By my nature, I am often lost.
I don’t mean spiritually or mentally, I mean physically, I don’t know where I am or where I am going. When you see me, the chances are highly probable that I am heading in the wrong direction.
I mention this only because I am walking a trail of over 180 miles. Getting lost will certainly increase the length of my walk.
Now, some parts of the trail are clearly marked, while others. . . ahh. . . not so much.
The trail markings differ. At times, there is a scallop shell. Other times, it is a modernist version of a scallop shell. Often, it’s just a yellow arrow. Frequently, all I have is hope and a general direction.
Sometimes, I just follow anyone with a backpack, assuming they know where they are going.
Of course, if someone else adheres to that rule with me as their point, they will learn a difficult lesson the long way, so to say.
So my new rule is if I see no signs and see no backpackers, then I have gone rogue.
What helps confirm my hypothesis is the very strange looks I get from farmers tending to their crops when I wander into their fields. They point and shake their heads, and say with a smile, “Buen Camino.”
Most recently, I wandered off path (Thanks Google) down a country lane (being generous with the word “lane”) to meet a gentleman holding a shotgun (happily not pointed at me).
He smiled, and I asked if it was safe to continue down the lane.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Good enough for me,” I thought, and went on my merry way (very quickly).
See, I was looking for a shell, and damn if I didn’t almost find one.
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