Day V: Cruces -> Santiago de Compostela; 11.2mi (146.7mi total).

I am aware that I have a habit of intentionally delaying writing about monumental things. I think it’s because there is a piece of me that feels as if documenting an event means I’ve accepted the experience is over. If I haven’t fully collected my thoughts and articulated them, to me, the experience still lives somewhere in between beginning and actually ending. Even if the details get a little bit fuzzier, it feels like a worthwhile exchange, necessary even, to preserve them in that interim for a moment more.

That’s what I’ve been doing these past few weeks. I’ve never been good at accepting endings or letting go.

But after well over one month at home, here is what I have to say about my final days in Spain and Portugal, for now; (because the beauty of writing is that there are no rules and the beauty of life is that experiences can yield new lessons and perspectives with time).

__

As we neared the end of our trek, dynamics changed. The trail got busier and the surrounding towns got bigger. At one point, an international friend of mine turned to me and said “I miss the lonely.”

I understood what she meant: she meant she missed the old, intimate dynamic. But the words she strung together to voice that nestled somewhere deep inside of me and they’ve stuck around.

This trip taught me that lonely has an important home. Not in the forcing yourself to unnecessarily ache sense — but I think missing is an important way to appreciate how much the people you’re surrounded by mean to you, a reminder not to take them for granted and to be thankful we don’t have to navigate this world without them.

There was a time earlier this year when I felt incapable of letting people I cared deeply for know that I missed them. I thought acknowledging that I felt the ache of someone’s absence meant I couldn’t stand on my own two legs without them; or that acknowledging that the world felt darker without them meant I couldn’t be happy on my own. It wrecked me. It was a contributing factor in fracturing relationships I never want to know life without. I clung onto the illusion of independence so tightly, I forgot that there is more beauty in leaning than standing alone; that it’s okay to feel the absence of people we love and to let them know we do.

In a round about way, these days showed me these things.

__

We finished our trek to Santiago de Compostela early in the afternoon of Tuesday, October 1st. It was perfect. I walked in with old friends and new friends, I was eating a peach, the sun was shining, the past memories flooded in and were welcomed, and the new experiences were taken in whole heartedly.

I’ve walked a collective six-hundred-fifty miles, and have spent thousands to stand where I stood in that moment and I can’t explain why in this paragraph. Maybe this entire blog serves to articulate why, but at this time I don’t have words to cut it down smaller than that; except to say that, once again: it was worth it. It was emotional and raw and Santiago de Compostela lives amongst all of my favorite mountain tops.

__

When I booked tickets for this trip, with an October 8th return flight, I had no timeline. I was ignorant to the daily mileage of this trek and I didn’t make any effort to estimate. I simply purchased a return flight for a day that made sense and lined up with when the friends I joined were moving on.

This schedule allowed me two entire days in Santiago de Compostela. I took a historic walking tour and learned things I hadn’t known the last time I was there. I spent an entire afternoon drinking my favorite Galician beer in the sunshine with friends from different corners of this planet. I found a favorite coffee shop and sat inside of it each day. I welcomed my friends from the coast into town and re-enjoyed their company.

The night they arrived, the 3rd, thirteen of us got dinner. Old friends, new friends, the friend I’d ended up spending the majority of the trek with, the friend I met on day one, the friend I met the second day when I was walking alone, the friends of the American friends I came here with. We sat together until we were kindly told the restaurant was closed, three hours later.

As we all embraced and parted ways in preparation for different directions the following day, one of my german friends from day one looked me in the eye and said: “thank you, because in a way you brought us all together.” The sentiment made sense to me in part and it made my eyes well with tears, but there is also the truth that I never would have chosen the coastal route had it not been for that very friend. In the end, I know I can’t take any credit, these things are just the magic of this place. These things are why I didn’t hesitate when the opportunity to return presented itself.

I said “ich liebe dich” as she walked away and she turned around and smiled. “I love you, too,” she responded.

The next morning, I took a bus ride back to Porto with the girl who became my most consistent companion on this trip. There, she would stay in Porto for a flight, while I would continue down to the very southern part of Portugal to do some solo venturing to areas I had only dreamed of seeing (made possible by the extra time we had scrounged up).

