What if it rains on the Camino? Keep three things dry

I hate being cold and wet. What if it rains for days? What if everything I own is soaked and I still have ten miles to go?

Let's get one thing out of the way. Plan on rain. Every Camino to Santiago ends in Galicia, and Galicia is green for a reason. Spain's weather agency counts about 140 rainy days a year in Santiago and roughly 70 inches of rain. There's some in every month, and most of it from October through May. July is the driest, and even July averages five or six wet days.

So the question isn't whether. It's what a wet day is really like, and what you do about it.

The first twenty minutes

Picture the first twenty minutes. They feel like the worst, because you're still trying to win. You pull the hood tighter. You walk around the puddles. You negotiate.

Then the water finds its way into your left shoe, and something odd happens. You stop negotiating. The thing you were afraid of has happened, and it turns out to be water.

From there a rain day is mostly a walking day with sound effects. Squelch, mostly.

You can't keep everything dry. Pick three things.

I'll buy the best jacket, the best cover, the waterproof everything. Then I'll be fine. You'll be better off. You won't be dry. Nobody out there is.

So here is the whole trick. Don't try to keep everything dry. You'll lose, and you'll be miserable while losing. Decide what must stay dry, and let the rest get wet.

• Tomorrow's socks.
• What you sleep in.
• Your papers and your phone: passport, cards, and your pilgrim passport, the credencial. (Its stamps are ink. Ink and rain have history.)

Those three live in waterproof bags inside your pack. Not under the rain cover and hoping. REI says it plainly: packs aren't truly waterproof, especially in a downpour, so hikers bag what matters on the inside. (Why the cover loses, and the zero-dollar fix, is a story for the book.)

And me? Don't I get to stay dry? Not all of you. A budget decides who goes without. That's the poncho-or-jacket question, and pilgrims never settle it. We put a poncho on our Shelf because it covers you and the pack in one go. The buyers' verdict is there too, grumbles included. If you're under about 5'4", read the sizing note first.

Wet is annoying. Cold is the one to respect.

I'm always the cold one. At home I wear a sweater in June. Then you already have the most useful habit: you notice early.

Here's a fact worth carrying. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) says hypothermia doesn't need freezing weather: it can happen at cool temperatures, above 40°F, if you get chilled from rain or sweat. The signs it lists for adults include shivering, exhaustion, confusion, fumbling hands and slurred speech.

That's the CDC. Hiking groups add the everyday part. The Washington Trails Association tells hikers to pick sheltered rest stops and keep breaks short, and the US National Park Service says to stay out of the wind when you're wet. On the Camino that's easy to translate: take your long break inside a bar, not on a windy bench. And put on something dry as soon as you arrive. Shower and laundry can wait ten minutes.

And if someone can't stop shivering, or seems confused or fumbling? The CDC's steps are short: get them into a warm room, get the wet clothes off, and get medical help. In Spain the emergency number is 112, free from any phone.

Boots, the morning after

Everyone else's boots are on the radiator. Am I really going to be the fussy one? Yes. Tomorrow your boots still fit.

Two boot makers and America's big outdoor co-op all say the same thing. Salomon and Merrell tell you to dry shoes at room temperature, away from heaters and direct sun. REI agrees and gives the reason: high heat weakens the glue and ages the leather. Take the insoles out. REI and Salomon both suggest stuffing the boots with newspaper and changing it when it's damp. Ask at the albergue or the nearest bar for an old one. There's often a pile.

They may still be a little damp in the morning. Damp boots and dry socks: that's a normal Camino Tuesday.

The honest part

Some rain days are just long. If yours is, don't decide anything in the worst hour. A shorter day is allowed, and the bench rule post lists the exits.

But a word in the rain's defense. Nobody checks the time. Hoods come off in doorways and strangers compare puddles. Nobody looks good, so nobody performs.

Sunny days make good photos. Rainy days make good stories.