for a foot traveller. Aside from the traffic, who would choose to deal with the trash, hard surface, roadkill, and I can't stress enough that that's not water spraying off the back of the livestock trucks. Horrific!

I like the historical route and I like to chose my own path. Tranquility is more my style. Sometimes, small single-laned country roads; other times, nature trails or traditional footpaths connecting mountain villages. Farm lanes used by tractors are good; forest roads used by woodcutters are also nice, and fragrant, too. These exist in real life even if GoogleMaps doesn't record them. I don't use GPS and I've given up on searching for the wonderful 1:100,000-scale topographic maps like the IGN series in France. Why bother, I walk off maps pretty quickly. The best I've done with paper maps in Spain have been 1:500,000-scale road maps for each province. Whatever. Walk south. Cross the sea. Turn left. Walk east.

Throughout Spain, in my direct sun- or compass-aided excursions to avoid the dreaded carretera, I've encountered the various networks of Cañadas Reales... historically honored rights of way for livestock grazing. There's no path per se, except if the sheep and goats have recently eaten down the brush, but it is rather unobstructed and the rivers are all easily fordable. I walked along these around Salamanca and again south of Tóledo and have been more or less following another both north and south of Córdoba.

My standard three questions when seeking pilgrim help: a stamp for my credenziale wherever I pass the night; assistance in finding a dry place to sleep; guidance for the next day's 40 kilometers. Consistently, everyone tells me to stick to the carretera, that there's no other way. Of course, they've never walked 40 kilometers south of their town and only know how to go by car. I'm not a car. There's (nearly always) an alternative to the highways. Listen politely then go ask the shepherds and goatherds. My tried and true method.

The rapidity in which I've crossed Andalucia has surprised even me, but it's far more to do with the spacing of the adorable 'pueblo blanco' mountain villages packed with Paleolithic, Moorish and Christian heritage than with the endurance of my legs. I should arrive in Algiceras tomorrow evening and then cross over to Tangiers on Saturday, November 5th. I don't want to leave without commenting on how beautiful this region is - limestone mountains rugged and craggy with deep deep valleys and high high peaks, and it seems to my lungs and legs at least a million mountain passes that I've crossed. And, it's been raining. A rather warm rain as rains go, but wet and misty. I'm sure the glimpses of the distant sea are right there behind the white swirling clouds above and below me. There's beauty in rainy days, too.

Only a few more mountains left in Spain, and then a day or two of rest in Tangiers to prepare for the cultural change. More later.

Day 32: Thin

2011-10-31T18:29:00.002+01:00

I woke up thin one day, hardly noticing until it was made clear to me. The first indication came in the form of a slight wardrobe malfunction at my morning coffee break. When I unclipped the hipbelt of my pack, I didn't realize that the weight of my pack had the effect of a plumber's belt on his jeans... a bit cool back there and several patrons noticed. I must more snugly tie the drawstring on my spandex-y hiking pants.

More notable has been the reaction of the priests, nuns, village ladies and even the barmen. They've all been foisting food on me like I'm a growning teenage boy. It's been like this since last Wednesday, the same day as the wardrobe malfunction.

I'd put on weight over the summer in preparation of the first series of mountains I knew I'd have to cross. Put some fuel in reserve, was the plan. It worked. Those mountains are behind me and I'm lean and strong again - down about 15 pounds - and forever miniature, eye to eye with typical 10-year-olds. Eating more won't make me the size of an average adult.

I'm being given a lot of food, so much I can't eat it all... this is the current content of the deli I'm now carrying: two sticks of salami, 3 bocadillas (1 egg and potato, 1 cheese, 1 serrano ham), a round of sheeps cheese the size of three hockey pucks, a tin of mackerel in olive oil, a 200-gram bar of milk chocolate and whole almonds, and a sleeve of chocolate-covered tea biscuits. In the fruit section that are the outside mesh pockets are 2 clementiness, 2 oranges, 1 lime, 1 apple, 1 pear, 1 pomagranite and an assortment of nuts in the shell.

For the mid-morning coffee break this morning, I opened the bag of goodies the nuns sent me off with and found 2 pots of yoghurt, 1 pot of chocolate pudding, 2 hardboiled eggs, 2 muffins, 1 tomato and 1 cucumber. I had to eat it all, none of it really suitable for carrying. I wasn't even hungry.

This is definitely an off-camino condition. I encourage the feed-the-pilgrim campaign, I just wish I were more up to the task of eating it all. I've begun looking around for potential guests for the candlelight supper I'd like to host. I foresee a cycle here - the more food I'm given but can't eat, the more I'll have to carry, the more weight I'll lose, the more food I'll be given. Wash, rinse, repeat. A pilgrim with too much food - life's not so bad here on the trail!

Day 29 New World Meets Old World

2011-10-28T13:53:00.002+02:00

If there were only one word to describe Andalucia, at least the route I've entered on, it's olive. Groves abound, young and old... and old is really really old, some of these villages have been harvesting olives since before Rome destroyed Carthage.

Walking along part of the GR-48 toward Córdoba, I mused about how some of the grand haciendas have barriers of big nopales cactuses lining their grand gardens, along with various yuccas and aloes that I saw so much of in Mexico. Did the founding hildago make his fortunes in the new world and bring back some momentos to show off to the neighbors? Perhaps. Perhaps it was a fad fifty years ago to plant Mexican flora.

Passing an enormous barrier of nopales leaning way out over the stone wall of the garden, I met an older guy, the owner I presumed, walking his dog and his cocked shotgun near the enormous gate. I asked him if I might enjoy one of the plump ripe tunas, as the nopal fruit is called in Mexico. His confusion may have come from my odd Spanish - more than one person has told me I must have learned Castillian in Mexico - or the oddness of my request. I pointed to the fruit next to him. 'You want to eat this?' His disgust was obvious. With such deftness I honed a thousand times or more last winter, I carved a point on to the end of a stick with my tiny penknife, stuck the end of a fruit, carved back the thick spiny skin to reveal the pomegranite red flesh and snapped it off the cactus pad holding it like an egg-sized lollypop. I sliced off a piece and ate it to make sure it really was what I thought - ah, deliciously tart and refreshing. I offered the next slice to the olivier. He ate it with some hesitation and scrunched back at the sourness. The Mexicans would add some coarse salt, I told him. I like the tartness myself. He laughed at the affair and assured me that no one would be upset if I took the cactus fruits hanging over the garden walls. For him, there was too much effort in getting to the seedy fruit, he'd stick with the oranges and pears of Spain.

Day 27 Another New World

2011-10-26T12:00:00.003+02:00

I looked up into the pre-dawn sky when I was set to leave Tirteafuera expecting to see Orion pointing me in the right direction. Instead, he was shooting sharp arrows at me from a pitch black sky. Rain, and lots of it. And cold, too. And in a hamlet way to small to have a bar; no coffee to ease me into it. Ah well. Rain cape quickly set, tightened against luffing in the squall wind, off I walked. (I saw that it was snow in Galicia - easier, dryer, and quieter to walk in.)

The world stayed dark until well after 9 that morning, and I made the last kilometer into the larger town on the fender seat of a tractor... it was a muddy field track I was on and the farmer took pity on me as he slowed to pass me, so he indicated, but since he bought me a cup of café con leche and churros along with those for himself, I think he was heading to town anyway. Miserable weather to be outside; cozy in the comfort of a bar-cafe thick with outdoor workers and piles of churros.

The mountains of southern La Mancha don't come across as friendly as those in northern Spain. Gone are the adorable timeless stone walls; present are tall endless barbed wire fences with padlocked gates and angry warnings against trespassing. The villages are pretty mundane with each house barricaded behind stuccoed walls and fortress-like gates. Outside the villages, weekend house after weekend house for cityfolks from Madrid to find private refuge. The fruit trees are locked beyond reach, their bounty rotting on the branches. Absent, too, are small shrines and niches with religious statues seen all along the Camino Frances. It's a different Spain altogether.

References to Don Quixote are abundant, however, giving an air of literary sophistication to the region and where I can find accessible unpaved roads connecting villages, I'm generally following one of the marked itineraries of the regional tourist board. Every village has a Calle Cervantes, Pancho Sanchez, and other character and place references making me regretful that I didn't re-read the books in preparation for the walk. Next time.

Off-camino villages offer different accommodation for pilgrims... unused primary schools, a local sports hall, a community center, some donated apartment with co-habitating mice... generally it falls to the mayor, el alcade, to hold the key and open the door; sometimes his wife will send over some food, sometimes he'll nod to the barman to offer me something... every day's a new day.

Many mountains have been crossed through numerous passes every day - they're adorably called 'puertas' meaning gateways and are marked with their elevations, generally around 900 meters / 3,000 feet. These gruelling climbs for me end with an armwaving dance, like Rocky Balboa reaching the top step of the Penn Stadium, then I can relax for the kilometers of descent before the next climb. Occasional information panels reveal the Roman history of the area - old mines, mills, roads, settlements - and local cave paintings capture the much more antiquitous human presence. Remarkably, the cave and rock paintings have an uncanny similarity to those I saw in New Mexico and northern Mexico last winter.

Just arrived in Andalucia - more later.

Day 25 - Pilgrims and Pilgrimages

2011-10-24T10:38:00.003+02:00

If there's one thing reliable in a pilgrimage, it's the inherent unpredictability of each day. Get up, walk, stop walking, sleep. These are the only commonalities. With each step being into new territory, there's something new around each bend.

A few days ago, walking along a quiet paved road - something I'm adverse to, but the best way to dodge bullets and errant pellets during hunting season - three men in a Mercedes passed me, turned around passed me again, did a u-turn ahead of me and drove toward me in the shoulder lane... jeeze, trouble afoot? Before the car even came to a halt, the passenger door opened and a Frenchmen jumped out: Don't worry, we're pilgrims, too! (In a Mercedes??)

The incalcuably small probability of another pilgrim to Jerusalem passing me by on that stretch of road midway between Toledo and Cordoba was realized. His pilgrimage began in Auschwitz, and being an EU citizen, he was unhindered to pass through Syria. He and his pals were out field-testing a potential pilgrim route connecting Cordoba and Toledo. Incredible odds, really. Another long-distance pilgrim... www.andreweill.fr (in French).

The very next day, I entered a village after the requisite kilometers and sought out the priest for lodging. While waiting in a cafe-bar, I got to talking with the affable barman and a barfly, a successful pilgrim to Santiago some years past. When I finally got to the old priest, he gave me a stern, and unnecessarily loud, lecture telling me that I'm not a pilgrim because there is no traditional pilgrim route between Toledo and Cordoba... no pilgrim route, no pilgrimage, no pilgrim. He shouted his outrage that I should sullen the pilgrim tradition by willy-nilly making my own route. He reached into a drawer and pulled out first 15€ then a pause and then another 10€ and shouted louder that I should leave. I quickly asked for a stamp for my credenziale, but he fumed all the more - no pilgrim route, no pilgrimage, no pilgrim, no stamp! ¡Vamos!

Stunned, I returned to the cafe-bar for solace. The fellows laughed at the situation saying that the sour old priest has been part of the village for 35 years and that only the old ladies go to Mass. A beer was served and directions to find the local hostel where a clean and well-appointed room could be had for 18€ and a full meal for 6€. With a hot shower and clean sheets on a comfortable bed, I really made out well despite the clerical reception. All's well that ends well.

Day 20 Holy Toledo

2011-10-19T16:40:00.002+02:00

I once visited Toledo, Ohio and asked how the expression Holy Toledo came about. Two answers came up: 1. there are more churches in that city than anywhere else in the US - believable when you see the obvious result of the 'my steeple's bigger than yours' contest the various denominations must have had. 2. during the gangster era of Al Capone, the rival gangs of Pittsburgh and Chicago would meet in Toledo as a place of truce and no fighting, thus making it holy. It sort of doesn't matter which story is closer to the truth, Toledo, Ohio is a lovely place.

It doesn't compare, nor do many cities, with Toledo, Spain. Another UNESCO World Heritage place, it's pretty darn whooey. I love the Moorish architecture, and the history oozes within and without of the crenulated walls. Here in the middle of La Mancha, I found other trail indicators for a network of hiking/biking trails following the travels of Don Quixote. I'll have to come back another time - yikes, time's up on my computer...

Day 18: A whole new world

2011-10-17T11:49:00.002+02:00

It's amazing how quickly the landscape changes. Some of the vegetation changes are a bit gradual - fewer olive trees, more oaks noticable over the course of 10 kilometers or so; sporatic cows grazing across a hillside rather than the large herds of sheep down in the valley... this sort of thing. I came over a pass this morning, 35 kilometers south of Avila, and suddenly, in a matter of a kilometer, oaks gone completely, groves of pines have taken their place. The entire landscape is different.

The welcomed change in landscape was accompanied by the very welcomed presence of some morning clouds. The region has been experiencing a prolonged drought since winter, and an extended heatwave on top of it. The clouds and cooler temperatures in addition to the different trees together are like walking into a whole new world.

I climbed out of some mountains into picturesque Avila. I immediately sensed its similarities to Siena, Italy - enclosing wall, tons of churches, lots of learny things, hoards of tourists, herds of their buses, noisy restaurants poured out onto the cobbled alleys, every building turned into an hotel. Yikes! Overwhelming. And by coincidence, La Fiesta de Santa Teresa was going on. Chaos redoubled. I stayed in a pilgrim house, alone on this little-used pilgrim route, and a nice one, one for the encyclopedia defining pilgrim houses... a hot shower and a washing machine =) It's the little things.

Back into the mountains, higher and higher, reaching 1,200 meters (4,000 feet), I'm enjoying lots of vistas, highlighted by the golden poplars along the dry riverbeds, with a lighter load since the harvest is largely over and fruit trees left in villages.

Pilgrim life continues... I'm as far east as I'll get in Spain, heading south to Toledo in a few days, then southwest to Cordova... I plotted out the route and came upon this little factoid: the difference between averaging 30 and 37 kilometers per day will add up to 2 months over the course of my travels to Jerusalem... do I arrive at the end of April (37 km/d) or end of June (30 km/d). Place bets on earlier rather than later, the heat takes its toll on me.

Day 11: This little figgy went to market...

2011-10-10T18:48:00.002+02:00

I loved my little walk through very picturesque Portugal. If I searched to find something negative, it would only be trying to escape well-intended country women with less than 2 kilos of fruit and nuts from their orchard trees. Although I anticipate a good frost one of these evenings to put an end to the swarms of gnats, the benefits of the autumn harvest are delightfully manifest. Apples, pears, quince, chestnuts, walnuts, almonds, grapes, more grapes, grapes red and white, and my favorite of all, fat tender figs. And, bonus, the region is plump with big rounds of sheep cheese - yum.

On my first night off the pilgrim super-highway, as I've come to think of the camino, I made my way over pastural hill and dale unfettered by road or even a path to a small town just as Mass was ending... it's uncanny how a pilgrim can so often beat the odds of stumbling upon a Mass when there is only one per 12 days. A short conversation with the grateful priest, who thankfully was fluent in Castillian, got me not only an invitation to his mother's house for the night - an a great cook indeed - but also guidance for the remainder of my walk through Portugal... names, towns, off-road paths, two monasteries, and a google-map. What a gift!

The days are warm, overly sunny with vast areas of little shade, and full of necessary kilometers. I'm still averaging that marathon distance of a bit more than 40 mountainous kilometers every day. Although I've got absolutely nothing to complain about - nothing, nothing, nothing. After the fourth day, one which involved quite a lot of asphalt and long hilly distances without shade or water, I was internally beginning to whine a bit, quite truthfully. My attitude was put to rights when a kind family driving home stopped me at the entrance to the town to offer help. I'm so happy they did as the priest was away and it was a weekend, so the mayor's office was closed. With a number of phone calls, the father of the family, who considered the honor of the village at stake, got things arranged for me to spend the night at the facility run by the Sisters of Mercy.

A geriatric facility, sure, but what a great experience. Invited to the dining hall for a dinner of Portugese specialties, I saw dozens of residents shuffling with the aid of walkers and canes, progressing three inches for as many steps... my aching feet still throbbed from the pounding of the day's 45 kilometers, but I was reminded by the experience of how fortunate I am to be able to earn my pain with a great deal of gain. I recalled an Islamic proverb I recently came upon: 'I cursed at God because I had no shoes and then saw a man who had no feet.' Doh! how true. And how interesting we stumble upon such experiences just when we need them. St Jerome's handiwork?

The next day, refreshed and facing only 35 kilometers of gorgeous and deeply gorged landscape, I entered a village celebrating in large form the feast of St Barbara. I was invited to join in the procession through the winding village cobbled streets behind the shoulder-mounted tableau of the venerated Saint and in front of the marching band. (I switched from boots to sandals, of course.) What a treat for the heart and soul/sole, and stomach enjoying more of the local specialities. {Note that every culture I've visited on all my pilgrimages seem to relish tripe soup. Don't chew, just swallow.}

Day 5: The sun shines on...

2011-10-04T19:32:00.000+02:00

I've a quick minute to update...I'll be in Portugal tomorrow and can see from a google map (that I can't print out from the public library computer) that the villages will be less frequent for a pilgrim.

Time is an odd convention. Once the world generally agreed to standard time for transportation purposes, time became a bit disconnected from the passage of the sun across the sky. Noon long ago ceased to be defined as the point in time when the sun was directly overhead and shadows were shortest. Spain chose to be in the Central European time zone, which has logic founded in commerce, but shifts the timeline awkwardly westward.

In these days since I began the walk in the very northwest of Spain, I arise before sunrise, as has always been my pilgrim habit, so that I can be warmed up and mentally present to welcome the rising sun along with the tweeting birds and enjoy the luscious moist fregrance of the vegetation. Eucalyptus trees abound here.

My southeasterly heading has Orion standing strongly over my right shoulder arrow drawn at the ready; the Big Dipper has toppled its contents out above my left; I walk toward the orange smudge on the horizon until the curtain slowly lifts during the first hour of daylight to reveal the sequential rolling bluish ridges to be climbed and descended all day long. I leave the albergue at 7. The sun reaches it height around 2 in the afternoon.

Portugal, staying more true to their place on the globe lies in the Western European time zone. Though I'll head both south and east tomorrow, the subsequent five days will begin at 6 to get the same hour of the dim light of dawn to myself, only afterward to step back into Central European time and reset my clock.

Next stop in Portugal - who knows what the keyboard will look like!

Day 3: =D A pilgrim again!

2011-10-02T21:35:00.003+02:00

Here I am, checking in from the trail - three days of walking, a respectable 102 kilometers of hilly warmup. I love the scenery and the food and particularly that every view is new for me, every footfall onto land untrodden by me previously. Cool stuff. By noon on the first day on the trail, I had spoken in three different languages, and none was English. That´s always a hoot.

I´ve encountered a good dozen pilgrims each day going in the opposite direction from me. It´s difficult to follow the camino since the markers show the way to Santiago, not away from it. It´s sort of like New Jersey - it costs nothing to get in, but you´ve got to pay to get out. I´m paying dearly with the wasted half kilometers or so trying to leave towns... they add up. Even though I´m 'only' logging 33 kilometers of progress a day, I'm really walking over 40. I'm giving it up soon, too. After tomorrow, I'm veering off the trail to make my way to Salamanca shorter by cutting through the northeast corner of Portugal. Note to self: learn how to say 'hello, I'm a pilgrim in Portugese.' It'll work out, and being off the trail will be easier not trying to follow the markers. (People get pretty irate if a pilgrim is seen straying from the trail.)

Since I last was in the area, the required fee for a shower and bunk bed in a municipal pilgrim house has risen from 3€ to 5€, which adds up pretty quickly. Consider that the going rate for a cold beer is 1€. The fee is for a bunk bed that you can't sit up in, in a crowded room, a tiny shower cubicle with warmish water that has to be reactivated from the push-faucet every 60 seconds. The wash sinks for clothes have no hot water and washing clothes in the showers is deeply frowned upon. Pilgrim life, for the masses.

Worse now is the propensity of pilgrim-tourists. Since the economic squeeze has intensified, the number of people looking for inexpensive holidays has risen and the camino is a perfect place. These tourist 'pilgrims', from all over Europe I´m told, get a credenziale, take a bus to a pilgrim house and pay the required fee. The next day, they take a bus or taxi tour around the area for the day, arriving at the end of the day at the next pilgrim house, to do the same thing. Getting to Santiago is in no way a priority, but if they happen to, hey, they get a certificate. Apparently this has lead to a lot of petty theft in the pilgrim houses - backpacks, boots, even pots and pans from the kitchenettes - over the last few years, so the municipalities have raised the fee. I'm told some of the municipal pilgrim houses in the cities beyond the province of Galicia have even higher fees. A crying shame, it is, but what´s to be done? A letter from the pilgrims' Bishops authenticating the pilgrimage as in the Middle Ages? Can't see that happening... although I happen to have a stamp in my credenziale from the Bishop of Denver...

The right side of my body is three shades redder than the left, walking southeast as I am. I've got a few hot spots on the balls of my feet as the callouses are trying to form. Aside from the barking dogs (peculiar American euphenism for tired feet), everything is in perfect working order. I'm loving every minute of it, heading toward Portugal.

Attention passengers...

2011-09-29T17:40:00.004+02:00

'Attention passengers' - said the pilot over Newfoundland - 'due to a persistent oil leak, we've been authorized to return to Newark.'

Arrgh!! Blah, blah blah, no one was hurt, yeah, but returning to Newark instead of landing somewhere on the European continent has put me fully a day behind. Every emergency vehicle was on the runway for our crippled return, but still... I could have gotten some better connections from Reykjavik. Spent the night in Newark with a diversely international group all fretting about missed connections while the Jet Airlines, self-described as 'India's finest' took their phones off the hook and disappeared.

At least I'm as far as Madrid at the moment, waiting for the night train to Santiago de Compostela. I suppose starting a pilgrimage on the feast of St Jerome - a real thinker, he is - is as good as on the feast of St Michael. But Michael's got the wings...

Hours to go...

2011-09-27T03:59:00.000+02:00

It's a great feeling when everything is ready to go - I'm checked in to the three flights it will take to get to Madrid - boarding passes are printed, folded, labeled, and tucked in my very worn passport; the boarding pass for the night train to Santiago de Compostela is all prepared, too. I'm sipping red wine on this lovely warm evening, watching the clock.

