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“Time’s going by too fast and it hasn’t happened yet,” I say to Rachael, my friend and guide on the Camino de Santiago, as we take our first steps up into the Pyrenees after four days of walking through France. The landscapes we’d crossed (and were about to) were surreal. So much so that I had laughingly accused Rachael of drugging us … that in fact we were all laying on mats in the hotel where we’d met up, loaded up with psychedelics.
Even so, the thunderclap I’d been anticipating—the one I was convinced must await me on this epic two-week trip along a millenia-old path that is literally lined up with the stars—hadn’t occurred. I’d been walking. Sweating. Chatting with friends. Spending hours alone. Aching. Sleeping hard. Navigating obstacles and personalities. And… not a single deep insight. Not one life-changing perspective. Not yet. And at this point we were nearly halfway done. I was starting to panic. I can’t remember Rach’s precise words (she is a ninja in all ways, including when it comes to spiritual guidance) but at some point in that brief conversation it occurred to me to stop trying. Stop reaching for the karmic loop I was sure the Camino would help me complete. Stop digging for just the right questions and intentions for Life to answer in this ancient place. Let it all go and just walk. Sure, why not? Impossible Minutes later I had the impulse to leave Rachael and walk on my own for a while: a grueling climb up gravely switchbacks during which I couldn’t focus on anything but the next little stretch (and ideally putting some distance between myself and a youthful fivesome who were - somehow! - smoking, playing music and bantering loudly, even on this crazy hill). Every now and again I stopped to breathe, sip water, look up. Even with the landscapes that had brought me to tears in the previous days, this was next-level. A few folks from our group met up at the next rest stop. After a snack, water refill and bathroom break, I again found I wanted to continue on my own. This turned into three or four hours of a relatively gentle climb along a wide, paved path. I passed within arm’s reach of herds of sheep and horses gnawing grass determinedly on the vast, fenceless slopes, as if they were being paid to do so. I giggled as the warm, insistent wind threatened to send me rolling down one of those slopes; as it whistled through my hiking poles, making music worse than a second-grade recorder concert. The world—including other mountain peaks—kept falling farther below me. In spite of the hundreds of pilgrims passing this way on this day, for most of the time I was completely alone. Still, in all this blissful empty space, I can’t recall having a single insight—or even a simple thought apart from “what the hell?” in response to what I was seeing. When my gaze lingered too long on the ground in front of me, some voice (mine?) said “Look up.” I did. I took it in. It was impossible. It was stupid. It was real. Mildly uncomfortable It was a long-ass day. I got tired. Between moments of wonder, I wondered how much farther til the end, where the others were, what would be for dinner that night. A deeply familiar feeling: what’s next? What is there to look forward to beyond the mildly uncomfortable now? Maybe because the day’s finish line remained impossibly far away, I was forced, again and again, to return to where I was. To look up. Again and again, whatever discomfort my mind latched onto—existential or otherwise—was replaced by immediate, choking awe. It continued this way for the remainder of those 26 kilometers over the mountain. It continued for the next six days I’d spend with the group and the additional two on my own. Take a few steps. Look up. Repeat. And now I am home, having descended the figurative mountain that was the trip. Just before the walk I’d quit my job, left the life that had been mine for a dozen years. I expected to arrive back fueled by whatever life-changing revelation and physical robustness I’d found on the walk, and hit the ground running building my new living. What I brought back As it is, I came home with Covid, laid up for yet another week (and counting!) with bone-crushing exhaustion. Tons of time to process the previous weeks and yet, thanks to the brain fog, those life-solving insights (or any deep thoughts at all) still elude me. And oh, the anxiety, because I was supposed to be up to something very different now! (Was I?) The day on the mountain comes back, interrupts the loops of despair. It reminds me that right now, reality is as simple as it was then. It’s not about taking the next step, but about about staying still, staying hydrated, staying away from other people. The reality, once again, is that I am, at worst, mildly uncomfortable. Sure, there’s stuff ahead for me, and there are kilometers of life between here and there. Look up, that same voice says. And there is the magnificent eugenia tree outside my window and the stories-high bamboo beyond it, filtering the sunlight in spectacular ways no matter the season or time of day. Look up, and there are my two little dogs, my faithful nurses, curled and stretched in those rays of light. Look up, and there’s a closet full of (too many) clothes, a shelf full of (too many) books. A phone full