MASONIC TRAVEL
Camino de Santiago Pilgrimage
An 86-Day physical and spiritual journey
The first way I had to divest was physical. I began at Notre-Dame Cathedral with a pack prepped like a Marine, for survival—extra socks, soap, a first aid kit, and everything I thought was essential. On Day 2, I arrived at the home of Brother Gerald, who had told me about the Camino. He helped me pare everything down to the true essentials though I stubbornly kept a few things; his guidance spared me unnecessary suffering. Letting go here made the journey lighter and prevented injuries down the road.
As the pack lightened, so did my mental weight. Ordinary life is noisy—work stress, family concerns, bills. But on the Camino, all I had to do was wake up and walk. Whether five miles or thirty, I only needed to move forward. I stopped worrying about where I would sleep or eat. The present moment was all that mattered—the song of a bird, the view, and the kindness of strangers.
As I let go, the voice of my good Brother and Guide echoed in my head saying, “You have five senses—use them all!” So I began noticing more: the taste of fruit picked straight from the branch, the breeze atop a hill, the smell of water in the air. Churches bore the wear of millions of pilgrims who had gone this way before me. Walking Roman roads or sleeping in a home built in the 1200s reminded me I was part of a much older story. At many cathedrals I saw the carved marks of stonemasons on the walls—silent signatures from master builders whose names are lost to time, but whose strict adherence to their duty has survived the lapse of time.
At the two-week mark, I arrived in Vézelay on the eve of the summer solstice. I hadn’t planned to stay, but fellow pilgrims convinced me. Although it didn’t fit my timeline, I’m glad they did. Inside the Basilica of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine, I watched a line of sunlight stretch perfectly down the nave to the apse—an architectural alignment designed centuries ago to mark this sacred season. Later that evening, I sat in silence as monks and sisters sang Vespers. Their voices echoed off the stone walls, stirring something deep in me. That day became my only rest day until Santiago, and it changed everything.
Yet at the halfway mark, I confronted some of the most difficult weight to divest. As I adjusted physically, I began to confront emotional weight—grudges, regrets, and old self-judgments. Long, solitary miles gave space to reflect. Sometimes I cried. Other times I stopped to pray or light candles for people I hadn’t spoken to in years. I even made a few overdue phone calls. By the time I reached Santiago, I had let go of so much anger, hurt, and criticism I’d carried for years—not just toward others, but toward myself.
The Camino also restored my faith in humanity. I started the journey alone, not knowing the language and unsure of the path ahead. But I was never truly alone. I was surrounded by amazing people, some who shared the road with me, some who are waypoints in my memory along the way. A woman once gave me and another pilgrim water and strawberries, though she had little to spare. Another couple gave us coffee and biscuits in their front yard, postponing their plans just to help. Countless “bon chemin” and “buen camino” wishes lifted my spirit every day. The generosity and goodness I saw along the way left a deep mark.
After 82 days, I reached Santiago de Compostela—grateful, humbled, and, remarkably, without a single blister. My Guide’s advice on foot care had served me well from afar. I was exhausted and unshaven, but my heart was full. I arrived at the Plaza do Obradoiro—the grand square before the cathedral—side by side with an incredible group of pilgrims I had met along the way. Over the next two days, I returned to that square often, especially in the quiet early mornings, just to watch others arrive. That became my favorite part of Santiago: witnessing their tears, embraces, quiet prayers, and shouts of joy. Each arrival was a testament to transformation, a reminder that every pilgrim’s path is personal, but the destination speaks to all of us.
In the end, the Camino is not just a trail across a continent. It’s a path carved through the heart. It teaches you how to carry less, worry less, and love more. It teaches you how to divest yourself of everything that keeps you from becoming who you truly are.
But I wasn’t done. Along the Camino, the idea of divesting myself took on deeper, more symbolic meaning. With each step, I wasn’t just shedding physical weight or mental clutter—I was undergoing a kind of death. A slow, deliberate release of the person who had first stepped out of Paris. What remained, day by day, mile by mile, was a quieter, simpler, more honest version of myself. By the time I arrived in Santiago, that earlier self was gone. In their place stood the pilgrim—stripped down, transformed.
The next day, I walked the 17 miles north to Muxía, another sacred coastal village. There, at a second 0.000 km marker—this one carved with an arrow pointing back down the road I’d just walked up—I felt something shift. If Fisterra marked the end, Muxía marked the beginning. The pilgrimage was not over. It had simply changed. A new path was opening: the rest of my life. I guess there’s only one way left to go—”ultreia et suseia“, onward and upward.
WB Rosado is the current Master (2025-2026) of Allied Lodge No. 1170, 1st Masonic District of the Grand Lodge of New York.
