The Longest Day
Julie McGue
Author
As some of you know from following my writing, I plan to walk a section of El Camino de Santiago in northern Spain this September. It will be my second time. My return trip is less about the exercise or the pilgrimage and more about completing research for a new project. Two years ago, I walked the same route I’m about to do. And as I poled my way through the last 100 km culminating in the city of Santiago, an idea coalesced.
I share about it here, in this previously unpublished essay, titled The Longest Day:
It was to be our longest day of hiking along the El Camino: eighteen kilometers from Melide, famous for its tender octopus pulpo a feira, to the town of Arzúa. We planned to leave the city hotel before dawn, chasing an idea of sunrise and serenity, only to find both had slipped away behind a wall of rain.
Six of us gathered outside the hotel, half-awake, our headlamps blinking like fireflies in the grainy dark. Our rain jackets whispered as we shifted weight from one boot to the other, and our daypacks became damp with morning mist. It wasn’t the kind of day that invited you to walk; it dared you to endure. Wet pavement. Low light. A chill ran its fingers under my collar. Even nature’s “green door”—a Camino term for potty stops in the nearby foliage—promised nothing but mud.
Our guide led us to a small café for what we’d come to know as “first breakfast.” The scent of coffee and baked sugar clung to the air. We devoured egg sandwiches, pastries, and yogurt—more from hunger for warmth than hunger for food—before realizing, embarrassingly, that after breakfast we’d lost the Camino itself. The familiar yellow arrows and seashells that usually guided us seemed to have vanished completely, swallowed by the fog. Google Maps flickered and died. We laughed and scoured the undulating roads and hills for signs of folks like us: walkers with packs and poles. So much for our poetic sunrise hike.
Once we finally found our way again, I fell into step beside a woman from our group—in her forties, with animated eyes and a big-hearted energy I’d noticed, but someone I had yet to get to know. As we slid in comfortably next to one another, our trekking poles clicked in rhythm. At first, we traded stories from our daily writing circles. My fellow hiker knew the bare bones of my life: mother, grandmother, widow, twin, adoptee, published author in search of her next project. I knew she was married, raising three kids on a historic family compound, her world full of creative flares—acting, singing, weekend rehearsals, soccer tournaments. For a while, our talk stayed safe, buoyant. Then she braved the question that tipped the morning toward something else.
“So,” she said softly, “what’s it been like, this past year or so? Do you plan to write about… grief? Your widow journey?”
Her tone landed gently, curious but not prying. Still, my breath caught, a reflex I’d come to know well. I took a slow swallow from my water bottle, feeling its chill ground me.
“From what I’ve read, and from my time with my grief counselor,” I began, my voice steady but small, “the ‘Year of Firsts’ is about survival. About showing up for all the milestones and sacred days that fill the first twelve months after you lose someone you love. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays. All those moments that used to feel effortless and fun, but then they just about break you in half.”
I let the rain tap a rhythm on my hood before continuing. “I plan to write about that grief sequence—meeting the chaos and struggling to find grace, a way forward. And the secondary losses of widowhood no one warns you about.” I smiled faintly, slipping my water bottle back into my pack. “I think walking the Camino might just be the overall story, the container for my widow journey, with all the unwelcome surprises and joys braided throughout. I’m letting it come to me—unforced.” I swallowed and continued, “My grief counselor introduced me to a mantra. I’ve taken it as my own: ‘That which is right is unfolding.’ Such a simple phrase. Words that help so much to explain and soothe what I can’t explain.”
She nodded, and we walked in silence for a few beats, the trail softening beneath our boots. Between footsteps and labored breaths, I rattled off some of the first year’s injustices like beads on a rosary: a manipulative relative, the perpetual emptiness of the house, the holidays that mocked me with cheer, a frozen pipe flooding the house on Steve’s birthday. I closed with how I broke my wrist just weeks after that—my first trip to the ER without my husband as my emergency contact.
“Every one of those moments,” I said quietly, “felt like walking barefoot through glass. A constant reminder of what was gone—and of the life that I’ve had to figure out in Steve’s absence.” My chest lifted and fell, the forest air thick in my throat. “I thought I was prepared. We’d always talked about his cancer. We’d made plans. But nothing prepares you for the silence, the loneliness, the sudden, debilitating waves of grief. Or for the way ordinary tasks—taking out the garbage, oil changes, smoke detector batteries—turn into endurance tests.”
For a long moment, all we heard was the rain. The rhythmic thud of our poles. The breath between us.
“What got me through,” I said finally, “was writing. Meditation. Family. Exercise. Lots of it.” I slipped a smile to my rapt companion. “And popcorn, and a nice glass of cabernet.”
At that we both laughed—a fragile, human sound swallowed quickly by the forest.
We stopped to take long swallows from our water bottles. Before we put them away, I said, “People react strangely to widowhood. “Some folks reach out regularly. Some cross the street to avoid you. It’s as if grief were contagious.” I shook my head, drops of rain spraying from my ponytail. “Some days I wonder if widows scare people because we remind them that life doesn’t always provide the ending, we plan on or dream about.”
She gave me a tentative smile, and I returned it, feeling something ease in my chest. I patted her shoulder.
“Thank you,” I said simply. “For asking. For listening. For not rushing to change the subject. It feels good to talk about all this.”
She nodded and we stepped back onto the trail. It curved ahead of us, vanishing into the fog—a path where love and loss could share the same space, though maybe not at the same pace.
Follow Me Here
On August 15, The second book in my Let’s Go with Lulu children’s book series, DJ and Lulu Go to the Car Wash, launches! Details forthcoming. Story is based on the real-life story about adventures with my oldest grandson.
September 6-22, I will hike a section of the El Camino again with Laura Davis’ group, The Writer’s Journey. I plan to do research for a third memoir about my journey through love and loss while hiking the Camino in 2024.
October 9-11, I will attend the She Writes Press author retreat at the Westin Rancho Mirage Resort in Palm Springs, CA. Thrilled to be selected as a presenter for the panel, “Marketing for Memoirists.”
Follow Julie by visiting her website, subscribe to her bimonthly newsletters, and listen to previous podcast recordings where she discusses topics like adoption, identity, family relationships, sisterhood and belonging.
“My grief counselor introduced me to a mantra. I’ve taken it as my own: ‘That which is right is unfolding.’ Such a simple phrase. Words that help so much to explain and soothe what I can’t explain.”
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This post is so helpful. I’m not a widow but your (as always) picturesque writing allowed me to understand more deeply those close to me who have lost their spouses. I recall when your fellow SWP writers learned that Steve had passed. (Is that succulent plant in the form of a typewriter still with you?) I remembered how Steve would have a glass of wine waiting for you as our critique sessions ended. I hope you have others now who occasionally offer you a glass of wine. So glad to see how your writing life grows.