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"Each step we take is an arrested plunge, a collapse averted, a disaster braked. ... We perform it daily: a two-beat miracle – an iambic teetering, a holding on and letting go."

– Paul Salopek, National Geographic

"Do not judge your neighbour until you walk two moons in his moccasins."

– Cheyenne proverb

Dr. Stanley Vollant was desperate for sleep. He flew to Rotorua, New Zealand, for an indigenous health conference in October 2007, landing drained and depressed after a full day of travel. His second wife had just left him, taking their toddler son. Despite stellar credentials, including a term as president of the Quebec Medical Association, he was overwhelmed by shifts in the operating room, clinics in remote communities and his duties as director of the University of Ottawa's Aboriginal medicine program. Vollant, a charismatic role model with modest roots, had recently put a gun in his mouth and come close to pulling the trigger.

At his hotel in Rotorua, a friend recommended going for a short run to ease the jet lag.

"I'm so tired," Vollant protested.

"You're a marathon runner, Stan. Go for maybe 15, 20 minutes."

"I don't have any strength. I don't feel good."

"Go."

Too weak to argue, Vollant laced up his shoes and jogged into the volcanic valley on the outskirts of town. The primordial landscape, a paradise of geysers and hot springs and bubbling mud pools, was energizing. He had the sensation that he was flying.

During the run, which stretched into three effortless hours, Vollant had a vivid daydream. He was walking in a faraway place. He did not know where.

One night after returning home, back in his rut, he turned on the television. A man was talking about El Camino de Santiago, the popular Christian pilgrimage in Spain. Vollant, who believes in the values but not the hierarchies of Catholicism, looked at his bedside table. On top sat a book, bought five years earlier and pushed aside unread: The Pilgrimage, by Paulo Coelho, a novel inspired by the author's experiences on the Camino. The Aboriginal part of Vollant's brain pulled rank on his Cartesian training. He knew what to do next.

The following spring, still squeezed for time, Vollant set out to complete the Camino at an ambitious pace — 26 miles a day for 18 days. Most people take nearly twice as long. "I'm a marathon runner," he told his girlfriend before departing. "I can do this."

She lifted his 45-pound red backpack. An avid long-distance hiker, she never carried more than 20 pounds. "Stan," she warned, "you're going to feel every ounce of this."

"Honey, I'm a strong man. For me, 45 pounds is nothing."

After his first day in the Spanish Pyrenees, Vollant had a half-dozen blisters. With each step, he felt every fucking ounce of his pack.

Stubbornly, he continued without shedding any gear, even though there was too much snow to use his tent, forcing him to bunk in communal albergues. After 12 days, shivering uncontrollably, he stumbled toward a small-town hotel, fainting twice before reaching the front desk. A long bath and a restaurant meal restored some strength. He pared down his pack in the morning and, ignoring the festering blisters, walked for another two days. Excruciating pain in his toes and an expanding red spot on his shin finally convinced him to take a train to León, where he went straight to the hospital. Doctors diagnosed t