passing the quarry at Zubiri

(Viskarret to Zabaldika)

2Samuel 22:2-7, 17-20, 26-37, 47
v. 34, 37 He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; he causes me to stand on the heights…. You broaden the path beneath me, so that my ankles do not turn.

We needed the broad paths and the feet of a deer today as we trudged mile after dusty mile, kilometer after rocky kilometer, aching, exhausted, wondering if we would be welcomed by the nuns or shut out in the heat of the day….

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The morning started with care for my one odd blister, which care I will not describe because when I told Chris he said he wished I hadn’t told him. (It’s no big deal really; I learned it on the camino forum.) Then, when I put on my shoe, my toe did not hurt because it was comfortably encased in a gel toe cap (a real find–who knew such things even existed?). I had hot chocolate with my breakfast, which was a nice touch, and we left at 8:15…the last ones out.

Soon we had passed all the other older people who had left from our village and we were enjoying the lovely woodsy paths. The biggest structure in every little town is the fronton, the pelota court with the high wall, indoor or out. A long rocky descent, 3+ km, took us into Zubiri where we popped into the first bar we saw for brunch–no tortillas but the lady fixed us omelets, just delicious. She even put a stack of ice cubes into the glass for our coke. We putzed for an hour.

At 11:45 we were on our way again, and now began the hard part. We had come just over ten km and had another twelve-plus to get to Zabaldika, the convent with the albergue donativo where we hoped to stay. It was the only place in town and had less than twenty beds. We’d heard that with the greater numbers on the Camino it was good to stop not much later than one o’clock to find a bed. If we were doing our 3.6 mph pace on the Watkins Park walking path we could have made it, but we couldn’t keep that up here on the real trail. But we pressed on, up and down, through pretty countryside, shade and sun, dust and rock underfoot. The air got hotter and hotter. Slowly the sun moved around to catch us from the front. We prayed for a place to stay and the strength to get there. Hips hurt. Feet were pounded flat. We gasped for air and gulped water. Whenever I couldn’t stand the ache from my shoulders I pulled the hip belt tighter, which squeezed more flab over top of the belt but helped my shoulders at least momentarily. I kept my pals Ty and Ibby close at hand but their support was weak. The kilometers stretched out forever into more minutes than they should have taken. I was drooping. I was beat. But I was on a mission. I charged ahead of Maurice so I could sit down and rest waiting for him. We were so tired. Would we get to Zabaldika in time? Would there be room? We had no plan B.

I sped past Maurice again, and finally, across a main road, a Camino sign pointed to Zabaldika…straight up the mountain. I had a good swig of water, still cold from the last fountain, and started up slowly. It was hard. At the top, around the corner of the church, across a small yard with chairs under the trees, and there was the big welcoming doorway of the albergue parroquial. The sign said it was abierto from 2:30. It was three o’clock. There were only four other pairs of pilgrim boots on the rack. Hallelujah! A hostess welcomed me in, making sure I took off my shoes and pack. Of course they had room! I told her my husband was coming. She asked if I would like some refreshment while I waited. Oh, yes! Maurice arrived fifteen minutes later; at the final mountain path he had taken off his pack and sat down for a rest before attempting it. Then Maurice climbed–two steps and a rest, two steps and a rest, two steps and a rest, until he reached the top. He was spent. When he got to the albergue he found me at the table; I had finished a glass of ice water, was halfway through an orange, and had just accepted a chunk of cold watermelon from the refrigerator. Maurice joined me for the juicy feast. We had done nothing special to deserve this welcoming hostel, yet our good and mighty Lord graciously brought us into this “spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me” (v. 20).

Early in our walk we had prayed and shared scripture for our Sunday service, then I announced and sang the Hymn of the Day:
“Jesus, still lead on, till our rest be won,
And although the way be cheerless
We will follow, calm and fearless.
Guide us by thy hand to our Father’s land.”
I hummed the hymn throughout the day. We are not yet in our Father’s heavenly land, but right now Zabaldika is close enough.

32,978 steps on my pedometer!

The modern albergue has a sitting area (with wifi–pronounced weefee), a dining area with a little kitchen and, up two flights, a big room with twelve beds covered with bright pink coverlets. Each bed had either a broad windowsill or a little shelf to put things on (a nice touch). Down one flight were two more tiny dorm rooms and the two regular bathrooms, for use by one person at a time, which seemed meager for so many people all basically going to bed and getting up at the same time, but we are pilgrims so we ought to be grateful for whatever we receive.

Shower, nap, rest and at 6:30 the little 13th-century church of San Esteban was opened for us. One of the sisters of the Sacred Heart (who seemed to speak whatever language was needed) put on some Gregorian chant to accompany our visit, then invited us to ascend the bell tower and give a gentle tug on the 13th-century bell. Very few people took her up on the offer but of course I was not going to miss it. A winding stone staircase led up past the balcony to a roomy porch where two bells hung in arched stone windows. The smaller one was the older one. I gave a pull–more like a yank–and the bell clanged colossally, its lovely reverberation hanging in the warm air for maybe twenty seconds.

Dinner was at 7:30: salad, a wonderful lentil stew, a little wine and yogurt. At 8:30 we all climbed to the balcony for a prayer service led by the multilingual nun, who welcomed us with a Taize song on her player and made sure the languages spoken by each person present had a part (English, German, Italian and Korean, all translated to Spanish for the local participants). Why were we doing the Camino, asked Sister, giving whoever wanted to speak a chance (and a translation). The answers: a desire for breath, for time, for presence, a call, to renew faith, to remove a thorn, to discern the next step in life, to draw closer to Jesus and family. What excellently described reasons, I thought; I could relate to them all.

Sister leading us in prayer

Maurice crashed. I stayed up writing. I also quickly found and reserved us a place to stay in Pamplona for the next two nights. We hurt all over. It is obvious we need a rest, and Pamplona is supposed to be a nice city to visit.