Somewhere in the mountains of Spain, I bought a single hiking pole—collapsible, but sturdy—to help me navigate some of the steep descents of Galicia.
One of the ex-pats on the trip, hiking with us on the Camino de Santiago, explained that I could hike downhill in a zigzag, almost like a skier, if I had at least one pole. I’d be grateful later, she said, that I hadn’t blown out my knees.
It was a fantastic recommendation.
Rite of Reckoning — Book Three of the Rites of Passage trilogy. Available direct from the author →
That, and the suggestion to cut my toenails super-short before the downhill trek.
So outside a medieval church, I bought a red hiking pole. I decided that if I needed a second one, I’d buy that, too, and leave them both in Spain if I couldn’t fold them up small enough for the flight back across the Atlantic.
My Mother’s Walking Stick
When I returned home, one of the first things I did was make a trip to see my mom on the farm in Georgia. She had become somewhat unsteady on her feet going up and down the steps on the back porch, or walking all the way out to the barn where she parked the four-wheeler, climbing aboard, and then riding the acres to check her bluebird boxes.
I had wanted to bring her a souvenir from the Santiago Cathedral, but Delta Airlines had lost my small suitcase for most of the trip, and I’d had only my backpack with the bare minimum of what I needed inside. So as I boarded the plane home, I decided I would give her the red walking stick that had been my constant companion for the bulk of the trip.
I had been pleased with it. My mom, then in her 80s, was pleased with it, too. I know she used it, even if I rarely saw it. It was one of those things where she didn’t want to be seen with a cane, or even a walking stick, and it was still hard enough in her late 80s for us to keep her from climbing onto the barn roof to patch it up.
After she died, my brother and I found the Camino de Santiago walking stick while we were cleaning out her house. She had kept it in the back porch closet, where she stashed her wading boots, yard shoes, sun hats, and any type of outdoor gear.
I took it home with me because it was sentimental—not only because of my time in Spain, when it had helped me, but because of how it had helped my mom as well.
For the next year, I didn’t use it. I just stashed it near my front door with, er, my sun hats, yard shoes, and any other gear I might need outdoors, just as, um, she had done.
Yeah. All righty, then.
The Fall That Changed My Mind
Then, after a graceless somersault on a South Tampa sidewalk—where the lip of my shoe caught the jagged edge of broken concrete—I changed up a few of my dictating-and-walking practices.
First, so I’d have my hands free, and wouldn’t end up breaking my wrist while trying to save my iPhone tumble, I switched to wearing a microphone either around my neck or clipped to my shirt.
The second thing I did was start walking with the Camino de Santiago walking stick, especially on nighttime walks.
When I fell on that sidewalk crevice, I somehow, miraculously, managed not to break anything. Not either wrist, not either ankle, not even the right kneecap I landed on. But the gingerness in my right leg from the fall pulled my left leg out of alignment as I walked to accommodate it, and soon my left knee began to bother me until I could heal the right.
I used the hiking stick more and more, mostly for balance. Just in case I started to tumble again, I hoped it would help me catch myself and prevent another injury.
I hadn’t really worried before about taking a fall. But after that, it was on my mind every time I stepped outside the front door.
I suppose I could have asked my doctor to prescribe a cane. Or I could have carried one of my tall shamanic walking staffs, which would make me look for all the world like some ancient pagan elder, minus the hooded robes.
But instead, I chose to carry the hiking pole.
What a Hiking Pole Says That a Cane Doesn’t
There’s just something a hiking pole says that a cane does not.
It says: I’m active. I’m living my best life. I’m not letting anything stop me. So there!
Somehow, it says to me—and maybe to everyone else: I’m not that old yet. I’m not infirm yet. I’m just fine, thank you very much.
So I was out walking. Of course.
Not the 10 to 12 miles a day I used to walk, or even the 8 to 10 miles a day I had managed more recently, but with an injured knee, I was happy to get in a good 3 miles a day. I was working my way back up to 5!
The Woman Who Wasn’t Ready Yet
That’s when the cutest little dog with fluffy ears ran out to meet me and sniff at my toes.
This was not a puppy. She was an old dog, probably 15 years old, but still sprightly.
An old woman hobbled out after her and assured me that her little dog wouldn’t bite me. Sweet Thang was just interested in sniffing around. The woman apologized for the interruption and struggled to reclaim her dog’s leash.
I stopped to chat and catch my breath.
We talked about the dog. We talked about the flowers she had planted recently and how well they were doing being the sidewalk and street. We talked about her recent heart trouble, and how she took a slow 30-minute walk every day with her dog, just as the doctor had ordered. It was her therapy.
Mine, too, I thought.
Then she asked the question at the heart of why she had stopped me.
Where did I get the walking stick, and how did I use it?
I told her my story of walking the Camino de Santiago, and she asked if I thought Amazon or some other delivery service might have something similar she could order since she couldn’t really drive anymore. She wanted one, and planned to order it after this particular wallk.
Yes, she was in her 90s, but she refused to walk with a cane.
“That’s for old people,” she told me. “And I’m not ready for that yet.”
I laughed and told her I knew exactly what she meant.
Book Three of the Rites of Passage trilogy—for every woman who has ever felt invisible and dared to believe the best is yet to come.
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