Summer vacation is typically associated with beaches, cruise ships, and road trips. For my mom, though, it’s a chance to go on a long-distance hike.
She’s walked the Camino de Santiago — a network of pilgrimage routes across France, Portugal, and Spain, some of which are over 500 miles long — nine times.
It’s become an annual trip for her, made possible by summers off from teaching. At some point, I began calling her a “Camino vet” — she even got a scallop shell tattoo to commemorate the experience.
For years, I couldn’t understand what could be so enjoyable about trudging more than 10 miles a day through blazing heat with a 20-pound backpack strapped around your waist.
But as my high school graduation approached, she asked if I’d like to join her on her next walk.
I agreed for a couple of reasons: curiosity, for one (I wanted to see what all the fuss was about), and secondly, who turns down a trip to Spain, no matter the conditions?
The first time we walked, I was solely focused on reaching our destination
In a journal entry from my first day of walking through the Pyrenees Mountains, I wrote, “In one word, I would describe it as ‘hell.'”
Still, we persevered, walking 30 consecutive days in the heat with reemerging blisters, guided by arrows and shells that pave the way, and sleeping in hostels with fellow travelers.
But despite the challenges, it was beautiful.
Along the way, I discovered the wonders of sangria and patatas bravas (Spanish fried potatoes). We passed through the narrow streets of Pamplona, Spain, where I promised myself I’d one day return for the Festival of San Fermin, the stage for the running of the bulls.
My mom and I spent some time talking during the walk, but more often than not, I’d go ahead, determined to reach the next town as quickly as possible.
As we reached the end of our walk, I remember feeling so struck with gratitude and a sense of relief — followed by the desire to return home to the little things, like a fresh pair of socks and a home-cooked meal.
Sure, our journey wasn’t perfect, but four years later, as my college graduation approached, I asked my mom to walk another Camino with me.
The second Camino was more introspective and therapeutic
In June 2023, we embarked on another path of the Camino, this time through the southwestern French countryside.
We were welcomed at our accommodations each afternoon by hosts who would later cook us dinner — beef bourguignon in the mountain town of Saugues and duck confit in the Gascony province.
My mom and I would begin each day walking alongside each other. We talked about her desire to go back to school and obtain a bachelor’s degree (she’s now working toward her master’s).
We discussed the books we’d been reading — a hobby she introduced me to at a young age — and reflected on my upbringing, comparing how my older sister and I were raised, among many other things.
Then, through some unspoken agreement, as morning drifted into afternoon, we’d part ways for the rest of the walk.
As we fell into this routine, I realized that we pace our days the same way. We both enjoy social interaction to an extent, but still desire considerable time to ourselves.
This mutual understanding made the walk comforting and poignant. Where my focus during the first Camino was on reaching the finish line, this one was more therapeutic.
I’m thankful for how the experiences have strengthened our bond
My mom’s tattoo was the subject of one of the many conversations we had while walking.
I no longer had to ask why she got it — I understood. Instead, I admitted that I wanted one, too. This past summer, I got a shell tattoo on my right forearm.
It’s a reminder that in my mom, I have someone I can speak openly to and trust. And for that, in large part, I have our trips and the Camino to thank for bringing us closer.
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