Lost Dog, Dope Smokers & Bus Stop Tears

One of our favorite couples that we have met on the Camino are our Dutch friends Trudy and Leon. These two have walked the world together. He carries most of the food (i.e. weight), and she massages his back at night. A match made in heaven and the sort of love to aspire to. They have shared with us many a story over our homemade gite meals, but the funniest was that of "The Day I Lost My Wife".

While walking one day on the Camino, Leon and Trudy came upon a distressed woman who had lost her little white dog. Leon and Trudy hadn't seen him, but further down the trail fate stepped in and they found the runaway. Leon, knowing his wife was a slower walker, told her to keep marching onward while he returned the dog to its owner. Low and behold, two hours later, after scouring multiple trails and directions to find her, Leon had to return to the dog owner's house and admit sheepishly, "You lost your dog; well, now I've lost my wife." His embarrassment, even now as he told the story weeks later, was palpable. Thankfully, an exhaustive two-car search party eventually turned her up. Seems as though she'd gotten further than Leon could have imagined. "Wasn't so slow as he thought," she told us with a wry smile. Turns out, she was never lost after all. She was simply underestimated.

Mom and I found this story quite funny. Not only because of the irony of Leon's plight, but because it seemed such a grand slip up. All hikers know you never split up unless you both have cell phones or walkies. Duh! Cut to me sobbing at a bus stop imagining my mom having had a heart attack in a field of tall grass, been stuffed in a trunk by some serial killer or having plunged off a cliff.

After a 17-mile day of hiking from Morlaas to Artiguelouve, mom and I sat our bags down at a bus stop to call the gite where we had made reservations. Mom decided that before dialing she would walk 20 meters up the road a bit to see what she could see. (I just want to mention here that I had advised against it.) 45 minutes later without any sight of her, I knew something terrible had happened. My heart sank. Some creepy guy passed by in his car, and I just knew he'd kidnapped her. A bird screeched, and I thought, 'Could that be a distant scream?'

It hit me that I so completely didn't know what to do next. I couldn't leave my spot to go in search of her because what if she came back eventually and couldn't find me? Should I leave a note at the bus stop? Should I call the man at the gite to help me? And most importantly, logistically how do I carry two backpacks each weighing 22 pounds? One on back and the other on the front? And where do I fashion the two sets of poles? (Don't answer that.) I couldn't stay though, could I? I just had to go looking, because what if she was injured, crying out my name into the wind in between pained gasps of air. I told myself I was exaggerating, but what else can you think when someone walking just a few feet is gone for an hour with no phone, ID (to identify the body) or belongings? Panic seemed the only reasonable next step. So I laid my head in my lap and cried. Pathetic, yes. Pathetic and weak and helpless, but in the moment, in this foreign country where I don't speak the language and was so utterly alone, that is how I felt.

Ten minutes later mom comes slumping around the corner in tears herself. She'd gotten lost and was trying desperately to find me. At one point, what she thought was our bus stop was actually a cement bunker hide out where four 11-year-old boys were smoking pot from a hooka. One actually tried to help her, but the others, so startled and high, burst out uncontrollably laughing and rolling around on the cement floor as my mom (wearing her hiking outfit but with no backpack, mind you - what a sight) said in her American French, "I lost my daughter! I left her at the bus stop! Where's the bus stop?!" The beauty of it is that the town runs only the span of about six blocks, so how she got lost for an hour only God and Gilligan will ever know. As she walked past them again minutes later, the helpful boy pointed to the direction of the bus stop where she found me in my state of teary distress.

At last in the safety and comfort of the gite (which we hastily called to get directions to), we realized that we are not above getting separated and making fools out of ourselves, after all. We're all on the same level here on the Camino, making mistakes which, in the end, make for great stories and even greater friendships.


Mom, Trudy and Leon discussing our ascent of the Pyrenees in the Forest of the Bastard Domaniale. I kid you not, that's the official name.





The entrance to the new and immaculately maintained community gite in Anoye - its mini fridge fully stocked by volunteers with cold soft drinks, beer and cheese. In the Middle Ages the building was used as a hospital and hostel for pilgrims.





Little artistic touches at our gite in Artiguelouve.

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Location:Artiguelouve, France