Countless times now I've packed and unpacked and got everything just so - a skosh less than 5.5 kilos (=12 teeny little pounds) with plenty of room left over. (Doh! I could have gone with a 18-liter pack instead of the 24-liter one I have from my walk to Mexico.) The 12,000 pilgrim kilometers walked so far have rendered a pretty high packing efficiency.

I got the first of the stamps in my crisp credenziale stating my city of origin (Denver, Colorado, USA) and my personal information, origin, and destination inscribed in Spanish and Arabic. A new medallion reflects the religiously-neutral palm leaves of peace - made from the lid of a can of tomatoes.

Hair's cut; boots are waxed; flight snacks are packed... soon after I post this blog, I'll be completely unplugged - no mobile phone, no GPS, no computer, nothing requiring electricity. I think it will be fairly easy to post a blog one a week or so through Spain and likely in Morocco... I'll deal with computer availability in North Africa when I get there. Five weeks, I estimate to get to the Straits of Gibraltar... and so much to see in Spain, and the journey starts in a matter of hours.

Gratitude

2011-09-09T17:27:00.002+02:00

Even before my pilgrimage begins, I've experienced kindness from people whose only interest is in helping me on my challenging journey.

The situation with my boots - arguably the most important part of the pilgrim kit - is now happily resolved, but not without the aid of people more knowledgeable than I and a chance meeting.

The heavy leather guide boots I selected was after consultation with at least a dozen boot specialists. I explained the intended use - extreme, I realize - and sought guidance. For the most part, I was treated dismissively and got little meaningful advice: 'You just don't understand, boots aren't built for this kind of use'; 'You have to send additional boots ahead, or stop when they wear out and order new ones'; 'You should never walk further than a single pair of boots will last', 'to walk such a distance, you'll need a support team; they'll carry your extra pairs of boots', blah blah blah... most of the advisers might as well have added 'silly little girl' for all the condescension.

One expert in his field, and not far from Denver, provided meaningful technical advise on the three occasions I went to see him. He understood the gravity of the issue as being greater than just another in a series of banal commercial transactions. In the end, though I found his advice valuable, it didn't turn into any financial gain from him as I ordered the boot over the internet and got the replacement soles from another outfit. Nonetheless, he helped me just for the sake of helping me; he helped me because I asked. He never treated me as though I'm daft. Anyone who's in the market for technical footwear should consider talking with Lee and John at The Custom Foot in Englewood, CO for some solid, friendly, and caring advice.

With boots on feet, I still face the 'what-will-I-do-after-the-first-2,000-kilometers' question. Because it's the heels that wear out first, I'm sure I can extend the life of the soles by another 2,000 kilometers if I can bring an extra set of heels along. Easy in principal, but getting them led me to another heap of boot repair guys telling me that that is simply not how it works. Finding an equipped cobbler along the way isn't a viable solution. I have as little hope of finding hiking boot heels in the Sahara as I did in the Chihuahua desert. I was told several times that the licensing agreement with the Vibram sole distributor prevented sales of supplies independent from services. Arghh.

Just as the Custom Foot guys were going to look to pull strings with their suppliers, I happened to walk by a corner hole in the wall cobbler shop while running some errands. Asking at yet another shop seemed almost fruitless, but I felt inspired. Inside, two elderly Russian immigrant cobblers welcomed me, stooped low from years tapping needy soles on their shoe trees. I explained my need and to emphasize the reality of it, showed a small map of my route. Seeing a small icon of a Russian saint hanging on the wall, I told them of my experience walking from Kyiv and around Crimea, but the soles lasted longer walking on snow than on the rocks I'm now anticipating. A craggy bent forefinger motioned for me to wait a moment and the old man reappeared with a pair of brand new heels, same brand, same durability, very similar pattern. Amazed though I was, he wasn't satisfied with the fit and disappeared behind the curtain once again, returning with a set he found more suitable. I have great gratitude for the solution-finding cobblers at Phelps Shoe Repair in Denver. They get it.

The Itinerary

2011-09-05T02:20:00.001+02:00

My trip is on the threshold, yet with so many variables in front of me how much should I try to plan? For convenience, I'll follow the Via de la Plata out of Santiago until I can break free of the world of giant yellow arrows and cold municipal pilgrim houses at Salamanca and begin the walk toward historic Toledo, passing through Avila with a nod to St Teresa. Onward to the former Moorish capital of Cordova then to the crossing at Algeciras to Morocco, perhaps by the first week in November.

Crossing Morocco and Algeria should be fascinating and straightforward - how possibly can I lose my way if I keep the Mediterranean to my left at all times? It will be interesting to see the coastal cities still under Spanish governance yet mingling with the remnants of French colonialism and 'home rule'... I'm expecting a nifty mingling of architecture and cuisine. Although there will be plenty of Catholic enclaves in the larger cities throughout the region, I think it would be pretty cool to get to Annaba, formerly Hippo, to celebrate Christmas at the Monastery of St Augustine.

Onward, is the plan, toward Tunis, perhaps by January 3rd to check with the Libyan embassy about access to that country. Hopes are high!! If all goes well, I'd get to the border around January 23rd and to Tripoli just at the end of the month. [If not, I'll find some way to sail around the 2,000 kilometers of shoreline to Egypt.] With joy, I'm anticipating the Libyan land route through Sirte and to Benghazi in the early days of March.

Entering Egypt before the end of March would put me into Alexandria around April 10th (or so...) then down to Cairo to make arrangements for the desert journey to the very old and very historic and uber-whooey Monastery of St Anthony. The local Coptic priest I met suggests a donkey and cart if I'm truly committed to hoofing it. Many many days in the open desert with not so much as a Bedouin camel train anywhere in the vicinity. The beast of burden will carry the necessary water and food for the both of us. Since I am so committed, I've got to make a little time to study up on donkey husbandry... then somehow cross the Red Sea to the bottom half of the Sinai Peninsula to get to the Monastery of St Catherine at the foot of Mount Sinai, overflowing with history. Maybe it will be early May by then.

No time to linger, the desert will be getting hotter as the days get longer. I'm not sure of the best way to get to Jerusalem, but I'm not going to overdo the details now. I'm certain locals will best advise a lone pilgrim. Perhaps I'll get to my final destination before the end of May. ish. The average daily high in late May in Jerusalem is 25°C (78°F) and it will be just at the end of the rainy season. There's a lot of motivation for me to be out of the desert before the arid heat drives me to sit in the shade all day.

Plans for a Summer Pilgrimage

2011-08-30T19:55:00.005+02:00

I enjoyed my walk to Mexico City last winter immensely - as I have enjoyed all of my winter pilgrimages. But why should I have all the fun? I want to emphasize the practicality and feasibility of this North American pilgrimage for others to follow. Certainly and without hesitation, I encourage anyone who is motivated to make a great pilgrimage in North America to use this same route, either by foot in three months or by bicycle in one month. Get out there! Be not afraid!

Perhaps more attractive would be a shorter pilgrimage from Denver to Chimayo in New Mexico. I strongly encourage this route for the masses. Fellow pilgrims and future pilgrims, anyone who has thoughts of walking the Camino in Spain, why not consider this route in the US? The history of Chimayo as a pilgrim destination doesn't quite reach back into the depths of time that Santiago de Compostela does, but it still has many centuries attached to its lure and with a host of unique cultural elements in stunning landscapes and quite unspoiled wilderness. Contemplate a 350-mile/550-kilometer walk in the mountains.

I see that three stages exist for something like this to become established: explorer, pioneers, colonists. I made the exploration of the route last winter, so that stage can be checked off the list - I demonstrated that it can be done and I know a beautiful and accessible route. I've drafted a written plan for the next stage. Next summer after I return from Jerusalem, I will gather a group of 16 'pioneers' whom I will lead on the route. In Spain, pilgrim groups find refuge in established pilgrim houses. These don't (yet) exist in the mountains of Colorado and New Mexico, so the plan for the pioneers is to bring the essentials of a pilgrim house with us - water, cots, hot showers, a laundry facility and a kitchen. Together with a small group, I'm working through the logistics necessary to make the journey of the pioneers a success. We're targeting the pioneer journey for next August (2012).

The product of the pioneers' experience will be a guide that will disseminate the route to other pilgrims and groups of pilgrims who wish to walk from as far north as Denver to Chimayo. It's a rugged route indeed, with many mountain passes to cross, and with many thousands of feet of elevation gained and lost - oh so beautiful. For Camino grads, the distance is roughly equivalent to Burgas to Santiago de Compostela. The plan is sketched at the moment for 18 days of 20 miles/31 kms. Five or six days of relatively flat terrain and the balance mountainous. The pioneers will be of diverse ages and physical abilities so that we can be better able to provide guidance for future groups.

It's difficult to predict now if the evolution of the colonist stage will become viable - that would be the construction of permanent pilgrim houses. It could be well into the future, I think, but if there's interest and need, it will happen organically. For the moment, I want only to plant the seed. Will the route from Denver to Chimayo become el Camino del Norte? Will other routes be explored - across Arizona, Utah, Texas, and Kansas? Pilgrims ho!

I've set up a poll at the top of the blog page to get a sense of some feedback. Please feel free to comment. Thanks!

Pilgrimage Coming Soon

2011-08-22T01:40:00.004+02:00

Realizing that I won't be able to walk to Santiago de Compostela from Denver until the Atlantic Ocean either freezes or dries up, I've gone ahead and bought a plane ticket. The next winter pilgrimage is imminent. I'll begin to walk under the wings of St Michael the Archangel, the 29th of September. Depending on a myriad of unpredictable factors, I should be strolling into Jerusalem sometime in late spring. -ish.

Ticket in hand, boots are now on feet, too - heavy leather guide boots with the beefiest soles I could find, and I looked carefully and dutifully for months. I have no endorsements or product sponsorship, but for anyone else searching for boots ready to go the distance, I'll share that the selected boots are Italian-made Scarpa SL M3. I ordered my normal size of 38 but they were too small; the 39s that just arrived fit very comfortably. I'm hoping that the soles will get me through the three mountain ranges I'll cross in Spain and then through the Atlas Mountains of northern Morocco and Algeria. The soles of the three other boots I've gone through - Raichle, Meindl, and Zamberlan - all similar heavy leather guide boots, each lasted 'only' 1,200 miles/2,000 kms. I'm now hoping that these new ones will get me at least to Algiers, 2,500 kms, but more hopefully to Annaba (Hippo) where I'm thinking about spending (western) Christmas at 3,000 kms. After that, my soles are in the hands of fate. I'll be sure to report on their condition frequently, since footwear is paramount to any distance walker.

I'm rushing through my days reading about the diverse and fascinating histories of the all the areas I'll walk through, going through shifting checklists of equipment repairs and the gathering of odds and ends, learning enough Arabic to make a suitable cheat sheet, and interminably studying maps. I'll come up with a picture of my route soon and post it for all to follow. In general: Santiago de Compostela, Avila, Toledo, Cordoba, crossing the Straits of Gibraltar at Algeciras to Ceutas (a speck of Spain relic in Morocco), onward and eastward along the Mediterranean coast more or less along an old Roman Road through countless ancient cities, some thriving, some in ruins...Algiers, Tunis, lots of historical places in Libya (let's hope I can get through the border, sometime in mid January-ish), Alexandria, the monastery of St Anthony, across the Red Sea to the monastery of St Catherine below Mount Sinai, and then to wherever I'm able to walk in Israel. Long, sure, but fascinating, too. And it all begins in 4 weeks from today. :D !!

'Planned Obsolescence'

2011-07-13T22:19:00.003+02:00

Boots. Always a tender subject on long walks. They need to be sturdy and durable, and comfortable, of course - no blisters! - and the soles need to absorb energy. In my experience, it comes down to the soles.

In the three boots I've gone through on the 12,000 kilometers so far, the original Vibram soles have lasted 1,600 to 2,000 kilometers on each set - which is to say that they're worn smooth by 1,600 kilometers, but I've stretched them to 2,000 kilometers through uncomfortable persistence and necessity. In Italy and again in Istanbul, I was able to get the soles replaced with other Vibrams, though the replacements were always far inferior to the molded originals, plus, my feet being small, the one-size-fits-all blank gets so cut down that very little of the tread knobs are left. In Mexico, the disaster of having only cowboy boot soles available for replacement taught me well the key hiking-boot sole feature of energy absorption. Still no blisters, but my feet ached perpetually because of this factor even though the slipperiness of the flat-bottom was never an issue in land of no moisture.

Now I'm setting off for a journey in the high four digits, maybe 8,000 or 9,000 kilometers. I dread the thought of the fatigue my poor dogs will have to endure by the time I reach Morocco. I contacted several custom boot makers to learn more about the construction of this critical piece of equipment. The uppers have always served me well, but the soles are the critical point. What can be done to extend their lives?

'Planned obsolescence' is the phrase of art. The soles are designed to wear out to encourage new purchase. It wouldn't matter if I were to buy boots off the shelf or custom made (though all three cobblers have a backlog of at least a year), the soles are by and large the same. They're never rated for distance, which obviously is a broad variable, but they generally have the caveat that they'll 'last for years'. Months is all I ask, but it won't matter. With the experience of my last four winter walks, I am positioned to say 1,600 kilometers is all I can expect.

'Buy four pairs in advance and ship them ahead to different cities along the route' has been the common advice. Not so easy as that, in reality, especially with this trip coming, how can I know when I'll be to these places, whether there will be a general delivery post, whether the (expensive) boots will actually be there... 'Carry a few extra pairs, then' is hardly more easily followed advice. Boots weigh far more than my empty pack. Even carting along extra soles is a weighty proposition.

In Spain, I'll start off in mountains and then traverse two other ranges. In Morocco and Algeria, I'll walk along the Atlas Mountains... Alas, mountain walks rather demand solid footwear. After that, desert. Maybe I'll be able to get away with sandals? Hopeful, but perhaps not the right thinking to start off. I'll continue to search for a reasonable solution. We can put a man on the moon, but can boot soles made to go the distance be beyond our operational technology? Beyond the economic rewards of sole-makers, it seems.

If not now, then when?

2011-07-06T23:11:00.004+02:00

Despite my efforts to resist the call of the path, I can't help but let my thoughts wander toward the pilgrim trail.

'There are still some miles in my legs,' I told myself not long past arriving in Rome after three months on the trail from Canterbury, 'so I should make another pilgrimage.'

'There's no harm in doing just one more long walk,' I convinced myself after I reached Santiago de Compostela fresh from the three-month journey from Germany.

'Of course a great foot pilgrimage can be done in America, too,' I insisted to myself after arriving in the Peloponnesian springtime following the long and exciting winter walk from Kyiv, 'so I should do one.'

And lately, the thought 'if not now, then when,' has persistently toiled on my mind since I've returned to Denver from my walk to Mexico City even after two months on the Ultima Thule.

Anyone thinking that 'Winter Pilgrim' is already making necessary preparations for a new epic winter walk would be right. I can't seem to help it! I'm called to the pilgrim life and suited for it.

Guesses?

'A little revolution every now and then is a good thing,' said Thomas Jefferson in reference to Shay's Rebellion in New England not long after the birth of America.

Yeah, so isn't the Arab Spring timely for me? Even the possibility that a pilgrim might travel on a US passport across North Africa is enough for me to attempt it. Prior to the rebellions, I wouldn't have thought it possible. I'm now experienced walking across a desert alone and experienced passing through a Muslim culture while on pilgrimage. Timing is everything.

Santiago de Compostela to Jerusalem by way of North Africa.

Whoa.
Epic.
Mega-epic, if it could be actually be done in the winter 2011-2012.

I'm fixed on beginning in September. At my now-well-established rate of 1,000 kilometers per month, perhaps it will take me until April or May or June...ish. How foresightful those Romans were for creating a network of old Roman Roads the entire distance!

There are layers upon layers of history to be trod upon, of particular interest to a geek like me is the opportunity to visit the Moorish intellectual centers of Toledo and Cordova in Spain; crossing over at the Pillars of Hercules to Morocco; traversing the Atlas Mountains along the coast of Algeria; then there's the Barbary Coast and the remnants of Carthage, Tunisia; okay, a few questions about crossing into expansive Libya need to be resolved by about February when it will be important to me; then Egypt and a short stroll along the Dead Sea to the final destination before the desert gets too hot.

Wow! I'm bubbling with excitement at the thought of it.

With the diversity of this route, only Santiago de Compostela is a place I've visited before. Start with the familiar, then every step is a new one... what will be around the next rock?

I've already gotten the Arabic alphabet under my belt, and of course, the phrase, 'Hi, I'm a pilgrim.'

Much more to follow!

If not now, then when? and afterwards maybe I'll get a normal life again.

Denver to Mexico City Summary

2011-07-06T17:39:00.003+02:00

It's already July and I have to put the winter's pilgrimage behind me and look forward. I don't want to let the blog format allow the sidebar information to get lost, so I'm moving the daily progress of the trip from the sidebar to a post. No new information is added:

Denver to Mexico City

12 Jan MEXICO!!! 3431 km

11 Jan Buenavista (Torres), 3411 km

10 Jan Huehuetoca, 3373 km

09 Jan Tula, 3333 km

08 Jan Miravillas (Nopala) 3288 km

07 Jan LLano Largo, 3260 km
06 Jan San Juan del Rio, 3227 km

05 Jan Pedro Escobedo, 3194 km

04 Jan QUERÈTARO, 3158 km

03 Jan Cualchita, 3132 km

02 Jan CELAYA, 3107 km

01 Jan Mexicanos, 3080 km

31 Dec IRAPUATO, 3046 km

30 Dec Silao, 3013 km

29 Dec LEON, 2970 km

28 Dec Union de San Antonio, 2926 km

27 Dec SAN JUAN DE LOS LAGOS, 2882 km

26 Dec Encarnacion de Diaz, 2846 km

25 Dec Aguascalientes - day of rest

24 Dec AGUASCALIENTES, 2802 km

23 Dec Pabellon, 2768 km

22 Dec San Pedro Piedra Gordo, 2730 km

21 Dec Santa Inez, 2703 km

20 Dec ZACATECAS, 2665 km

19 Dec Calera, 2639 km
18 Dec Plateros, 2604 km
17 Dec Rio de Medina, 2560 km
16 Dec Sain Alto, 2516 km

15 Dec Luis Moya, 2484 km

14 Dec Sombrerete, 2456 km

13 Dec Vicente Guerrero, 2408 km

12 Dec Nombre de Dios, 2364 km

11 Dec Montemorelos, 2323 km

10 Dec DURANGO, 2286 km

09 Dec Morcillo, 2260 km

08 Dec Jose Guadalupe Aguilera, 2216 km

07 Dec San Lucas de Ocampo, 2178 km

06 Dec San Juan del Rio, 2150 km

05 Dec Rodeo, 2097 km

04 Dec Abasolo, 2069 km

03 Dec San Francisco de Asis, 2027 km

02 Dec Palmito, 1999 km

01 Dec Ignatio Allende, 1971 km

30 Nov Inde, 1938 km

29 Nov Encina de la Paz 1895, km

28 Nov Villa Ocampo, 1853 km

27 Nov Villa Matamoros, 1813 km

26 Nov Parral - day of rest =)

25 Nov PARRAL 1778 kms

24 Nov Zapien, 1736 kms

23 Nov Valle de Zaragosa, 1698 kms

22 Nov El Faro, 1658 kms

21 Nov Satevo, 1616 kms

20 El Charco, 1564 kms

19 Nov CHIHUAHUA, 1532 kms

18 Nov Molinas, 1495 kms

17 Nov El Peñol, 1461 kms

16 Nov Ojo de Laguna, 1419 kms

15 Nov Rancho San Luis, 1386 kms

14 Nov San Lorencito, 1366 kms

13 Nov Moctezuma, 1335 kms

12 Nov Villa Ahumada, 1,279 kms

11 Nov Rancho Candelaria, 1,225 kms

10 Nov Samalayuca, 1,193 kms

09 Nov Cuidad Juarez, MEXICO 1,141 KILOMETERS

08 Nov El Paso, Texas 701 miles

07 Nov Anthony, 679 miles

06 Nov Las Cruces, 653 miles

05 Nov Dona Ana, 645 miles

04 Nov Hatch, 613 miles

03 Nov Truth or Consequences, 595 miles

02 Nov ...midway between..., 559 miles

01 Nov Socorro, 522 miles

31 Oct La Joya, 503 miles

30 Oct Belen, 479 miles

29 Oct Isleta Pueblo, 455 miles

28 Oct Albuquerque, 434 miles

27 Oct Bernalillo, 412 miles

26 Oct Algodonas, 402 miles

25 Oct Pena Blanca, 380 miles

24 Oct Santa Fe, 358 miles

23 Oct Chimayo, 348 miles

22 Oct Penosco, 324 miles

21 Oct Taos, 299 miles

20 Oct Questa, New Mexico, 267 miles

19 Oct San Luis, 235 miles

18 Oct Ft Garland, 219 miles

17 Oct S of Westcliffe, 187 miles

16 Oct Oak Creek Grade, 164 miles

15 Oct Canon City, 147 miles

14 Oct Cripple Creek, 119 miles

13 Oct Woodland Park, 93 miles

12 Oct Monument, 70 miles

11 Oct Castle Rock, 43 miles

10 Oct Highlands Ranch, 24 miles from Denver

10/10/10 Denver

The Tides of Aberdeen

2011-03-29T20:59:00.002+02:00

I just came into the warmth of a lounge after standing in the cold, salty spray of the North Atlantic on the aft deck of the MV Hrossey until the harbor of Aberdeen, Scotland faded into the dusky mist.

'Immer wieder unterwegs' is how I was often described after I moved to Germany a decade ago: always on the go. Denver's terrific, but when I mentioned to an English friend last month that I was still unsettled with the post-pilgrimage 're-entry', he graciously opened his largely unoccupied flat in the village of Scalloway on the Shetland Islands to me for an extended stay. Obligations and visa restrictions limit my stay until June. Two months on a rock near the Arctic Circle, with wifi - sounds perfect. How I love adventure! I grabbed my backpack and walking sticks - and got new hiking boots - and am on the last leg of the journey; 12 hours by night-ferry.

