Jill Thomas is a Rambler, traveler, and storyteller with a big laugh who believes life takes her where she needs to go, no matter the roundabout path.
Today, while I was Rambling, I thought about how much I love my walking poles—and how deeply embarrassing I find using them in public. And how dumb this is—and how knowing how dumb this is does absolutely nothing to make me less dorky.
I was thinking about this because yesterday was the first time since I got home from the Camino that I went for a Ramble, swinging two poles in my hands on a country road near my house.
This may not sound like personal growth, but it is.
I learned to love my walking poles on the Camino trails in Spain and Portugal. On a Camino, poles are respectable. Everyone has them. Pilgrims can march through the middle of a Camino town, happily click-clicking along the pavement with their poles like an enormous human insect, and nobody gives you a second glance.
Back home in Canada, things are different.
Lots of Ramblers I know use poles on wilderness trails. Put a mountain in front of us and suddenly poles are serious athletic equipment. But walking down a perfectly ordinary paved road with two poles in your hands? That's the height of dorkiness.
I once suggested using poles to a friend who resists walking because of her body pain. “Never, ever,” she said. “I promised my kids I would never do that.” I quietly thought: that's a promise it would be best to break, but I get it. I'm embarrassed too.
But this time the Camino came home with me, and she won’t stop nagging me about using my poles.
I left my Camino poles in Spain. Actually, I burned through two pairs of cheap poles, and six of those little rubber thingies you put over the pointy ends so you don't metal-click on streets at 6 a.m., annoying every night-owl Spaniard who has the good fortune of living on the Camino while damaging centuries-old cobblestones.
At one point, my poles were held together with duct tape.
My Camino poles were cheap. They collapsed a couple of times when I slammed one down hard to stop myself from falling, and the plastic handles made my hands eternally swampy.
But still, I loved them. By the time I reached Santiago de Compostela, they were trashed, so they didn't make the flight home.
When I arrived home, surfing on my Camino high, I bought myself some GOOD poles and vowed to use them every time I went for a proper walk. So I did my research and bought a beautiful pair of lightweight carbon-fibre walking poles with sweat-resistant cork handles.
I learned on the Camino that good poles are worth the money. They're lighter. They fold neatly into your backpack so you can go into a building without swinging around a pair of eye-gouging sticks. Cork handles remain comfortable in sweaty situations and, properly fastened, the sticks do not collapse when you must suddenly throw your full body weight onto them because your foot has encountered uneven pavement your brain failed to notice.
About a week after my new poles arrived, before I even used them, I was cleaning out a closet during a decluttering spree and found another pair of expensive carbon-fibre, cork-handled walking sticks. I bought them last year after returning from my first Camino and forgot I owned them. Except I don't think I really just forgot about them. I think I was too embarrassed to use them, so I conveniently erased them from memory. Brains are powerful resisters when they want to be.
This year, though, the Camino nagging was more persistent—she would not let me forget my poles.
After all, I had walked 850 kilometres across Spain using poles the entire way, without falling once and without serious injury. Then I came home and went on my first long Ramble, pole-free, and I wiped out on the pathway in front of our local grocery store and skinned my knee for about the 200th time since I learned to walk. It was a little reminder from Lady Camino not to be a dumbass about my poles.
When I was a kid, I thought quicksand was going to play the most dangerous role in my daily adult life, but as it turns out, uneven pavement is the real bugaboo.
So I started taking my shiny new poles when I walked alone in the forest behind my house.
The problem is that when I feel lazy—which is most of the time—I don't want to walk in the forest on the steep, rooty trails that typify Salt Spring Island. I want to walk out my front door, along Booth Canal Road to Rainbow Road—and choose to turn right and walk to town, or turn left and walk to the beach.
I vowed to do this in public with poles. But I couldn't do it. So I continued on with my local walks without them, and every walk felt like dragging a bag of cement through sand.
The Camino taught me what to do when my body feels sore and cementy while walking. It is a feeling I can usually fix by standing up straight, dropping my shoulders, loosening my grip, and getting my poles working. If I let my poles support my body and regulate my stride, the slog disappears—at least until about 27 kilometres, after which there is nothing left to do but slog it out.
I remembered that poles make long walks easier and fun.
After three cement-slog Rambles, I'd finally had enough and decided to walk with my poles on the pavement. To celebrate, I left the house in my full Camino outfit—same pants, same shirt, same socks. New shoes, but the same kind I wore in Spain. My waist belt. My poles. Even the same Spotify playlist I used to bolster myself during the last couple of kilometres every day on the Camino.
It was my Camino routine—one I knew could turn a grumpy slog into a happy, joy-filled Ramble. And before I reached the end of my driveway, my body said: Oh yes. THIS. WE LOVE THIS. I felt a rush of happiness pass through my body as Lady Camino said, “Good for you. You have come to your senses.”
I headed out, poles proudly swinging, standing taller, my stride opening up step by step. My arms comfortably joined the operation in complete unison with my feet. My mind was free to wander and dream while my poles quietly kept me upright without requiring much thought—even when my foot encountered hidden uneven pavement.
My body knew exactly how to do this without even thinking.
There is another reason the poles make such a difference for me. When I get tired, or need a little extra effort to climb a hill, I tend to bend forward at the waist. That puts more of my weight on my lower back. My stride gets shorter, I start to shuffle, and my breath feels trapped in my chest.
The walking starts to feel like work.
But when I have two poles in my hands, my body stands tall, my stride is an ideal length for my body and matches the rhythm of my arms. Hills feel easier, and I feel steadier and stronger. And I don't fall down and skin my knees (or worse).
So I have made some progress.
I still cannot bring myself to turn left on Rainbow Road and walk to town, proudly swinging two walking poles. I'm just not there yet. Maybe next year.
But I have decided I can withstand the humiliation of walking on pavement with both poles along the quiet country road from my house to the nearest beach.
So that's where you'll find me. Two poles. Standing tall. Happily Rambling down Rainbow Road, swinging my hips and poles to the rhythm of the music in my ears.
READ MORE > JT's Tales From The Trail, Rambler Cafe Blog
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