The difficulty with a pilgrimage, or a thru-hike, is that a person doesn’t gain the experience they want– they gain the experience they need.

by Linnea Hoover

One, two, three, four, breathe and repeat…

As I make my way to the saddle of the mountain, I continue to count in sets of four. A deep breath at the end finishes the set before I begin again. The counting and breathing work are part of a meditative exercise I learned when living in a Buddhist monastery in Thailand. I’ve always preferred walking to sitting meditation, and I’ve used the technique successfully on previous hikes. Now, I use it to manage the pain.

Surrounded by mist and fog, I reach the apex of my climb. The light shines through the trees to my left as the sun finishes rising. At this moment, I feel on top of the world.

Ten minutes later — not so much.

The sound of my expletive-laden rant as I descend the steep mountain slope would make a sailor blush. The counting exercise does nothing to take my mind off the pain at this point. After two weeks, my feet look like they’ve been through a meat grinder, and I’m beginning to lose my toenails. By the end of my journey, I will have lost three toenails, gained a partial tear to my achilles tendon and stress fractures in one of my knees.

I wanted a transformative experience– an epiphany. I gained that experience but not in the way I was expecting. My past hikes, like this one, were always a way for me to walk out my problems. They gave me time to think and examine my life and choices because all there is every day is time.

The evening before my hike began, a pilgrim hostel owner, also known as an alburgue, told me that “The Way” would teach me what I needed to learn as long as I was open to the experience. The lessons I learned on my journey were as difficult as I expected, but what it taught me was not the lesson I had prepared myself for.

I’ve been hiking the Camino de Santiago, “the Way of St. James,” for 13 days by this point, and 90% of the time I’ve felt absolutely wretched. Mistakes early on have made things difficult, but my changing body has made the trip almost intolerable.

The French Camino is a 769km hike that starts in St. Jean-Pied-du-Port, France, and goes all the way to the coast of Spain, ending at Santiago de Compostela. This ending is where many Christians believe that Saint James the Apostle is buried, and they make the pilgrimage in the hopes of a life changing experience with a blessing at the end to absolve them of all of their previous sins.

I’m not Catholic, or even Christian. I am on this trip for the meditation and the joy I feel when overcoming a physical, mental or spiritual hurdle. Each stamp on my pilgrim’s passport is a point of pride.

In my stubborn pride I pushed through pain in my knees, ankles and feet. I pushed my body harder and harder to keep up with my younger peers.

This was a mistake.

As I pushed my body to the point of breaking in the hopes that I would speed to the finish line within the time I had set for myself, which is to get back to the U.S. before winter quarter begins. As I pushed my body harder, faster and farther the words of one of my favorite shows began to haunt me.

“The temple doesn’t last forever. I mean it’s made of hamburger. This is a Temple of Doom,” ‘’Community”, season 2, episode 3, The Psychology of Letting Go.

In my mid 30s, I feel like these words shouldn’t hurt so much. But it’s true — I can’t keep up anymore.

By the time I’d gotten to Leon, Spain, and three-fourths of the way to my destination, I knew there was something wrong. The previous day, I felt like someone had taken a bat to the back of my leg, and a trip to the doctor confirmed there was a partial tear to my achilles tendon. Further testing showed that there were stress fractures in my left knee.

At this point, my Camino was done.

In the following weeks, I rapidly transitioned through the five stages of grief.

I began with denial. I told myself I could keep going if I just started earlier and finished later. I quickly realized how futile this was.

After that, I felt angry. My body had betrayed me. I couldn’t keep up with the other pilgrims. I couldn’t achieve what I had a couple years ago.

Next came bargaining. If only I hadn’t worn those shoes. If only I’d had my luggage on time. If only I hadn’t had to… This list went on and on. An endless repetitive cycle in my head intermixed with prayers to any higher power that would listen. If I can do this again I’ll be better — do better.

By the time my bus made it to Porto, Portugal, where my flight would leave, I’d finally hit the fourth stage: depression. I proceeded to wallow in misery for a few days and eat my feelings through all the delicious food that Portugal had to offer.

There was so much good food. There were so many feelings.

Now, back in the comfort of my own home and the winter quarter underway, I’m finally in the final stage. Acceptance.

With the acceptance of my body’s limitations there comes a new sense of hope, and a plan to do better next time. Because even with all of the pain and discomfort that I felt on my journey there is nothing like reaching the top of a mountain saddle, nothing like a meditative pilgrimage to reset my own internal compass.

A thru-hike, pilgrimage and trek aren’t just a passion — they’re an addiction. They have taught me that even when I’m not at my best I can still accomplish amazing things, like walking 46km in three weeks.

Colin Fletcher sums up all of my feelings about hiking in “The Complete Walker,” and why when it leaves me broken and limping, I still return to it with the same feeling and joy time after time.

It is everything.

“Walking can, in the end, become an addiction, and that it is then as deadly in its fashion as heroin or television or the stock exchange. But even in this final stage it remains a quite delectable madness, very good for the sanity, and I recommend it with passion,” (Fletcher, Page 3).