Barren, rugged, isolated somewhat but not too much... I'll take this opportunity to finally write about my adventures of my last four winter walks. Mark Twain once apologized for not having time to write a short letter, so he wrote a long one instead; I'll take the time to think succinctly of my experiences and see what comes of it. While not a pilgrimage, the adventures of winterpilgrim continue...

Delinquent, maybe, but happy

2011-02-16T00:22:00.002+01:00

I have been terribly delinquent in posting since returning to Denver. I apologize. Imagine, though, how relatively quickly and quite silently, the bus brought me back to this parallel reality without fanfare. A distance three months afoot, two days motorized. I found zipping through the desert, backwards in a sense, through the view of sand and cacti, familiar yet sorrowful... no scents but the stale air in the bus; no sounds above the engine and road rumbles and continuous videos of violent movies shown on multiple screens of the Autobus Americano line. I wish I walked! I wish I were still walking! I like being a pilgrim. The bus returned me much too quickly to this orderly and predictable civilized life. Four weeks of silence from me reflects the challenges of the re-entry experienced by all foot pilgrims I know.

I persist in keeping the spirit of the journey alive - giving talks about my trip to school groups and others, for example - but how can anything match the level of excitement and discovery that a pilgrimage brings? The off-ramp is long between a life where every kilometer is full of new adventures and this normal life of familiarity and safety.

Enough whining... I'll post public presentations as I set up the dates and post trip statistics soon, too. I'm getting back into the swing of things. I'm waiting for inspiration for the next trip... it occurred to me that autumn is coming to the southern hemisphere and winter isn't far behind =)

I've Arrived!!!

2011-01-12T22:22:00.002+01:00

A fabulous arrival, but hard-earned.

Yesterday, the last night before arriving, was designed to be an easy walk so I can find accommodation and clean myself and my well-worn clothing as well as possible for a presentable arrival. Yeah, the best laid plans... GoogleMaps guided me to a town called Buenavista 20 kilometers to the north of the Basilica. Reality has two places called Buenavista and I spent hours in frustration being directed toward one and then the other before stepping out and asking if there are many places with this name... for a while, the sun burned through the thick smog over my right shoulder, but then it was over my left - which should rarely happen on a southeasterly route - so I became suspicious. The din and sprawl of industry was overwhelming compared with the tranquility of the whole rest of my pilgrimage. My happy mood on the threshold of the terminus was soured by the chaotic noise of blaring horns, air brakes, and cargo trains.

I finally felt confident that I was headed toward the right Buenavista, and since all good views require elevation, the last 8 kilometers were nearly vertical through stacked cubicles of concrete block houses, a bizillion minibusses, and occasional cows. But when I got to the parish office of the church, the unempowered young people there told me the only hospitality they could offer was a homeless shelter back down the mountain those 8 kilometers. I lost it. I felt like I was the bunny in the carnival game where kids whack the bunnies as they pop out of their holes. These folks who only knew of pilgrims as highway walkers hadn't been faced with the situation before. I'm a pilgrim, not homeless!! I don't ever want to walk backwards! And all that elevation lost! to be repeated! I sobbed. Tired, dirty, on the eve of completion of such a goal, the idea of retreating to a homeless shelter didn't go down well. In the end, many many hours later, the priest arrived. A lovely man, a Benedictine monk-priest, very well educated, perfect English (the third time since November 9th that I had any lengthy conversation in English... he urged me to go to the homeless shelter for my own safety and comfort and to continue on the autopiste in the morning like other pilgrims. Ensued were details of my adventures in the wilderness, the desert, the mountains... sleeping in the storage room in the basement of the church was my preference and by the end of the long day, that's where I slept, peacefully, sadly still dirty with no opportunity to even rinse out my filthy tee shirt, on a nest of old red velvet curtains with white lace. Argh! but all's well that ends well! The priest signed my credenziale and gave me his St. Benedict medallion to protect me on my dangerous journey.

It was the right thing to do, staying in Buenavista. I set out early and walked up and over a pass in the Sierra de Guadalupe nature reserve. Aside from the municipal landfill that I had to walk by, the mountains are beautiful. An old forester who knew the area well provided valuable guidance for shortening the route by chosing rightly from the myriad of footpaths. I was at the Basilica by noon without much exersion. All this distance asking for help every day... I arrived with 10 pesos in my pocket, never having gone to a bank since leaving Denver. I was ready to spend half of it on some churros, but when I explained to the street vendor that I was about to arrive at the end of such a long pilgrimage, he gifted me the crunchy donut sticks as his contribution.

At the Basilica, I whisked by the suspended Tilma with the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the moving sidewalk beneath the altar pretty quickly, getting crushed by the crowd. At the information desk, I asked for Monsignor Chavez, whom I met in Albuquerque in October. He came out and greeted me personally. He took my photo in front of the Tilma . which I'l post as soon as he forwards it - and stamped my credenziale... the very last page. The next hourly Mass was starting, so he took me right up to the reserved front row center to allow me a close view of the Tilma throughout the whole Mass. There was a group of 2,000 highway pilgrims there who walked for three days with all sorts of banners and santos. They hired a mariachi band for the Mass and the priest gave a homily about the perseverence needed for the long pilgrimages by foot. More fitting for me than for the horde, I thought, but to each his own pilgrimage.

Numbers will follow soon, but the biggies: 3,431 km in 95 days... excluding the 2 days of rest, I walked at a rate of 37 kilometers per day (=23 miles per day)...

I've arrived. =)

Decision Made

2011-01-06T21:47:00.002+01:00

I'm getting closer... less than a week left until I get to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. My long-awaited destination. Since Leòn, I've been out of the wilderness entirely, walking through extended residential communities, factories, small irrigated fields of produce destined for export, and rows of enormous greenhouses for controlled agriculture. Unable to really enjoy the surroundings as I had been in the desert and rugged terrain of the mountains, it¡s just a matter of getting there now.

My plan has always been to rest a few days in Mexico City and begin the return journey on a slightly different route. But looking at myself and assessing objectively, I'm not up for it... my boots are shot and my feet remind me of it daily.. I had the soles replaced way back in Parral, just past the half way point, and have had trouble with them ever since. Now they're completely worn through, as is the leather at the bend points. Since Zacatecas, I've been looking for replacement boots but have found nothing but rubbery, soft walking shoes that wouldn't last 100 miles, much less the 2,000 back to Denver... maybe there are some to be found in Mexico City, but as the largest city in the world, how long will it take me to search for them? How long will they last? How many times will I have to break in new soles?

And my backpack... a key rivet in the suspension snapped a month or so ago, and despite every attempt at a repair, the weight can be only be borne unevenly on two hips points and one shoulder, or two shoulder points and one hip, but not balanced. I've successfully ignored it, but three more months of constant fidgeting and shifting won't serve me well.

I'm woeful. I've been thinking all along that I'll pass through the cool places again and discover other ones for the rest of the winter... can't see it happening though. So, contemplating this for the last several hundred kilometers but only really deciding yesterday, when I arrive at Mexico City, I'll find a bus to take me back (trains are only for cargo here, no passengers). Alas, it will be over prematurely. The bus will take me back over the same general route, so I'll be able to review from a high-speed distance the land that I've been walking.

Different kinds of pilgrims

2011-01-06T21:30:00.002+01:00

I'm in a pilgrim land of sorts, a bidirectional corridor for pilgrims going to the Basilica in Mexico City and to the second-most visited cathedral in the country, San Juan de los Lagos. So when I arrive at a church and say that I'm a pilgrim, the stares aren't as gaping. Nonetheless, I don't fit the image of the regular pilgrim.

The typical pilgrimages here occur in enormous groups, departing on a particular day of the year from a particular village; often, the sexes are separated with men-only pilgrimages from a village during one month and women-only during another month. These pilgrims walk on the shoulder of the highway - major four-lane tollways - eat there, and sleep there, too. They walk in tennis shoes carrying a bag with food and a blanket. When they tire, they lie down and cover themselves for a few hours' rest, then continue on. They walk through the night, day in and day out until they reach their destination.

Not judging here, but if this were the style of pilgrimage in Europe, I never would have begun. I couldn't think of anything less pleasant than this type of journey. The constant noise of the trucks and busses, the stress, the pollution, the trash at the side of the road, the rotting corpses of dead dogs and cows... not for me! And the groups of more than 1,000 pilgrims at a go, all walking, unable to speak to each other except in screams above the noise of the traffic, sleeping meters from the traffic, eating there, and, uh, there are no bathrooms alongside the highway... who came up with this?? Why does it persist?? With the beauty and tranquility of the countryside just a kilometer or two away from the highway, why choose the pavement?? Ever year, many pilgrims are killed during these types of pilgrimages, hit by trucks or busses. Doh.

A sacristan told me of a priest in Irapuato who has a route from village to village that's not along the highway, but searched in vain for him to get the list of villages. No other priest has been able to advise me of anything but to walk along the highway. I search and I find routes, mostly parallel with the railroad tracks, and certainly far more tranquil than the highway. Maybe I add a few kilometers every day, but it's worth it to me. And every day, someone calls me 'loca' for walking such a great distance as Denver. Long, peaceful, harmonious kilometers, as a pilgrimage should be (in my opinion).

Happy New Year

2010-12-31T22:08:00.003+01:00

Just a quick note because I haven't finished my walking for the day but spotted a roadside convenience store/internet cafe and didn't want to pass the opportunity.

My short easy days into Mexico City still have turned into more kilometers than expected, a lack-of-map issue, but no big deal. I've passed the 3,000 kilometer mark (1,872 miles) and still have more than 300 kilometers to go. Since San Juan de los Lagos, I've been in pilgrim territory, though I haven't seen any. Pilgrims here seem to flock together in great hoards - thousands - and only on certain days of the year from certain starting points. And, oddly, only walk on the major highways, and from what I've been told, mostly a night. For this reason, the daily destination towns are known, but there's no marked trail. The unpaved country roads are really quite lovely and fully suitable for tranquil walking, it's ashame pilgrims stick to the noisy, polluted, dangerous, and stressful highways. Alas, I ask frequently for a suggested route, but am only told to go to the major highway... to ask the number of kilometers until the next village is as meaningless as handing an untrained person a sheet of music and asking how many incidentals are in the final coda. Huh? So I begin my days not knowing if I'll be walking for 6 or 8 or 12 hours before dinner and have little way of knowing the answer until I arrive.

I'm on track for January 12th. Twelve more days until I get to the Basilica and the end of the walk. The soles of my boots wore out weeks and weeks ago, but my pilgrim spirit is still strong =)

Fast Moving Days

2010-12-30T02:24:00.002+01:00

I've crossed through four Mexican States in the last week alone! Zacatecas, a gold- and silver-mining district, Aguascalientes, a thermal region though I found no hot springs, Jalisco big into dairy farming, and now Guanajuato. Fast going, but still difficult to find paths other than the major highways. It´s amazing how little people know about their surrounding lands... if they go anywhere, it's in their shiny pickup or fully equipped SUV and to the highway as quickly as possible. I'm still bushwhacking to avoid the traffic, but well rewarded for the effort. No sooner did I mention the lack of clouds, clouds appeared. A palpable sense of humidity in the air. Nice. Greener, too, more trees, fewer cacti, many more bodies of water. I like the change. Despite the greater number of villages, I still seem to have to walk long days... with an average of closer to 40 km per day than the 30 I was striving for. Ah well, it keeps me busy =)

Feliz Navidad

2010-12-25T04:55:00.002+01:00

I'm spending this very merry Christmas at a convent in the capital city of Aguascalientes where 8 aging nuns supervise 39 orphan girls. We've been having a grand and festive time this evening. It's always interesting spending a holiday in a different culture. The girls are all outside at the moment whacking a sparkling pinata with a long stick while blindfolded and singing.

I've made a lot of southward progress through a lot of territories. Once in the mining district way back in Parral, I was technically out of the Chihuahua Desert, but one wouldn't really notice. The vegetation is a bit thicker, though far from 'lush', and a few of the rivers actually have water in them, but it's the dry season everywhere and the varieties of cactus are more numerous, so it all still looks very deserty. And feels it - every type of plant has prickers or spines or some other barbed weapon to use against me with vengence.

Desert it may be, but it provides! Out bushwhacking, I inadvertently bypassed a village (single-story mud-colored cubicles blend into the surroundings remarkably well). Without the village to refill my water bottles - actually Platypus bags, which I highly recommend for their collapsability - I had a dry and thirsty hot afternoon. The Nopal cactus is in full bloom this time of year, and beautifully adorned with bright red fruits called tunas. Having seen these fruits for sale at the market stalls, I was compelled to give them a try. With a leaping swing of a walking stick, and using my sombrero as a catcher's mitt, the harvest of a hatfull of fruits was easily made. De-spining them a bit more challenging. A few whirls around the inside of the hat gets most of the invisible barbs off of the tough skin. Peeled with a small pocket knife, an egg-sized brilliant red juicy fruit is left. Tasty, refreshing, and a bit seedy, akin to pomegranate and entirely thirst-quenching. A hatfull left me satisfied and with pricked fingers stained pink.

I crossed the Tropic of Cancer a few days ago... winterpilgrim in the tropics; it's an oxymoron! I haven't seen a cloud in the sky for well over a month. Every day is in the mid 20sC/70sF and every night at the freezing point. A bit warm for my comfort, but not bad at all. I wouldn't mind a few clouds, though. Even in the desert, every day was like walking through an aviary and the further south, the greater variety of songbirds. Many people keep caged birds for their singing abilities, but the birds hidden in the trees produce a remarkable volume.

I took advice opposite of what a priest told me and headed on a dirt road into the mountains rather than the path alongside the highway. I was rewarded by a day's walk in a beautiful deep canyon lined with steep villages and terraces with stone walls. This is what it is to be a pilgrim on foot... I'm sure the priest isn't aware of this canyon, unseen from the highway on the plateau above. I wonder how many other Mexicans are aware of it. I wouldn't have missed it. The principle town in the canyon is San José de la Isla, founded back in the 1500s on the conquistadors' march to find mineral wealth. The tricky part is, even though I was able to find a map of the state of Zacatecas, most villages are not indicated, many of those that are present, are placed in the wrong place, and a good number of them are given the wrong name. So having a map isn't such a benefit after all. San José de la Isla is listed on the map as Genaro Codina, a name change in the 1950s to promote revolutionary figures. Ask anyone and they'll tell you the town is San José. Agh, how to cope sometimes. Nonetheless, an excursion off the beaten path is well worth the effort.

The further south, the greater the population density. Finding villages is getting easier, and finding a day's destination 30 to 35 km southward is now quite reasonable. I'll take a day of rest in Aguascalientes for Christmas day and make some repairs before continuing southward. I'm targeting January 12th for the arrival at the Basilica in Mexico City, which means averaging less than 33 km per day from here on. Easy-peasy.

Walking with the Saints

2010-12-20T00:09:00.004+01:00

On my first great pilgrimage, from Canterbury to Rome, I was startled one afternoon when in Switzerland and a woman described pilgrims as 'walking with the Saints through time.' Since that moment, I've often thought of that description. It's certainly easy to become familiar with many Saints on the pilgrim trails through Europe. Carvings, paintings, statues, grottos... all sorts of art and architectural elements relate the stories of these many real-live people who lived long ago in Europe, and thanks to their subsequent sainthood, have become part of the cultural fabric of the land. What better way to pass those ten-minute breaks in village churches in France playing 'Name-that-Saint'?

I've gotten to know many of their stories and carry them with me on my long, often isolated, treks. Being a hardcore engineer, I'm not one who falls toward the inexplicable; on the other hand, I've realized that not everything has an explanation, nor needs one.

While I walk, I think of my favorite Saints as part of the team heading off to the Basilica in Mexico City. Saint Rocco, the pilgrim... he comes to mind when my feet are tired and I've still got many kilometers to go to get to the next village. Saint Martin of Tours, my horseman, always depicted in his Roman soldier's uniform on a gallant steed cutting his cloak in two to share with a cold beggar (or maybe pilgrim). Outside of Poitiers, I spent a night in the monastery he founded, so we're pals, obviously. Saint Joan of Arc - I spent a pilgrim night in her hometown - also mounted and in ridiculously shiny armor completely unsuited for the desert heat and dust. San Juan de Ortega, the Dominican abbot whose abbey church in the north of Spain has an astronomical phenomon wherein on the spring equinox the rising and setting sun illuminates a particular series of columns that depict a passage from Genesis. Saints Catherine of Siena and Rose of Viterbo, I took refuge in each of their convents during my way to Rome, were both of rather weak constitution, so I don't call upon them often during the rigors of my journey. There are others, too, but these are some of my go-to Saints.

I've been doing a lot of bush-whacking lately - cutting through the rugged terrain without benefit of a trail (or map). I think of Joan on horseback to my left and Martin to my right and sometimes appeal to them to go on ahead and reconnoiter on the next ridge to plan the advance. One recent day, I could see from the ridge, going down to the left would be difficult through thick undergrowth, but to the right, a more unfavorable steep, narrow canyon, unpassable. Joan's way won, but without her armor, the prickery vegetation would lead to a lot of bloodshed. Ah ha, a cornfield, unseen from above, provided me with the inspiration to wrap my lower legs with the rustic armor of corn husks. I made it through the thicket largely unscathed, and for the first time, without ripping my hiking pants and without having to spend hours de-thorning them. Joan saved the day!

Some days later, a similar call-to-arms. This time, Joan's side was unpassable, but Martin's, not so easy on foot. I could see from the vantage of height the need to cross a wide arroyo, then a dry island of tall cactuses and mesquite crossed by a myriad of cowpaths, and then only one correct path out the far side up the hillside and onto a truck track. I actually thought: It will take a miracle to find that one path out. Plunging downward into the obscurity of a labrynth, I didn't know how I would manage but resolved myself to spending hours applying some unknown logic to make it through. As I jumped down into the arroyo (=dry river) who appeared - and this was miles and miles from the nearest ranch - but a cowboy on a tall horse. I explained my plight and with one strong arm, he pulled me up onto the horse behind his saddle (I wish I could convey the idea of grace on my part, but it was all very awkward, being so small and all, and it was a very tall horse...). I was almost afraid to ask his name for fear of the answer, but it had to be done. Luis. Very suitable; 'Martino' would really have freaked me out. He rode me through the maze of paths in the cactus and mesquite and out to the truck trail. I made it to the next village before sunset. Oh happy day Martin! Luis was far more Huck Finn-ish than a Roman-era knight, but whatever...

Some distance back - around Parral, if I recall rightly - I checked my compass one day just out of habit and noticed it was behaving pretty wonky. Mining districts tend to make compasses unreliable. It's not that it matters very much. I haven't seen a cloud in the sky in over a month. The sun's position is unerring. Lacking a map for as long as I was, I had only a general sense of my day's direction - somewhere between east and south everyday taking not of boundary conditions - the principal highway to my far far left and the tallest sierras to my far far right. I call Juan de Ortega up front. Check my math, Juan. A reliable geographic compass can be made with a stick and an analog watch. True north, not magnetic north is the better instrument anyway. Holding one of my walking sticks upright, I align the short hand of the watchface with the direction of the shadow made by the stick onto the ground. With the other stick, I etch a line into the sand perpendicular to the shadow. Twelve on the watch points to true north; six to south. I scratch these lines into the sand as well. I find some point on the horizon in the direction I know I need to walk that day - southeast, for example - and note the angle between the shadow and this direction: acute or obtuse. For another hour or two, I can gage my progress from both the point on the horizon and the magnitude of the angle made by the shadow and my direction of travel. It's not so complicated to do, but I like to think Juan watches over my shoulder to make sure I don't mess up.

Meet a Saint and he's your friend and team mate. I'll be soon coming into the lands of San Juan Diego. Maybe he'll become more active. Maybe he already did by nudging the Native American who judged how long it would take me to get to Indè? Who's to argue?

Laughable Language Gaffs

2010-12-19T23:54:00.003+01:00

I can't be expected to get through the Spanish language without flubs in just 6 weeks, but a few mistakes I have to laugh at myself for...

'¿Tiene hambre?' ('Are you hungry?')
'No, soltera' ('No, I'm single.')

Written, the words hambre and hombre are easy to distinguish, but spoken, it's sometimes very difficult to tell them apart. I usually have hunger, but no man.

'¿Està casata?' ('Are you married?')
'Poco; solo mis pies, verdad.' ('A little, only my feet really.')

Again, listen to the words consada (=tired) and casata and try to tell them apart when you're truly tired. After a few stares and sudden changes in conversation (I thought we were talking about my tired feet, and we've moved on to whether I have a husband...??) and I explored the vocabulary a bit further. Now I've got it.

I'm sure I've made other goofs, but those two I know about. And can laugh out loud!

No Time or Distance

2010-12-09T02:47:00.002+01:00

I'd whittled down the 'needs' of a pilgrim to the bear minimum... a safe place to sleep (heat and comfort set aside as 'wants'), some water to wash, maybe something to eat, and a map. The map has now fallen off the list. I looked all around the city of the Parral for a map of the state of Durango to no avail.

Other than the general guidance of 'walk south', I'm at the mercy of the locals every day. 'How many kilometers to the next village?' or 'Is there a village 35 or 40 kilometers along the old route to Mexico City?' are the questions I ask with little hope of getting a valuable answer. I'm convinced that no Mexican has walked further than their own village cemetary. Few people know what a kilometer is or how long it possibly would take to walk one. Arghh. Head south...Mexico City is the largest city in the world, how could I possibly miss it?

I was heading south across some corn fields toward the pre-columbian town of Indè, in the mountains a few days ago. I'm out of the desert now, heading up up up into the foothills of the Sierra Madres. I asked every one I passed, how far to Indè? The answers varied from 4 km to 45 km. How can I plan based on these kinds of answers?? Head south.

I saw some of the Native Americans, who come down during the harvest time to help in the fields. The women and girls dress in long colorful skirts, so they're easy to identify. Harvesting corn is a family affair. Taking a break under a shade tree, I asked a family how far to Indè. How many kilometers? How many hours by foot? The older man silently pointed to the sun then pointed to two mountain peaks drawing their M shape with his finger. Then, without the flourish of a magician making a coin disappear, he covered one hand with the other.

