Croagh Patrick

Croagh Patrick is a holy mountain that stands 764m high in West Ireland. I walked 8km from my hostel in Westport to the base of the hike. It’s a mountainous monolith attached to a ridge line that runs parallel to the coast. I greatly underestimated the hike to the top.

Wind pushes clouds around the mountain, and they roll off in waves. The rocky knob was taunting me as I got closer; a semi-sinister seduction. The peak’s disappearing act holds a captivating energy. This “energy” isn’t something new. The mountain has legends and traditions that go as far back as the Neolithic, 10,000 years before Christianity took root in Ireland. Today, the mountain is most known as the site where St. Patrick cast the demons out of Ireland.

There’s the feeling that something powerful is at work. And then I walked by the parking lot and the casual hikers touting rented walking sticks. A hike is a hike.

The mountain is the site of a Catholic pilgrimage. There’s a list of extra of steps for a plenary indulgence but I didn’t try them. My first goal was to summit the mountain and I felt inadequate compared to the monks who traditionally hiked it barefoot or on their knees. I struggled enough in my hiking shoes.

The trail goes straight up the mountain. There are no switchbacks. But at least the views are nice. The trail goes through an active sheep farm and for the first few hundred meters follows a gurgling stream that acts as a natural gutter.

The first few meters in, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to walk the 8km back to the hostel so I had to be back to catch the last bus in about 2 1/2 hours. I was booking it. Straight up, straight down.

The mountain had different plans. It summoned thick clouds that swallowed the mountain until I couldn’t see more than 10 feet ahead. It sensed that I’d underestimated the hike. Inside the cloud it started to hail and the wind beat the ice and water under my hood. I zipped my camera into my rain jacket and put my head down. The wind was strong enough, it was pushing me backwards and I couldn’t take a full step ahead.

The last push on Croagh Patrick is the steepest. This section is made up of volleyball-sized quartzite rocks. They appear perfectly balanced on the mountain in such a way that removing a rock from the bottom would topple the peak like a pyramid of oranges in the supermarket. Someone took the time to rearrange a makeshift set of stairs but the rocks still shift and tumble. With the rain slicking the rocks, one misstep would send me and my camera down the mountain. At least I would catch the bus on time.

It wasn’t long until my shoes were full of water and my pants were drenched. I was alone in the rain. Most people were hiking down, away from the storm. At the top, a white chapel materialized out of the clouds a small crowed who had beat the rain huddled under the awning. I peered over the edge into the blinding gray. There was nothing to see.

The mountain agreed to a truce. There was no “conquering” the climb; the mountain would either win or give you a small taste of victory. It stopped raining and for less than a minute, a thin strip of clouds opened up to the hazy bay below. The view was open for enough time to appreciate the hike and thank the mountain for letting me climb it. I slid back down the quartzite and made it with just enough time to leave a puddle underneath my bus seat.