Camino Portuguese day 16 - Rates to Tamal 26km

I left rates before sunrise. The albergue was full of people but I felt alone, lost as usual. I snacked on crackers and cheese watching the sunrise. An early morning fog clung to the eucalyptus trees. The morning light, golden and soft, filled the space with a radiating glow. Birds chirped and chortled, welcoming the day. I relaxed and just walked, letting go of any thoughts. I really didn’t feel like walking today. I felt heavy and sluggish, putting one foot in front of the other.

I arrived in Barcelos mid-morning, crossing the bridge in the beautiful historic part of town. Shops bustled with patrons and the large square opened up to an impressive cathedral. Families sat, children ran and played. The sun warmed the sand-colored stones of buildings and pavement. It took me a moment to realize that I was grinning like a madman. Sometimes you have to stop thinking and live in the moment. I sat at a cafe for a croissant and orange juice, before hefting my pack to continue.

I walked into Tamal mid-afternoon and found the albergue. It was a modern two-story building with wall-to-wall glass on the bottom floor, and a great yard to spend a few hours relaxing. It was too early to check in. The hospitalero directed me to a bar a short walk away where I ordered a coke and sandwich, relaxing on the simple red plastic chair, a light breeze the perfect accompaniment to a warm sun.

In the evening, thunder rumbled, turning the sky steel grey. I sat outside in the courtyard, bare feet enjoying the cool of the thick green grass, eating the rest of my supplies: tomato, cheese, and rice crackers. I chatted with other pilgrims. The conversions on the Portuguese Way are different to those on the Frances. Here no one asks you why you are walking. I think it is because most people leave from Porto and have maybe done the Frances before, and they don’t have the time or need for a mental reset that the draws them to walk the Frances in the first place. Here, most pilgrims I spoke to just want to recapture some of the Camino spirit they experienced before. For me, however, my annual Camino is much cheaper and more effective than therapy.

Finally, fat raindrops fell. Thunder boomed overhead. Lighting flashed violently. The storm moved past quickly; more bark than bite, with just a dusting of rain. In its wake, the storm had split the sky open leaving the most beautiful colors I’ve ever seen. Stretched above me, all the way to the horizon, the sky was the color of a ripe split red plum. I watched the clouds move through the sky, drifting, changing colors, like dye in water. I was mesmerized. I didn’t need a reason to walk, or a purpose to feel that I should be here. All I needed was this moment.

Appalachian Trail : Hike Plan with Resupply Points

It’s almost exactly one month until I hit the Appalachian Trail. I’ve been dialing in gear, test hiking my load, figuring out food, spraying gear to protect from Ticks, and basically doing all the less glamorous parts of a trip, oh and overthinking everything. I’ve done enough long hikes that I am fully aware most of your plans go out the window once you start. I do, however, like to set an initial plan mostly to visualize the major milestones: the first resupply point, a rough idea of timeframe between resupplies, not to miss places (mostly related to food), and a general idea on finishing.

I’ve had a few people ask for the plan in a Google Sheet to help them prep. Here it is.

On average, I’m looking at about 15 miles a day, probably slower at the start and the White Mountains, but longer during the Virginia and Pennsylvania. This should get me to Katahdin somewhere around mid-August to the beginning of September. Everyone’s pace is different. You can change the target pace in E2 to adjust.

Looking at the entire plan is pretty daunting. I’ve definitely had hesitations. For a thru-hike like the Appalachian Trail, the reality is that you can’t look at the entire route, rather think of it as a series of shorter 3-5 day hikes with a break in between. Thinking this way, the hike is no more than a workweek on the trail, with a weekend in town. But unlike a workweek that forces you to sit in an office and stress about deadlines, all you have to do it hike. I never forget that a bad day on the trail is better than a good day in an office.

Camino Portuguese day 15 - Porto to Rates 40km

I woke early, excited to keep hiking. There is a draw or a calling, I feel when I hike. I want to put on miles, to feel the ground-pounding beneath my feet, to get lost in the simple rhythm of the walk. I showered, packed, and left the hotel by 6 am.

Drunken partygoers meandered through the streets as the morning sun bathed the city in the golden light of dawn. I crossed the square where I ended the day yesterday. Unlike yesterday, when it was crowded and busy, I had it all to myself. The late-night partiers preferring to stick to the alleys and benches in the park. A pedestrian crosswalk blinked at me, the green figure of a man walking, encouraged me forward, out of town and back to the Camino.

