Ancestral Encounter on the Camino

I cross over a narrow steel bridge that looks like it’s been assaulted by a bionic hole punch, leaving rust as traceable DNA. A wild sunlit stream rushes underneath as if it’s in a hurry to arrive at its destination, bringing to mind the slow rolling streams flowing in the forests behind me. I pine for them as I do my grandmother–wishing I had spent more time with them both.

I’ve been told that journeys such as these can evoke one’s ancestors. My father’s great-great-grandmother was full Cherokee. I met her only once, in a dream, when I was eleven and she ninety-two. Her skin dark and more supple than any very old person I had met thus far. She stood when my sister and I entered the room, her dark eyes looking into mine. Her long hair was corse, thick and grey, with more salt than pepper and fell below the bend of her knees. I’ve never forgotten our celestial encounter and today I’m making up a story that makes me less alone than I am.

I imagine her grounded and native influence has made my journey less arduous than it might have been. I inhale, sucking the fresh day into my gut, my neck elongates without me telling it to and the sides of my mouth move toward my ears. I take a couple more steps and my feet stop as though stuck. “But wait,” darts out of my mouth, erasing what’s left of my smile. Where is she now when the armies of apprehension and anticipation use my insides for a battlefield? I estimate that she abandoned me in Ribadiso, where the intense loneliness first appeared. I look over my shoulder as if to look for her. The tree tops are like fingertips of an adoring crowd straining to touch the sky. I wipe the crust left by my tears from my eyes. I look again at the trees that appear to be ancestral advocates beaconing me to return to the slow rolling hamlets resting at their feet. Torn between two worlds, yet still an efficient trekker, I collapse my sticks and secure them to the side of my pack. Feeling more physically compact, I look up from my pack expecting to see the trees, but instead it’s the sprawling city in the valley below. So with an internal shrug I walk on, just as the chorus of a song enters my head. I walk and sing, “Cherokee people, Cherokee tribe…” by Paul Revere and the Raiders. I laugh at my bipolar emotions, shrug again and walk.

I penetrate Santiago’s polished and modern outer shell. Progress pierces the earth making room for even more industry, wider roads, and more pigeon holes for people who might flock here. Way markers are at best subtle, at worst obscure, as the downward slant of the streets compels me inward. I wish for an ancestral compass to navigate all that’s been built around the myth and legend that gives the cathedral, the city and my journey its name.

To be continued…