As expected, I woke up stiff as a rock, exhausted and sleep deprived. With all this damn rain, it was only a matter of time before a virus caught me. On day 20, it finally did and drained every bit of energy from me. I headed out while it was still dark. My pace was like a sloth’s, the kind that manages to cover just 37 metres in a day. The first 15 kilometres were rough, especially without my morning ritual—no coffee, no Coke. If I wanted coffee the day before, I needed it today just to stay upright.
The Almighty, the laziest of all my hiking mates, was still curled up somewhere enjoying his beauty sleep. Effective as an anti-wrinkle cream. His ways really are mysterious. The Mustache acted just like any man with a virus—non-stop whining like he was on his deathbed. He got on my nerves. I promised him pumpkin cream soup with toasted croutons if he could just shut up for the next 25 kilometres. My energy was already flashing red, and he was draining what was left. He even apologised for moaning, which was a first. That’s how I knew the virus had wiped him out.
With the Almighty asleep and the Mustache half-dead, I of course got lost again. I wandered off the trail, just for a bit of change—why walk the same route I did in 2018? Boring. At least I only added three kilometres this time, an improvement. Still, I let out every swear word I knew when I realised, I’d be walking even more with a virus in my system.
The thought of a good night’s sleep was my only motivation. I already knew the place. The finish line was just around the corner. All that was left was a 700-metre bridge. I followed the yellow arrow, the one that takes you all the way to Santiago, instead of the app. And of course, that route didn’t lead me across the bridge. I had to go 1.5 kilometres back and take the other path. That was it. I lost it. No way was I turning back. If needed, I’d crawl to the hostel. So I did something seriously stupid. I risked my life.
This story isn’t free. If someone wants to hear it, they’ll have to pay. All I’ll say is—hell on highway.
The Almighty was still snoring.
When we finally made it out of that shitshow, which felt like 10 kilometres of pure danger, the Berliner practically launched himself out of bed. He started yelling, asking if I was insane and reminded me, I’d nearly killed us all. He told me to stop thinking only about myself. Easy to be wise when you’re lying sick in bed, I thought. I hate being yelled at, so I warned him that the only people allowed to raise their voice at me are my mum and dad—and even they don’t anymore.
I admitted it was an incredibly dumb move. I had really put us in danger. But I was so exhausted that I risked everything just to get to a damn bed.
To my dear mum reading this—I swear I’ll never do something that stupid again.
When we finally reached the hostel, I collapsed into a 3-hour siesta and woke up feeling brand new. Later, just like I promised, I took the Berliner for soup and whiskey to kill the virus. That was followed by a romantic walk on a postcard-perfect beach. We were happy.
Beautiful beaches, the sound of the sea, and a warm sunset always manage to soften me. The gang convinced me we should take it slow for the next few days. No madness, no full-day hikes. Just peace. We’ve earned it.
