I spent most of today engaged in my new favourite activity of climbing a hill while sweating and complaining all the way and swearing I will never do it again, getting back down eventually, and looking around for a new hill to climb.
The problem, you see, was the one trail in the park marked ‘strenuous’. It’s such a curious choice of word, for one thing – not ‘difficult’ or ‘challenging’ or ‘experience required’. And the trails we had done already had been really steep in parts – was a strenuous trek just more of the same? I had been thinking about this on and off yesterday, and today when I woke up I had nothing much to do, so I asked guy at the desk to get me a seat on the bus to the park again. If the hike was just too difficult I would turn back, no problem.
By chance a young Dutch chap was also heading to the park. His name is Elmer or similar, and he is tall and thin. He looks like a solidly-delivered punch would have him falling like a cut Sequoia, but that he could walk for Ireland. Or Holland, I suppose. I told him what I was at – that I was going to look at the difficult hike and would turn back if I couldn’t do it. He nodded and we agreed we would try it together, and he would go on even if I went back.
The bus dropped us near the trail. I realised about that point that I had four Oreo cookies to eat and nothing else, a mistake I had made the previous day also. (I had full waterproof gear, plenty of water and a mobile phone, though – I am slowly getting better at it.) Not to worry. The opening part of the trail brought us by the shore of a lake that stretched long and thin into the distance. If a magical being gave my three wishes that could produce an instant Zodiac, I would have used one of them there.
We left the shore and turned towards the woods. From the trailhead I had seen the rocky peaks of the mountains stretching upwards beyond the treeline. The trail was gentle at first and then began to get steeper. It switched over and back and then settled itself on a sort of runway going steeply upwards. I began to find things hard. We were walking on what was like a natural staircase of tree roots. The trees were tall and straight with most of the vegetation near the top. (I must learn to identify trees.) It was very pleasant, in many ways, but I was sweating and out of breath. Elmer was in the lead. His stilt-like legs were giving him an easy pace that I found it very hard to match. I began to think of going back. That seemed like an awful idea though, an idea that could never find any expression in reality. I kept going.
After maybe 45 minutes I stopped for another break, the third I think, and we agreed that Elmer would keep going at his pace and I would go at mine. ‘See you at the top,’ he said. He clearly did not believe this. ‘See you there,’ I said. Neither did I.
But: once I got could go at my own pace, and once I could let the tense pressure in my legs build up and then ease whenever I wanted – the part that I so sorely missed at the Inca Trail – I did much better. I would walk slowly, going up and up, until my legs were just short of screaming, then I would pause for just a few seconds to let them relax and ease, and then I would go again. Repeat ad nauseum. As I climbed, the trail was hard to see in places, and once or twice I stopped and wondered where it was before seeing a reassuring yellow stake in the distance, marking the way forward. Sometimes I had to climb over fallen trees, other times a chunk had been chainsawed away to allow passage. High up the hill many of the trees were dead or twisted, and I had to carefully go between them; that place must be just beyond freaky at night. Sweat ran from everywhere it could run from, and my t-shirt was wet against my skin, and it streamed down my face and dripped off my eyes and nose, but I was in a rhythm and going fine. Thoughts of turning back were ludicrous now. It was just a question of step after step after step, each one leading upwards
The trail led into the small valley of a nascent stream, water bubbling down its centre, and I followed that upwards, and then I was coming to the edge of the treeline. Ahead of me was a few hundred yards of bog and then the rocks of the upper mountains. And also, to my surprise, was Elmer. He seemed equally surprised to see me. I had thought he would be way ahead, and I think he thought I would turn back. We spoke a few moments and he went on his way again. I couldn’t stop thinking of the Terminator and the relentless progress of something slow and steady. I was pleased with myself, no doubt.
By the time I reached the bog he was well ahead again, and I had to pick my own way through it. It was soft and wet and despite my best efforts I sank to my ankles at one or two points. I had thought of getting runners in the town before the hike, figuring it would be a path all the way and it would be easier without my heavy hiking boots, and I was very pleased that I had not. A few places I had to jump to get over boggy water, but the trail was constantly marked, and finally I reached the last section, the rocks of the upper mountain.
