Trail of Stars

3: Les Pyrénées

Beside a dirt path surrounded by bright green hedges, I spot my first marker guiding the Way. It's a small tower of sandy-gray concrete, slightly mildewed, with a royal blue tile and a golden Camino scallop shell in the center. Below the shell is a spray-painted yellow arrow pointing—thankfully—in the direction I'm headed.

The strange thing is, once I spot the first marker, I suddenly realize all the others I've already passed. Small carvings discreetly etched in stone along the Rue de la Citadelle and beside the door of Le Petit Château. It's like they've been subtly guiding me already—I just wasn't paying attention.

On top of the little tower, rocks are piled like a crumbled pyramid from other pilgrims.

Judit told me I needed a stone, but these seem spoken for.

I face the road again, and the path curves upward, bending to the left and climbing past trees and tiny country houses toward a grassy mountain shimmering like an emerald—the Pyrénées. 

Rays of sunlight shower from behind the range like the golden Camino shell, and the breeze corrals the long branches ahead, all too excited by the giddy-up, rustling thousands of leaves that shadow the dirt path. Cocooned by the mountain, still on my level, is a fenced-in farm with chestnut-colored cows grazing and hiding from the sun. The only thing missing from this picturesque scene is more little ants of actual pilgrims climbing the path to let me know I'm not alone out here—that I actually am going the right way, regardless of what the marker says.

It's easy to doubt directions when you're alone.

Sweat glistens on my forearms and shins, creeping down every part of my white tank top. I've even found myself wiping some from my eyelashes as more drips from my chin. Also, I really don't want to think about it because I'm staring at a literal mountain, but my feet hurt.

I didn't break in these boots as much as I should have because I figured the hike would do that. That was dumb, Lucie. They're the only new thing I bought rather than scavenged second-hand from the buy-sell-trade pages around Claire. And they look really cute—navy hiking half-boots with gray mesh slits for breathability, the crunchy-rock-climbing-hiker guy at the store said, and bright yellow strings tied pulled snug to these nifty little lock-ties—but I'm fairly certain my feet are swelling inside them. Like, a lot. But that's okay because I've already made it...3 kilometers?!

Oh, god. That's like a mile and a half.

As lovely as the path looks, the climb ahead goes from shade to sun and gets extremely steep—so steep, in fact, that I wonder why I've been so subconsciously against getting a walking stick. Did I think it would make me feel old? The crunchy-rock-climbing-hiker guy offered me those weird poles. Was I freaked out because he demoed them like Granddaddy-Long-Leg spider legs? Just sort of lunging them around the store. Maybe I can find a good stick like me and Claire used to play with in the woods—just something to offer support.

A stone and a stick. What am I? A cavewoman?

'Okay,' I say, clutching the straps of my pack. 'Okay. You got this.'

I take a slow step.

Then another.

And another.

The road keeps climbing, getting steeper as my stride gets shallower. The muscles in my legs start trembling from the weight. Lactic acid is building up in my thighs and calves, and I notice my breaths getting louder and closer together. Dust gathers on my boots, and I wonder why I'm suddenly staring at them so much more than the road ahead. It's my pack. My pack feels unruly, forcing me to lean forward, but if I force it back, the momentum might throw me down the hill. I'm nearly climbing on all fours like a turtle.