I went hiking last weekend. I woke up to a phone call at 8am, regretted my decision to go hiking for ten or fifteen minutes, packed up some fruit and chocolate, and was on the road by 8.30. Gear wise, I wasn’t quite in hiking mode. I had my ridiculously expensive hiking shoes strapped to my feet, but that was about it. The rest of the ensemble was made up of items such as a soccer jersey, cords, and a laptop bag. I felt like the prissy city girl in a romantic comedy who’s forced to go on a hike as part of her work (or something), and who gets laughed at by a ruggedly handsome local for wearing high heels and bringing her fancy laptop up the mountain. Needless to say, Matthew McConaughey plays the ruggedly handsome local, and after an hour and a half of silly banter mixed with one deep late night chat by the campfire (most likely to do with past lovers), he wins the heart of prissy city girl. The end. Vomit.
Our party of four arrived at the 12 pins in Connemara at around 10:15, and immediately we set out on the trail. Roughly 20 minutes into the hike, we turned around and skipped back to the car in order to head home, stopping only at a local pub for a full Irish breakfast. At least that’s what happened in my head. The reality was something entirely different, involving me, sheep poo, exhaustion, and my will to live abandoning me in my time of need. How much more of this could I take, given that I was almost a broken man -- both emotionally and physically -- before we even got going properly? The answer would surprise me.
Once we hit our first peak things started to improve, mainly because we took an extended break and I got to stuff my face with Lidl’s finest chocolate. Germans - have they ever let us down? Also, the next stage of the hike was all downhill, which gave my withering calf muscles somewhat of a respite. But just as they were reaching full recovery, the journey up began once more. This terrain was harsh, relentless, unforgiving, sheer…something or other.
Three-quarters of the way up Ben Baun we decided to do what every hardened group of men does on a grueling hike like this: we took lots of silly photos. I think at this point I was into my second wind. It didn’t last long mind you, and a third never materialised, but for this 10 minute photo shoot I was able to jump into the air on numerous occasions and muster up some semblance of a smile on my face, giving the outward illusion of good times while inwardly I was wasting away, soon to become just a shell of a man.
We reached the summit of Ben Baun in good time, so all that remained was the journey back to the car. I thought this would be the most pleasant part of the hike, with the four of us prancing along while surveying the conquered terrain with great pride. It turns out the journey back was actually worse than anything that preceded it (including the sight of two of my fellow hikers embrace for an eerily romantic photo*). Getting down to level ground was easy, but unfortunately there were a few mountains separating us and petrol-fuelled freedom. Instead of cutting through the mountains we decided it best to simply walk around them through the bog land. No problem, I thought.
I thought wrong.
Perhaps it was the uneven surface of the bog meaning every step was a potential ankle-breaker, perhaps it was the fact that my legs had stopped working; I don’t know. But for the next hour and a half I was utterly miserable. From the look on my face you’d swear I was watching an Irish soccer game…an away Irish soccer game. I think what had happened was all the adrenaline had left my body what with me thinking the trail was complete, and so mentally and physically I was as unprepared for this as I was for a Financial Maths exam.
In an unexpected twist, we ended up spotting a stag as we negotiated ourselves around the final mountain. The other three were quite wary of its presence and were thus keen to avoid it, even if it meant extending the hike. Me? I had fantasies of climbing atop the stag, shouting “Giddy up!”, and guiding it victoriously through the bog to the Kylemore Abbey carpark, or perhaps right into the city centre. In other words, extending the trail was not a good option at this point. Not for me. It was either potentially cross paths with the stag and risk death, or hike some more and face certain death. It was always going to be the former.
Thankfully we never saw the stag again, although I had a creepy feeling that he was watching us in secret. Perhaps I’ve just seen The Edge one too many times.
It was just after 5pm when we reached that most hallowed tarmac of Kylemore Abbey carpark, a little under 7 hours since we first left its beautifully unsloped surface. I fell into the car almost without saying a word and drifted off to slumberland - a place where hiking is outlawed and pizza is supplied at your beck and call, along with a complimentary massage.
“Never again”, I thought, as I wondered how I’d cope without my legs for a couple of weeks. But hindsight is 20:20, and though there was much pain throughout the day, there was also much gain. The good ol’ fashioned male bonding, the wonderful scenery, the feeling of having endured, the sense of being in a world far bigger than yourself leading to a renewed appreciation for the age-old question, What is man that you are mindful of him? - all of these things were worth it in the end.
