Tip of my right boot jammed in the crack between two large boulders, left foot dangling free beneath me, arms stretched above my head grasping at rocks much less secure than the one on which I was standing, I watched the mountain goats briskly bounce up the steep rocky slope with a dropped jaw and not a little awe.
They made it look so damned easy.
Inspired and simultaneously chastised I reconsidered, perhaps a bit too late, my current undertaking: climbing Carantouhill, the highest mountain peak in Ireland.
The day had been fine and bright when it had begun, filling me with an optimism that could not be quenched, or so I had thought, until I reached The Devil’s Ladder and found myself at an impasse. Clinging to the rock and looking around at the vista which unfolded beneath me and the formidable clouds closing in above me, I felt my importance in the world shrink and my inner admonitions began.
What was I thinking? How could I have come out this unprepared? Why couldn’t those damned goats show me the easy way up?
As I held on to the rock face I pondered surrendering, admitting defeat and returning the way I had come, a more humble and submissive person. I stretched the toes of my suspended left leg, reaching for purchase on the rocks beneath me when I spotted those that would unknowingly become my inspiration and temporary companions, a group of nine mountaineers having their own way with the mountain.
hocscripsit 