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 y...