That’s it. That’s as light as I can make it, 17 pounds (or 7.711 kilograms). 

I am now relieved that I picked the Osprey Manta 34-liter bag because there isn’t a cubic inch left to spare. I’m also relieved that I opted to jettison the 2.5-liter HydraPak that came with it.

I needed that space for, you know, clothing. As for hydration, a couple of water bottles in the side pockets will do nicely. 

People like me, we find ways to fill an extra-large suitcase just as easily as we fill a medium-sized one.

Because I was born with the gift of self-delusion, I know the bag will creep up to around 20 pounds before I leave on Sunday. That’s ok. They (and you know who “they” are) say that a bag should be about 10 percent of your body weight.

I’ve got some wiggle room.

While I am packing with the intention of carrying this bag every day for the entire 800 kilometers of the Camino Francés, momma didn’t raise no idiot. (Some would argue otherwise.) There are companies that will ship your bag to the next stop, as long as you know where the next stop will be.

I’m sure I will use that service from time to time.

There’s no shame in being kind to yourself.

Two years ago, when we hiked the West Highland Way with friends, we all shipped our bags ahead, and it was … nice. Of course, our itinerary was mapped out completely, and reservations were made long before we took our first steps.

On the Camino, you have some leeway — after the first few stops and before you reach the last 100 kilometers. At the start and finish, it is pretty crowded, and the competition for a bunk bed can be fierce, from what I understand.

We hiked the Portuguese Camino without reservations. Twice we were almost left sleeping on park benches. Both, however, turned out unimaginably well. 

They (again) say, “The Camino provides.” I take that as an observation and not a hard-and-fast rule.

So, what’s the plan?

God, I wish I knew.

I begin walking on Sept. 16, from St. Jean Pied de Port, the traditional start of the Camino Francés. It is remarkable that this is the beginning of the Camino because the first thing you must face is the Pyrenees Mountains.

Not the Pyrenees mounds. Nor the Pyrenees hills. Nor the Pyrenees Flats.

Mountains. Gobs of steep and switchbacky things.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say this path was laid out by the nuns who taught me in elementary school. Or their forebears.

There is good news for non-procrastinators. If you book ahead, you can divide the first day into two stops. There are a couple of auberges with a very limited number of beds — after climbing only five or six miles.

Of course, they were booked solid by the time I got around to thinking about places to stay. I imagine walking by these places to the sound of clinking beer glasses, as a raucous pianoman bangs out a jaunty tune, and all the non-procrastinators laugh gleefully at their own good fortune.

Hours later, I plan to be crawling into Roncevalles, where I actually have a reservation.

So that’s the first day. They say the views are spectacular.

And so it will go until after Pamplona. By then, the Peregrinos find their own pace. They find their own tribe. They figure out just how much ground they can cover in a day. After day. After day. After day.

My plan is to get up early every morning and walk until around 2 p.m. — and just start looking around for a nice auberge with a shower, maybe a meal, some laundry facilities, and perhaps a soft overstuffed chair.

We’ll see.

If this works, my routine on arrival will be to make up my bed, plug in my phone and other electronics, hit the shower, change into clean clothes, then wash the clothes I was wearing and hang them to dry. Then, either grab a nap or a snack and explore until dinner. After dinner, pack away the washed clothes, hit the sack, and be ready to do it all over again the next morning.

Again, we’ll see. Caminos have a way of upending the best-made plans of mortals.

On previous hikes, opening my backpack was like unleashing the Apocalypse. My pack reflected my very being — calm looking on the outside, disorganized and chaotic on the inside, with essential parts perpetually missing.

Not this time. I’ve gone modular! How cool is that?

Well, I’ll show you.

I draw your attention to the picture. At left, you see my “spare” shoes, sandals, a compressed down vest, and walking sticks in a case. 

Above the sticks are three ziplock packets. This is the genius part. Two each contain one complete change of clothes – shorts, socks, T-shirt, underwear. See? No rooting around for a missing sock or T-shirt. Oh, the time that will be saved!

The third packet has a lightweight hoodie, a light jacket, and a long-sleeve quick-dry shirt. All quickly accessible when the weather changes. Not seen is the poncho tucked into the bottom compartment with the backpack rain cover  – if I need one, I’ll need the other.

With the exception of my travel clothes, that’s the whole wardrobe. I don’t know what I will do with them. Perhaps they’ll come in handy on a day off.

The trick is to stay ahead of offensive odors by washing one set every night.

Another packet contains medications — way too many, in my opinion, but I’m just a guy who reads stuff on the internet, not an actual doctor.

Below the meds are three small sacks that will fit into one dry bag – a quick-dry towel, a sleeping bag liner, clothespins, laundry soap bar, a bag of toiletries, and foot repair stuff.

The two scallop shells will be attached to the outside of my bag along with a red white and green ribbon celebrating my adopted homeland, Mexico. I carried the one shell on the Portuguese Camino. The second came from my dear friend Linda Jones Norman. She has carried that one on several Caminos, and so have a number of her friends. Each Camino is inscribed on the shell. There’s a lot of positive energy in that thing. I am honored to continue the tradition.

Rounding out the stuff is the red sack o’ electronics  – cords, a power pack, Euro adaptor, headlamp, and earbuds. No computer, no Kindle, no TV, no Xbox.

In the upper-right corner are my passport, itinerary, and ticket printouts, a couple of small notebooks, and pens.

Not seen is a tiny satchel that opens up into a 15-liter sling bag. It will be great for carrying necessities, snacks, literature, and incidentals on planes and buses and when out and about exploring towns. Good for groceries, too.

That’s it. Modular living out of a 17-pound backpack for the next 43 days. 

If you read this far, god love you. And thank you.

PS: Last night I downloaded an app that will allow me to post text and pics to this blog, sanmiguelmusesandmagic.com. I promise, they will be short posts with a limited number of pictures. 

I promise. 

Really.

I do.