In the course of four days spent in upstate New York, amidst new friends, natural splendor, and an astonishing diversity of bodily pains, I could not help but think on my pilgrimage of last year with three dear members of this humble Society. Together we traveled to Paris, and from there, in company of the remnants of European Christendom, we marched to the majestic Cathedral at Chartres. It was there I first learned the various discomforts of organized marching – about hobbling onwards in a strange mix of pride and penitence, of struggling to pray and sing and walk while so desperately wanting to collapse in some expressive and melodramatic fashion, and of blistering my feet for our Lord. And so, gentle reader, do forgive my telling this tale in burdensome reference to that fondly remembered pelerinage.

I shan’t confess my pilgrimage intentions this year, other than to say I was more diligent and responsible in forming them well in advance. Indeed, I was thankful for it, and recommend the practice to others, that they might not, as I seem to remember, be left thinking on the sandy steps outside Chartres (or Ossernenon, as the case may be). This past Tuesday, with intentions composed and much expectation, I left work to go on pilgrimage. In honor of good times past, I stopped twice: first, for my soul, to beg the assistance of Our Lady of Perpetual Help at St. Alphonsus in Baltimore, and second, for my body, to consume great store of sustaining victuals at that ever ennobling Princeton institution, Hoagie Haven.

I arrived that evening at the Fonda shrine of Kateri Tekakwitha, where I would leave my car for several days, and waited in good company for the filling of a shuttle back to the shore of the Lake of the Blessed Sacrament, or, as the impious British would later say it, Lake George. Our van made it to the Lake George campground quite late (though earlier than usual, as I understand it), and jealous of the few hours that remained me ere dawn, I cast my sleeping bag and pad upon a suitable patch of ground. I slept surprising well that night, deo gratias, though I had hints of what would be one of my few overall complaints, which I shall mention only once: the inadequate supervision of teenagers.

That morning, I awoke, packed up my things, and made my way several hundred yards to the parking lot which served both as starting point and registration site for those of us who’d arrived late the night before. I dropped off my bag, received a nice-looking nametag, and spent some time meandering about. No doubt appearing lost, I was assisted with rapidity by the tireless Gregory Lloyd, who, upon recognizing one so fully dedicated to the pursuit of a Good Time, pressed me into the company of St. Isaac Jogues. I had not clearly remembered the various brigades from my Saturday’s past, so it was with unexpected joy that I heard our brigadier intone our official cheer.

V. For Christ Jesus! R. Strength and Honor!

Nothing had split my face in wider grin than hearing that when first I came to Auriesville two years previous.

After much cheering and several speeches by the NCCL organizers, we walked in song to the monument of St. Isaac Jogues where Mass was to be said that morning. Fr. Helman of the Institute of Christ the King Sovereign Priest, Chaplain to the Pilgrimage, was celebrant in a high Mass for the Feast of St. Isaac Jogues that followed, as two other priests heard pilgrim’s confessions alongside the proceedings. I have to admit, standing there, dwarfed by the incredible statue of St. Isaac on his very feast day, to being deeply moved. Fr. Helman, just from the missions in Gabon, whom I had never heard preach before, impressed me with a riveting sermon on the need for thanksgiving, penance and mission while on pilgrimage.

After a quick breakfast, Father blessed the pilgrims and sent them off. Almost immediately, it became apparent that this was to be a strenuous undertaking. Or rather, in the Oregon Trail idiom, our pace was indisputably grueling. Unlike Chartres, where the sheer number of brigades made for frequent traffic jams, there were no unplanned moments of respite. Our column, indeed, was composed of only 7 brigades, namely, in order of precedence, St. Joan of Arc, St. Isaac Jogues, St. Joseph’s (from the St. Benedict Center of Richmond, NH), Immaculate Heart of Mary (also from said center), St. Gregory’s Academy, Our Lady of Fatima Scouts , and St. Benedict (new of St. Benedict’s chapel in Chesapeake, VA). In this way, the three official breaks per day (you’re given about an hour for lunch and a much shorter period several hours before and after) become the only chance to stop and rest one’s feet. . The other option, of course, is to consent to the relative humiliation of taking a ride. I understand that the great majority of the pilgrims do, at one point or another take this route. Along the way, a truck towing port-o-john’s continually leap-frogs the column, offering plenty of opportunities to stop for such business and a break and then catch a quick ride back to the front.

