Conquered by St. Patrick's Mountain

Ascending the 2,500-foot Irish peak Croagh Patrick proved more difficult than anticipated.

from the March 17, 2008 edition

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Some people climbed in large groups, following banners. Some climbed in twos, some alone.

Someone on the downward climb yodeled my way, "Only an hour to go." While the message seemed encouraging, it also proved to be a downer. We found cozy stones, boulders, and rocks to sit on. I was struck by their appearance. These granite rocks – drab, boring, and ugly – looked to me like moon rocks. They were in stark contrast to the beautiful near-mountaintop view of the harbor stretching below.

As I sat massaging my toes, a snowy-haired, seasoned climber loped past me. To add to my disappointment, two other climbers trekked back down past us after reaching the summit. These two, actually walking barefooted, shouted words of encouragement.

But it would take a lot more than pep-rally words to move any of us skyward now. We climbed another 15 minutes and then stopped. Boy, were we spent. We were ill-prepared for the climb. Whether we were more than halfway up or not, the thought of climbing that last section – which appeared almost perpendicular – convinced us to head back down.

For my bull run, I'd practiced almost daily for an entire year – sans bulls, of course. I'd worn the proper clothing. I'd studied films and read about San Fermin's festival.

Today, we'd failed to make the most basic preparations, such as wearing the correct climbing shoes, carrying water, and, most important, equipping ourselves with walking sticks.

Despite rumors of an Irish cardinal commandeering a helicopter and offering a religious service up top, despite the glory a successful mountain conquest promised, prudence dictated our return to ground level.

We'd survived the modified experience. Someday, we decided, we'd revisit with appropriate attire, to complete this challenge.

The next afternoon, we met with Gerard's relatives. Wanting to boast a little, I mentioned our hour-plus climb. The Irish relatives were so thrilled to hear this. It seems that our hostess, Gerard's septuagenarian Irish aunt, along with her son, who was about our age, had been there, too.

There was a slight difference, however, since this woman and her son had climbed to the summit of Croagh Patrick.

"I'm so proud of you Americans," Auntie O'Shea sincerely said. "Perhaps someday you'll make it to the summit, too. We do that every year."

A bit embarrassed, I crept into a corner chair and sat, hesitant to speak. Right now, I'm trying to figure out the best way to pack a walking stick for international travel.

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