Croagh Patrick

Here's a little bit more about last weekend's trip to the top of Ireland's most climbed mountain, Croagh Patrick, or as it's commonly referred to by locals, the "Reek." First, though, here's a little introduction to the mountain. As I mentioned before, it is said that St. Patrick fasted on the summit of the mountain for 40 days and 40 nights during Lent in 441 A.D., at which time he strengthened the country's bond to Christianity. When it's said that St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland, it's really a reference to him bringing Christianity to Ireland and expelling the pagan religions that serpents were quite often a common symbol of. Croagh Patrick itself was a pagan sacred place long before St. Patrick's time, a place of thanksgiving and celebration of the abundance and beauty of the earth. Every year, on Reek Sunday (the last Sunday of July), over 25,000 pilgrims flock to the mountain. Mass is said throughout the day at the summit, and the most devout pilgrims (or those just looking for a good thrill), climb the mountain barefooted, which, as I hope to impart on you shortly, would be quite a painful endeavor. And up until the past few decades, the climb was carried out at night, undoubtedly providing quite a spectacle as thousands and thousands of people ascended the mountain with torches in hand. For safety reasons, the Church has discouraged that practice. Enough history; here's my account. At its base, there was a sign that described how making the trip to the top of the mountain, meeting certain conditions of prayer at stations along the way, and following up your trip by receiving certain sacraments would grant the pilgrim a special plenary indulgence. Check out these tough conditions. I took a divot on a grassy spot on the mountain when I tried to play golf with my walking stick and accidentally chomped down on a meaty Irish breakfast the following Friday morning, so I'm sure I'm out of the running for the indulgence by now. Oh well, I can recover. The climb immediately proved to be difficult, as the asphalt path that led up to the statue of St. Patrick at the base soon gave way to a path of worn rock. If you weren't paying attention, any step could have been a sprained ankle waiting to happen. In contrast to the thousands of people who make it to Croagh Patrick on Reek Sunday, it seemed like Ellen and I had the mountain to ourselves on Sunday, only passing people going the opposite direction every few minutes. There's an initial climb of about an hour, then a short plateau before the ascent to the top. Up until the plateau, there were gorgeous views of the Clew Bay and Mayo mountains behind us, and the mountains of Connemara showed themselves in the distance once we reached the plateau. The sights were amazing in a way that inevitably eludes photographic description. After we took in the views from the plateau for a bit, we embarked on the final climb. The last half hour, with the path consisting of nothing but loose rock, forced us to climb at a near-45 degree angle. The conversation between the two of us had died down to nothing by the end, as I think each of us were struck by the grandeur and sudden dramatic increase in difficulty of the climb. Instinctively, feeling the power of the mountain I suppose, I uttered a quick Our Father when I was trying to make the top. When we finally reached the summit, which last Sunday was engulfed in a layer of clouds, you can slowly begin to make out a weather-blown white chapel, built in the early 1900's by some crazy bloke who had the great idea to haul some building supplies to the top. Because we were literally in the clouds, the views weren't as impressive as they were three quarters of the way up the mountain, but the experience of standing at the top was incredible. Thinking of the history of the mountain, while listening to the absolute silence at the summit, and feeling the temperature drop and winds intensify, I found my mind drifting back to some things that St. Patrick must have been thinking about over 1,500 years ago. The climb, although relatively short (it took Ellen and I two hours to reach the summit, 2,510 feet up, and another two hours to descend), made up for its smaller size compared to the big boy mountains with its rocky path and perfectly conical final ascent. It was a mountain seeped in history that I could almost feel as I admired the stunning panoramics of the surrounding countryside. We stopped to talk to fellow pilgrims along the way, unsure of each other's motives for climbing, but finding the simple companionship of being on the same historical mountain a suitable point to launch into conversation. Some people see the trip as repentance for what they have done wrong, but much like its original context, I saw the trip up the mountain as something which celebrated the stunning beauty of the surrounding land and as good reason to give thanks for my health and a good friend. Click here for photos of Croagh Patrick and some of Westport.