Sure enough, four hours later, just as I crossed over the progressively higher ridges on a winding dirt road and looked down at the sleepy hamlet, I looked up at the two peaks of the M and watched the sun sink behind them. Who needs a map when there's a sensible native around who walks from place to place instead of taking a ride in a pickup truck.

Race Relations

2010-11-26T18:53:00.002+01:00

A funny event a few evenings ago in a hacienda of a small town...

I arrived just as the extended family was finishing their evening supper. The grandmother of the house was clearing the table and everyone was lingering in the twilight. I went to the kitchen sink to wash my hands before eating my plate of beans and tortillas when the grandmother noticed how dirty my tee shirt was - carrying half the desert off on my clothing. I admit, my shirt was nearly too dirty to even wear, but what else does one do?

It was too much for her to fathom, and by the looks of the kitchen, she's the perpetual cleaner type. There at the kitchen sink, in front of the tableful of family, she started screeching at the condition of my shirt and pulled it right off over my head, proceeding to scrub it on a washboard with what looked like a wire brush and plenty of boiling water from the kettle on the woodburning stove. In the meantime, before I had a chance to react to the imposed modesty of standing in my sports bra in front of a mixed group of strangers, the smallest of the group climbed over each other with words like 'she is a white person', 'like the white of an egg' and 'with chili flakes' (pointing at some freckles). The adolescent boys giggled uncomposed and the older men laughed heartily at the grandmother's unstoppable audacity. By the time one of the men stepped out and snapped a flannel shirt off the line under the veranda, everyone was laughing, even the grandmother at her own behavior. It was a good learning experience for the little kids, and frankly I doubt any of the adults had seen the white flanks of a gringa before, and I came away with a very clean, slightly lardy smelling, tee shirt. Pointellistically freckled arms and face, white as egg whites everywhere else.

Day of Rest

2010-11-26T18:34:00.002+01:00

Happy Thanksgiving fellow Americans! I arrived in the colonial mining town of Hidalgo del Parral yesterday afternoon with one strong thought on my mind: I'd like a day of rest. No walking. Ah. a break from the blinding sun is inviting, sure, but I've got to find new soles for my hiking boots. They're completely worn through and I feel every pebble tenderly.

Somewhere between Chihuahua City and here, I've passed the half-way point. Forty-seven days to here and something between 40 and 45 days to go until Mexico City, I think. I'm nearly out of the state of Chihuahua, too, Mexico's largest. I've climbed in elevation and the area more mountainous and vegetation bigger, even shade-producing. I like it. Last night, the temperature was -4C. Nice. I need to find a map of the next state, Durango, and figure out a path to get to Durango City, maybe two weeks away by foot. I hope to find towns a bit closer together to reduce my daily distances. I'm still walking an average of 38 kilometers per day (= 24 miles per day) but there's a wide standard deviation with too many days over 50 kilometers (= 31 miles) for the comfort of my little feet.

I've noticed that I've taken on a ridiculous but necessary habit walking in the desert, that of absentmindedly sitting with my knees tucked to my chin so I can pluck the cactus thorns out of my pantlegs. I caught a reflection of myself doing this and immediately thought of chimps ridding their mates of lice. Agh! My sister would not approve! It must be done though. After walking a few steps in the brush of the local vegetation, I come out looking like a porcupine. The big spines are easy, though painful, to remove but the tiny ones are nearly invisible and can only be found more painfully. Whenever I sit for a rest, even a short rest, I de-thorn my clothing. Pants off, if necessary. How do the prickers work their way into my undies???

National Geographic Moment

2010-11-26T18:08:00.003+01:00

We've been trained by advertising to have 'Kodak Moments' and it takes little imagination to stretch it to 'National Geographic Moments' (or maybe 'Nature Channel Moments'). I have a lot of them, walking in the wilderness as I do. Recently, in the seemingly endless desert, looking for another of Mother Nature's powder rooms, I tapped my walking sticks on the ground in a circle around my selected location to ward off snakes and other creatures. In an instant, from out of the sky, talons first, appeared the largest raptor I've ever seen to snatch a fat black rat off the ground a meter in front of me. I never even saw the rat before his demise, just heard his little scream in the clutches of the giant bird. No exageration, the torso of the bird was the size of a school child and the wingspan beyond my area of focus. Talons outstretched, we were eye to eye. He was gone with a few enormous wind-generating flaps leaving me covered in the white sand of the desert floor. I was far too startled to pee for a good long while after that experience. Wow. A nature photographer couldn't have gotten that shot in a decade of baiting the scene with fat black rats.

I related the experience to a couple running a small roadside shop later in the day. Àguila Real, a Royal Eagle, the old man was certain from the description, though he thought the one I saw sounded on the small side. He told me this while preparing a small meal for me - the ubiquitous beans and tortillas - and sprinkled some cakey yellow powder on top. They keep the rattlesnakes under control, and the desert rats and other creatures, so they're a beneficial part of the ecosystem. He was rather proud of the fact that the eagles of Chihuahua are bigger than those in the US, but conceded that the mountain lions are smaller. He talked a lot about the rattlesnakes and was very interested in how many I've seen and where I've been spotting them. They're the desert's secret, he told me, and pointed to the yellow powder. Ground, dried rattlesnake. (ewwww) A cure-all for cancer, bronchitis, acne, etc. And the sac of fat on the intestines, the best medicine. Doctors, he insisted, won't accept that the simple desert people know better than they do so won't ever prescribe rattlesnake, but it works, he's certain. This time of year is good for collecting rattlesnakes because they're slower moving and not so aggressive. Catch them, kill them, skin them, dry them, grind up the meat and put it on everything you eat and rub it on your skin. His wife added that it will get stains out of clothing, too.

Mas frijoles, por favor, sin vibores.

El Toro!

2010-11-20T20:17:00.003+01:00

Walking ever southward, gaining in elevation, the terrain more mountainous, climbing over numerous barbed wire fences and crossing countless cattle grates... late one afternoon I passed through a penned field of cattle. Nothing unusual. They usually scurry. I had my sombrero down low over my eyes because of the angle of the setting sun. Some meters ahead of me, a cow stubbornly wasn't scurrying from the path like the rest. What a long skinny ugly udder, I thought. He half turned blocking the entire path lined with saltcedar. El Toro! Blanco! Gran! Oops on that misidentification. He half-turned again facing me. Conveniently with his head held high, he blocked the sun casting his shadow over me.

Yikes! Danger, Will Robinson. Quick: Hazards Analysis. Risk Assessment. Standard Operating Procedure (Draft). This type of thinking comes automatically after a long career in dealing with uncontrolled nuclear materials.

He snorted dust and stomped the ground stirring up a cloud of white sand. I can't outrun him, there's no where to hide. He stomped again. I've intruded on his world. My bad. At the third stomp, I leaned toward him and slapped my walking sticks together shouting 'Andele! Andele!' He stared for the briefest instance then ran off through the saltcedar. The cows and steers and calves stampeded after him all leaving me alone in a huge cloud of white dust. Huh, scared off a bull, and all without a sequined bolero jacket. Success.

Ah Chihuahua

2010-11-20T20:00:00.002+01:00

I've finished the third segment of the journey. It will get easier from here, people assure me. Certainly as I've progressed southward, the desert is more frequently irrigated, there are more frequent ranches and hamlets and signs of life. I might only walk two or three hours without seeing signs of humanity. The desert stretches further southward, but it also increases in elevation, making the environment less harsh. We'll see.

I've arrived in Chihuahua for it's Revolution Day celebration, so everything is well decorated and the shops in the pedestrian district of the historic city center all have big sales advertised. Chirstmas decorations abound, too. Interesting that the red-white-and-green color theme of the Mexican flag are the same as for the Christmas season. It's certainly nice here, but it's a big city. The absence of noise is something I've gotten used to out in the desert; here its presence is overwhelming.

As I entered the city limits, I sat for a rest in a small shack seafood restaurant, as it was the first place I saw where I could take a break. The folks were friendly, as usual, and a fresh seafood salad made a nice change from the ubiquitous beans and tortillas. Once I explained that I'm a pilgrim, the fee for the small meal was waived for a mention to Our Lady at the Basilica in Mexico. Por supuesto! Marisco de la Playa, if anyone happens by Chihuahua, is a terrific place for restoration.

Onward toward Parral. I was told emphatically that taking the highway to Jimenez and then Torreon is the fastest way to Mexico City but I'll continue on the historical path of the Camino Real to Hidalgo del Parral and then Durango. It's not like I can walk any faster along the highway than on the sandy path through the desert. I choose the desert way once again, as the missionaries of centuries ago did. Parral in maybe a week and then Durango a few weeks following. Internet connections can be expected to be sparse again, so have faith that I'm still walking happily on the pilgrim trail. Buen Camino!

Desert Life

2010-11-20T19:38:00.003+01:00

The amount of activity in the desert is remarkable. People insist I should be firstly scared and secondly bored by walking alone through the desert. They just don't understand it. While it's a little off-putting to walk for six, seven, eight hours or more without ever seeing a sign of humanity except for the distant high tension lines that link Juarez with Chihuahua, a lot is happening in the desert that neither bores me nor frightens me.

There's a surprising variety of vegetation. At times, there are naked sand dunes with only a few sticks of vegetation poking out here and there. Other times, the dunes are covered with scrappy, prickly ground cover. Large pads of cactus grow tall or broad but never both. Within a short distance, there will suddenly be a veritible forest of scruffy, prickly saltcedar bushes that hold the dunes in place. Everywhere except in the denuded sand dune areas, big balls of rabbit sage hold onto the sand by one small stem, like the knot in a balloon.

The desert is strongly animated, too. Most entertaining are the sudden dust devils that spout up instantaneously with a puff of wind. The sand is whipped into a mini funnel cloud that races for some irratic distance setting aloft a handful of tumbleweeds that bounce in the air above the dust like beach balls above the fans at a rock concert. The windburst ends and the tumbleweeds fall to the ground in a few bounces. Within minutes, it seems, another dust devil whips itself into life somewhere else in the forward perifery.

Animals abound even in the heat of the day. Hares and jack rabbits are most common, but it's fun to see the fat ears of a desert fox bouncing above the dried grasses blowing in the breeze. Coyotes, as well, but they always stop and stare at me in a rather suspicious way until I pass. As much as people keep insistig that the snakes are all gone for the season, every day I see rattlesnakes, though they're not threatening in any way.

While the snakes are silent, there are a half a dozen different bird calls audible often. The sandhill cranes still follow me, invisibly flying above with their noisy squalk draw my attention upward.

As I head southward, the knee-high grasses more frequently erupt around watering holes fed by wind-operated groundwater wells. Consequently, cattle and horses often punctuate that horizon. The cattle vocalize their opinion of my intrusion but the horses are always curious and gallop in broad circles around me, whinnying playfully. That's a beautiful sight.

I'm not so suited for the desert climate, but it's enjoyable to walk through and really get to experience it up close and personally.

To the Halls of Moctezuma

2010-11-20T19:10:00.003+01:00

Life in a small desert town, way off the beaten track:

Leaving Villa Ahumada with the sullen news that the next inhabited place was over 50 kilometers away, I knew I was in for a hard day of walking. The pueblo of Moctezuma is not on my map and the good nuns at the convento were only vague as to it's location except to say that it's not on the highway, but several kilometers to the east. I can add that spotting the low earth-tone adobe buildings from any distance is a challenge in itself. Maybe it would be easier after dark, if they have any lights on.

Late in the afternoon, sunburnt and parched, I saw an approaching cloud of sand that signifies a pickup truck crossing the desert floor. The driver, Arturo, stopped close to me and let the dust settle before introducing himself. He heard from the sisters in Villa Ahumada that I was heading to Moctezuma and thought that I might use some help finding it. Stepping up on the sideboard outside the driver's door, I accepted his assistance for those last few kilometers. If he was following a road, I couldn't discern it. Tumbleweed and scrappy saltcedar were all I could see among the cactus. Nonetheless, appearing from the sand was a village of sorts - thirty or so adobe huts, some connected, some isolated; some newly stuccoed, some melting back into the sand. One of these huts had a shack in front with a notice that it's the community tienda. This is where I was to ask for the key to the church, according to the instructions of the nuns.

Arturo let me off once he was sure I could see the village and then took off in a cloud of dust. In the village, which has no 'center', some ladies came out to greet me. Gringa! Peregrina! then, Pere-gringa! laughing at their joke. There only thing more surprising than seeing an American woman in their desert village is seeing a pilgrim. There was no way they would let me sleep in the cold church. One of the ladies - Dora - arranged with a neighbor - well, they're all neighbors, really - and cousin - they're all somehow related, too - and widow for me to sleep in an extra bed. Dora's a good cook and fed me well and plentifully... all of the households I've been in make their own tortillas, both flour and corn types, and beans and some type of beef and vegetable soup. I was taken to meet all of the women in the village, stopping for coffee and cookies often, and even to an outlying ranch where the kids were learning roping skills. The village boasts a kindergarden and both primary and secondary schools. Dora was from the village but had moved to Chihuahua city for ten years. She moved back a few years ago so that her children could run around outside safely instead of being confined to the city streets.

In the evening, many of the village men came traipsing by Dora's home to meet me. One elderly man spoke a few words of English and insisted that I correct any slang he might say, as he wants to be able to speak 'perfect English'. For what and to whom I didn't get. Another old man bound to a wheelchair with a trucker's cap embroidered with the words 'Rock Out with your Cock Out' went into soft tears telling me of his devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe and scribbled a note for me to bring to her in Mexico City. I have to believe he doesn't know the meaning his cap bears.

I've been invited to return on March 19th when they celebrate their village patron, Saint Joseph. A big fiesta, I'm assured, even the Bishop will come from Juarez. If I'm back this way around then, I'll be sure to return. Three kilometers from the highway and with no shops or other offerings, not many people make their way to the warm and gentle people of Moctezuma. Lacking a stamp, the ladies each signed my credenziale to make sure my stop there would never be forgotten.

Walking across the Interior

2010-11-13T01:04:00.003+01:00

A quick message from cyberspace...

I had no troubles crossing the border on foot, in fact because of the escalating violence in the Juarez underworld, I was alone at the control point... not many are entering Juarez these days. I was quite quickly whisked away to a convent of elderly nuns for my night´s stay. Reminiscent of my days with old women of Ukraine, my name was immediately diminutized - in Spanish ´Anita´ instead of the Russian ´Anushka´- and I was fed a huge meal, constantly having my ribs poked and comments made that I´m too small to walk such a great distance.

It took a while to walk out of the bustling city, but once into the desert, I was rather alone. My options are to walk along the divided highway with it´s noisy tractor trailers and frequent military control points or to walk across the open desert. This I learned rapidly: the desert is made of sand. Sand makes for a herculean task for the calves. I don´t mind walking on the sand, and can add teranchula to the list of wildlife I´ve witnessed, and when my legs scream out, I walk along the road to the frequent and uncomfortable toots of the truckers. I feel like I´m altering the ecosystem with the amount of sand I carry off stuck to the coating of perspiration and sunscreen, but I suppose since I wash it off daily I´m only transfering it a bit southward. It´s a big desert - nearly the size of Germany - so how much damage can one little pilgrim do by shifting the sands a bit?

Pueblos are few and far between. I´m trying to cap a day at 50 kms but have to work with what´s available. I don´t wish to sleep out in the desert - spiders and other creatures of the night - so when I approached an isolated ranch (one where I could see women´s and baby´s clothes hanging on the line to dry) I simply asked if I could be accommodated. No problema. Cool.

Back in Las Cruces, photos were taken with a few of the folks who received me with open hearts. I´m really quite pink from the sunglass line to the neck of my tee shirt and on my arms and hands, except for the straps from my walking sticks. Goofy. The winter pilgrim look of the season.

Arrived safe in Juarez

2010-11-10T17:05:00.001+01:00

This is the pilgrim in training (pit) reporting Winter Pilgrim has safely crossed the border into Mexico with no problems or conflicts. She doesn't think she will get close to a computer for a awhile and wanted people to know every thing is going well and she has lots of stories to tell. She was spending the night at a convent of retired nuns near Juarez, Mexico.

Pushing the Limits

2010-11-06T18:15:00.005+01:00

Finally, I've found a computer to update this blog, sorry for the silence... I'm writing this from a public library in Las Cruces, just a few days' walk from the Mexican border...

Many adventures have happily befallen me since leaving Albuquerque yet I've come to the conclusion that while the smallest sliver of a segment of the body of pilgrims would be interested in walking this camino, it's really well-suited to bicycling pilgrims. The desert is big; the rest stops distant. Two days back to back, 37 miles of desert walking. THIRTY-seven. Thirty-SEVEN. That's 60 kilometers each of those two days... no interim rest stops... high desert... and just my luck (ugh!) unseasonably high temperatures! No clouds, no trees, no shade whatsoever. Deep gullies, canyons, gulches, dusty dry creekbeds. Hard going. The missionaries avoided this western side of the Rio Grande for the more desirable 'Jornado del Muerto', 96 flat, waterless miles a distance from the eastern bank. In modern times, though, much of the Jornado del Muerto is privately owned and fenced off, so I walked along a deserted old paved ribbon across the desert south of Socorro.

Exactly midway between Socorro and Truth or Consequences (that's really the name of a town), is the Santa Fe Diner and Truckstop. How fortunate for a pilgrim on foot. The gracious sheriff of Socorro County had helped me find accommodation in Socorro and worked with me on the possibilities of walking south. (Lacking a stamp for my credenziale, he glued in an embroidered sheriff's badge!) He called ahead to make sure I could stay the night at this sole oasis and everything was blissfully arranged. How could I possibly walk 37 miles in one day???? Necessity breeds action. I left a good hour before the break of dawn - Orion right there where he should be in the moonless sky above and slightly to my right. I pressed onward in the rugged terrain unable to avoid crushing the innumerable scattered shed exoskeletons of giant grasshoppers, many in the process of being shed. Their unpredictable leaping - like fist-sized popcorn - is a bizarre form of entertainment. Darting desert hares, small rabbits, migrating sandhill cranes, rattlesnakes, lizards, enormous beetles, roadrunners, and coyotes also animated the desert scene. With few places to sit and rest, and no shade anyway, there was no option but to keep walking. Eventually, first Venus and then Cassiopeia took their rightful places in the sky ahead and slightly to the left and soon enough, the bold Milky Way dropped to the horizon directly in front of me marking my destination. Once fully dark, the light from the merest crescent of a moon was overpowered by the number of stars. I was distracted from the sky by the night howls of coyotes and the sound of two javelinas (peccaries) battling (or mating?) frighteningly close by. I swung the beam of my flashlight in the direction of their grunting and tusk gnashing, then quickly doused it and refocused my attention on the sky. Over my right shoulder, the enormous Big Dipper sat directly on the silhouette of a distant western mesa, like a pot on a stovetop. Thankfully, not long afterward, in the distance I saw the lights of the diner and truckstop and nearly ran the last two miles. (The old paved road is equipped with milemarkers for error-free calculating.)

This oasis is full of character. Several vintage 1930 railcars are lashed together in the desert to make a fine cafe with a menu much more diverse than a standard truckstop - who ever heard of fresh made hummus on a truckstop menu? - pool hall and giftshop/general store. There are a few adobe huts at one end kitted out as fully equipped guest rooms. They were expecting me. My feet ached constantly, but once I took off my boots, the pain was excruciating for a good half hour, but the warmth of the conversation with Salem the owner and Julie the waitress and a few other diners was a terrific balm. The interstate highway parallels the old desert road and intersects at this diner, so on foot I was isolated, but at this oasis, I was hardly alone.

Another day of the same - with an old hermit named Rex homesteading midway to Truth or Consequences who happily refilled my waterbottles from his deep well, and I was out of the difficult part of the New Mexican segment of the Chihuahuan Desert. Here's the great reward: Truth or Consequences took it's name in the mid 1950s as part of a radio program contest; previously, it was known as Hot Springs. Three dollars gets you a half-hour soak in a great wooden tub of 103-degree natural hot spring soothing water. Oh how my feet loved that! As much as my feet liked it, my sunburnt arms, neck, and face needed frequent showers of cool water. On bicycle, the 74 miles between Socorro and Truth or Consequences could be done in one day fairly easily; on foot, I don't think I'd enjoy it a second time.

oh, and after the general moratorium on watercolor painting on the Native lands (they prohibit it without special permits) and the long long walks taking all of my time and water, I haven't gotten too many more paintings to show. It'll be a bit hectic crossing the border, but afterwards, I hope things will become a bit more routine again. Still loving the pilgrim life!

On America's Long Camino

2010-10-27T22:13:00.003+02:00

El Camino Real, from Taos to Mexico City... 400 years as a thoroughfare leading to Spain's New World headquarters. I've been walking on or near the actual path used by missionaries, traders and soldiers well before the English made it to the eastern shores of this continent. Ah, to be walking right through history. The stretch out of Santa Fe was particularly rewarding... across a broad mesa separating Rio Arribo (upriver) and Rio Abajo (downriver) of the Rio Grande valley.

I walked the easy switchback up, lee of the wind, and nearly immediately learned the sport of tumbleweed polo as I got to the flat treeless surface. Tumbleweeds, as ubiquitous as mistletoe in Europe except dried and escaped from the tree holds, skirt near the ground surface alternatively getting launched or thrown to the ground. Somehow, my head seems to have a magnet for attracting them... walking sticks double as polo mallets to whack them past without injury. It's a game I could do without but must play defensively to survive the desert landscape.

Along the top of the mesa, the deeply rutted sand and dirt path - a beige ribbon through the scrubby carpet of rabbit sage - was marked occasionally with signposts indicating that prior to 1937, this was the famous cross-country Route 66. I can't imagine it's changed much and can fully imagine a cross-country drive required a full-time tire-repair station in the rumble seat. Rattlesnakes aplenty, too, sunning themselves half out of their borrows. Long before it was integrated into Route 66, it was the Camino Real, first bringing the missionaries and their supplies to the provincial capitol of Santa Fe and later, when Mexico gained independence from Spain, connecting the Santa Fe Trail with the trade in Chihuahua. Same ruts, no doubt. After about 10 miles, it abruptly ended in a 600-foot drop. Watch that first step! Switchbacks through the black airy basalt that were difficult enough on foot... carts wouldn't have fared well.

