I woke up in Puente la Reina with a slight hangover from last night’s beers, but water and exercise are the best cure, so I was in luck. I started hiking just after 7 a.m., and soon hit a gnarly, steep uphill climb that felt endless. Pilgrims were pulled over on the side of the incline from top to bottom, catching their breath, and I joined them for a quick break, laughing with a Dutch pilgrim who blamed his struggle on the previous night’s wine. The view at the top—rolling fields under a pale overcast sky—made the burn worthwhile.
At 9 a.m. I cut through Cirauqui, a hilltop village with cobbled streets and stone houses. At the town’s exit, I walked a well-preserved Roman road, its ancient cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of travelers, leading to a small bridge with a single, sturdy arch that’s stood since the days of the emperors.
With soreness and back pain from the previous day easing, I felt strong enough to bypass Estella, pushing 18 miles via an alternative route to Villamayor de Monjardin. Things were going smoothly until I crossed the Ega River and Google Maps told me to turn right onto a road. Two sets of large metal gates blocked the way, so I unlatched and relatched them. The trail continued through a pasture, and as I began to crest the hill, my heart sank. Off in the distance, I could make out several large pitch-black silhouettes with white horns.
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.
I’d inadvertently wandered into a bull pasture.
I slowly retrieved my phone from my right pocket and double-checked Google Maps and FarOut—a hiking map app. The path seemed accurate. I’ve walked through cow pastures before, but this is Spain. And these were gigantic black bulls. With sharp and shiny horns. And I am not a matador. I took a few seconds to consider my options and quietly and carefully backtracked through the pasture, unlatched and relatched the gates, and retraced my steps to the bridge over the Ega where I’d turned right. Rounding the corner, I quickly identified my mistake when I spotted an overgrown hiking trail hugging the fenceline of the pasture.
Heart still racing, I continued on, finally reaching a hostel in Villamayor de Monjardin run by Dutch volunteers. When I arrived, it looked like I would have the place all to myself. At about 6 p.m., I was joined by two brothers—Alden and Grant—from Michigan. We spent an hour talking comedy and politics.
I showered, turned down dinner, and went to bed early to try and get a good night’s rest.
Brandon Hikes 