Free A Million Steps by Kurt Koontz

After hearing three people speak, I was bummed that there were only 57 more.
    When the festivities were complete, I returned to my mat on a hard floor in the cool basement. More people had arrived, so the real estate between each mat had been reduced to inches. Prior to drifting off to sleep, I reminisced about the day. I decided that if the previous 24 hours were my last, I could not be more content.

Day 8

    Music and Walking Stick

    I began this morning in the dark but used other people’s headlamps to guide me. I followed the tiny lights ahead of me, wandering down the mysterious and curvy trail.
    The experiences of the night before had completely thawed me. It was like being part of a glacier for a million years, then falling into the ocean. I had melted into another world. I walked without effort, gliding across the path. Every person I met was pleasant and every song on my MP3 player was divine.
    Singing had been part of my life on the Camino even before Grañón. At some point each day, I found myself singing when listening to music. Now I was a singing fool. I pitied the poor pilgrim who, while searching for the meaning of life, came upon this 48-year-old bald American man releasing his inner Beyoncé or Neil Young. Sometimes my walking stick morphed into an air guitar to accompany my blossoming vocals.
    My walking stick had become an essential appendage. Walking equipment on the Camino generally fell into three categories––natural sticks (as in found along the trail), commercial sticks, or trekking poles. I became a commercial stick person on day one.
    By using my arm and wrist, I could actually plant the stick ahead of my stride and then take four steps before repeating the action. When I was in the groove, it propelled me like an oar in water or a cross-country ski pole through fresh powder. When climbing up hills, it allowed me to use upper body strength to aid the ascents. On the downhill, it provided much-appreciated support for my knees.
    And the stick made music of its own. The metal tip struck a distinct loud noise on almost all surfaces. The loud “clack” became another of the unique sounds of the Camino.
    My affinity toward my walking stick became a bit of an obsession. I thought about giving it a name but hesitated as my ego told me that only strange people name inanimate objects. Suddenly, while listening to Duran Duran singing Love VooDoo, I suppressed my reservations, abandoned judgment, and named my stick “Duran.”
    This was only my eighth day of walking. I was finding intense beauty in everything and could not stop taking pictures. Since leaving the U.S., I had taken over 600 photos and the pace was accelerating. I later sent a sympathetic preview e-mail to my friends advising them to decline any invitation to “photo night” at my house.
    I met Harold from Houston and Debra from San Francisco. This friendly father and daughter combination expressed their gratitude to be spending the day on the walk. They reeked of contentment. Deep lines creased Harold’s forehead. I finally mustered the courage to inquire about his age and was astounded to hear the number 82. They were planning to complete all 500 miles over a 60-day period. My first spine chiller of the day.
    I passed a large field of sunflowers in full bloom and something caught my eye. In the center of the field, someone had created “sunflower art” by pulling select seeds out to create an image. This particular flower had been transformed into a gigantic smiley face. It was so refreshing I decided to take a foot break and enjoy the view.
    The hostel for the night was attached to a very nice hotel in Villamayor. Peacocks rambled around the large courtyard adorned with flower gardens and green grass.
    After sending my e-mail update, I met a man lying on a chaise lounge. He stared up into the sky with a look of bewilderment. I plopped down on the next chair and joined him in gazing at a large flock of buzzards surfing the thermals.