As I experienced in Ukraine and Romania and Turkey groups of very nice people warned me to stay away from other groups of very nice people. Many different people warned me to avoid the tribal lands of various Pueblo Indians groups - they're secretive, I was told, they don't like strangers, avoid eye-contact, stay only on the main road if you must enter the reservations... blah blah blah, what do you think? such kindness I received! Waves and smiles as anyone passed me, invitations in for a cup of coffee (it's still rather cool and very windy), to sit and rest. War Chiefs and Governors have stamped my credenziale, always happy to do so; someone always offering a bite to eat and something to drink. People are people and are really kind everywhere.

As always, accommodation remains the most challenging part of the day. In Santa Fe, an archdiocese even, the old monsignor stamped my credenziale but couldn't offer hospitality, he said; same at the Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. I approached many hotels to exchange a mention on my blogsite for a simple room for the night, but everyone's booked for a conference - although one manager, after telling me how much she would love to accommodate my request and would under different circumstances, but would be happy to offer me a reduced rate of $89.95. Funny thing, though, when I had entered the city, a fellow had driven up along side of me having recognized the scallop shell on my pack. He had recently walked the Camino to Santiago! Pilgrims Unite! He had given me his card... so stuck for a place to sleep hours later as the sun was setting, I called to ask for advice.... sure, come stay at my place, I've got a pull-out couch! That's all it takes, somewhere simple and safe to lay my weary bones for some hours of restorative sleep. Ultreia!

Yesterday, a few days out of Santa Fe, I arrived in a village, particularly weary from another day of strong headwind, the church locked up, no one around... yet, a Bed-and-Breakfast... Hacienda Vargas in Algodones - oh, joy, how perfect! Right on the Camino Real (paved as a two-laned country road here) and an authentic (and now fully modernized) stagecoach stop perfectly suited to the old west. Quaintly, there's a private chapel integrated in the square-built single-story adobe cluster around a broad courtyard shaded by a huge cottonwood. Super charming...oozing with romance and comfortable as can be. And the greatest surprise was the fabulous breakfast! I broke my trend of eating lightly before setting out to tuck into the mounds of fresh hot breakfast food - when do pilgrims eat an herb souffle? If every visiting Santa Fe or Albuquerque, seek this place out for a grand reward, between the Santa Ana and San Filipe reservations. www.haciendavargas.com

Oh, and one more turn of good fortune - while in Santa Fe, I saw a flier at the church of Our Lady of Guadalupe announcing that Monsignor Chavez, leading expert on Our Lady of Guadalupe and San Juan Diego, will be giving a talk in Albuquerque this week! I missed him when he came to Denver in June, but this is just when I'll be walking through Albuqueque. Great luck! I want him to know that a pilgrim's on the trail and will be in Mexico City in middle January.

America's Great Pilgrim Destination

2010-10-24T04:32:00.006+02:00

I've arrived in Chimayo, America's most-visited pilgrim destination. New Mexico has proven to be pretty roller-coaster-y through Carson National Forest, and in the rain and low clouds, I wasn't able to see the snow on the upper peaks very often. Beautiful land... yet odd to link cactus and rain. This marks the successful completion of the first leg of my pilgrimage.

I know I've pushed a bit hard through the mountains - even with the extra weight of the snowshoes, I managed over 26 miles per day... daily mountain marathons, literally, no wonder my feet are so achy - nonetheless, I hope other pilgrims follow, at their own pace. I've found that churches are as helpful here as anywhere in Europe for assisting pilgrims with accommodation and doling out the all-important stamp for the credenziale. There are pilgrim-friendly people everywhere. This afternoon, I passed through a pretty little village of Truchas. Although a cafe, bar, restaurant, etc is lacking, when I posed the question to the first person I saw, she invited me into the cooperative gallery full of gorgeous local artwork - weavings, santos, retablos, pottery..., and poured me a cup of coffee while I unburdened myself of my pack and muddy boots at the door. We talked, others gathered, a lively pilgrim discussion, and lovely foot-rubs ensued... ahhhh.

A quick opportunity this evening to upload some of the watercolors - just snapped with the webcam, so pardon the cropping issues...

Sangre de Cristo church, San Luis, Colorado:

Church of All the Saints, atop the Stations of the Cross Shrine, San Luis:

San Francisco de Asis, Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico c.1772:

San Jose de Gracias, Las Trampas, New Mexico c.1760:

These interesting churches reflect a part of Ameican history unrelated to the pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock in 1620... the Spaniards had already colonized this area of New Mexico a generation before the first Thanksgiving in Massachusetts.

Walking through history again

2010-10-21T04:15:00.002+02:00

One of the finest parts of the pilgrim path is the connection with history. After going down down down to Canon City (and by the way, there's a tilda missing from above the first n in that town's name), I climbed up up up along the Oak Creek Grade - aptly named because of the number of scrub oaks along the gulches and brooks in every color of flame. Although I was vying for a 30-mile day, the steepness of the graded dirt road did me in... over 2,000 feet of elevation gain in just a few miles followed by rolling ups and downs that seemed positively endless. Angels, where are you??? Right there, at the Oak Creek Grade General Store. I made it as far as that and was offered some refreshment and the use of their computer for the last blog. Audrey, the proprietress matter-of-factly told me that I'd stay the night there in the cottage. It shocked me in a way because my mind was set for another 4 hours of walking, though it was already 4 in the afternoon; however, my feet and my lungs begged to accept the offer. Done. Husband Jack, an old cowboy - really and truly - was full of interesting history that makes a pilgrimage all the more worthwhile.

Oak Creek Grade was not only the path used by the early American explorer Zebulon Pike, but also a Ute footpath between their summer and winter grounds. History, right there under my feet. No towns exist along the 30-mile stretch yet people live there happily, off the grid. These off-gridders are a wholesome bunch. I've learned about 'barn churches' in rural America - working barns that are repurposed on Sundays for a makeshift multi-denominational church services. Although towns are few and yearnfully far between, the people I've met have been warm and inviting, always fulfilling my request to fill my water bottle. Without people, a pilgrimage simply couldn't work.

With some help from several off-gridders, I've made it down into the San Luis Valley. The town of San Luis itself is noteworthy for its grassroots shrine of the Stations of the Cross - bronze statues made by a local artist on a path built by the community on a hillside above the town. Atop the hill is a beautiful domed chapel in a European style. I've got some watercolors and will upload them when I get the opportunity. The important thing is that this is a beautiful pilgrim destination in its own right... hear this Denver pilgrims, 10 days of walking makes a nice pilgrimage in a spectacular and varied landscape.

New Mexico tales to follow... tomorrow, Taos!

Mountain Marathons!

2010-10-16T22:57:00.002+02:00

I'm a pilgrim again! and loving every minute of it =)

Admittedly, my feet are killing me, but I don't care. I'm glad I packed on a few extra pounds before leaving... the high mountains require far far more calories than I can possibly eat in a day, even if I were interested in carrying food along with me. Up and down the mountains, dancing around 10,000 feet... a day of rain, a day of heat, another day of rain, two more of heat... I sleep well. The thing about Colorado, aside from the variable weather and terrain, is the villages are few and very far between. Once I get to the San Luis Valley, the routine of the daily walks should be easier.

Right from the get go, I can earnestly cry out to all American pilgrims - do your next pilgrimage here!! The send off was spectacular - hundreds at the morning Mass last Sunday stayed after the overwhelming pilgrim blessing in the forecourt of the Our Lady of Guadalupe church in Denver to hug me and wish me well. It was wonderful, and very personal in a way I never experienced as a visitor in Europe. And then, after walking along the South Platte River bike path to Littleton, some fellas outside a pub shouted their greetings and insisted I let them buy me a beer and hear about my journey. That sort of thing happened nearly every time I passed such a refreshment establishment. People are kind, they really are.

As for accommodation - always the most difficult part of a pilgrimage off the beaten pilgrim paths - I've managed something every night, of course, but in such a uniquely American way: in three of the six nights on the road so far, a hotel has comped me a room in exchange for a mention on this blogsite.

In Monument, the Sundance Mountain Lodge is truly a gem - I'm not just saying that! Lodge-y comfort, big fire, nice atmosphere, terrific grounds... I slept with the door slightly open to listen to the sound of the babbling brook right outside. Also extraordinary was the dinner - a huge portion of lamb and barley stew, delectable pilgrim fare. I entered Monument on the new Santa Fe Trail footpath that they're in the process of extending between Denver and Santa Fe, and when they do, no pilgrim from Denver will have any excuse not to walk to Chimayo via this route. It's a greater distance than going through the mountains, but better accommodation opportunities and shorter daily distances are the benefits. Maybe I'll return in this route. Regardless, by foot, bike, or car, any layover in Monument should include the Sundance Mountain Lodge www.sundancemountainlodge.com.

Up in Cripple Creek - a boy is that an UP! - I entered the village at the point of exhaustion and stopped in the first place I saw - no other opportunity to even sit in a chair since leaving Woodland Park 28 miles back and several thousand feet of elevation between - a Ruby Tuesdays, where Don and the rest of the staff took very gentle care of my refreshment and revitalization. Alas they tried many avenues to help me find a place to sleep. After a short tour of the steep mining-now-gambling town, I arrived at the exquisite Hotel St Nicholas and was treated so kindly in the lap of Victorian luxury - every room is different, authentic, comfortable; elegance prevails, yet in the small-town-American way, there's not a hint of snootiness. I felt it a rare pilgrim treat to stay in such luxury - it's hard for a pilgrim to choose between the spacious, strong hot shower or the deep clawfoot tub. www.hotelstnicholas.com

Now I'm in the thick of the difficult part of Colorado - today, 30 miles to a small town where there's no resident priest, then 32 miles to no where, then another 30 miles over the last mountain range I'll need to cross in Colorado. I'd dream of the ease of the San Luis Valley, but I'm way too tired these days.

I like the walking even through the difficulties not present in European walks - I fill my water bottle from the streams and plunk a chloride tablet in and wait before drinking... I struggle to find a place to sit on the ground not already occupied by some type of cactus or otherwise prickly growth... but the beauty of the Colorado Rockies this time of year is not to be missed.

Ciao until the next time I find an internet point!

The day is right nigh!

2010-10-09T21:33:00.007+02:00

My suped-up brand-new 24-liter backpack sits fully packed on the living room floor awaiting the hour before dawn. My shiny new boots, buffed hiking poles and waxed credenziale full of empty pages...

I'm not too distressed that somehow going down in volume by 6 liters compared to last year (that's 20%!), my fully packed pack has gone up in weight by 5 pounds - yikes! - to 20 pounds but that includes the snowshoes. I hope only to need the snowshoes over the mountains of Colorado and then off-load them as soon as someone in some New Mexican town gives me reassurance that it would be highly unlikely I would need them there in April. Though flurries may fly even in the Chihuahuan desert in the dry season of winter, I don't expect that snowshoes will be necessary. Fully three pounds, they are, but warranted in the Colorado Rockies in October. Three high passes must be crossed before the sun-filled valley of the Rio Grande and wouldn't I feel like a complete putz if such unpreparedness holds me back right out of the starting gate. The snow is already pushing down from the 10,000-foot (3,000-meter) level.

The after-market modifications to my pack have been gleaned at the pilgrim's school of hard knocks. Firstly, conventional pack covers don't seem to be designed for the downpours and snowstorms I find myself in so often... it's the part between my pack and my back where the wetness seeps into the pack. No good. My designed solution is a packcove/raincape that covers the pack like a pack cover but extends at the top over my shoulders like a cape. I worked out the design and pal Eileen helped me to fabricate one to a level of smashing success on the last two trips until it got worn by age and harsh but unavoidable use and now have a second prototype made (how handy it is that my good friend took home-ec in high school and knows her way around a sewing machine... huge gratitude!)

Beyond that, I browsed through the 'swim and dancewear' aisle of the local fabric store and got a small length of two-directional spandex (in high-vis yellow) to put on the top of my pack, attached with bungee cord to the four D-rings, under which I can securely stow quick-access items, like a small water bottle and baggie full of raisins and nuts. I can reach it without taking off my pack to both get at whatever's stored there and to put it back. I long-ago discovered that a lot of unnecessary energy is expended in doffing and donning a backpack for want of easy access to needed items.

The upgraded clear plastic retractable mapcase mounted behind my head is an improvement over last year's prototype made with plastic proved too flimsy. I got simple badge-retractors from the hardware store the size of a 2-euro piece/half dollar for something like two bucks apiece. The retractable gadget survived the snow and ice and wind and rain while the zip-top clear plastic had to be repaired with packaging tape nearly every time I passed a post-office (where they unfailingly made the gratis repairs with great compassion for my plight : )) Though weightier this year by 5 ounces, the plastic sleeve is much sturdier and completely weatherproof. I have to refer to the map du jour frequently and in bad weather, the folded and unfolded paper disintegrated at an alarming rate. I liked the retraction feature so much that I've attached another one to my compass affixed to my left shoulder strap... no more dropping it in the snow.

I've added a small pair of 8x21 binoculars to my hipbelt, something I yearned for countless times of each of my walks - how many times I looked across a difficult barrier wondering what that sign said on the opposite side... an easy six-ounce and $10 solution.

One last small modification is that of silly little loops of elastic to hold down each of the strap ends that always annoyed me luffing unfettered in the breeze. Ten of these! Minutes to make and seconds to attach, and now, blissful tidiness. I think this agitated me so much on trips one and two because it was always in the worse weather that I needed to listen sharply for any number of reasons - the barking of village dogs telling me the direction of my destination; the cracking of the ice beneath my feet; the whistle of an approaching train when I found greater ease walking along the tracks - and was forced to filter out the slapping of all of the adjustable strap ends. I learned by trip three and was greatly soothed by the simple addition of little elastic loops.

For the interior, the only significant change from last year is the addition to a tailored down blanket bag shaped to the footprint of the bottom of the pack's interior. I prefer a down blanket - in truth, sold as a 'lap blanket' but perfectly sized for me as a full-size blanket - to the confinement of a sleeping bag. I used it many dozen times last winter in conjunction with my silk sleepsack for added warmth, but not every night. Expecting the same amount of usage this winter, keeping it snugly on the floor of my pack is ideal for volume reduction. It's made of the same silicon-impregnated ripstop nylon as the packcover/raincape except that the top surface is made of a durable breathable material - in actuality, surplus landscape geotextile intended to keep the weeds down in the flower garden. With the dual fabrics, the bottom and sides stay waterproof but it's not likely to get as stinky as it would in a completely unbreathable sack.

Here I rest with the excitement of a kid on Christmas Eve, staring at my possessions of the next six months. In keeping with the convention I experienced in Spain, I'll receive the ceremonial 'Pilgrim Blessing' at the end of the 8 am Mass at the Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Denver to begin my journey in the traditional manner. Of course, I'll get the first stamp in my credenziale. Afterward, I walk the few city blocks to the South Platte River bike path and take the entire day to walk 20 miles out of a city of 2 million.

[My thoughts digress to the last time I got a pilgrim blessing in Spanish. I had become concerned by the end of it that I was married... there was a peregrino, about my age, kneeling to my right at the alter as the Bishop, holding his hands above our heads intoned a solemn-sounding blessing in a language unknown to me... I comprehended our names being said, the peregrino smiling brightly and everyone applauding as we turned to face those present with the monks chanting beautifully in the astounding Templar church in Eunate, opened but one day a year - Candlemas, February 2nd... a little startling, honestly, but I signed no paper, so trusted nothing was binding. No chance of such confusion tomorrow - not only is my Spanish vocabulary quite a bit broader by now, but I'll be the only one in front of the priest.]

Profile of a Walk

2010-09-22T23:54:00.010+02:00

Accepting that there is no well-worn path between Denver and Mexico City, I've been poring over maps and books trying to create one. I'm turned on by the historical significance, of course, and I want to visit interesting places, not to mention beautiful ones. I don't mind mountainous strolls, but I don't want to go too far out of my way to make the walk more challenging than it has to be.

I've broken the journey into seemingly logical stages based on history and geography:

1. Denver, Colorado to Chimayo, New Mexico
~369 miles (637 km)
~15 days

There no marked route from the historic transportation hub of Colorado's capital city to the San Luis Valley, former northernmost dominion of the Spanish colonists. During Colorado's mining boom of the mid 19th century, numerous routes developed, some now paved over, others a network of old pack trails. Where I can, I'll certainly opt for the trails. I'll walk south along the plains to cross over the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains behind Pike's 14,000-foot Peak into the heart of the mining district of Cripple Creek, the highest town I think I'll see at 9,500 feet (2,900 meters). Let's hope the early snows hold off for another three weeks. After a rather easy hop over the Wet Mountains, I'll make a hard day's push over the towering, snowy Sangre de Cristos into the high valley of the Rio Grande River. Cresting the pass between a number of 14ers will fittingly mark the half-way point of the way to Chimayo. I'll hug the base of the western slope of the Sangre de Cristos, through the remnant Spanish land grant villages and across the Taos and the Picuris Indian Reservations (permission granted!) to get to Chimayo, famed pilgrim destination.

2. Chimayo, New Mexico to El Paso, Texas
~295 miles (475 km)
~15 days

The difficult thing about the first etape is that, surprisingly, towns are widely spaced; the miles per day will be many, and the daily elevation changes great. The serious workout in store during the first two weeks will set me up well for an easy second two weeks when I'll slow it down and enjoy the cultural variations afforded not only by the Native American territories but also the imprint of the historic New Spain. Taos Pueblo is a UNESCO site of cultural significance and has been inhabited for 1,000 years. I'm honored that I was able to negotiate a passage through the tribal lands to get to the pueblo itself, where I'm invited to the War Chief's office for a greeting - I'm hoping for a unique stamp in my credenziale!

Then it's off to Santa Fe, former capital of the New Spain northern provinces followed by a string of historic Franciscan missions that predate the missions of California by at least a century. This will lead me to the ominous Jornada del Muerto, the Dead Man' Walk... 96 miles of ruggedness, with no water. Those Spanish explorers had it tough... can I make it across in 3 days??? Superimposing more recent events, Trinity Site, the first nuclear bomb testing range, is just a skosh to the east. Experience gives me the assurance that there's no need to pack a Geiger counter, but what a cool waltz through a different kind of history.

3. El Paso, Texas to Ciudad de Chihuahua, Mexico
~254 miles (409 km)
~13 days

Even before arriving in El Paso, formerly known as El Paso del Norte, the gateway to New Mexico within New Spain, I'll be fully ensconced in the Chihuahua Desert, the largest in the Americas, and I'll walk through the entire length of it. (Yikes, does this give me a tad of apprehension! More so even than the Jornada del Muerto.) Being a humble pilgrim, I'm not unnecessarily worried about the border crossing - it's so tragically a difficult and dangerous place these days for law-enforcement officials, journalists, and merchants because of the intensive dealings with the drug lords and runners, but I haven't heard of any pilgrims coming into trouble and trust that even the most nefarious will respect the medallion of Our Lady of Guadalupe. I want to visit both El Paso and Ciudad Juarez for their historical importance, but don't plan on lingering on the border crossing. When the Spaniards explored, colonized and supported their missions, the Camino Real sprang up with watering holes where ever a spring was found linking Santa Fe with the rest of New Spain. Chihuahua was an early mining center and a crossroads between trade with Texas and the early Pacific coast cities.

4. Chihuahua to Zacatecas, Mexico
~640 miles (1,030 km)
~32 days

Boff! this will be a long stretch. As much as I can, I'll walk parallel to the historic Camino Real, now paved as a national highway, and walk as long each day as it takes to find a village or a hacienda where to sleep. I don't expect it will be so easy, and the high desert in the dry season won't make such a hospitable environment for sleeping in the rough. I've never faced a long steady climb lasting more than four weeks... yet I don't know what to expect culturally in these hinterlands. Even people I've asked who are familiar with Chihuahua tell me simply that there's nothing there. Nothing must manifest as something, and I'll have to see what it is. In Zacatecas, however, I can expect a beautiful, vivacious city with a long history of silver mining - one of the largest sources of income for the Spanish monarchy. Silver means wealth and wealth means interesting period architecture - a fine reward after a grueling trial of miles.

5. Zacatecas to Mexico City and Our Lady of Guadalupe, Mexico
~430 miles (692 km)
~22 days

The last stage - It will be the most populated and hilly, as opposed to mountainous. I'll pass through several historical provincial capitals - Aguascalientes and Leon, in particular, and in between these, the famed pilgrim destination of Our Lady of St John of the Lake, San Juan de los Lagos, second-most visited cathedral city in Mexico. There's bound to be lots of history there, and I understand that they're famed for their gastronomy as well - amen to that! If I walk briskly and encounter no big troubles, I'll arrive at the santuario in the middle of January, plus or minus a few weeks. It might turn out that I'll spend Christmas in Zacatecas. It'll make an interesting experience where ever I'll be.

All tolled, I'll walk about 2,000 miles (3,200 km) there in around 100 days, more or less. The round-trip maybe 4,000 miles (6,400 km) in about 6 months. What a trip this will be! Relying on the graciousness of local inhabitants, I presage switching borscht for beans on this trip, and blizzards and rain for sand storms and drought across the lands. Villages, and therefore people, will be few and far between, and before even reaching New Mexico, Spanish will be the dominant language. In the hands of merciful weather, my return journey will be slightly different, but generally through the same territories and I'll be back by Easter. I'm excited to get on with it... the unknown beckons loudly.

Studying Up

2010-09-20T22:16:00.003+02:00

For me, preparing for a pilgrimage involves all sorts of interesting study. It’s like writing a term paper in a non-major subject - just learning for the sake of understanding. In the weeks before I set out on the Via Francigena, I immersed myself in historical periods the road coursed through: Julius Caesar commanding the road to be built to facilitate his invasion of the British Isles; the road’s various uses by soldiers, scholars, merchants and clergy throughout the Dark Ages, the lamentable tale of Sigeric, the 10^th-century monk-bishop who recorded his four-year journey to Canterbury from Rome along the road, only to die shortly after arriving… Countless little tidbits of history grabbed my attention in preparing for my long walk and countless more sprang up during it, stories of saints and sinners, relics of Etruscan artwork, all sorts of fascinating topics.

