I hardly slept last night. I was excited. The albergue in O Pedrouzo was large, clean, and white. When the dormitory door opened at 4:45 a.m., a shock of fluorescence jolted me out of bed. Apparently, I was going to get a twilight start for the final 20 kilometers of my Camino. I cut a piece of mole skin for a heel blister, pulled on my socks, and hit the trail. Leaving this early meant I wouldn't have to negotiate the throngs of Sarria-starters who only come for the last 100 kilometers or 62 miles. I'd also get to Santiago early enough for noon Mass, where I'd heard from a hard-charging German woman, the famed incense burner -- the silver "botafumeiro" -- would swing after the liturgy.

My iPhone flashlight sufficed for the pitch-black, rocky trails under full tree canopy. I was amazed at how well the human eye adapts to low light. I passed a few groups plodding along with bright white helmet lights -- like miners coming home from the night shift. Ten kilometers passed before I was fully awake, and the nautical twilight, a gray-blue sky, revealed the Santiago Airport. I passed Lavacolla, a village where pilgrims once cleansed themselves before entering Santiago. It had rained on my previous Camino, and I recognized the spot where the river had flowed over my socks and sandals. I remembered how soothing that cold water felt on my feet.

Daniel, an English guy who looked like Prince Harry with close-cropped gray hair, put on his pack around the same time. We had met a couple days earlier while consulting our navigation apps at a fork in the road. We both walked at a good clip, so off we went -- off to see the wizard. It was his first Camino.

I get chatty when I'm feeling emotionally full, but tried not to talk much about my previous experience. Daniel was discovering it all for the first time. I led him to Mount Gozo, however, a grassy park where pilgrims could first glimpse Santiago in the distance. I dodged the metal plate on the street where I had slipped before. We made our way down the hill over the modern autovia overpass into the 1000-year-old town.

Daniel is an associate pastor in the Church of England. From what I could gather, he's likely a Charismatic Anglican -- Evangelical in tone but open to broader Christian experiences like the Camino and a discussion with a Catholic like myself. As the cathedral spires appeared in the distance and pulled us toward the city center, we stumbled onto the subject of the separation of church and state.

"We've always been a Christian nation. We have a bishop who sits in Parliament," Daniel said.

I garbled through an explanation that our Establishment Clause was forged from the religious strife early Americans inherited from England -- including what happened to Puritans, Catholics, and dissenters under the state church. "I'm sure there are other valid opinions," Daniel said, and we left it at that. He ran into some of his Camino Frances friends. We exchanged numbers, and I marched on through the stone archway of Porta do Camino toward Praza do Obradoiro and the Cathedral of Santiago.

I arrived alone. The sky was white with cloud cover. It was early. I had completed the Camino del Norte -- well, most of it. I took a selfie, but felt the need for another person at that moment to help mark the event. I saw a guy in a Buffalo Bills wicker sombrero and matching windbreaker. Nate, a fellow Californian, had been a Bills fan since 1965. "They were almost in the first Super Bowl, you know . . ." He drives across the country each fall to watch a home game. This wasn't Nate's first nor only pilgrimage, apparently. He took my photo but cut out my feet. I asked him to take it again. "Why do you want your feet?" Because they got me here, I said. You can make fast friends on the Camino.

I had time to collect my compostela at the pilgrim office, clean up at the Seminary Albergue, and join the line forming for noon Mass. The queue wound around the rear plaza. I passed the time in line talking with a Japanese man about walking, family, and future plans. He recommended that I walk their island next. The Mass was in Spanish, standing room only. Some Catholics knelt on the stone floor. My knees were still recovering, so I stood through the consecration.

Mass ended. Anticipation rose for the final event. The botafumeiro swings 15 times per year -- or if someone pays 600 Euro. No announcement came. No monks appeared. The church emptied, except for a couple dozen of us unwilling to accept the looming reality. It wasn't happening. No botafumeiro for us. Not yet, at least. I gave up the ghost and walked back onto the plaza, where a million pilgrims are due to arrive this year.