The Pilgrimage A vision of the father on the path of faith.

hen Jarom Thurston looked up, he saw someone ahead of him on the VWs a tall, thin, white man whose bald head glistened in the afternoon

sun. The man was running, fading into the distance with every passing second. Immediately, Jarom thought of his father. For just a moment, Jarom couldn’t be sure that it really wasn’t his father. He had the same assertive stride, a burst of energy that came from a deep well of resolve. A strong and indefatigable family man, athlete, and pharmacist from Payson, Utah, Gary Thurston had always been a hero to his son.

Jarom closed his eyes. He was in the family living room, just a child playing with his toys on the carpet floor. His dad was sitting on the couch, slipping on his running shoes. The beat-up pair of old Nike flats was treated almost reverentially. Jarom watched with fascination as his dad tied the laces. Can I come with you? he wanted to ask. What adventures did Gary Thurston have when he went out the front door? Sometimes Jarom would scramble to the window to catch a glimpse of his dad rounding the corner of the street and out of sight, his legs pumping thythmically like poetry.

When Jarom reopened his eyes, he was back on the trail. The man who had looked so much like his father was gone now. He squinted into the horizon, which went on forever, but could see no sign of another human being. Jarom rubbed his eyes. His thoughts were getting fuzzy. The world drifted in and out of focus. An undulating pain that echoed through his body brought him back to and made him acutely aware of his surroundings. The heat of the afternoon sun was slowly pounding him into submission. Rivulets of stinging sweat cascaded down his forehead and into his eyes.

And even though Jarom knew that the old man he had just seen on the trail probably was an apparition, a trick of the mind brought on by the heat or by getting caught up in the surreal beauty of the countryside—such things happened out here in the expansive seclusion of southeastern Brazil—even though he knew

Jarom Thurston, age 38, of
Payson, Utah, has run ultra events
around the world, including the
Badwater Ultramarathon and the
Brazil 135.

that the real Gary Thurston was thousands of miles away, Jarom couldn’t help but wish that his dad was in fact nearby, maybe waiting just around those trees up ahead, where he could ask him, Can I come with you?

A path of scattered stones

“How you doing, man?” came Tony’s voice. Jarom turned around. His friends Tony Portera and Chris Roman were just a few feet behind him. They were both walking with a limp. Chris had his head down and was concentrating on the trail, which was covered with large rocks. The trail was actually a stretch of old railroad tracks, and the rocks underfoot were dangerous enough to invite a twisted ankle if you didn’t watch your step.

“I’m OK,” came Jarom’s reply. His voice sounded foreign, even to himself.

“You’re swerving,” said Tony.

“Huh?”

“You’re swerving off the trail.”

“Oh. Just a little tired, I guess.”

“Well, watch your feet,” warned Tony.

In the past seven days, Jarom and his friends had slept just a few hours. They had since traveled more than 300 miles through one of the most breathtaking landscapes in all of Brazil. They crossed mountains and passed through woods of eucalyptus, fields of banana trees, sugarcane, corn, and coffee beans, making their way from city to city to get to Aparecida. The route they were on was the Caminho da Fé, or the Path of Faith. It was created in 2003 as a pilgrimage route to the Basilica of the National Shrine of Our Lady of Aparecida, one of the largest churches in the world.

Accounts of the history of Our Lady of Aparecida date back to the year 1717, when three fishermen set out near the Port of Itaguacu to catch fish for their village.

After hours of scouring the river for a catch, the men came up with nothing. Eventually, they turned their eyes to the heavens and offered up their prayers to God. When they cast their net again, they pulled up a dark-brown statue sculpted from clay. It appeared to have been underwater for years. The 3-foot-tall statue presented an image of the black version of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. After the men hauled the clay figure aboard their vessel, they cast their nets once more into the river. The weight of their catch that day was so great that they returned to port overloaded, in danger of their craft sinking. This is the first miracle attributed to the Virgin. The image is now housed in the Basilica.

Every year millions of people make their way to Aparecida to catch a glimpse of the holy image of the Virgin Mary. For many, the journey is as significant as the destination. Each person makes the trip for his own personal reason: to pray for a dying loved one, to be cured of a terrible illness, to offer thanks for the many blessings of life. Each person’s journey is special. For those who travel the Caminho da Fé, every step is a sacrifice, a little holy act of endurance offered up to the ultimate goal of the pilgrimage. The journey is one of discovery.

The “journey” is of the essence

It had been Tony’s idea to run the Caminho da Fé. The idea was to do something that had never been done before. No one, as far as they knew, had ever covered the 340 miles in less than eight days. For Jarom, the journey had special significance. The concept of a journey had always held his fascination. The idea of starting out in one place and then physically, emotionally, and spiritually moving to another place had always intrigued him—so much so that Jarom even had the mantra tattooed on his body. There, on his right forearm, were the words: “Go, live, suffer, grow … make it happen!”

Transformation became the predominant theme in his life. Change was the only assurance. The desire to live and grow was always, always the driving force behind his actions. The journey takes precedence. And even though the three men were doing this feat together, each was on his own separate pilgrimage. Their hearts and minds were specifically and individually affected with each passing footstep.

It had been only a few hours since Jarom and his friends had left the posada in Campos do

Jordao. Their legs were still stiff from the rest. Starting back up again had been a struggle, but it was nice to have had a few hours of sleep and some good food. The taste of hot Brazilian pizza still lingered on Jarom’s palate. If he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the thin, crispy crust, the creamy, thick, melted cheese topped with salty olives, slices of fresh ham, and other lovely toppings. The proprietor of the posada had introduced all three of them to a drink called cachaga (pronounced “ka-SHA-sa’’), a hearty liquor made from fermented sugarcane. Cachaga was becoming all the rage in Brazilian bars and eateries. It formed the base of caipirinha, the national cocktail of Brazil. Mixed with lime wedges, sugar, and ice, the drink was a samba that danced on the tongue.

But now the samba was over, and silence took its place, an oppressive silence, weighed down by the humidity of a slow-roast Brazilian summer. Even though Jarom loved this country, loved everything about it—the culture, the food, the language, the people, the natural beauty of the landscape—he couldn’t be drawn out of his trance to admire his surroundings. All he could do was count the ties of the tracks underfoot. One, two, three. They went by with each agonizing footfall … 84, 85, 86… Soon he lost count.

He found himself thinking back over the past seven days: the flight to Brazil, meeting Tony and Chris at the airport in Sao Paulo, the rain, the mountains, blisters