Day one

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

It really is holy, too... Tonight I'm sleeping in an ancient monastery with 100 people in one room.  There are 50 bunk beds in the old hospital part of the monastery, and each row has two bunks shoved next to each other with a gap in between just large enough to walk through.  This means that because Emily is sleeping above me, there is a person in the bed next to me who I could literally be spooning with at any moment.  She speaks Afrikaans and has just informed me that she talks a lot in her sleep.

Today was one of the best days of my life, and it was also one of the worst.  I'm having trouble deciding which is the stronger sentiment, although right now I'm leaning towards worst because of my chattering teeth.  I am not prepared for this journey.  The day started out all sunshine and daisies-- literally.  Sure, walking uphill for hours on end was a bit difficult, but Emily and I were goofing around, chatting with new friends and taking photos of everything.  The French countryside was stunning and I was with my best friend for the first time in almost a year.

It started to get eerie when the walkers thinned out as more and more people passed us.  It was a cloudy day, and we were so high into the mountains (1,000 meters or so) that the fog was dense around us and we could only see a few meters in any direction.  We could hear cowbells in the distance, but could not see who or what they belonged to.  I learned how to tell the difference between cow shit, sheep shit, and horse shit... you never know; it might come in handy someday.  We would hear the cowbells for ages before a random animal would pop out of the mist.  Our eyelashes and hair were covered in clouds and we struggled to see the pathway.

It started to rain somewhere around the French/Spanish border.  We stopped and put the rain covers on our backpacks, still goofing around.  It started to rain a bit harder; we put our raincoats on.  Puddles started to form, lightning flashed, and thunder boomed in the distance.  We fell silent and slogged along.  The thunder got closer, the rain fell heavier, and the lightning was more frequent.  We passed a hut and decided to keep trekking.

One kilometer further, we were nearly stampeded by a flock of sheep running down the mountain.  I think I started laughing hysterically at this point because Emily pointed out that the sheep were running away from the peak of the mountain and we were approaching it.  The storm was now directly above us; lightning, thunder, hail, flash floods... Fuck.  Every ounce of my heart was saying, Keep going!  If you just make it to Roncesvalles, you will be safe and you'll have a hot shower!  My brain countered with, Turn back.  Go downhill, get into the hut and out of the storm. Wait it out.  Emily and I weighed our options from the cover of the forest and decided to go with our own instincts instead of the flock's.  

This is how we found ourselves on the 1,450 meter peak of a mountain in the middle of a hailstorm.  I was pretty sure this was the exact manner and location of Emilio Esteves' death in the movie The Way, but I tried not to think about it.  We started the descent and waded through the mudslides for another hour and a half, singing every song that we both know the words to, mainly Grease and Disney.  After 29 kilometers we eventually made it to the monastery where I have never been more grateful for shelter in my life.

My legs ache, my body aches, I have a blister on each foot, and my sleeping bag is wet because my rain cover failed miserably.  It turns out my raincoat is not hail-proof, either.  The room is already echoing with snores and I'm pretty sure the lady next to me is going to roll onto my bed any minute at the rate she is thrashing around.  Oh, did you read the part about the lightning and the hail and flash floods on the top of a mountain?  So, let me end by saying... 

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

K

Roncesvalles, Spain