Losing to the Mountain

I am obsessed with two of my toenails; two tiny fatalities from my trek through Portugal and Spain in April. It was my 5^th day walking the Camino Portuguese, and I had to climb a small mountain, really only a hill at 505 metres, but for me it was a mountain.

It was raining, and the water coursed down the rocky path I was attempting to climb. My waterproof hiking boots were proving to be not-waterproof.  The path was steep, and I had to move from rock to rock, my heart was pounding with exertion and I felt absolute despair, wondering if my heart would stop and that I would be found soggy and dead, lying in a puddle. I remember thinking that if I died how traumatizing that would be for my family - so I kept on climbing, rock to rock, through the water.

My guidebook described the climb as lovely one, and not too difficult. I found it hellish – and I was angry every step. I was angry at my body, for not being young and pliable, and as strong has it had been 20 years – 15 years before. I was angry at the 40 something man and his 15 year old son who hopped past me – assuring me I was nearly at the top.

The rain coursing down, and I finally reached the top – unable to see the valley vista below because of the mist and water on my glasses. I kept on walking, through more forest, until I found myself descending a trail that was actually a flowing river consisting of treacherous mossy rocks, covered with rushing water. I was again carefully traversing rock to rock, but found the descent was not nearly as difficult. Most people have more difficulty with the downside of a steep hill, but I was relieved that my heart had stopped pounding.

After I was off the rough trail and back on the road – still far up in the hills – I developed a migraine aura, and kept walking, walking it off, knowing that if the aura had developed on the mountain, I would not have been able to see to walk for 30 to 45 minutes. That would have been worse, something always could be worse.

At Rubiaes I signed in to the Albergue – the pilgrim hostel - where I showered, washed my clothes, attempted to dry them on the line between the rain showers. The young father and son were there already and he had been horrified at the condition of the descent. He and I compared the trails we were used to – the safety we were accustomed to, being well shielded from the potential of danger.

Not so in Portugal. I was not in Canada anymore.

He pulled off two toenails that day. I had two toenails that had been pounded into the top of my boot on the hike down the mountain. The middle toenail on each foot was swollen and red. Two months later they are still on my toes, and have changed from purple to a ghostly white. I think I will lose the right nail soon, and then the left... My summer pedicures will be restricted to very pale pink until the nails grow back, but for now I keep them well covered with purple or inky black polish.

I am both intrigued and grossed out and peek at them numerous times each day.