History came alive again for me during my pilgrimage from Aachen, Charlemagne’s former home and perpetual tomb, to Santiago de Compostela, site of Apostle St James’ tomb. In reflection, I was quite a tomb-hopper on that walk. Tombs, after all, are monuments to history, and usually also to art, from various time periods and are definitive legacies of real-live people who had struggles and emotions like all of us, and who generally persevered in a manner worthy of remembrance. I strode beside St Fiacre in St Fiacre, St Eutrope in Saintes, St Martin in Tours, St Hillaire in Poitiers; all the kings and queens of France at St Denis, the multitude of fallen soldiers in the scattered necropoli of the two World Wars in Belgium and eastern France, even Leonardo da Vinci at Chateau d’Amboise in the Loire Valley… dozens of others too numerous to list.

If I hadn’t set out on the path of the Apostle St Andrew from Kyiv to his tomb in Patras, I likely would never have immersed myself in the history of those regions, or have become familiar with their geography, languages or gastronomy, or certainly have become familiar with the rituals of the Orthodox and Muslim religions and the settings of the famous tales of Greek Mythology. These facets captivate me and I greatly prefer engaging in conversations on these subjects rather than on how I managed to – ho-hum – walk these long distances, alone, and in bad weather. It’s not terribly important that I walked in the misty shadows of Samothraki, Greece, on a bitter cold wet day but more interesting that from that island, Poseidon watched the sea battles of the Trojan War, as legend has it. Wow.

So now I’m studying up on the history of the various Native American tribes, the days of the Spanish conquistadors, the attempts at their colonization, the missionary work of the Franciscans and Jesuits, the Mexican Independence and revolution, and the geography of the mountains and deserts between Denver and Mexico City. Much fun – doh! – muchas diverisións.

The Legend of OLoG

2010-09-14T23:38:00.004+02:00

“Christendom at large adores and venerates the miraculous likeness of Our Lady of Guadalupe of Mexico, painted by the hand of God. By the powerful magnetism of its glory and beauty may her exemplary pilgrims, far scattered, engage the love and reverence of all peoples! I offer you, as the explanation of this power of attraction, prized above all else, its marvelous origin, which even now is unknown to many foreigners: you shall read about unheard-of but true and at the same time glorious things established by the unbroken tradition of two centuries and verified by the testimony of all North America; in the words of Psalm 147, verse 20: ‘Non fecit taliter omni nationi.’” [He hath not done so with any nation.]

This expressive introduction to the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe was written by Señor Don Pedro Alonso O’Crouley in his Description of the Kingdom of New Spain published in 1774. With details unchanged to this day, he continued to relate the history of the miracle:

In the year 1531, when the Mexican empire had been subject to Christian teaching for ten years, on Saturday, December 9, a devout Indian of the common people, a convert by the name of Juan Diego, wishing to hear the Christian doctrine explained, was coming from the town near which he lived to Mexico City to attend devotional exercises at the convent of the Franciscans. Suddenly, from the hill of Tepeyacac, a league from Mexico City and where the road runs at its base, a heavenly music drew all his attention to the top of the hill. There he saw encircled by a rainbow the Queen of Heaven, by whom he was summoned and most graciously received. She bade him go to the Bishop, the venerable Juan Zumárraga, a Franciscan, and tell him in her name that she would have him build on this very place a church that would be the sanctuary of the entire New World.

The Bishop, mistrustful of some deceit, listened to the messenger, put a number of questions to him, and, as one does who wishes to think over a matter with some deliberation, quickly dismissed him. Juan returned to the Virgin, who was waiting for him at the same high place on the hill. He told her of the Bishop’s response, attributing it to his own lowly condition, and he asked the Virgin to choose a person more worthy of credence. The Virgin comforted him and told him to go back the next day and repeat to the Bishop the urgent request.

He was in low spirits at having to repeat the petition; but this time the Bishop spoke to him with more kindness than on the day before and promised that he would obey with the utmost pleasure if the messenger would bring him more precise indications of Our Lady’s wishes. So Juan departed, charged to ask for them, and the Bishop sent two of his attendants who from a distance were to keep a sharp eye on Juan’s movements and find out who it was that he spoke with on the hill; but he had hardly come to the slope of the hill when he disappeared from their sight. After a diligent but fruitless search they returned to the Bishop accusing the Indian convert of sorcery.

The Most Holy Virgin heard from Juan’s own mouth of the response and request of the Bishop and promised him a sign for the following day, Monday. On that day Juan was unable to go back to the Virgin, for he had found in his house Juan Bernardino, his uncle, at the point of death. He would not have returned on Tuesday either if he had not been compelled to go call a priest to give his uncle the Holy Sacraments. In order to escape being detained by Our Lady, instead of going to the city the usual way he took another road; but in vain, for he met the Virgin, most clement, on the journey. She consoled him and assured him that his uncle was well again, for at the very moment of her appearance health had been granted him. She then bade Juan go up to the hill and cut the flowers he should find there to take to the Bishop as a sign. Once they were gathered, she herself put them with her virgin hands in his cloak of maguey fibre, of the kind worn by the poor Indians, and bade him carry them to the Bishop without showing them to anyone on the road. The Bishop’s pages tried by force to examine the cloak, but were not able to lay hold of any of the flowers which they then decided were woven into the material.

Later, in the presence of the Bishop, Juan Diego threw open the cloak and real, very beautiful, fresh flowers were seen to fall out, leaving bare the surface of the woven fabric. There appeared in it, not just upon it, and against all the rules of painting, the likeness, which we venerate, of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Virgin Most Holy, upheld by a small winged cherub. She was crowned with a queenly diadem, and her robe, which fell to below the instep, was patterned at intervals with white and bright red. Besides this, she was depicted with a little cross at her throat and her hands joined above her breast. There was portrayed in her beautiful face that of an Indian girl with the eyes pleasingly lowered and so far resembling the Apocalyptic vision that the sun, with a hundred and twelve rays, was all round the edge of the portrait, and the moon appeared beneath her feet but in place of the twelve stars with which that vision was crowned, forty-six were scattered on the blue mantle in this one.

The Bishop had a shrine built per the instructions of the Virgin, who revealed herself legendarily as Our Lady of Guadalupe, and the subsequent enlarged edifices built at the same place still house the otherworldly image. History has continued since this passage was published over 200 years ago and not only has there been now an unbroken tradition for nearly five centuries of the veneration, but the humble Juan Diego has been elevated to a Saint in recognition of miracles attributed to prayers for his intervention.

El Santuario de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe is the most visited Christian pilgrimage site in the world today. From what I understand, many pilgrims travel there by foot from various dioceses in southern Mexico, especially on the December 12^th anniversary, though there don’t seem to be any well-worn trails, caminos, per se as there are across Spain to Santiago de Compostela. Maybe I’ll be surprised. I’ve been asking around and so far it doesn’t seem like anyone’s heard of a foot-pilgrim from as far as Chihuahua City, much less the interior of US… I’d like to think that early on, most of the pilgrims would have been Native Americans, who wouldn’t likely have kept diaries or sent letters home or in other ways provided written documentation, so I hold out that I am not the first pilgrim to venture out on a 2,000-plus-mile journey to this famous pilgrim destination.

Pilgrim Planning Continues...

2010-09-06T03:39:00.003+02:00

My computer has been on the blink. Comatose, really. Even my minimalist life was thwarted by the temporary electronic lapse.

The planning continues - 5 weeks until my feet are on the path of long return. Much is still to be done.

Firstly, my friend the Pilgrim-in-Training continues her training but has gracefully bowed out. The undertaking even from Denver to Chimayo is no small undertaking and requires 100% commitment. She quavered and didn't want to interfere with my parallel efforts. So she'll continue to fulfill her steadfast role as being my much-appreciated planning assistant and continue her training toward her weight-loss goal and may someday make the pilgrimage from Denver to Chimayo, but just not with me in October.

The fallout for me is that my pilgrimage is more uniform: there will be no camping; no llama. I'll simply (!) commit myself to walking further and longer each day until I get to some sort of refuge for the night. I'll put myself at the mercy of strangers' kindness and benefit from the risk as I have always done. A pilgrimage. Not always easy, but always adventurous =)

Spanish is coming more frequently and easily off my tongue, but still intermingled with Italian and French. Alors. Alora. It's still much further along than Russian or Ukrainian were a year ago and I did well enough when I needed to with those languages.

Though I tooled with the idea of sponsorship in getting outfitted, nothing has really materialized comfortably. So I forged ahead and bought everything new I determined was necessary after repairing what I could from last winter. A new, smaller pack and sturdy new boots are the most important additions to the kit. I've got an active to-do list going that will keep me busy for the next five weeks, but honestly, I'm eager to get going - if the heat of summer would only pass!

The greatest challenge niggling at me at the moment is obtaining the necessary permissions from the 10 sovereign lands standing between me and the Chihuahua desert in New Mexico. I've researched it to the point that I know I must coordinate with the various tribal War Chiefs, as opposed to the Tribal Governors, in order to gain access to the dirt tracks across the lands. Accessible, paved highways exist, but experience warns me against these - hot, dangerous, and stressful. So far, the direction I've received is to go around these delineated sovereign lands of the Native Americans rather than cross them. I can see their perspective... I'm setting off on a journey of 4,000 to 5,000 miles, what difference would it make if bypassing their lands adds another couple of hundred miles? What would motivate them to grant me permission to cross their territories? But I'm setting off on a cultural excursion and would like to see - without tarnishing thoughts of exploitation or profit - the various corners of this vast and diverse nation. I hope to appeal to a few War Councils in the coming weeks to convince them that I, one tiny, solo woman, pose no threat in walking respectfully and peacefully across their lands in a given autumn afternoon. Fingers crossed.

Although there is a long tradition of pilgrimages to the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, from what I've gleaned, the distances covered by foot in generational memory seem relatively short. I'm feeling like a sort of pioneer pilgrim in this area. I wonder if the early pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela had to individually figure out the politics of gaining access to the autonomous territories they'd cross when leaving from their front doors...

Planning for Chimayo

2010-08-13T19:51:00.000+02:00

The planning of this pilgrimage is turning out to be the busy part - I look forward to when all I have to do is walk everyday. Language, history, culture, and logistics are all competing for the little available time remaining.

Honestly, though,whether I had 10 days or 10 months, I'd fill it completely with reading and planning, so it makes little difference in the end... 8 more weeks is a good amount of time; still, if the temperature dropped enough tomorrow, I'd leave at dawn. (It won't drop enough until October, though, so the departure date is set at October 10th.)

Becoming conversant in Latin American Spanish isn't particularly daunting, but it takes a little time... two or three times a week, I get myself to a happy hour or cocktail party where everyone speaks only in Spanish. I've found meetup.com a fantastic resource for locating such places around town. Every day, I create an opportunity to speak out loud, even if only to the cats. Spanish fits much easier in my mouth than Russian or Ukrainian - I have to force myself to remove the 'vee' sound from the alphabet, but I'm not crying out to buy a vowel like in those eastern dialects.

The Pilgrim-in-Training is walking so much around town that she's already walked the equivalent distance of 90% of the way to Chimayo. The training is paying off - in four months her pace has increased from a scant 2 miles per hour on relatively flat paved surfaces with a rest required hourly to more than 2.75 miles per hour, sustainable with only short shade rests for 12 miles with a 15-pound backpack. She's lost more than 20 pounds in the process and has noticeably more energy. Which is all great, because there's no good way to Chimayo without crossing a few very big mountains.

The route planning is not at all straight forward... there's a multitude of permutations and no direct path. Under such conditions, there's no way to get lost. We'll head south along the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies, crossing them in the first week and then the Wet Mountains and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in quick succession into the expansive San Luis Valley not far from the headwaters of the Rio Grande River, which continues all the way down to Mexico. The 'mile-high' city from which we start will mark the lowest altitude of the route to Chimayo. We'll have to weave our way between many 14ers - mountains exceeding 14,000 feet (4,300 meters) - to get into the San Luis Valley.

One week after leaving Denver, we'll encounter an interesting but subtle demarcation. The Arkansas River between the Front Range and the Wet Mountains was formerly the extent of New Spain and a long-standing border between Mexico and the US. In an interesting geographic and linguistic relic, once we cross the river [at Cañon City], the predominant language will be Spanish. I'll have plenty of miles to transition from English through Spanglish into full-fledged Spanish.

Although the distance between Denver and Chimayo - 331 miles, it seems - is perhaps only 10% of the distance to Mexico City, it's an important milestone. This is a bit further than the distance between Burgos and Santiago de Compostela in Spain along the Camino Frances whence tens of thousands of pilgrims pass every year. It's a very do-able distance to trek in about three weeks. Of course in Spain there is an abundance of pilgrim houses to stay in and a well-worn broad path marked with big yellow arrows to walk along with no fear of straying from the destination, and an absence of mountain lions, bears, rattlesnakes, and other creatures of the day and night looking for a meal... Otherwise, there's beautiful landscape with wilderness challenges that can be an interesting alternative to the Camino right here in America.

Chimayo may be one of the most-visited and long-standing pilgrimage destinations in the US, but it lacks the inveterate tradition of foot treks originating from places further afield than Santa Fe or Taos, New Mexico as compared to Santiago de Compostela. There are a lot of foot pilgrims to Chimayo, but mostly limited to Holy Week for specific traditional celebrations. I think originating in Denver will be spectacular with regard to culture and nature and landscape, and in October when the golden leaves of the aspen trees will be quaking in sweeps within spruce and pine groves below the snow-capped 14ers during harvest time in the broad Rio Grande Valley, passing through various mining districts and ghost towns of the Old West... this will be something I'm sure a lot of people will enjoy. Giant yellow arrows and pilgrim houses aren't requirements for a pilgrimage.

PIT & Biometrics

2010-06-01T01:55:00.006+02:00

Eileen's made a milestone! She's walked over a century - 100 miles - since her training began in April. She's still a committed PIT (pilgrim-in-training)and we're tracking her miles around town and on the biweekly mountain hikes - as of today, 102 miles in these 7 weeks. This is with a weight loss of 10 of the 70 pounds she wants to loose, and a significantly improved diet. Her kitchen is now free of artificial foods, which interfere with proper metabolism, unnecessary additives like high fructose corn syrup, and aspartame, and processed foods no matter what claims are printed on their eye-catching packaging. Fruits, veggies, yogurt, grains... wholesome, real food now fills the fridge to fulfill daily nutritional requirements. Very simple.

If she were really walking from Denver to Chimayo, by now, she's made it as far as Cripple Creek, a former mining town up in the mountains. The plan remains: walk a cumulative distance of 383 miles around town and she'll be ready to walk the 383 miles (or so) to Chimayo. She only whined in protest once on today's mountain hike, but close to the summit and short lived.

Our first interim destination toward Chimayo will be San Luis, Colorado's oldest town and the location of a remarkable public art exhibit installed a few years ago - bronze life-sized Statues of the Cross. Neither of us has seen it yet, though it's gotten quite a bit of publicity here in Denver. For Eileen, the challenge lies in the fact that the Front Range of the Colorado Rockies must be crossed in order to get into the broad San Luis Valley. I'm not exactly sure of our route yet, but right now, it seems that we'll take a route up through Cripple Creek in the direction of Cañon City and then to Westcliffe and down into San Luis. No matter how we'll do it, there will be mountains to cross. Mountain training is therefore important for her.

Getting a sense of a comfortable pace on steep ups, level ground, and steep downs is important for a long-distance pilgrim. These are examples of the biometrics I use everyday on my treks. Eileen's pace on the uphill part was markedly faster today than it was two weeks ago. Other than fitness level, heat, breeze, shade, time of day, mood, etc, affect pace. One's pace (one example of a personal biometric) will vary, but hopefully will fall into a predictable range useful for planning a route. The PIT effort over the coming months will include gathering biometric information for Eileen - mine are well established by now:

Pace - kilometers(or miles)/hour
Stride - the distance in meters(or feet) of each step, right foot to right foot (or left to left)
Step Rate - number of steps per 100 meters (or tenth of a mile), to be extended to kilometer(mile)

Pilgrims going to Santiago de Compostela on the Camino Frances or trekkers using other well-established paths might not concern themselves with these measurements and do just fine. Others who blaze their own trail using a map and compass or who combine paths and tracks in unusual ways to get where they're going will need to know how their bodies perform in order to predict their progress reliably. It just makes sense - the map shows a village is x miles away... wouldn't anyone want to have a sense of how long it would take to get there?

Conversely, you spy a village on a hillside some distance away - wouldn't you like to know how far away it is and how long it will take you to get there? This would require perceptual biometrics. I've learned that if I - nearsighted as I am - can just make out that there are buildings, but not necessarily individual ones, the village can be up to 10 kilometers distant. If it's a sprawling city, it could be much further. If I can see individual buildings, and maybe some characteristics about them, like watchtowers or steeples, then it's somewhere just beyond 5 kilometers. If I can see individual buildings and their doorways and windows, maybe individual farm animals, big ones, that is, then it's maybe 3 kilometers. And if I can see individual people, smaller animals, smoke from the chimneys, more details like this, then the village is likely 1 to 2 kilometers away, in other words, for me, 10 to 20 minutes by foot.

I know my biometrics and use them every pilgrim day without thinking. So many people, men and women alike, who comment on the 'courage' I must have to go walking on my own. I think it's rather more confidence that comes with knowledge than it is courage. Courage implies overcoming a fear. I'm not afraid to walk on my own in land unknown to me, so it takes no courage to do it. I'm confident that I know how far I can walk in an hour or a day, how far I can walk in a morning, how long it will take me to get from one village to the next. This part is empirical data. Easy-peasy.

Kyiv - Patras Statistics

2010-05-26T00:59:00.009+02:00

It took a little while, but here are some geeky statistics that future pilgrims/trekkers might find useful.

Firstly is lodging. The graph reflects the lodging distribution for the entire 140 nights. It's a little misleading to think of it equally distributed per country... I never stayed in a hotel until I got to Turkey, for example, and both in Turkey and Greece, every time I stayed in a hotel, it was as a guest of the town, church, mayor, police chief, etc.

In Ukraine, when I started tracking the type of lodging, I made a distinction between staying as a guest in a village house and staying as a guest in a Soviet-style block apartment. In hindsight, I'm not sure why I thought this was a noteworthy distinction. Either way, I was a guest in someone's home.

The category 'Religious House' includes both monasteries - men's or women's - and churches. Often, I found that churches have side rooms or outbuildings with basic accommodation for guests. Monasteries were far more interesting because there were monks or nuns for company and conversation. Small church rooms were usually pretty rustic and I was on my own.

I would have enjoyed couchsurfing more often, but because I didn't carry a computer with me and there wasn't always wifi or mobile coverage around me even if I did, the online nature of connecting with couchsurfing hosts made it challenging. I did send requests to couchsurfers while I was on the go in Ukraine but never got responses. I sort of gave up until I got to Turkey where the couchsurfers were more often situated along my route, but again, it was a little difficult to go back and forth to finalize the arrangements. I only stayed twice with couchsurfers - once in Kyiv and once in the northwest of Turkey. On both occasions it was relaxing and fabulous. For anyone packing more electronics, I still recommend it as a way to meet and mingle with interesting like-minded folks.

While I walked, I collected weather data, if for nothing more than to show yet again that winter is not a bad time to take a long walk. See, there were more sunny days than snowy and rainy days combined. It's just that in my memory, there were a lot of bad weather days. It must just mean that when the weather was bad, it was really bad.

It should be obvious that the temperature ranges reflect the temperature variation while I was walking, not the nightly low... I slept at night and wasn't inclined to get up to check the temperature outside. I noted the temperature when I started walking in the morning and again sometime in the afternoon. I would guess that until the end of March, the temperature sunk below the freezing point every night. I like best walking between -5 and 10 Celsius (25 to 50 F). There was just one wicked cold snap right there in the middle of January. March was generally a little too warm for my taste, though it was a nice change and I was physically strong enough by then not to feel the extra weight and bulk in my backpack from having to carry most of my clothes instead of wearing them.

It's interesting to note that during the autumn and winter, the temperature variation was relatively small, yet as spring approached, and I happened to be in very mountainous terrain, the morning and afternoon temperatures varied widely. In the winter, I wore nearly everything I had and wore it all day long; in Greece, it was very important to dress in layers and I was actively stripping throughout the day.

Pilgrim in Training

2010-05-20T22:36:00.003+02:00

My pal, Eileen, is really intent on being physically fit enough to walk to Chimayo... she readily admits that it won't be an easy task, but her commitment is admirable. She's well along the way on the virtual pilgrimage starting from Denver.

Since her training program began when I returned on April 12th, she's already logged a respectable 77 miles (124 km) of walking mostly around the urban neighborhood. While she walks, about 3 miles a day, 5 days a week, she tries to keep at an aerobic pace - one where she can still hold a conversation, often with retired neighbor, Ellen - and stays pretty close to an average of 2.5 miles per hour. She finds enjoyment walking a different route every day and reports for me to tally the number of blocks east/west and the number of blocks north/south. (Denver blocks aren't square - there're 16 blocks to a mile east/west and 10 north/south.) There are endless opportunities for her to gaze at the houses and apartment buildings in a 1.5-mile radius and gather ideas for gardening, landscaping, window treatments, etc. [This would bore me to tears! I need to have a destination to head towards in order to get enjoyment out of a walk.]

By the distance she has accumulated so far, she'd be past Monument, CO by now, via Littleton, Sedalia, and Larkspur southward along the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains. But there's an important lesson learned in her training: her pace in the mountains is very different than around the urban environment.

We took a day hike at Mt Falcon Open Space earlier this week for performance testing. She walked for 3 miles (5 km) up a long, steep mountain path with an elevation change of +1,600 feet (490 meters) and then down a slightly longer trail to the starting point. Big difference! While around town, her level-ground pace is a pretty consistent 2.5 mph, yet in the mountains, her ascending pace is barely 1 mph and her descending pace is 1.7 mph. The climate was a significant factor for her - the east-facing mountain slope gave us a lot of exposure... 74ºF (25ºC) and very arid. She had to stop for several short rests, especially when there was a bit of shade. I took longer trails than she and reconnoitered at agreed-upon landmarks. I also brought along a book.

