All week I’d been waiting for weather
that would facilitate a safe climb up
Croagh Patrick, this holiest of mountains
hiked by pilgrims for over 5,000 years.
It is said the patron saint of Ireland fasted
40 days atop this mountain and every year
on the third Sunday of July, Reek Sunday,
over 20,000 people make this climb.
Halfway up, where the path bends,
the rain begins. It was not supposed to rain
today. Others scramble past me, oblivious
to the unexpected cloudburst. I remind myself
I have been walking in rain since arriving
in Ireland. Beyond the bend, trail maps warn
of sliding rocks, a steep ascent, and label
Croagh Patrick Ireland’s most dangerous
climb. As stealthy as a cougar stalking its prey,
fog slinks across Crew Bay and swallows
the summit. Fear nips at my confidence as
the trail disappears. The rain has made the
limestone path slick as a skating rink,
a tightrope I am now walking blindfolded.
And yet, none ahead of me have turned back.
I tell myself, “You can do this,” but then
remember falling three weeks ago, tripped
by a partially buried limb and how fortunate
I felt to stand up, uninjured. As if guardians
of the summit, the winds become fiercer—
tearing at my coat, howling at my side—
the higher my ascent. I try to forget
my terror while hiking alongside the fjord
two days ago, when a gust thrust me
to cliff’s edge, and I nearly tumbled
down the jagged bank and into the
Killary River. I take a step forward
and am blown sideways. As I slowly
descend the mountain, the rain
creates a rainbow I would have
missed had I remained in the fog.
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