And damn that bit was hard. Conor Mc is my gold standard of fitness, and I think even he would have found it a little difficult, though no doubt he could have run up there carrying a sheep under each arm if the need ever arose. I had gone way too far to go back; retreat was just not on the table. I told myself it didn’t matter if it took me three hours to do this last part. (The entire trail up and down should take four hours.) It was like climbing an enormous pile of loose rocks of various sizes, and so sometimes my footing slipped and I had to pull myself forward, almost like walking through snow, and that was harder still. I kept my eyes on the edge ahead of me that looked like it was near the top, and I can tell you that it was dispiriting to finally get there and find that the summit was way, way beyond that.
But I never, even then, considered turning back. That section was hard but not quite miserable. It wasn’t as bad as the Inca Trail because I wasn’t sick and I could stop when I needed to. I made steady progress, again thinking only of single steps, and slowly I rose. Getting to the top of that section was very, very satisfying.
From there the summit was not far. There were a few more climbs but they were easy, and then I was there. I took a little video as I went – I made several clips as I waked up, which I hope to edit into one and then put on the Tubes in due course. Elemer was sitting with his back against a rock, and he smiled at me when he saw me and said he knew I could do it. He’s a nice kid.
There was euphoria this time, no doubt. The Beagle Channel opened out in front of us to the west, down which I sailed to Antarctica just two weeks ago. To the east was the vast lake at the foot of the mountain where we had started, and the water of the sea and the water of the lake seemed to be hardly the same substance, an entirely different shade of blue in each. The mountains wound and interlocked in that way which seems to indicate a higher pattern at work if only we could read it, like a fingerprint or a retina. In the middle ground were the thick forests, one of which we had walked through, and which from our height were like the diagrammatic woods on 18th-century maps. I ate my last two cookies and drank water and sat on a rock and got Elmer to take a picture of me, and all of the pain and the sweat and the uncertainty of getting up there were far off, rumours, something that may never have happened. The final height we reached was about 975m, less than 100m short of Carrauntoohil (that’s 1,038m, according to Wikipedia), though in this part of the world it barely counts as a foothill.
The way down was long. My knees hurt after a while and I was hungry so didn’t want to stop, and the going on the rocks was slow and slippery. The bog was still wet on the way back and I got even muckier (an attempted jump ended in total wipeout, meaning my jeans are not in commission until I have a chance to get them washed), and then the way down through the trees was slow as there were so many possibilities to twist your ankle or indeed wander off the path. But we got there. I bought a sandwich and ate it in great bites, the food-intake equivalent of gasping. We waited an hour for the bus and when it came I got on and promptly fell asleep.
I woke to find we were in town to my surprise, but that suited me fine. I walked – slowly and stiffly – to the laundrette and picked up my clothes, then went back to the supermarket and got the essentials (booze and water), then got a taxi back to the hostel. Couldn’t manage any more walking. When I was finally in the hot water of the shower it was the unsullied pleasure of something that has been hard earned.
In the evening most people in the hostel cooked and I felt that I should cook too, but I didn’t have anything to make. I suppose they have their idealism and youth and I have seven years of corporate politics and stock options. So I went out for dinner instead, back to the same place as the last two nights. I spoke to no-one bar the waiter, got another taxi back, and ever since I have been catching up on my notes for this blog.
Mick and I have rather mistimed our meeting – he is arriving in Buenos Aires on the morning of the 27th and I get there the evening of the 28th. I am not quite clear where the confusion arose, but mistakes of that nature generally trace their origin back to me. Mick himself I think is as yet unaware of his impending solo time in BA, but I have texted and emailed him so we should be all good. A man of Mick’s resources and ingenuity should be able to find something interesting to pass the time in the Argentinian capital for 36 hours without too much trouble.
For myself, tomorrow will be an easy day after today’s exertions. I may yet go back and take the steam train. I would imagine I will be up early enough as I have been shifted to a room with eight people instead of four, and even my coma-like morning unconsciousness will not be able to survive all that movement. I like the idea of finding a café and writing up some ideas for another children’s book that I have been kicking around, and of course it will also be fun to freak out the locals. And at some point I will read the speculation about how the post-Fianna-Fail political world of Ireland will order itself. I can’t say I was sorry to read of the kicking that they so richly deserve, but all the same I wonder if the result is justified based on their recent actions, rather than the entire span of occasional corruption and regular arrogance that has sustained us through the boom.  We sold those houses, we bragged of the price increases, we looked to invest in Bulgaria, we bought 100,000 new cars in Dublin in 2000… No-one made us do that. We got the government we deserved.
Right. Everything is winding down here in La Posta, and I have written in the region of 5,000 words and drank approximately one litre of beer in the last hour and a half, so I bid you a tired, sore but happy goodnight.