of well wishes. A fridge full of food. A life full of love. A goddamn miraculous island in this broken world. It’s my bedroom, not the Pyrenees, yet the awe is the same: What the hell? Am I tripping? How am I this lucky? It’s impossible. It’s stupid. It’s real. That might be the thunderclap, my friends. The universe snapping its fingers in my face. Look up. Look. The trip was epic, yes, but the lesson, at least this one, is almost foolishly simple. Joy Reichart www.soulwriting.org/  Our hearts and prayers, along with our feet, are walking in solidarity with Ukraine. Pilgrimage often occurs after an event of turmoil and strife in our personal lives. Most pilgrims I have met and walked with are in an individual crisis or walking for a personal realization. Even though we’ve focused on the environmental crisis, the invasion of a democracy is touching nerves that haven’t been seen in my lifetime. Ukraine has given incredible inspiration for standing in courage in the face of adversity (to put it mildly). What does walking mean in a time of collective turmoil? Goodness knows that the Camino has seen and survived numerous plagues and many wars. This spring we will be walking for ourselves, the exuberance of a seeming end of a pandemic, the social awkwardness and isolation we are navigating after covid, and now a world leader acting violently from the worst of motivations. As I sit with a half-finished box of cookies, I can’t wait to walk again. And I hope you will also find time to walk. I hope you can find time to connect with your soles, with the earth holding all of us, and with compassion. Let’s honor our collective and personal turmoil so that we can also do our best in whatever situation we find ourselves in. The walk on the Camino starts on April 10th. And there is still enough time to decide to walk. Blessings for peace and courage, Rachael and the Red Monkey Team  There’s something about spending time in nature with fellow humans that is conducive to establishing bonds and nurturing friendships. When we walk together amongst the trees and wildlife, our focus shifts from the daily grind, and all of its distractions, to the here and now and the beauty that surrounds us. Without devices buzzing or partners, kids, and bosses competing for our attention, we allow ourselves to breathe deeply, think clearly, and enjoy the company of our hiking companions. The below article from The Atlantic centers on a group of friends who have been hiking together for a quarter of a century. Throughout the interview, they talk about how carving out a monthly walk together has deepened their relationships and allowed them to be there for each other through many of life’s milestones and tragedies. Read the article here: Hiking Is an Ideal Structure for Friendship Do you have a favorite hiking partner? Someone it just feels natural to walk and talk with?  As we enter the holiday season, we wanted to take a moment to express our gratitude to our fellow pilgrims — for the blisters we’ve endured together, the wisdom we’ve shared with one another, and the friendships we’ve made that will last a lifetime — we are grateful to you!
Wishing you a safe and restorative Thanksgiving with lots of delicious homemade pumpkin pie! Gracias, Merci, Thank You for all you are ❤️  “Walking changes our brains, and it impacts not only creativity
but also memory.” -Jeremy DeSilva, First Steps: How Upright Walking Made Us Human Many of the historically great minds we recognize today were avid walkers. Charles Darwin, Charles Dickens, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Virginia Woolf all engaged in frequent outdoor walks. But is there an actual, scientifically proven link between great thinking and obsessive walking? Although Red Monkey Walking Travel knows from experience that the connection is real, the below excerpt from Jeremy DeSilva’s book dives a little deeper into the details. Read more here: On the Link Between Great Thinking and Obsessive Walking What is your experience? How does walking enhance your focus and creativity?  Greetings, pilgrims! If your passport has been gathering dust (not the fun kind from an overseas hiking trip), it’s time to double check the expiration date...because our 2022 trip dates are here! Whether you’ve been dreaming of the French countryside or the forested foothills of the Spanish Pyrenees, we’re excited to walk with you every step of the Way. Here’s what’s in store for 2022! The French Camino — Le Puy-en-Velay April 2 – 13, 2022 Basque Country of Southern France & Northern Spain May 15 – 26, 2022 October 9 – 20, 2022 October 23 – November 3, 2022 (Walking with Grief) Greetings, pilgrims! If your passport has been gathering dust (not the fun kind from an overseas hiking trip), it’s time to double check the expiration date...because our 2022 trip dates are here! Whether you’ve been dreaming of the French countryside or the forested foothills of the Spanish Pyrenees, we’re excited to walk with you every step of the Way. Here’s what’s in store for 2022!  In the spirit of preserving the breathtaking scenery we experience along the Camino, Red Monkey Walking Travel always purchases carbon offset credits for each person who walks with us. Additionally, 10% of all profits will be donated to The Nature Conservancy tree planting funds.