For whatever series of reasons, the climate and steepness factors don't impact my pace much... I'm at 3 mph up 3.5 mph on the flats and 3.8 mph down. Clearly, this underscores that people with different paces shouldn't even try to walk together. I'm younger (she 58; I 46) and in better condition, yet I'm somewhat shorter. These factors don't cancel each other out. More significantly, I'm more comfortable taking risks - more confident to have both feet leave the earth as I jump from one rock to another or over a gulch, more experienced in shifting my direction with the walking sticks, less inclined to take even a slight pause seeing the rattlesnakes on the path. I do my gawking on the go, she stops to gawk. Different people, different paces. Walking to Chimayo together, we'll be using her pace to determine the length of a day's stage and won't walk together between stopping points (except when prudent).

Eileen's training continues. It will be interesting to see if her pace will improve as her fitness level does. My planning continues... determining the stages and appropriate routes, and supply points.

Stages Kyiv to Patras

2010-05-20T22:07:00.003+02:00

Now that the trip is over, I want to list all of the places I've stayed and distances walked per day in one place:
12-15 Nov Kyiv, Ukraine 0 km
16 Nov Neshcheria 38 km from Kyiv
17 Nov Rsheshchiv 74 km
18 Nov Pii 91 km
19 Nov Kaniv 132 km
20 Nov Mezhyrich 152 km
21 Nov Moschni 172 km
22 Nov Charkassy 204 km
23 Nov Lesky 224 km
24 Nov Trushvtsy 249 km
25 Nov Chihirin 274 km
26 Nov Velika Andrewsivka 301 km
27 Nov Svetlovodsk 328 km
28 Nov Komsomvdsk 369 km
29 Nov Kriminchuk 401 km
30 Nov Mlynok 433 km
01 Dec Mishurihi Pia 467 km
02 Dec Pushkarcevka 501 km
03 Dec Ukrainka 535 km
04 Dec Dniepropetroska (w) 573 km
05 Dec Dniepropetroska (e) 585 km
06 Dec Sursko-Latovskoe 602 km
07 Dec Selonoa 624 km
08 Dec Lukosheva 654 km
09 Dec Zaporozia 687 km
10 Dec Primorscoe 719 km
11 Dec Vasylevka 747 km
12 Dec Timoshova 784 km
13 Dec Novonicholaevka 825 km
14 Dec Akimovka 851 km
15 Dec Sokolohovno 884 km
16 Dec Shchorsovna 918 km
17 Dec Chonhar 940 km
18 Dec Johnkoy 983 km
19 Dec Azouska 1013 km
20 Dec Nishnehorsshia 1035 km
21 Dec Nishnehorsshia 1055 km
22 Dec Bohata 1081 km
23 Dec Hrushevka 1110 km
24 Dec SUDAK 1133 km
25 Dec Morskoe 1164 km
26 Dec Malorechenskoe 1193 km
27 Dec Alushta 1215 km
28 Dec Yalta 1252 km
29 Dec Simiez 1274 km
30 Dec Orleno 1302 km
31 Dec Balaklava 1328 km
01 Jan Khersoness (Sevastopol) 1350 km
02 Jan Kacha 1380 km
03 Jan Nicholaevka 1417 km
04 Jan Saki 1447 km
05 Jan Vinogrodova 1480 km
06 Jan Stepnoe 1517 km
07 Jan Krasnoperekopsk 1559 km
08 Jan Armyansk 1581 km
9 Jan Kalanchak 1617 km
10 Jan Veliki Kopani 1660 km
11 Jan Tsyuroopinsk 1692 km
12 Jan Chornobiavka 1728 km
13 Jan Shchenkova 1752 km
14 Jan Nickoliav 1780 km
15 Jan Nechayanoy 1815 km
16 Jan Novofedorovka 1847 km
17 Jan Yuzhny 1872 km
18 Jan Odessa 1920 km
19 Jan Illichesk 1952 km
20 Jan Belhorod-Dniestrovsky 1984 km
21 Jan Devezin 2030 km
22 Jan Tatarbunari 2066 km
23 Jan Komenskoye 2096 km
24 Jan Preozornoi 2127 km
25 Jan Kesletsa 2154 km
26 Jan Izmail 2181 km
27 Jan Galati, ROMANIA! 2201 km
28 Jan Tulcea 2221 km
29 Jan Sarachioi 2253 km
30 Jan Ceamurlia de Jos 2284 km
31 Jan Istria 2312 km
01 Feb Navodari 2356 km
02 Feb Constanta 2381 km
03 Feb Medgidia 2428 km
04 Feb Adamclisi 2471 km
05 Feb Ion Corvin 2490 km
06 Feb Dervent 2511 km
07 Feb Dobrich, BULGARIA 2536 km
08 Feb Botevo 2570 km
09 Feb Varna 2602 km
10 Feb Byala 2646 km
11 Feb Nessebar 2690 km
12 Feb Burgas 2729 km
13 Feb Krushevets 2760 km
14 Feb Malko Tarnova 2803 km
15 Feb Karadere, TURKEY 2833 km
16 Feb Demirkoy 2873 km
17 Feb Kishlagik 2904 km
18 Feb Cilingoz 2940 km
19 Feb Kastenelık 2976 km
20 Feb Karaburun 3007 km
21 Feb Shishli/Istanbul (e) 3057 km
22 Feb Shishli/Istanbul (e) 3057 km
23 Feb Fatih/Istanbul (w) 3065 km
24 Feb Buyukcskmace 3100 km
25 Feb Silivri 3143 km
26 Feb Marmara Ereğlisi 3177 km
27 Feb Barbaros 3222 km
28 Feb Sağlemtas 3262 km
01 Mar Keshan 3308 km
02 Mar Kipi, GREECE 3344 km
03 Mar Alexandroupolis 3386 km
04 Mar Panorama 3402 km
05 Mar Xylogani 3340 km
06 Mar Porto Lagos 3476 km
07 Mar Xanthi 3502 km
08 Mar Kavala 3554 km
09 Mar Mouratheni 3588 km
10 Mar Asprovalta 3636 km
11 Mar Loutra Volvis 3672 km
12 Mar Thessalonika 3710 km
13 Mar Kolindros 3748 km
14 Mar Elafos 3776 km
15 Mar Kato Melia 3802 km
16 Mar Livado 3837 km
17 Mar Elassona 3870 km
18 Mar Deskati 3915 km
19 Mar Kalabaka 3960 km
20 Mar Trikala 3986 km
21 Mar Karditsa 4022 km
22 Mar Kedros 4048 km
23 Mar Rendina 4092 km
24 Mar Makrakomi 4128 km
25 Mar Lichno 4158 km
26 Mar Maurolithari 4200 km
27 Mar Gravia 4236 km
28 Mar Delfi 4286 km
29 Mar Itea 4307 km
30 Mar Galaxidi 4328 km
31 Mar Eratini 4351 km
01 Apr Marathias 4377 km
02 Apr Nefpaktos 4402 km
03 Apr PATRAS 4423 km

Stages

2010-05-09T23:50:00.004+02:00

Here in Denver, where I studied and lived for many years before my life of travel began, I have a good number of friends, outdoor enthusiasts (hard to ignore the beautiful mountains and conducive climate of the Colorado Rockies), though no pilgrims among them. They've all become very interested in the pilgrim life now that I've shown them the light. I've given many presentations in Denver and Boulder about my European cultural pilgrimages, which have been well received. [Upcoming dates forthcoming.]

One of my particularly supportive pals, Eileen, has become almost unstoppably interested in the brainstorming of the long walk to Mexico City. I estimate at first glance that we're talking something on the order of 2,500 kilometers (1,500 miles) on rather a direct route. Why be direct? The history of the region is what turns me on and there's plenty of it: the various Native American cultures populated the area for countless millennia and the Spaniards began their colonization in the early 16th century. The history didn't stop there. To see all of this first hand, I'm drawn to the historic missions that still dot the land as far north as Taos, near the New Mexico-Colorado border all the way to Mexico City. While the research is underway, I can feel comfortable that a distance perhaps half again greater will not be unlikely. This would be a few steps too far for Eileen; indeed, she's never walked more than 5 kilometers in a single day in her life, and never with a backpack, and never in the desert wilderness, and never alone... Nonetheless, she's up for the idea of the trek for fitness as well as for the beauty of the mountains.

The first stage made itself evident from the earliest thought of a southward journey. Denver to Chimayo, New Mexico.

Chimayo, about 600 kilometers/380 miles south of Denver, has a fascinating history. This fertile valley in the high desert was a site held sacred by the aboriginal people throughout history, particularly for a mineral-rich spring and a nearby holy mountain. When the Spanish missionaries arrived, several miracles were attributed to the area. Churches were constructed to honor the mystical events and today it is the destination of up to 300,000 pilgrims a year, many by foot, the majority on Good Friday. The current shrines, El Santuario de Chimayo and El Santo Niño de Antocha, have become general tourist attractions in recognition of their status as a National Historic Landmark but are particularly visited by faithful Catholics seeking a handful of holy dirt from the spot where the prior holy spring has dried up.

On the way from Denver to Chimayo, there are six other historic Spanish missions dating back to 1598: Taos, Ranchos de Taos, Picuris, Las Trampas, San Juan, and Santa Cruz. In addition, in the village of San Luis, Colorado, by chance the oldest town in Colorado, there is an extended shrine of bronze statues depicting life-size Stations of the Cross completed in 1990 and a grotto of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Cool historic and beautiful things to see.

Challenges are several but not insurmountable. Firstly, the situation that Eileen's never gone for such a long walk. She's begun a training program - a veritable virtual pilgrimage. Nearly every day, she walks around the neighborhood clocking at least 25 kilometers/15 miles a week. We figure that on our trailblazing pilgrim path, it's reasonable to calculate that as her daily maximum. Since I returned to Denver and we began to formulate this idea, she's walked a total of 74 kilometers/46 miles. That would be just over 3 days' worth of pilgriming. She has the idea of taking a longer mountain day hike at least once a month as well to get some daily distance in as well as some significant elevation change. When she's walked the cumulative distance of the pilgrimage to Chimayo, sometime in September at her current rate, she'll deem herself fit to go.

Secondly, the great distance - 400km/250mi - between Denver and the first interim destination, San Luis, simply doesn't have enough towns to enable the type of pilgrimage that I've grown accustomed to... I like to sleep in a bed every night, and enjoy some heat source, and some small amount of food provided... It goes without saying that I've particularly enjoyed nightly protection from the elements and wild animals. These luxuries won't likely be available, sometimes for days on end. By their design, the mission sites in New Mexico are spaced within a day's walk, so these issues should become less of a concern the closer we get to Chimayo. But even if there's no roof over my head, I at least want a cot to sleep on. And real food to eat. And proper cookery for the preparation. And a solar-bag shower for some hot water. And I don't want to carry it all on my back. Thus, the llama. These domesticated beasts of burden, prevalent in the high country of Colorado, eat whatever they encounter along the trail and can carry about 50 kilos/100 pounds.

Third, we're considerably further down the food chain compared to anywhere I've walked in Europe. While I have extensive experience in the Rockies, I've never been on such an extended journey. We're thinking of going in October, to arrive in Chimayo on November 2nd, the celebrated Day of the Dead in Hispanic Catholicism. October is known for variable weather - this is one of the reasons why I prefer to be a winter pilgrim rather than an autumn pilgrim... but the snow will already be flying in the high country and while I don't mind snowshoeing, as I did frequently on my winter walk on the Via Francigena, camping in the snow for three weeks presents other challenges. Higher up the October food chain reside bears, wolves, many types of venomous snakes and spiders, lynx, bobcats, coyotes, and - gulp - lions. It's the mountain lions that give me the greatest concern... sneaky, big, and silent.

Fourth, the vast expanses of uninhabited land we'll walk through aren't under the same jurisdictions. Between Denver and Chimayo, there's land owned by Colorado counties, by the State of Colorado, National Parks, Forests, and Wilderness Areas, various Spanish Land Grants (ceded after the Mexican-American War of 1844 honoring agreements made after the Mexican War of Independence from Spain in 1821), and the Taos Indian Reservation, not to mention enormous tracks of privately owned land. I foresee lots of rules to be investigated and conformed with...

How clear it is that this pilgrimage will be completely different! I'm up for pushing the boundaries again.

Eileen's training in earnest and I'm researching a sensible route. October will be here soon enough. I'll post the planning process as the idea ferments and matures.

North American Pilgrimage

2010-04-28T04:36:00.002+02:00

Of course, I'm planning the next. How can I not be? I like pilgrim life.

But where to go, and for what purpose? It got me thinking... why go so far? Is there a viable route in North America that would make a suitable pilgrimage? Would North Americans be open to the idea of a 'pilgrim' as something other than the group who landed at Plymouth Rock?

I googled around to create a shortlist of potentials. It must be historically significant, with a tradition of being a pilgrimage destination, and through an area suitable for walking, preferably breathtakingly beautiful. Ste Anne de Beaupré near Québec is a definite contender... it's status as a place of pilgrimage dates to 1658 when a miraculous cure was attributed there. The St Lawrence area of eastern Canada is certainly breathtakingly beautiful. And, I speak French.

Our Lady of Guadalupe - Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe - in Mexico City is another. It's first miracle and subsequent launch as a pilgrimage destination occurred in 1531. It's a huge pilgrimage site to this day, but I haven't seen any numbers about modern foot pilgrims. The Franciscans of the late 16th and early 17th centuries went throughout Mexico and the American southwest building missions, often on or near sites held sacred by the various Native American inhabitants. Many of these missions prompted by their own miracles are also pilgrimage sites, though not as famous as Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Both of these sound interesting and are therefore on 'the list'. Because I'm living in Denver at the moment, Guadalupe has slightly stronger appeal, though from a language perspective Ste Anne would be easier. Note to self... bone up on Mexican Spanish (really not hard to do in Denver).

Without even diving into the research necessary to open the front door and start walking, I know the first hurdle: Colorado, New Mexico, Chihuahua, and the rest of the Mexican states on the way to Mexico City are comprised of huge areas with few villages... no pilgrim houses to be sure, few ranch houses within a day's walking distance. This will be no Euro-pilgrimage. Methinks camping will be required... methinks a llama will be involved... let the planning begin!

Pilgrim Athlete

2010-04-27T22:18:00.002+02:00

It doesn't have to be, but a pilgrimage by foot can really be a spectacular athletic event. I'm not complaining when I mention to people that rightly only 78% of me actually arrived in Patras. More of me than I knew could be spared was consumed during the long cold winter of borscht. The fitness benefits of eight hours of aerobic exercise a day can't be underestimated.

Not all trekkers on the pilgrim trails view it as an athletic opportunity. Last winter in Spain I met a German retiree who proclaimed that he'd been a pilgrim for more than seven years non-stop. He strolls along one of the many marked trails to Santiago, stopping in the bars to chat with pilgrims and locals alike. With that amount of time under his belt, he's gotten to know just about every barfly and tender. While walking, he covers maybe 10 kilometers a day with more time in bars than on the trail. When he tires of walking, he volunteers at a pilgrim house for weeks on end, greeting pilgrims and offering help. He approaches the pilgrim life in an uncommon way. By the looks of his lumbering stride, when he walks, it's not at an aerobic pace. A pilgrim he may be, but not a pilgrim-athlete.

I met another pilgrim, another German as it happens, last year in Spain. Young and fit, he was bound determined to walk the distance from Roncevalles to Santiago faster than anyone on record. He carried a tiny pack and wore running shoes, boasting that he was covering more than 40 kilometers every day. Far more of an athlete than a pilgrim, I observed. I was offput by the annoying 'fingerbells' he wore. I've seen these often enough in Germany... like a bicycle bell, but worn on the finger and dinged with a finger flick to alert a slower pedestrian to make way, no vocalization necessary. Efficient to a fault?

An Austrailian couple I met were walking for the sake of life-saving fitness. Fair-fat-and fortysomething, they had assessed their lives after their youngest went off to university... change their lifestyle or remain couch-potatoes for the rest of their days. They chose to walk the camino for the purpose of the weightloss and fitness. When I crossed their paths about midway between the Pyrenees and Santiago, they had each already lost so much weight they had to scramble to find new clothes that weren't hanging on their much svelter frames. They were very careful about what they ate, buying supplies when they could and making their own dinners rather than get the high cal, carb-laden soups and pork steaks with fries that are the more standard pilgrim fare at the inexpensive taverns in the north of Spain, always served bottle of wine. This couple was in it for the longterm. I admired them. With such a change in their metabolisms, I'm sure they got a new lease on life by the time they arrived in Santiago.

From the perspective of fitness, being on the pilgrim trail is in many ways much different than being in an urban neighborhood or gym. I'm not sure the effect would be the same - could I have lost 22% of my mass by getting 8 hours of aerobic exercise in 4.5 months in 'real life' the same as on the pilgrimage? Hard to say. And what about 4 hours of aerobic exercise a day over the course of 9 months? Walking on a treadmill or elliptical machine in a gym is never as strenuous as walking across the steppes or through the mountains. Would I have even ventured out to get to a gym during a blizzard? Probably not. Yet there I was getting my 8 hours of aerobic exercise walking through many an icy, ferociously windy snowstorm to get to the next night's accommodation.

The gym or even a footpath around an urban park would never have the same overall activity as walking as a pilgrim - the wind buffeting a backpack around is quite an abs workout, the use of the walking sticks is not only invaluable for toning those flabby upper-under arm bits but also the forearms when launching across small streams and ditches, and uneven surfaces really helps tone the otherwise anonymous muscles used for balance.

And the hard part? How do you go from eight hours of aerobic exercise a day to maybe a one hour walk through the park?

As an Alternative to the Camino?

2010-04-16T15:36:00.002+02:00

The route I took in Greece from Thessaloniki to Patras is about the same distance as from St Jean Pied de Port, on the French side of the Pyrenees, to Santiago de Compostelle. It begins at sea level on the Aegean climbs through the pass beside Mt Olympus (the highest point in the country), across some lovely plains, then over a few more mountains, across broad valley of cotton fields, then into more mountains including the pass beside Mt Parnassus, finally descending for a walk along the Gulf of Corinth to Patras. There's a similar balance between mountains and plains on this route to Patras and the Camino Frances to Santiago.

While there is a full absence of foot-pilgrim tradition in Greece, I found plenty of options for accommodation - monasteries, churches with side rooms with a couch or two, pensions, hotels, agritourism, as well as unlimited camping opportunities. The E4 hiking trail, part of the transEuropean network, weaves through the region and there are numerous farm or forest tracks with minimal traffic; only a small part of the route I took is along any roads with significant traffic, along the Gulf of Corinth, but always with a very wide shoulder, and always with a gorgeous view. The E4, by the way, runs from the Straits of Gibraltar to Crete through Spain, France, Italy, the Balkans, and central Greece. The sections I walked on were fairly well waymarked with obvious care regarding such amenities as resting stations, shaded picnic tables, drinking water fountains, etc.

One silly challenge in the route is in crossing the Haliacmon River, the longest river in the country, which empties into the Aegean just outside of Thessaloniki. As far I could tell from the maps and from asking around, the only bridge crossing is via a major highway, barred from pedestrians, and for good reason. I resorted to flagging down a car to get across the river. (The driver, an enthusiastic English-speaking archaeologist, as it turned out, filled me in on some fascinating historical facts about the area.) The route can be easily modified to begin on the right bank of the river rather than the left (Thessaloniki).

If a modern pilgrimage is taken to be a trek through beautiful landscape, steeped in ancient, world-significant history, with daily stages spaced 15 to 30 kilometers apart, leading toward a specific destination, then this route between Thessaloniki and Patras by way of Meteora and Delphi, studded with centuries'-old monasteries that offer accommodation to pilgrims, makes for a wonderful alternative to the Camino.

If there is a desire to walk as a pilgrim on a specific path that has been used by millions of pilgrims throughout the millennia who left their collective mark on the landscape, then this route has no particular meaning. There's no indication that St Andrew himself visited these places. I connected the dots of places legend says he visited between Kyiv and Istanbul, but after that, I found no easy references of how he ended up in Patras where he was martyred. It didn't matter much to me, being more interested in the history and the landscape rather than St Andrew's specific route through the area. I made my way to Patras by connecting the dots between places that existed in the first century, places where he could have traveled to. For these reasons, the route I took cannot really be called 'The Path of St Andrew'. Unlike the Camino to Santiago, there was no tradition through the Middle Ages of pilgrims to use the same monarch-sanctioned route to get to the saint's tomb, which is what made the Camino so famous, even up to modern times.

Of the entire length of my pilgrimage route, this 725-kilometer section was far and away the most beautiful, and with such a wonderful balance of climbs and flats, mountains and sea, villages and forests, oh, and the wonderful food, plentiful water... I found it overwhelmingly harmonious to walk through. There are countless options for specific daily routes, so it's adaptable for any skill- or fitness-level. Averaging almost 33 kilometers per day, it took me 22 days to walk this route. It could be done by bicycles, too, road or mountain, and no doubt, horses or mules for those so inclined, just like the Camino. People I met along the way were surprised but receptive to the idea of a pilgrim passing through on the way to Patras. I was treated extraordinarily well with daily kindnesses from villagers, monks, nuns...everyone. It would be remiss of me not to recommend it as an alternative. Go pilgrims, go.

