A 15 kilometer hike doesn’t sound like much, but the elevation, rocks, roots, and uneven steps all posed a challenge to my knees. There just aren’t opportunities to be a mountain goat in Chicago!
By the time I stumbled to the end of the trail and made it out to the road, my right knee was aching. I knew that I was done hiking for the day. I just hoped that my knee wasn’t done hiking for the week.
The reviews for the East Coast Trail in Newfoundland all claimed that it was easy to get a ride back to one’s car after hiking. On day one, my adult children and I learned that this isn’t true of every route. The only Uber driver who responded to us said that he didn’t want to drive that far from St. John’s. The taxi services didn’t answer their phones.
The four of us sat at the edge of the road exhausted but surprisingly unfazed. For some inexplicable reason, we were all confident that someone would eventually give us a lift. (Honestly, I’d never hitchhiked in my life, and yet I just knew that our ride would come!) We decided to walk (hobble for me) away from the direction of our car, towards Flatrock, a small town with a population of 1700.
Within minutes, we spotted people and cars on the other side of the road. They were in front of a shrine called Our Lady of Lourdes Grotto. I’d heard of Lourdes of France as a place of healing. Might Lourdes of Newfoundland be a source of transportation? My adult kids immediately looked to me, “It’s your crowd, Mom.” Yep – they were mostly 60+ women! I could do this.
Megan and I slowly ambled over to a group of kind looking folks. I explained that we had just walked the trail from Pouch (we learned that the correct pronunciation is “Pooch”) Cove, shared our dilemma and wondered if they had any suggestions about who to call. I was secretly hoping that they would offer us a ride.
Two women explained that they were visitors to the area but could easily make room for the two of us in their backseat. As Megan and I strategized about the logistics of going with them and then coming back for the others, another woman called from her car window, “I’m going to Pouch Cove and have room for all four of you!” Wow – not one ride offer but two!
As I squeezed into the front seat, I noticed a rosary dangling from the car mirror and a bag on the passenger seat. Our driver instructed me to push the bag aside. I carefully moved it to the floor and placed my feet next to it.
She said, “My name is Karen, but I’m not a Karen.” She shared that she had moved back to Pouch Cove after her father died 16 years ago. She hadn’t been to the grotto for many years but had recently been invited to an upcoming event and decided to check out the parking. Karen also told us about a man that she and her husband had rescued from the hiking trail a few years ago. As we complimented her on her angelic-like service, we all seemed to trust that Karen was destined to pick us up that day.
When Karen pulled up to our car, we thanked her profusely. Before we got out, she asked us to wait. She wanted to give something to each of us. As she reached for the bag near my feet, she explained that she had recently visited Wexford, Ireland and learned a new craft. She said that these are typically made to celebrate a feast day on February 1st, and that she has been experimenting with local reeds.
“St. Brigid’s Day is February 1st! You have St. Brigid crosses!” I exclaimed. And Megan said, “My mom’s name is Bridget.” I added, “Earlier this summer, I spent time at Solis Bhrid (The Flame of Brigid) Center in Kildare!” Karen looked astonished, as she handed each of us a cross. As we said good-bye, we knew that she’d be telling this tale for a long time.
By the way, my right knee made it through the next four days of hiking! Might it have been the healing power of Lourdes? The compassion of Karen? The energy of St. Brigid? Or was it the encouragement of my hiking team? My cool, new knee brace? My stretching routine? A double dosage of Tylenol? Or was it the restorative waters of the Atlantic Ocean?
I don’t know, but I am grateful. And I do know that I’ll be telling this tale for a long time. Thanks again for the ride, Karen!
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