Here, the Camino split for a few days. I could travel along the coastal route as Claudio had done the day prior, or I could walk the traditional route that followed a more central path through the hills. I had read that the way out of Porto, along the traditional path, was heavily urban for the first dozen kilometers. I’m not a fan of road walking, and the coastal route was undoubtedly more scenic, but for some reason, I felt drawn to the central way.

I walked for hours amongst the suburbs, stopping occasionally for croissants and coffee in small local bars, enjoying the company of locals, listening to their conversations as best as I could with my non-existent Portuguese. I was a foreigner in this land, but everyone made me feel welcome, nodding their head, wishing me well on my journey, and accepting me into their community, at least for a few brief moments. I walked and I walked experiencing a typical day unfold around me.

Buildings and houses began to grow more scarce. A warm dry fog embraced fields of sunflowers. I followed rural stone walls and smelted the scent of logging industries and fresh dirt. Deeply rutted roads wound their way into towns before turning into roman paving before once again changing to logging paths disappearing into thick Eculatypus forests. Farm dogs barked in the distance. Chickens cackled. Crows cawed. I walked on.

I arrived in Rates late afternoon after walking 40km. I felt strong and could have walked further. At the albergue, I saw many new faces and more pilgrims than I had seen for the past 400km. There were Germans, French, and a couple from Isreal. I cooked a simple meal of noodles and tuna, sitting in the courtyard. Once again I was alone, even when surrounded by others. I can walk across an entire country, but I can’t walk away from myself. If hiking has taught me anything, it’s to make peace with that; make peace with who you are, and embrace it. If I wasn’t comfortable with myself, there was no way I could travel so long and so far. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pura vida en Colombia

I tried to convince myself that I didn’t need to travel. It had been nearly ten months since I had taken a plane anywhere. COVID has changed everything. I supplemented my wanderlust with overland trips seeking mountains, trails, anything to satiate my desire to explore. COVID is a. bitter pill that has hit tourism, perhaps the hardest. Secretly, I kept an eye on Skyscanner to see which countries were opening up. With Winter coming in the northern hemisphere, I scanned the south. Where could I hike? My legs feel heavy, lethargic from inaction. The map showed Colombia as green, open. It shone like an emerald, beautiful, and enticing. I booked my flight that very day.

Here I am a month later, sitting in a cafe near Plaza de Bolivar in the capital city of Bogota. Coffee tastes better here. Unlike the bitterness of 2020 and the global pandemic, the bitter beans fuel my desire for exotic places, people, and culture. Once again, I am on the road with my pack, a camera, and full of dreams. Outside the window, people walk, always masked, vendors push carts piled high with bananas as yellow as the sun, and avocados as big as melons. At night, festive lights twinkle from trees, and fruit vendors are replaced by women selling canelazo aromatico, a sweet, hot alcoholic drink, especially popular around Christmas time.

I walk the streets slowly. I’ll be here for another few days working from the hostel and exploring, before moving onto Medellin, Cartagena, and finally trekking to the Lost City, located in the remote north east corner of the country. I see no other tourists. It’s a hard time without the backpacker trade. Locals, always hospitable and welcoming seem even more appreciative of my patronage. It’s humbling. I’m encouraged to see the country opening up again, especially with vaccines on the way.

The narrow streets grow steeper. Beyond the old stone building of the La Candelaria district, dense forested peaks tower. In the mornings a mist clings to their sides, swirling with adventure. My mind wanders to days past where Spanish conquistadors overthrew the indigenous Muisca people. How different this place must look now. I rest on a bench talking with some locals and share an empanada. Everyone is friendly, happy, and proud.

Truth be told, there is not much to do in Bogota. For me, it’s another big city. Sure, it has some interesting architecture but lacks the charm of Cartagena or the notorious past of Meddelin, but it’s still wonderful. I am here. I am traveling. I feel a renewed energy for what lies ahead, post-pandemic. It’s no wonder that the period after the 1918 Spanish Flu was called the Roaring Twenties. As the Spanish would say, I can feel the Pura Vida is almost here. And, here, in Colombia, it’s pretty good.