For further details about our 2022 trips, head over to RedMonkeyWalkingTravel.com. Good health and blessings to you all. Buen Camino, Rachael & The Red Monkey Team  Greetings, pilgrims!
We hope this post finds you well and that you’re enjoying your time reconnecting with friends, family, and nature. Although we are finally moving toward modified normalcy in the United States, much of Europe is still struggling to meet vaccination goals, and the Delta variant is spreading rapidly. Due to these concerns, as well as the uncertainty of Europe’s changing travel restrictions, we will postpone our fall trips until May of 2022. While we miss you and the Camino even more than French chocolate, coffee, and fresh croissants combined, we’re choosing to go with caution. When we do walk again, we want to make sure you can focus entirely on feeling joyful in every step and have a full Camino experience without closures or curfews. That said, we can’t wait for walking next year and are preparing the 2022 walking schedule, so keep your eyes on your inbox for an update coming in the next few weeks! Wishing you all a safe and healthy summer, Rachael and Red Monkey  As borders begin to reopen and hope turns into the excitement of once again exploring foreign lands, we’re celebrating the Camino with music! Since the pandemic took hold over a year ago, music has allowed us to revisit the Camino in spirit, evoking memories of past pilgrimages, the growth that always ensues, and the amazing connections we’ve made along The Way. This playlist takes us on a journey through both land and time, with classic flamenco artists and festival songs as well as rock and pop hits from France and Spain. We hope this will hold you over until your next pilgrimage, and remember — you don’t have to speak the language to feel the message! Happy listening, pilgrims! -Rachael by Beth Erlander  After the accident, people asked me, “How are you surviving this?” Feeling like a deer in headlights, I could barely reply except to say, “I’m just putting one foot in front of the other.” Now, several years later, I can begin to put into words how I survived. In telling my story, I hope to help others with the grief they carry as well. On a beautiful summer day in 2012, outside of Boulder, Colorado, my partner, Michael, fell off his mountain bike and crashed into solid rock. He severed his spinal cord, resulting in quadriplegia—paralysis from the chest down. Life as we knew it was changed forever. Even though I didn’t physically experience this life-altering injury myself, survival for both of us took a lot of effort. Eventually, I found doing the walking my partner could no longer do helped immensely. So much so that I went on a very long walk through France and Spain. The Camino de Santiago is a sacred pilgrimage route that has been tread for thousands of years. It is magical, amazing, and challenging. Traveled for at least 5,000 years, the Camino is said to follow the Milky Way to Europe’s farthest western tip. Walking the Camino was the best thing I’ve done for the worst thing that happened to me. Three years after the accident, I continued running my therapy practice while my partner hung onto his new life, in and out of the hospital, and funds were meager. But when an email from Red Monkey Walking Travel landed in my inbox for a walking meditation trip on the Camino, I immediately heard the call to join. Michael loves nothing more than hiking outside in nature. He loves Spain. Both of these are all but impossible for him now, and I knew I would walk for him. As soon as I posted the fundraising page, money started pouring in. Tears of gratitude rolled down as I read the messages from our friends. My community wanted to support me in doing this pilgrimage, and they were ready to care for Michael in my absence. A few months later, I was on a flight to Europe. After meeting up with a lovely group in Spain, we traveled to France and started walking. We trekked for 12 days, spanning a total of 110 miles. Walking the Camino is no easy feat—and not easy on my feet, either! But at least there was a path with welcoming yellow arrows along the roadside as if to say This way, my friend. In grief, such clear direction often eludes us. Entire days were devoted to silence, and my intention focused on one simple task: walking. With each footstep, I was telling my story to the earth and all of nature surrounding me—the story of how, in an instant, Michael and I went from being a typical couple to facing what we had lost: walking, holding hands, hiking, dancing, biking, camping, traveling, cooking, having able-bodied sex, grocery shopping, and so much more. The other