(Foncebadon’ to Molinaseca: 20.3 km, 7 hours with 1 hr & 35 min breaks; 30,200 steps, with a few more later)

Philippians 2:1-11
v. 9-11 Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

The name that is above every name–all the greatest personnages and cities of the earth–is the name of Jesus. God has exalted him to the highest place–higher than mankind’s engineering marvels, higher than Fancebadon’ and other Camino mountain villages–as Lord of heaven and earth. One day, to God’s everlasting glory, every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. Hallelujah! Lord Jesus, may we honor you with all our lives.

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In the 8 am darkness the fog hung thickly on Foncebadon’, softening its decaying gray buildings. An international contingent of us tramped up the rugged street, up and out of the stone town. As the morning lightened, fog wrapped around fences and bushes along the path.

In two kilometers, still cradled by fog, we reached the Cruz de Ferro, an iron cross mounted on a tall pole, at the base of which pilgrims traditionally lay a stone symbolizing something they want to let go. Many have carried a rock of some substance from their homeland. “I brought this from a lake in Bavaria,” our German companion had said as we started the day. Hmm. I had reached down and picked a pebble from the path. Now at the Cruz, decorated with ribbons, photos, flags and trinkets of all sorts, dozens of pilgrims were materializing from the fog. At a pause in their pilgrimage, many were taking pictures, leaving mementos, waiting for the fog to lift and a holy moment to descend. Maurice and I walked around to the back and I tossed my pebble on the pile. There was nothing mystical about it. At the foot of the cross it was a chance once again to lay my burdens down. It was Sunday, and I had our Hymn of the Day:
…I lay my sins on Jesus, the spotless Lamb of God.
…He bears them all and frees us from the accursed load.
…I bring my guilt to Jesus to wash my crimson stains
…Clean in his blood most precious till not a spot remains. (Horatius Bonar)

Soon the fog began to lift on the high mountain roads. We came to Manjarin where Tomas, its resident of one, presided over a bizarre little settlement with stone walls, wooden huts, flags, photos, coffee and cookies, some sort of medieval exhibition, sellos for the credencials (of course) and an albergue donativo with a latrine across the road in the bushes (we didn’t really need to go).

As the fog turned into clouds of mist and the sun made the greenery around us sparkle, our narrow path climbed higher. Beautiful views opened on our left of softly rounded mountains fuzzy with trees. It was a struggle between drinking in the dazzling morning and watching the rocks littering the path and tripping our feet.

These little crocus-like flowers grew along the path and sometimes right out of the dirt in the middle of the path.

Finally we arrived at the alto of 1515 meters and began our descent. Two weeks before we had spent several days gradually attaining much of that elevation, then went up and down and up again within the same hundred meters or so. All that gain slipped away in a few hours as we skittered and slid and strained our bodies going ten steep kilometers down the mountain. Our thighs burned, our knees throbbed and our toes smashed painfully against the front of our shoes. Would it never end? At last the village of Acebo came into sight with beckoning bars its first feature. We turned right in and sat down for a snack, a hamburguesa, which came on a loaf of local bread.

Then it was back on the road to continue our descent, ending at Molinaseca. We had descended 905 meters (about 3,000 feet). Molinaseca looked like a nice town of some size but we pretty much missed it as we marched to our albergue on the other side of it. We had a nice, bunk-free eight-bed room in the attic. The bathrooms were in the basement, three floors down, sixteen steps per floor. It was a nice modern albergue but a lot of people smoked on the porch where there were tables and chairs for relaxing.

Our beds were to the left of the top window

About a dozen people signed up for the communal dinner: delicious lentil soup, then a generous platter of ensalada mixta (always with tuna, but this time with corn too), then spaghetti (somewhat disappointing to me because there was sheep cheese mixed in), then pineapple slices with a piece of cake for dessert, all with plenty of wine, of course. I chatted in French with the older Spanish man next to me, then sat in a cozy overstuffed chair writing until it was past time for lights out.