"Relax," I said. "It's not K2." "I wouldn't be that cocky if I were you," said my brother Liam.
A few years ago, he and I decided to climb Carrauntoohil, and this was my constant refrain to him in the week leading up to our assault on the mountain.
He'd been ringing me daily with tips and updates. Bring this kind of jacket, pack this kind of food, the weather is predicted to be such-and-such.
"Relax. It's not K2," I repeated.
We arrived at Cronin's Yard on a dull damp day in July. The weather did not bode well for our hopes to see the views from the summit. A bunch of other prospective climbers stood huddled in the drizzle. We were split into smaller groups, climbing parties you might say, and allocated guides.
One of our guides was a fit and nimble retired guard in his early fifties. The other man to lead us to the top was a local with an in-depth knowledge of the terrain and a broad Kerry accent of the Healy-Rae variety.
We set off. I was feeling grand. After a saunter through flat fields we stopped in the Hags Glen at the Patie O'Shea footbridge, named after a community activist. Nearby was another bridge - a memorial to Angela Kenny, a climber who drowned in the area in 1987. My eyes surveyed the mountain. Let's do this.
Next up was a bit of rock-climbing. By rock-climbing, I mean a matter of 15 or 20 feet. It was, as the guides explained, to enable us to get from one level to another more rapidly and thus expedite the overall climb. I soon noticed things getting steeper in a hurry. Intermittent showers did not add to the comfort of the proceedings. It was getting really cold.
The "guard" guide encouraged us to gather some stones as keepsakes. I began to worry if I could carry myself, never mind stones in my pocket. He then offered us a high-strength glucose sweet. I sucked it greedily, praying for an energy boost. Alas, the boost never came.
High up by a mountain pool we stopped for our main food break: fortifying sandwiches washed down with Lucozade and water. This break didn't last long. Next thing I knew, I was standing by a ledge with a drop so steep that instant death was all it offered. The weather was icy, windy, wet. It didn't feel like July. It felt like Mars.
I was exhausted. I had underestimated the whole expedition. What I'd thought would be a relatively pain-free experience was dragging on into the long climb from hell. My fitness level just wasn't up to the challenge. The odd half-hour power walk would not cut the mustard for this sort of thing. Everyone else in my group was far more able.
We were only a matter of minutes from the summit. My brother, who runs regularly and does the Wicklow 200 cycling challenge every year, glided over. He was making the ascent look effortless. I was sitting on a rock, gasping for air and having my back rubbed by the Kerry guide who had grown concerned at my condition. "It's not K2," said Liam, laughing.
Somehow I summoned the strength for an undignified scramble to the top. My final push at Carrauntoohil was on all fours with tears streaming down my face.
I had been right all along. It was not K2. It was something far worse.
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