I Climbed . . .

 Last week, Word Wednesday's feature, WILUTWWC*, offered choices that begged writers to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. He evoked fairy mounds, Irish drums, fervor, and snakes. He also threw in a dash of decidedly Irish begorra for good measure. Have I made my case? The challenge was fun and stirred memories of my trip to Ireland years ago with my husband, Jim. While in the northwestern town of Westport, on top of our list was to climb The Reek, the holy mountain formally known as Croagh Patrick.

Compared to Mount Everest, which stretches 29,029 feet above sea level, Croagh Patrick's 2,507 feet hardly impresses - yet this rocky stack still qualifies as a mountain. Initially, we'd ruled out a climb since we traveled without hiking boots or typical mountaineering gear. Once we arrived in the parking lot at its base to check things out, we realized how wrong we were. We watched as young and old hikers descended a very accessible slope. Piece o' cake, we nodded in agreement, just as two hikers, who'd just completed the trek, handed over their walking sticks to us as they passed, saying, Take it; you'll be glad you did. 

There is strength in numbers, and the enthusiasm of climbers at the base served to get us started. Right away, the ground underfoot was uneven and rocky, but the incline was so gradual that we wondered if we would ever need the sticks. As we continued up County Mayo's 3rd highest mountain, we enjoyed glimpses of the 365 islands that texture Clew Bay. This was my first climb, and I stopped every few hundred yards to take photos of the spectacular views behind us. All gain and not much pain, I thought. Let's put mountain climbing at the top of our list of things to do. I declared to Jim as we stood and admired the natural beauty. 

An hour or so later, the moderate terrain began to pitch steeply. Although I kept snapping photos of the ever more distant miniature islands, those walking sticks began to make much more sense. Then, you know how bumper-to-bumper highway traffic suddenly thins out and leaves you wondering where all the cars have gone? Eventually, we started to realize that our fellow climbers had mostly disappeared. Turns out, we'd hit an advanced location where we faced what looked like a second mountain when we looked up. Although some folks decide they've had enough, turn around, and go down, that wasn't us. We hit the hardscrabble section below the summit and gamely scrambled up on our hands and knees. 

If we'd been more experienced climbers, we might have noticed the cloud cover that had quickly moved in, cloaked the mountain, and rendered us unable to see anything within a foot in front, below, up or down, or in any direction. Neophyte that I was, I panicked loudly, emotionally, and dramatically. I repeated Jim's name several times; I cried. I chaotically waved my arms around. I had never panicked before; I tend not to be panicky if there is such a thing. But there I was, discovering what it feels like when the world starts spinning, and I'm at its center.

The luck of the Irish was with us because, as it turned out, an angel nearby swooped in and grounded me with a question. Ah, now, he gently asked, wouldn't it be a shame to get this close to the top and not get to finish your trek? His voice was calming. I got distracted by this strapping angel's red hair and beard, and I finally settled down. Yet, before I could rightly identify his wings and thank him, he disappeared into the cloud cover. All was well. Finally, Jim and I happily staggered the last few feet to admire the glorious view of Clew Bay waiting for us at the top.

Unfortunately, walking downhill can put more strain on the knees than the uphill climb. Though I ended up in locked-kneed agony, Jim used my fear of missing dinner to spur me on! We'd heard that some stout-hearted folks undergo the pilgrimage with bare feet. Sure enough, we met a trio of young men in the throes of said torment. They gladly accepted the gift of socks that we pulled off, bringing the afternoon to a meaningful finish. All in all, it was a great experience. 

Naivete can often be confused with stupidity, but passion and curiosity are drivers, too, when entering the unknown. Climbs require purposeful effort towards a goal not easily attained. Apprehension can play a part in such endeavors, but it's so satisfying when a bold, adventuring spirit wins the day. That's true when scaling daily life challenges, too. 

Though I eagerly said yes to Jack Pine Savage's request that I tag team with her as a writer on Mondays, doubt and trepidation sometimes dripped like a slow leak. I worried about my ability to come up with things to write about, and I wondered if I could sustain the effort that the illustrious writing team here makes look easy. I'm happy to report that today's post completes my first year as a member of the Wannaska Almanac. The poet in me has regarded each of the 27 posts as figurative treks up and down a range of mountains. Kafka called writing a sweet, wonderful reward similar to completing the climb I described up Croagh Patrick. I haven't climbed any more mountains, but thanks to the opportunity, challenge, inspiration, and support of the Wannaska Almanac's readers and contributors, I plan to continue my writerly efforts. 

*Words-I-Looked-Up-This-Week Writer's Challenge