Equipment Review

2010-04-04T15:53:00.002+02:00

I'm culling through my backpack for the long trip home...
...my backpack itself might just make it, but the cordura fabric is worn sorely on all of the friction points. It's a 30-liter Vaude. It was with me last year to Santiago, too, but it wouldn't likely stand another long trip (even the one home) without blowing out of its frame. I suppose it's held up well for the number of kilometers it's seen, but its demise seems a little premature for the length of time I've used it. If I take another long trek, I might consider something a little smaller and with a sturdier suspension system even if it's a bit heavier. I like that the mesh keeps my back cooler than foam, but it's gotten pretty saggy over the road.
...all of the clothing from EMS (Eastern Mountain Sports) and Under Armor has held up remarkably well; everything from SmartWool and WinterSilks has utterly fallen apart. I don't have any sponsorship so I feel free to say it as I see it. I've replaced some socks along the way - never quite getting the hang of the hot stoves in Ukraine, I burned quite a few pairs - and picked up one European brand more durable to the daily scrubbings and drying. They say 'x-action' on the instep and 'trekking pro' along the side, but I'm not sure which is the company name. Anyway, they're ultra durable and comfortable being made for right and left fittings and sized based on shoe size rather than just small/medium/large.
...my REI Ascent Shocklite walking sticks of course became invaluable extensions of my hands, but the telescopic length locking mechanism became unreliable pretty early on. Ideally, I like to be able to lengthen one or the other when I'm traversing a steep slope or both of them when I'm crossing a deep stream, but because of this locking problem, too often they wouldn't relock in the new position, or in any position and I'd have to spin and spin for 20 minutes before they'd lock again. Way back in Odessa, while looking for new snow baskets after losing both in the ice storms, I considered for a moment replacing the poles themselves. All the other poles I saw were more than twice the weight of the REIs. I value the lightweight feature more than anything else, so suffered through the fixed length without much regret. Still, the poles are the most important piece of equipment.
...I innovated a retractable map case from a clear plastic zip-top 3-ring notebook sleeve and two retractable ID card holders. I clipped the reels of the holders onto loops on the top of my pack and snapped on the plastic sleeve at the corners. With the map inside, I could easily access it without so much wear and tear on the paper map, especially in bad weather, and then let it retract back without having to refold it or unzip anything. Handy. The idea is grand, but the application... well, at this point, there's more clear plastic tape holding it together than the original plastic. I stopped in countless post offices along the way to seek repair help - they always have plenty of clear plastic tape lying around. Before undertaking another trip, I'll look more carefully for a heavier plastic sleeve or somehow reinforce the ones in every Staples or OfficeMax. The retractable ID badge holders, that cost something like $2 each at the local hardware store, work as smoothly as when I brought them home. They were probably pulled and retracted at least a dozen times every day. Never a hitch.
...I mentioned earlier that my boots are on the last of their treads and the leather is rather cracked, the Goretex liners worn and holey, and no matter how much rosemary I stuff them with during the nights, they're powerfully odiferous. They're Austrian, Meindl brand, with Vibram soles. In my three long treks, I've gone through two pairs of boots - that's 9,000 kilometers in total. (The first pair, nearly identical to the Meindl, REI label on Raichle-made boots, again, Austrian.) On the one hand, they get a lot of use - thorough soakings, intense fireside dryings, dust and dirt, snow and ice, rocks, streams, etc... on the other hand, that's what's expected during long distance hiking. It seems to me that they've worn prematurely. Never any blisters, though =)
...my silk sleepsack, down blanket, reflective 'emergency' blanket (never used in an emergency, but to trap precious heat on the coldest nights), helium ditty bags, and sports towel now on their third trips are all as useful and functioning as in the very beginning.

The way, the weather and the welcome

2010-04-04T07:22:00.003+02:00

As I've been walking these last springtime weeks knowing it would all soon come to an end, I've contemplated what makes a good pilgrimage - why some days are so grand and other days such a trial. I've summarized it as the balance of the contributing components: the way, the weather, and the welcome.

The way changes daily, hourly even... an idyllic sheep-cropped broad, grassy path on a ridge offering a spectacular view with a clear perspective on where the path goes - ahhh, what a comfortable way! Or maybe a steep rocky slope of snow-covered scree where one misstep can mean grave injury or worse - uh, oh! Perhaps an unavoidable stretch along a busy, shoulderless highway in the rain where for some ungodly reason drivers are inclined to honk their horns, which causes nothing but alarm and further distress - arrgh! Now an unpaved country lane, a ribbon between harmonious villages spaced an hour's walk apart, one favored by all of the local songbirds and cuddly wildlife - >sigh<. Sometimes the way can be controlled through taking an alternate route; other times not. Sometimes a rough way is easily endured because it's only a short distance. In a daily distance of 30 or 40 kilometers, the quality of the way can change many times or, as in the case of the Ukrainian steppes, it's more of the same flat land of black earth for days on end.

The weather is related to the way in the sense that it's incrementally less miserable to be in a cold pouring rain on a paved, level country lane than climbing hand over hand up an over-vegetated rockface in the mountains. Conversely, it's incrementally more miserable to be on a long flat stretch of unshaded black pavement under a midday sun than it is to be prancing under the interconnected branches of an almond orchard in full bloom. The weather is the weather. The preparedness for being out in the weather can be managed to a degree, but only within the contents of a backpack.

Finally, the welcome. This runs the spectrum on the positive side - fabulous, warm, friendly, gracious... but stops at 'indifferent'. Indifferent is easier to recover from when persistence eventually produces an introduction to a positive welcome. This factor is not entirely random or in the hands of the welcomer. A friendly disposition, no matter how beaten down from the weather or the way, is likely to encourage a friendly welcome; a grouchy demanding disposition in response to the beating from the weather or the way, will more likely encourage a cold welcome - so I've learned. To be certain, a warm heartfelt welcome will trump crappy weather or a difficult way. Meeting the right people can dissolve away anything else. The accumulated aggravation from hours of walking in horrid weather disappear the minute someone taps on the pane and says 'would you like to come in for a cup of tea?'

There are some days, or portions thereof, when the way, the weather, and the welcome all bottom out and hit like a perfect storm - everything seems wrong wrong wrong. Hunker down and sleep it off until everything looks brighter in the morning. One can always have hope. Other days, though, the way, the weather, and the welcome all come together like hitting the trifecta at the derby. Nothing can be better on a pilgrimage than these days - the way is so memorable, the weather perfect, and the warmth and camaraderie of strangers summing up everything that is right with the world. Ah, to be on the pilgrim trail.

PATRAS!!!

2010-04-03T14:25:00.006+02:00

An easy and breezy 21-kilometer walk along the Gulf of Patras with an overpowering fragrant mix of eucalyptus and orange blossoms... I crossed the modern bridge and walked the last 10 km along the pebbly beach with the surf lapping at my boots, so holey they should be reserved for Sundays... I walked into the Cathedral of Agios Andreas.

Wow. I'm done.

I happened to meet the priest of the cathedral as I was on the exterior steps putting a stained and faded shirt on over my tank top so I would be as 'suitably attired' as I can be as the signs require in many languages. 'English, Deutsch, Francais, Italiano, mali, mali Ruskie?????', my usual question after stating 'eimai proscinitus', I am a pilgrim. 'Mono Greco', his response, the one that I've heard far and away the most often. Nonetheless, I was able to explain to him in embarrassingly poor Greek that I've walked all the way from 'Kievo' to come to his church. I showed him my credenziale. He shook my hand, then hugged me, then shook my hand again, and finally kissed my forehead, gathering together the candleladies and everyone else in reaching distance. No one, the elderly man told me softly, has ever done this as far as he's ever heard. 'Bravo', he pulled me into the cathedral, into his office, and stamped and dated my book in the place I've reserved for the honor. He gave me a few postcards of the cathedral and an icon of the Holy Mother, because he couldn't find one of St Andrew, and then took me to the reliquary of my virtual trekking pal and gave me my hand back. There's a skull bone in an ornate silver case under glass and pieces of old wood in an X-shaped case behind it. In the side-church, there's another case with some finger bones and some rib pieces. All quite macabre for my taste, actually, Andy's bits in their final resting place. The church is fairly new with comfortable strong Italian influences - gold mosaics on the walls and interior domes similar to St Mark's Cathedral in Venice; colorful and pictorial stone marquetry on the floors like so many of the cathedrals in Tuscany - unquestionably the largest church I've seen in Greece.

And now I'm done with the walk. 4,423 kilometers.
No... can it be true?

Mountain Marathons

2010-03-29T18:13:00.002+02:00

I'm lovin' it again! As the last of the burnt skin of my arms, neck, face, ear tips (youch!), and shins peels away, I've climbed back into the cool mountains and have been much happier about everything.

I seem to have been training for these last four months for the challenges I now face. The mountainous landscape is gorgeous but the paths quite rugged. The streams are bank-full and then some with cold meltwater from above. The most difficult part is the infrequency of the villages - no where to socialize and find refreshment... like that's such a harsh punishment, ha! Notice the sidebar - 128 km in three days! And those were enormous mountain kilometers... my map can only show the closely spaced 100-meter contour lines, the altitude of the passes and peaks are so much higher than the valley floors. I upped and downed more than 800 spectacular vertical meters (2,600 ft) countless times each of those days. I can hardly believe I can do this! Sure, my legs are fatiqued spaghetti strands after the major descents, but even I'm amazed I can do this so easily.

When I do arrive in one of the isolated high-perched hamlets of goatherds and foresters, generally lacking a cafe, someone has always invariably invited me to sit with them in a shady spot to admire the view and have a beer. (Beer's great in Greece, as long as you like Amstel.) They are completely incredulous of the distance I've walked, though a quick glance at my exposed calves is the clearest demonstration of proof, enormous and muscularly cut (Irish genes!). 'You must walk around the mountain, not over it', they advise, 'it's not safe for a woman.' Hahahahahahaaaa! Yeah, right. The crowd in Gravia told me it I must walk around the mountains because the distance to Delphi requires three days to walk - they know from experience - and since there are no villages, it would mean camping out, which is out of the question because of the dangers, blah, blah, blah... cold, woman, alone... ugh, how tiresome this has become. So I walked the 50 km in one day and cherished every step of it.

How can I walk kilometer after kilometer? People ask me this all the time. I'm always curious about what's around the next bend, what I'll see over the next rise, or, often reflecting on Benny Hill's mispunctuated line: What's that in the road? A head? I see lots of things on the road, sometimes, indeed, there is a head - the skull of a deer or goat or cattle. Sometimes roadkill - badgers are particularly common here in Greece... sometimes the roadside shrines that look like miniature churches that someone tends regularly to keep the oil lamp lit. I've realized that these are generally placed as markers where paths intersect. Around one bend, then another; over one rise, down a valley, over another rise; into a village always full of quirkly village amusements... what's there not to like? I thought I was ready to be done three weeks ago, but that was the off cheese talking; then last week, but that was the distraction of the oppressive sunny heat... I'm nearly ready to be done, but these mountain experiences - long as they may need be - have been terrific. I've been keeping right below the snowline on these mountains. The soles of my boots are about as smooth as ballet slippers and the leather tops as cracked as a desert riverbed. I'm not done yet, but my boots will go the distance.

I witnessed a Nature moment on the dirt track high in the mountains aromatic with spruce and juniper trees... in the soft ground, clear deep footprints of a, well, giant dog, I'd prefer to think, met on the path by slightly smaller footprints of a wolverine, or some other creature with pointy toenails. Signs of a scuffle, uh oh, and then only the dog pawprints next to dragmarks of something broad and heavy... no more pointy-toed marks into the grassy verge below the rocks. Alas, nature.

I've been flirting with the heart of Greek mythology, up high in the clouds looking for Pan and his crowd. I've seen more goats in the mountains than bus-pilgrims in Meteora, but no Satyrs or Centaurs (yet). I climbed over the famed Mt Parnassus - sacred to Apollo, setting for Ovid's Metamorphoses, home of Pegasus... all that stuff from high school classic lit class - and descended into Delphi, the 'navel of the Earth'. Like my approach into Meteora, coming from the north, over the mountains is not the typical entrance. From above, Delphi looks like a small village on grassy slopes with the ancient ruins off to the side - a stadium, an amphitheater, some columns of various temples, the sea beyond the mouth of the valley; later, from the valley floor, I could look back and see the more typical view of the ancient place. From the stream amid the olive groves far below, the white houses with red-tile roofs hug the top of the slope just below the (nearly) impassable vertical rockfaces that soar into the clouds, dominating the landscape. Perspective says a lot.

People continue to be full of kindness for me. I walk in the wilderness and take advise from beekeepers and oliviers on what unmarked path to take to get to my next destination. I've been invited to share in many a meal of lamb on the backyard spit, with overly sweet delicacies oozing with honey from the numerous hives that dot the landscape. I find myself on challenging routes, and I'm fit for the challenge. I talk with people who have never met a pilgrim before. Nuns have joked with me when I ask for a night's accommodation - 'you must be Catholic, no Orthodox would do such a thing.' I've never been turned away. It's all still a lot of fun.

Pilgrims by the busload!

2010-03-24T15:16:00.003+01:00

Encountering other pilgrims was bound to happen, but by the busload was a little overwhelming. That's what I found at the famed Meteora monasteries - busloads of 'pilgrims'. Mostly German.

I've been traveling through the beautiful and rugged countryside - mountains, steep fields of grazing goats and sheeps and the particularly protective dogs who keep them together. I've picked up bits of the E4 European hiking trail for some off-road excursions but have popped back down to roads to get to the villages otherwise bypassed. From this northerly approach, the steep descent to Meteora took some of the mystery out of the collection of 16th-century monasteries perched on pinnacle outcrops as more typically first seen from the valley below. Nonetheless, busload upon busload of religious tourists crowd the monasteries like nothing I've seen so far on the journey. At the women's monastery of St Stephenus, I humbly asked for lodging for one night. An English-speaking nun apologized profusely for their inability to host me... too many nuns, not enough beds, I was told. I was given instead a blessing and a voucher for a hotel below in the next town. The main street of the town, full of icon factory outlets and other schlock trinket shops, was lined with hotels to accommodate the busloads. Exhausted from the 46 kilometers of the day's hike, steeply uphill until the last 5 km of hazardous descent, I stopped in the first hotel and expained that I'm a pilgrim but the monastery was full, so take the nuns' voucher and please provide me with a room and a meal or tell me who could. The hotelier was happy to oblige and squeezed me in with a group from Heppenheim, Germany, coincidentally quite near to where I used to live.

As I ate my banquet meal of 'typical' Greek cuisine that Germans would like, others from the group spied me as a newcomer and pressed me in their reserved manner for details of why I'm suddenly with their group. I explained myself and in a short time was told emphatically that I'm not a real pilgrim because I wasn't with a bus tour, spending a whole week touring the most famous Christian sites in central Greece. Besides, I was told, pilgrims by foot go to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, not to Greece. They were all pretty happy with themselves for 'setting me straight' and were up and ready at 7 am with their luggage assembled in the lobby to go on to their next site - Delphi. It would take me another 6 days and them 3 hours to get there. Meanwhile, the hotelier prepared a bag lunch for me to take along with me and sent me off with hugs and promises of prayers.

Summer has hit with a force and I got sunburned within a few hours. It just can't be helped when I'm perspiring under the direct rays with no where to hide... How can anyone be a summer pilgrim??? For three days, the temperatures soared into the high 20s (80s F). I'm dying out here! Carrying everything, wearing next to nothing and getting burned as I sweat buckets. Even the dogs are disinclined to bark at me and chase me, instead staying sprawled out under the nearest olive tree. The last two days have been a pleasant light drizzle in the mountains again; I'm much happier. But spring has arrived; the winter pilgrimage is coming to an end.

Still Here!

2010-03-18T18:45:00.002+01:00

During this long pause between blogs, I have continued to walk walk walk but haven't found too many opportunities to blog blog blog. The landscape is beautiful and the people to match, but somewhere in there I got hold of some bad feta or something and was rather under the weather for many days... days of snow, mostly, ugh! I'm so strongly determined to be in Patras on April 3rd that giving up was never a thought that crossed my mind. I just kept my head down and walked, preoccupied with the search for Mother Nature's powderrooms in response to the constant rumblings of the thunderstorm in my digestive track. I lost my appetite, and thus my energy was drained, but, funny thing, during this time, really nice people kept crossing my path, waving me into a cafe for a cup of tea and making it easy to find places to sleep - sometimes for 12 hours at a go. I walked through a lot of history, too, and took passing note, but didn't get too consumed. I walked by Philippi, but could see from the hillside above that the ruins were completely covered in wet snow, and being a Monday, was closed anyway. Oh well. Onward I trekked.

I recovered fully in the days it took to walk around Mt Olympus, just below the snowline. The sun has returned in force, as has my appetite, and the home of the gods is now behind me. I'm happily in the mountains, green and lush from the recent moisture, a day from the perched monasteries of Meteora. Calculating my actual route, I can eliminate the swing through Corinth and take the bridge or a ferry across the Gulf of Patras and recover my schedule to offset the greater-than-planned distance. Though my Greek language skills are still very limited, using mostly German, I explain to people what I'm doing. 'Patras is too far to walk to,' they tell me, 'you must take a bus.' Isn't that a hoot! I show them my credenziale, completely filled with stamps from so many of the places where I've stayed, and they begin to get it. Otherwise, the concept of pilgrimage by foot is completely foreign. They quickly conclude that I must be Catholic because an Orthodox simply wouldn't do something like this.

More soon, but I'm alive and well and found an internet cafe to post.

Trippin' on History

2010-03-07T16:56:00.002+01:00

Compared with everywhere else I've walked, history is pouring out from all directions. Still, like in Turkey, small villages that have been there forever are full of modern houses in stark contrast to similar villages in France or Italy or Spain, for example, where the age-old houses have been compasionately modernized and still retain their quaint old appearance. Nonetheless, the route I've been on through Greece follows quite closely to the Hellenistic road, Via Egnatia, built in the 3rd century BC and improved by the Romans in the 1st century. I'm not sure if St Andrew walked this way, but if he did, he certainly would have used this road. Great stretches of it are cordoned off and have descriptive information signs, in Greek and English. Cool.

I've gotten a bit lazy - everyday since I've been in Greece, I haven't had any trouble finding someone who speaks German; consequently, I haven't been too motivated to learn a whole lot of Greek. I wander into a village, go to the tea house filled with old men playing cards, and immediately gain the attention of everyone present. Someone always speaks up in German to offer me some 'tea' (a vile sweet pinkish instant drink, like hot Kool Aid), Greek coffee (exactly like Turkish coffee), instant coffee, or a 'frappe' of instant coffee frothed with milk. I generally enjoy the company of the old men. When I tell them I began my journey in Kiev, they invariably come back with 'oh, Russia'. Their error is forgiven - geographic boundaries have changed a lot during the lifetimes of most of these men. This is the underlying reason, they tell me, that the villages are full of modern houses - after 1924 when everyone in northern Turkey and eastern Greek was repatriated with their ethnic homeland, neither group was content to live in an old house previously occupied by the other group, so down the houses came and up the new ones sprang. It's funny that the modern houses in both Turkish Thrace and Greek Thrace look alike. And they've all got indoor plumbing =)

The old men in the villages as well as the priests I speak with to get advice on how to get to my next stopping point all give me the predictable misguidance: 'take the highway', they all insist, 'it's the fastest and easiest way'. They're nuts of course - walking alongside a highway has got to be the worse route for a pedestrian... do they think I can suddenly skip along at 8 kilometers per hour instead of my usual 5? I had the most glorious walk of the trip between a brand new convent in the village of Panorama on the Aegean, and a tiny village of Xylogani along the coast to the west. I stuck to the shoreline along the ancient route now dotted with archeological digs of settlements from prehistory. I literally tripped over some stones and saw that they were part of a Hellenistic theater. Medieval watch towers occupy each high crag. For more than five hours of brisk walk under a sunny blue sky through centuries-old olive groves, my company was herds of goats, each equipped with a small clanging bell. This was the route everyone warned me not to take - 'it's too dangerous' they say, because they're afraid to walk in the forest - wild pigs, they say. Teeheehee, I say.

Greece

2010-03-03T11:45:00.002+01:00

Hey, I've reached Greece! On the one hand, I've come a very long way to get here. On the other hand, it's like having a new starting point. Observant ones out there might have noticed that my original estimate on the distance to Patras was a little off - I'm close to 3,400 km already and have at least 800 to go. No worries - I've got plenty of time until Easter and will chose a route that fills every available day. My plan is to arrive in Patras on 3 April. There's so much to see in Greece that I'm sure I could wander around to a new place every day for a few years, but I'll take a month to see what I can.

It was a rainy river crossing from Turkey. (To tally it up: two borders across rivers - no pedestrians permitted - and two borders across mountains; three in heavy snow, one in pouring rain; at each one, a pilgrim is an oddity.) My last days in Turkey were glorious - rolling hills, farm villages every half dozen kilometers, good food, nice people, barking dogs... the fruit trees are in puffy bloom and daffodils make every garden sparkle. The one day of rain, heavy as it was, was soft, warm and cleansing.

What to expect in Greece???? I arrived late in the afternoon on an empty highway lined with concertina wire and a noticable lack of signage. I saw a village, Kipi - white washed cottages with red roof tiles - and headed to it across a field of baaing lambs crying for their ewes and mooing cows wanting to be milked. In the village center, a church stands whitewashed with twin belltowers, a small school building, a minimarket, a covered block of post office boxes, and maybe 50 houses radiating from the juncture of five packed-dirt roads...

I started at the cafe - a dozen old men sitting quietly drinking small cups of tea or coffee, some playing cards on green felt mats spread on the table for the purpose. Of course, everything stopped when I walked in. I took off my pack and set it on a bench, then consulted my map and flipped through some documents searching for my Greek language 'cheat sheet' (to no avail - what could have happened to it?) A man approached and politely asked in German if I'd like a cup of tea. Sure, I would! - but it was served heavily sugared - blech. After a few moments more, I saw the priest arrive to the church next door - yippee! (except I don't speak Greek and couldn't find my helpful list of words). I dashed out to talk to him nonetheless, but alas, he speaks Greek and no English, German, French, Italian, nor >gulp< Russian... I even tried some Turkish. He pointed to the cafe and then to his watch and I was duely dismissed for the time being.

Back in the cafe, I asked the general crowd (which grew in my absence) if anyone speaks English. Not a word. Then if someone speaks French. No takers. One gentlemen shouted out 'Deutsch' like it were a game show, and we were off to the races. I explained that I'm a pilgrim on my way to Patras following the route of St Andrew - and unlike everywhere else I'd been so far, Patras is a place well known - and would need a place to sleep for the night and guidance on my next stage toward my destination. All of this was disseminated through the body of men and we all sat and waited until the priest was done with his evening service.

The German speaker grew inpatient and took me to the church to interrupt the four elderly women and the young priest. Foot pilgrims, it seems, are not common in this village. In the end, the priest gave me the key to the side room of the church where there is a room with a sofabed. Perfect for me. He stamped my credenziale. In the cafe, with the fire roaring in the pot-bellied stove, souvlaki, tomato and cucumber salad, french fries, and yogurt spread before me, and after such a long sad drought on my liver, a bottle of local red wine. Everything a pilgrim could want. If every village in Greece has such a church with the small sideroom, this last stretch of the pilgrimage will be stress-free and lovely.