I fell in love with hiking as a teenager. In high school my boyfriend introduced me to Ontario’s Bruce Trail, where I learned that there is little in life that a walk in the woods cannot cure, or at least improve considerably. Later, hiking was my respite during twenty-one years of parenting a profoundly disabled child, and my solace after he died. And like many long-distance walkers, the Camino Frances topped my bucket list. In fact, I planned to walk the Camino the spring of 2020. I’m sure you can figure out why I didn’t.
I returned to thoughts of a long-distance pilgrimage the winter of 2022. Ontario was still knee deep in pandemic restrictions, and my desire for a long-distance hike had reached a crescendo. My son, Matthew, had died two weeks after COVID shuttered the globe, and after almost two years of deferred grief I craved a stretch of contemplative time alone when I might make sense of his life and death. That February a friend sent an email link to a Globe and Mail article describing a newly launched “Canadian Camino” on Prince Edward Island. The subject line read, you should do this!
The subject line read, you should do this!
Researching the trail, I learned that the Island Walk was an intriguing pilgrimage but probably wouldn’t mimic the Camino. Yet, I liked the idea of a “Camino” that wasn’t “the Camino”.
I loved the idea of spending a sustained stretch of time in a Canadian province where I could sink into the culture, history, and iconic landscape. It’s wonderful to have the opportunity for such an adventure in your own country.
After the financial devastation of the pandemic, supporting the Canadian economy appealed to me. I was concerned by reports that the Camino had become oversubscribed, that hostels were crowded, bedbugs a risk, and that the contemplative space I craved might be elusive since I would share the Camino Frances with over 300,000 walkers. I would also be a woman hiking alone, and Islanders have a reputation for being some of the friendliest people on earth. So knew I would be safe and supported hiking PEI. I also loved the idea of blending the time-honoured experience of a “pilgrimage” with being one of the first to walk a newly blazed path.
I’ll be honest. There were some drawbacks. The Camino is a centuries old pilgrimage and has an extensive infrastructure. It’s cheap once you fly to Europe. The Island Walk, and all its associated supports, is still evolving and is more expensive. Thankfully, in the two years since I completed the trail the resources have considerably improved. Maps are better, accommodations more plentiful, and transportation easier to organize. But it’s still a trek that takes some planning. You won’t yet find a hostel for $50 a night. You can’t arrive and know that beds and food are waiting for you. You will need to do some homework. But the fact that I had to be involved in planning my hike was a gift. It meant that I had to befriend the Island and its people. I had to get to know the community, and for a short time, become an Islander.
I also loved the idea that as an early Island Walker I would experience a new and unique journey. After finishing the trail, I had the chance to meet its founder, Bryson Guptill. We talked about the hike; the good, the bad, and even the truly unfortunate (Hint: Mosquitoes on the Confederation Trail. Another hint: Cover up and spray liberally with a Deet laced bug spray). How often do you get to chat about a trail with the person who created it?
I still may hike the Camino Frances, but more often, I think that I might not. I don’t doubt the Camino would be a meaningful experience. I know dozens of people who have made the journey and sing its praises. But the Island Walk showed me that I don’t need to fly across the globe to experience the power of pilgrimage, that there is a Way right here in Canada.
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