There is something thrilling, to me, about taking on unknown places solo, but in my personal experiences, this usually takes place in the form of traveling to meet someone or driving a few hours to backpack a night or two. This was an entirely new experience to me — a seven hour bus ride, three nights booked in a single hotel room, all in a country whose native language I know three words in (thank you, yes and the name of my favorite local cocktail – caipirinha).

It turns out, the coast isn’t somewhere many people travel alone. I encountered several surprised glances and “how can this be?” remarks. The lonely was extra weird and I got particularly restless after such a people-filled two weeks, but I did my best to embrace it.

I saw things I would have never otherwise seen. I navigated public transit (nearly) flawlessly. I slept in and ate my hotel continental breakfast by the pool. I sat on a ledge overlooking the rocky coast below and watched the sunset, with only a tripod and a timer to prove my presence there (which resulted in my favorite photo of the entire trip). I ate at a restaurant by myself for the first time in my life, on the patio, with the waves crashing on the coast. There was a time or two during that dinner that my eyes filled with tears as I reflected on the beauty and the chaos of everything that has been transpiring around me, everything I would be coming home to and all of the richness I would be carrying home with me. I thought about everything I missed and how thankful I was to miss so deeply. I kept receiving concerned looks from a lady at a nearby table, but I gave her a nod and let the tears stay.

__

I returned to Porto after those days and despite the less than ideal length of the return bus trip, it felt meaningful to me to end my trip where it began.

As I raced through Porto, with my backpack, to catch the sunset before going to my hostel, I heard a voice from the bridge yell “buen camino,” and then another from somewhere behind me (a car, I think) and then the man right near me turned to me and said the same. For a split second, I wanted to yell back to each of them, “no no no, my camino is over.” But instead, intense gratitude welled up inside of me and all I could muster was the most sincere “thank you.”

Everyone who heard me probably believed I was shouting it to those three people, but if I’m being honest it was mostly directed at Portugal. Those people just gave me a socially acceptable and well timed outlet.

__

I frequently get asked what my favorite 14er is and my answer is always: Mount Yale. To people who know the 14er world, this response is met with confused expressions as I have forty-one other mountains to choose from at this point in my climbing career. Mount Yale is a simple, straightforward, Sawatch peak, whose views can be compared with any of the neighboring 14ers.

But to me, Mount Yale was bigger things. It was freedom. It was the first solo venture of its kind. It was combatting shifts in plans and unideal circumstances on the fly and feeling proud of myself for the way I did so. It was new friends, it was clear views, it was the way I felt and the way everything fell into place.

Perhaps Portugal is a more common favorite country than Mount Yale is a favorite 14er (or maybe, not). But I’ve decided to call it my favorite for all of those same sentiments.

__

Anyways, until the next adventure, or whatever topic I decide to write about next, buen camino (well wishes on your way) and thank you for following along. ✌🏽✨

Santiago de Compostela

Southern Portugal

Porto

🎶: Also, I ended up making a playlist for this trip, because fourteen hours on a bus and why not, enjoy:

Ruston Kelly: 1,000 Graves

Kacey Musgraves: Cup of Tea

Switchfoot & Lauren Daigle: I Won’t Let You Go

Ben Rector: If You Can Hear Me

Britney Spears: Oops I Did It Again

Taylor Swift: I Forgot That You Existed

Shane Smith & The Saints: Little Bird

John Prine: Souvenirs

Cody Jinks: Head Case

Maren Morris: A Song For Everything

Mat Kearney: Moving On

The Naked and Famous: Young Blood

Wade Bowen: Sun Shines on a Dreamer

Parker McCollum & Danielle Bradbery: Shallow

Cody Johnson: Wild As You

High Valley: Don’t Stop

Tim McGraw: Thought About You

Tyler Rich: Leave Her Wild

Kody West: Ledges

Nichole Nordeman: Every Mile Mattered

The Airborne Toxic Event: Timeless

Thomas Rhett: Remember You Young