“What makes a man a man?”, I asked as we began the hike, in an attempt to focus my attention on anything but the burning sensation throughout my body. “The journey”, replied one of my fellow hikers, who had obviously feasted on a John Eldredge book or two in the past. “The journey?” I thought, in a dismissive manner, not quite knowing what exactly that meant. Roughly seven hours later, however, I think I began to understand what he was getting at.
Maybe John Eldredge isn’t full of s**t after all.
Our party of four arrived at the 12 pins in Connemara at around 10:15, and immediately we set out on the trail. Roughly 20 minutes into the hike, we turned around and skipped back to the car in order to head home, stopping only at a local pub for a full Irish breakfast. At least that’s what happened in my head. The reality was something entirely different, involving me, sheep poo, exhaustion, and my will to live abandoning me in my time of need. How much more of this could I take, given that I was almost a broken man -- both emotionally and physically -- before we even got going properly? The answer would surprise me.
Once we hit our first peak things started to improve, mainly because we took an extended break and I got to stuff my face with Lidl’s finest chocolate. Germans - have they ever let us down? Also, the next stage of the hike was all downhill, which gave my withering calf muscles somewhat of a respite. But just as they were reaching full recovery, the journey up began once more. This terrain was harsh, relentless, unforgiving, sheer…something or other.
Three-quarters of the way up Ben Baun we decided to do what every hardened group of men does on a grueling hike like this: we took lots of silly photos. I think at this point I was into my second wind. It didn’t last long mind you, and a third never materialised, but for this 10 minute photo shoot I was able to jump into the air on numerous occasions and muster up some semblance of a smile on my face, giving the outward illusion of good times while inwardly I was wasting away, soon to become just a shell of a man.
We reached the summit of Ben Baun in good time, so all that remained was the journey back to the car. I thought this would be the most pleasant part of the hike, with the four of us prancing along while surveying the conquered terrain with great pride. It turns out the journey back was actually worse than anything that preceded it (including the sight of two of my fellow hikers embrace for an eerily romantic photo*). Getting down to level ground was easy, but unfortunately there were a few mountains separating us and petrol-fuelled freedom. Instead of cutting through the mountains we decided it best to simply walk around them through the bog land. No problem, I thought.
I thought wrong.
Perhaps it was the uneven surface of the bog meaning every step was a potential ankle-breaker, perhaps it was the fact that my legs had stopped working; I don’t know. But for the next hour and a half I was utterly miserable. From the look on my face you’d swear I was watching an Irish soccer game…an away Irish soccer game. I think what had happened was all the adrenaline had left my body what with me thinking the trail was complete, and so mentally and physically I was as unprepared for this as I was for a Financial Maths exam.
In an unexpected twist, we ended up spotting a stag as we negotiated ourselves around the final mountain. The other three were quite wary of its presence and were thus keen to avoid it, even if it meant extending the hike. Me? I had fantasies of climbing atop the stag, shouting “Giddy up!”, and guiding it victoriously through the bog to the Kylemore Abbey carpark, or perhaps right into the city centre. In other words, extending the trail was not a good option at this point. Not for me. It was either potentially cross paths with the stag and risk death, or hike some more and face certain death. It was always going to be the former.
Thankfully we never saw the stag again, although I had a creepy feeling that he was watching us in secret. Perhaps I’ve just seen The Edge one too many times.
It was just after 5pm when we reached that most hallowed tarmac of Kylemore Abbey carpark, a little under 7 hours since we first left its beautifully unsloped surface. I fell into the car almost without saying a word and drifted off to slumberland - a place where hiking is outlawed and pizza is supplied at your beck and call, along with a complimentary massage.
“Never again”, I thought, as I wondered how I’d cope without my legs for a couple of weeks. But hindsight is 20:20, and though there was much pain throughout the day, there was also much gain. The good ol’ fashioned male bonding, the wonderful scenery, the feeling of having endured, the sense of being in a world far bigger than yourself leading to a renewed appreciation for the age-old question, What is man that you are mindful of him? - all of these things were worth it in the end.
“What makes a man a man?”, I asked as we began the hike, in an attempt to focus my attention on anything but the burning sensation throughout my body. “The journey”, replied one of my fellow hikers, who had obviously feasted on a John Eldredge book or two in the past. “The journey?” I thought, in a dismissive manner, not quite knowing what exactly that meant. Roughly seven hours later, however, I think I began to understand what he was getting at.
Maybe John Eldredge isn’t full of s**t after all.
*
"Germans - have they ever let us down?" - funny stuff.
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