Camino Day 3: Roncevalles to Zubiri

Dozens of pilgrims woke in the dark abbey at Roncevalles, scrubbed and packed, and streamed out into the rose pink dawn. One by one or two or three we walked. We began to recognize people and miss others we'd met in the days before. The way seemed friendly, everything we'd hoped it'd be: cafe con leche and rolling hills, vino and cider, picnics and people. Spanish grandmothers insisted on caring for my blisters, we sang childrens songs gleefully and tonelessly, and we saw the wobbly knees of new born foals. The camino, though, has a way of sneaking up on you. On the last descent into Zubiri, the threatening storm finally broke. Thunder peeled. The rocky clay path turned to a stream, and we inched our way down steep and dangerous trail, slipping and sliding for a mile and a half. We arrived in Zubiri soaked, exhilerated, and strangely happy. Only then did we learn we were one of only two couples to make it down the mountain in the storm; everyone else was forced to porter out because of lightning strikes, downed trees, and hail. We were fortunate to stay at the leading edge of the storm, and miss the brunt of it, arriving in Zubiri dripping, but safe and joyful.