pilgrims, both in my group and those we met along the way, were also walking to make sense of what life had given them. We chatted with a Swiss man who had been walking for three months to reckon with his new life after acquiring a brain injury from a stroke. Several people we encountered were going through divorces. All of us were struggling with impossible questions. While walking, a question arose like a mantra in my mind: How do I love what is? After one of the most challenging days on the Camino—the day we walked up and over the Pyrenees—I took my aching feet to the Cathedral of Roncesvalles, where a mass for pilgrims has been held every evening for over 1,000 years. As I took a seat on a hard pew, organ music began to fill the little cathedral. The tune was haunting and familiar, but I couldn’t place it until the organ player sang along to the chorus, the words of Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters. I had missed the mass, but the message rang clear. "Nothing else matters except the love we have for each other," I thought to myself. I began to sob as I took in Metallica’s message. A year later, the song played as Michael and I entered the space for our commitment ceremony. I am forever grateful for that day when I walked myself into the answer. I cannot love quadriplegia. I don’t think I ever will. But I can, and do, love my partner. When grieving a significant loss, walking is both necessary and impossible. It is necessary because it is so beneficial for the body and helps the mind to integrate. Yet, it also seems impossible because the cognitive weight of grief produces a physical sensation of heaviness and lethargy. But grief needs to move—both internally and externally. Movement helps us survive. Before his accident, Michael took full advantage of the incredible gift that is walking and moving his body. Having that snatched away from him made me realize that we are often guilty of taking this basic human activity for granted. So now, I make it a priority to carve out time walking on a regular basis, both for my personal well-being and especially in honor of those who won't ever experience this simple miracle again. Whether you choose to walk the Camino or simply go on daily hikes close to home to work through your grief, give yourself your undivided attention. Slow down and feel your feet connecting with the ground below you. Breathe in and out. Remind yourself that walking in this new wilderness of grief is possible by simply placing one foot in front of the other. Blessings to you along this daunting journey of living life upside down. Visit our home page for information on upcoming grief walks. About the AuthorBeth Erlander is a body-centered psychotherapist and “grief geek” whose passion is using the creative arts to help others through life transitions of all kinds.  “Our future-mindedness can be a source of joy if we know good things are coming, and travel is an especially good thing to have to look forward to.”
-Matthew Killingsworth, Senior Fellow, The Wharton School, University of Pennsylvania Greetings pilgrims! Funnily enough, National Geographic first published a story on this topic in May of 2020 and then reprinted a similar version in the March 2021 magazine. They, too, thought life would be closer to normal at some point last year! But now that spring is beginning to show her first blossoms, we are committing to optimism, hope, and inspiration for this year’s fall journeys. Not only is 2021 the official saint year of Santiago, but it will hopefully be a chance to begin life again — mindfully and slowly making decisions about what we want our new existence to look like after this extensive and often painful pause. Walking the Camino always creates a before and after in a pilgrim’s life. But this year, it’s an opportunity to truly walk in gratitude — for the possibility to roam outside of our homes, the ability to be healthy, and the chance to reflect on how to continue with this gift of our lives. Of course, we will only hold trips when it is entirely safe to do so, but the time for dreaming, planning, and unfurling hope has come. We are envisioning a 6-week-long walk that pilgrims could opt into and out of for each week — a LONG walk to profoundly seep into the mystery and blessings of the Camino on her deepest levels. To read more about the cognitive benefits of planning travel, the National Geographic article mentioned above can be found here: Here’s why planning a trip can help your mental health Even though we are far apart, sending a lot of love and Buen Camino to all of you incredible pilgrims. Rachael |
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