The summit cone of Croagh Patrick in County Mayo, Ireland. (Compass Points Media / flickr) http://www.flickr.com/photos/compasspointsmedia/ / CC BY-ND 2.0
Rocks beneath my feet rolled down the slope and nearly took me with them. My hands braced the fall, but a cloud of dust rose to my sweat-streaked, sunburned face. Above me, the perfectly-shaped mountain cone cracked a sadistic grin from its bald face. Can a mountain grin at your misery? I’ve trekked to the top of enough to believe that can be true, but I didn’t anticipate this one to be so unyielding of its peak.
A glance behind … more like below … provided evidence of the strenuous task I volunteered to take. Two thousand feet of kelly green turf and gray scree faded into thick brown haze, and a white path of broken stone rose from the southern shore of a sapphire bay to where I took a breather, 300 feet below the summit.
An Irish hiker pauses on the slope of Croagh Patrick. (Compass Points Media / flickr) http://www.flickr.com/photos/compasspointsmedia/ / CC BY-ND 2.0
Here I was ascending the neck of Croagh Patrick, Ireland’s holiest of mountains, in expensive boots and top-of-the-line moisture wicking clothing, a veteran hillwalker of America’s Appalachian Mountains with a confident heart, and passing me on either side of the path were Irish country bumpkins, some shirtless and wearing nothing on their feet but gym shoes, even loafers.
Croagh Patrick dealt a few blows to the confidence.
Croagh Patrick rises 2,500 feet from near the shore of Clew Bay in County Mayo and has attracted the religious fervor of pagans and Christians for thousands of years. Not a tree stands there, gold remains hidden within its geological bed as decreed by the government, and its bare crown is where legend says a Scottish man by the name of Patrick fasted for 40 days in 441 A.D., then banished the snakes of Ireland in the name of Christ.
Yeah, that Saint Patrick. Yeah, that legend about the snakes. Supposedly, it happened here.
I am of Irish descent, but I did not come to Ireland that summer to discover familial roots. I came for the fulfillment of climbing the holy mountain, whose rugged slopes attracted my interest the first time I saw a picture, and to see where the St. Patrick legend started. This also could be a test of endurance, as it rises from sea level to its 2,300-foot top along a well-worn white path of scattered rock. I wanted bragging rights , but it would also open my eyes to the pain some would endure for salvation, as Croagh Patrick is famous for a yearly Catholic pilgrimage undertaken by thousands.
The mountain already turned back the Blue-Eyed Wonder, my future wife. This trip was something close to a first date. We set out in the morning together passing the glaring white marble statue of St. Patrick, whose right hand rose as if a warning to those whose cardiovascular shape better suited the stoudt-stained pubs of nearby Westport. The sun that week seemed to come from the boiling rain forests of the equator to park itself over western Ireland, leaving us with un-Irish days of 90-degree weather and stifling humidity. We walked exposed to the sun and sky as not a tree grows on Croagh Patrick’s slopes, just turf and the occasional sheep.
A statue of St. Patrick greets hikers at Croagh Patrick. (Compass Points Media / flickr) http://www.flickr.com/photos/compasspointsmedia/ / CC BY-ND 2.0
Halfway to the top, the road meets a sag in the ridge where you can look south at the brown peaks of Connemara. The Blue-Eyed Wonder had enough of the climb. She tried hard, but the mountain turned her back. If you saw a picture of her today, her usually bright face says it all – sunburned, parched, miserable. Croagh Patrick, I read, only took two-and-a-half miles to reach its summit, which I figured would be easy for me and my wife. Not to be for the Blue-Eyed Wonder, but she would marry me two years later, nonetheless.
I had to continue. She understood my determination, and never held it against me that we went different ways that day.
From the sag in the ridge, the mountain shoots up to a perfect cone. The white path becomes steeper and the loose stones more precarious. You climb higher. You stumble. You stop to catch your breath. You climb, stumble, stop, climb, stumble, stop, climb … as if vainly attempting to ascend the Irish ladder to heaven and the sun.
The land then suddenly recedes, and I realized there’s nothing left above my head but Atlantic sky. The summit hosts a small white church built in 1905 and 360 degree views of glorious western Ireland; Clew Bay the bluest blue you’ve ever seen, and I imagined the she-pirate Grace O’Malley marauding along the shores. I wondered what Patrick pondered from this perch. Why did he think Ireland worth saving?
A view of Clew Bay from Croagh Patrick's summit, Ireland. (Compass Points Media / flickr) http://www.flickr.com/photos/compasspointsmedia/ / CC BY-ND 2.0
And I know I said I didn’t come to Ireland on a genealogy excursion, but I inevitably thought about past generations who flocked from here to America to work the railroads westward and my 80-something grandmother, Mary Catherine, who despite her affection for her traditions and Irishness has never come to the island. I felt privileged to be where I sat.
I was raised Catholic, but I’m much less so now.The experience of trekking to the top of Croagh Patrick, however, opened my eyes to what thousands of Catholics do to their bodies for after-life salvation. The last Sunday of July, known as Reek Sunday, attracts the penitent and faithful to ascend Croagh Patrick, pray and confess their sins at the tiny summit church. Many do it barefoot on that stony path. Many do it shirtless, even if rain-filled gales whip the mountain from Clew Bay.
I under the burning sun could only quietly pay tribute to those hillwalkers sturdier than me as I watched the whole of Ireland move toward evening beneath my perch.
