First Day on the Trail.

 The rustlings started early around 4am as people started to wake and lay in their bunks waiting for a decent hour to get up and leave. By five there were enough people getting up and so I got ready, had a breakfast of bread, jam and coffee provided by the albergue and set off. It was dark on St. Jean´s empty cobblestone streets unlike the tourist crowds from the day before and only a few well spaced walkers were headed out of the stone gate towards the trail´s beginning. As soon as you leave the town you are given a choice, the high 4200 foot mountain route known as the Rue de Napololeon (since he invaded Spain this way probably wanting to out do Hannibal ) or the lower easier route through to Roncevilles. Wanting all the badges I of course opted for the mountain route. Right away you head up and I started to labour with the short steep climb and weight of my pack. Soon though I was passing small groups and starting to feel good about things also thinking I was already higher than I was. Coming around a bend I was suddenly confronted with a very steep ascent to Honto. About 1000 feet, short and steep. I watched a small truck labour its way up and was thinking to myself here we go. Half way up as I tried to managed the climb I kept turning around thinking I had someone thumping up behind me. I soon realized it was the sound of my heart beating in my ears.  Soaked and breathing hard I made the first stop at Honto and was rewarded with a magnificent view of St. Jean in the background.  Seeing all the people I had just confidently breezed by catching up I lit off again up what by now was a goat or cow trail lateraling its way up the mountain. Now all of a sudden a mist started to close off the view and was giving me a bit of a chill against my sweat drenched body. I had to keep stopping and was literally gulping air. My head was shouting out orders to every part of my body telling the feet to stop acting like the lead weights they felt like, my lungs to stop being so greedy and my back to straighten up. Finally my stomach told my head if its heave you want then heave, I can give you so I stopped and had a breather while digging out a fleece.  By now all of the people I had passed were well passed me and one older German couple when whisking by me asked if I was ok. I thanked them, said yes but was wondering how they lost the war. It was then the final indignity presented itself in the form of a camino granny in rough sack cloth skirt and army boots went resolutely marching by me, beautiful smile saying "Bueno Camino". I finished my breather, sucked it up and headed the short distance into Orrision half way up the days march but the steepest part behind me.

 When I arrived in Orrision the whole mob was there taking a breather, having coffee and some doing yoga stretches. Incredibly many were smoking. Cat Stevens music was pouring out of the cafe and the mist gave everything a surreal atmosphere. I couldn´t help but wonder what would have happened if any of the girls had come along. I am sure mutiny would have set in and I had visions of Deb, Eileen and Lori gleefully clubbing me to death and disposing of the body over a cliff. Old Newfoundlander,Peter Rowe, who I had unsuccessfully tried to talk into coming would certainly have demanded burial with a bottle of Screech while cursing me to eternity.

           
Taking a short break I started up again. Just past  the restaurant was a sign with all the elevations and distances and a young fella there studying it. I took a look and set off with the young guy on the opposite side of the road matching my step for step. The road at this point is all of ten feet wide. We walked like this about a kilometre in silence when I looked over and said, Espanol? He looked back at me and said in perfect english yes, but Texan. This was only my second encounter with fluent english since arriving so it was very welcome as it was with him. The fog kept rolling in and somehow we totally missed the Virgin Mary statue which supposedly dominates the landscape but we knew we were in herds of goats or sheep because all we could hear was their bells tinkling.

We arrived at the spot where the trail leaves the road and found a young Italian there, guide book in hand and looking as worried as we felt. The mist at this point was so thick we could only see thirty feet in front and we had to leave the comfort of the road for the trail which ran cliff side now through the mountain pass. I put on my raincoat because it was cold and my finger tips were numbing up and all of this in the middle of August.

   Lucky for us the trail is well worn, marked and the published guides are very explicit so we manged from marker to marker and slowly the mist began to lift so that by the time we came to the Spanish frontier the sun was teasing us with broken views of the mountains.

About an hour later we made the final ridge Leopder at 1250 metres and we could see the Abbey below at Roncevilles. The trip down was anticlimactic but hard on the calves and toes. We pulled into the small hamlet around 3pm and found all who had passed relaxing in the shade or bars waiting for the dorms to open at 4. It had been an eight hour hike. They claim this is the hardest day but I think I want that in writing. We were signed in and after a shower and a short nap I headed over to the restaurant for a hearty supper of soup, pasta and trout. Sleep was never more welcome and I drifted off with the sandman wondering what kind of shape I would be in the next morning.

to be continued......