George Hook
IT’S been quite a long time since my last adventure up The Reek. Ten years, maybe? I remember having a sudden blast of enthusiasm for exercise on a hot July afternoon and rather than walk the strand at Old Head Beach or pester the lovely Ingrid for a wrestling match on our hotel bed, I decided to pour my excess energy into scaling Croagh Patrick.
Needless to say Ingrid declined my invitation of a mountaineering expedition and left me to it, so off I went.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon as I made the drive out of Westport town, past The Quay and Westport House and out onto the road for Murrisk.
A brief flirtation with abandoning my idea altogether in favour of a relaxing refreshment and a read of the newspaper in The Shebeen was quickly put to bed as I contemplated how satisfying that drink would taste after a hard slog up the mountain.
Such was my initial enthusiasm for the climb, that I arrived at the base without adequate attire. My ‘hiking boots’ were but flimsy trainers, and I hadn’t so much as a thimbleful of water as I set out on my ascent.
The first half an hour was a joy as I hopped enthusiastically from rock to rock and bounded up the hill like a young buck of half my 60 years. My pale face embraced the beating sunshine and with each pause for reflection to take in the view, I remember feeling an enormous sense of pride in my determination to complete the task in front of me.
But alas, my joy and exuberance for my adventure was short lived. Croagh Patrick is a mischievous divil for virgin climbers on its path. Each ridge on the ascent hides another sinister climb and just when one thinks the end is neigh, another hill reveals itself out of nowhere.
Almost an hour in and my once glowing face was a red saucepan of perspiration. I was wheezing heavily as my chest struggled to suck in oxygen.
“What in blazes am I doing?” I remember thinking to myself.
Determination
Other climbers on the ascent clapped me on the back as they passed me by, cheerily telling me to keep on going. And though I returned their smiles and vowed to continue, secretly I yearned to turn back.
But I kept to my task. With each false summit my frustrations grew so that, instead of bounding and skipping joyously from rock to rock, I cursed and scowled under my breath at the insanity of my plight.
I gasped for water as the sun scalded my cheeks and my mind drifted back to my earlier contemplation; a cool pint of lager, relaxing in The Shebeen. Another tirade of curses followed.
Then, as I neared the end of the flat traverse before the final gruelling climb, I summoned all my strength and launched myself into the eye of the mountain.
I crawled up the final peak like a deranged mad man. Children laughed at the sight of an overweight, ageing lunatic struggling to breathe on an ascent into madness. My puffy red cheeks flapped about in the wind.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age, I made it to the top of Croagh Patrick. A massive victory.
I still remember the spectacular view like it was yesterday. Other mountaineers informed me that it was rare to have such a clear day to experience the surrounding landscape in all its glory, but on this particular afternoon, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I temporarily forgot my exhaustion and dehydration and sat at the foot of the famous white church to soak it all in. Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hilary have nothing on me, I remember thinking to myself.
… Must come down
Twenty minutes later I began my descent into hell. Those of you that have climbed the Reek will attest to the difficulties of an ascent without proper footwear. But however difficult it is going up in a pair of light trainers, coming down without adequate support is a different animal altogether.
I lost count of the amount of times I ended up on my backside with my ankles giving way in a landslide of shale and pebbles. Each step down the mountain was a perilous gamble and more often than not, yours truly took the wrong route.
Vertigo set in as my sunburned face became disorientated and dizzy. My parched lips chapped in the sun as my mind drifted off to the thoughts of water. I cursed every last rock, stone and pebble on my descent.
Meanwhile, as I struggled with each painful step, other climbers on their way down skipped past me in a blur. Why was I finding it so difficult?
Going up the mountain took me an hour and forty five minutes. It took me two and a half hours to get back down.
When I got back to the hotel I fully expected to see the Air, Sea and Mountain Rescue Units deep in conversation about how best to tackle my emergency rescue; a frantic Ingrid inconsolable with worry.
No regrets
Instead I walked in to the bar to find Ingrid reading and relaxing over a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She looked up from her book and told me to get myself presentable for dinner. I nearly collapsed at her feet.
I look back on that little adventure now and laugh to myself. Croagh Patrick remains one of the most wonderful mountains in the country and, when adequately equipped, offers a unique and beautiful challenge to those willing to take it on.
And for me, it will always represent a symbol of personal triumph: When one 60-something lunatic suffered a moment of utter madness and lived to tell the tale.