Lunch that first day took place at a delightful town park. Each pilgrim provided his own meal, and I spent my time eating, getting to know my fellow pilgrims, and eagerly airing my feet. The afternoon gave us more of the same, traveling primarily along paved roads and through towns. At one point we crossed a neat bridge over some enticing rapids. For those particularly out of shape (your humble servant) a series of hills immediately prior to arrival at camp was especially trying.

Camp the first night, as I recall, was in the middle of nowhere. And a smallish place nowhere was, with a sort of field station (curiously named Ft. Bink) which provided a location for the ubiquitous nurses, some well-used restrooms, and even several showers (!). (I scorned this luxury, to the possible disgust of my immediate neighbors, and I continue to maintain that men, at least, have absolutely no business showering while on pilgrimage.) Families, clerics, nuns, and ladies, in that order, were allotted the campsites of convenience, while the gentleman – by far the largest contingent – were relegated to a dark gully away in the back of the property. On the whole, and though it was not quite suited to the number of pilgrims, it was an interesting place, and I do hope our more informed readers know a few details.

I should not, in my haste to describe the camp, pass over another praiseworthy habit of the Pilgrimage. When one finishes the day’s leg (also at lunch, to lesser extent), each brigade waits at the camp entrance along with the families and other non-pilgrims to welcome and congratulate the remaining brigades in song. I had seen this done before when one arrives at Auriesville, but I thought it a heartening touch to do it every day.

While setting up my tent in the increasing gloom, I reflected on several of the other ways the Pilgrimage had so far exceeded Chartres. For one, I had enjoyed being in a brigade composed solely of men (this being the case for all brigades, except the newcomers from St. Benedict’s). There was the food, hot soup being far preferable to bread and hot broth for dinner. I was also particularly pleased by hearing Mass in the morning rather than at lunch. One is more awake at that hour, to be sure, but the time is certainly not traditional, and the luncheon atmosphere less conducive to reverence. Last year, as I recall, several French priests were compelled to rebuke pilgrims for eating immediately before Mass. Instead, we woke at 4:45 or so, and heard Mass around 5:30, followed by about an hour for breakfast and packing up.

And so, that following morning just before 5, we humble pilgrims were greeted with the (somewhat amusing) public call of “the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is in 30 minutes.” Fr. Longua, chaplain of St. Gregory’s Academy, and friend of our Society, said Mass. After breakfast, and the blessing of pilgrims, we started out on what had been rumored to be the most difficult march of the three days. No one seemed able to quote an exact distance, but it was whispered that from the first steps until lunch the column would be climbing a unending series of hills. The leg before our morning break was rather strenuous itself. Then it was announced, as we sat and rested uneasily, that all those unsure of their ability to continue ought to bow out before the next section, and rejoin their fellows at lunch. The explanation being that the next several miles were both rugged and inaccessible to the vehicles which had hitherto provided escort.

Unfortunately, this was not all we tired pilgrims had to contend with. About a mile or so into the somewhat mountainous trek, a supposedly new route, inadequately marked intersections, the absence of leadership, and (possibly) exuberant safety personnel managed to get the entire Pilgrimage lost in the woods. Missing a turn, we walked approximately a mile uphill in the wrong direction. After discovering our mistake and stopping to consider our predicament, we reversed course, walked for a distance, and stopped again. Finally, after a detour of nearly two hours, we returned to the spot where we ought to have turned from our path. Waiting there, an intrepid figure (with a remarkably fine beard, hat and vest, as I recall) pointed out the way. Advising us, like some prophet of old, he spoke: only six miles, two up, and then four down. These weren’t entirely comforting words, especially since we were running sh