Belly Crawling & Hard Trekking

STAFFA

On Monday, guests at the McLeod Centre were invited to visit the volcanic island of Staffa. I enjoyed the rather bouncy hour-plus boat ride with my new friends, thankful I’m not prone to seasickness.  Upon arriving at Staffa and clambering out onto the narrow landing area, however, I realized I’d developed significant vertigo.  Watching the sky tilting back and forth reinforced my earlier decision not to try the Cliffside path to Fingal’s Cave (home of the mythical giant protector of the people of Ireland). I briefly considered finding a seat on a nearby rock and awaiting my companions’ tales of their adventures. But I decided this is the kind of thing you end up regretting later, so I gritted my teeth and began the climb to the top of the island (possibly easier than the cave…).

Anyone who knows me will tell you stairs and I are not good friends on the best day.  As I pulled myself up these very steep steps, with a death-grip on the distressingly movable railing, I was afraid to look down.  Watching the cliff above moving with the vertigo, I was only praying I’d figure out how to get back down. Staggering to the top, I saw a rolling sort of meadow (of course, everything was rolling at that point!) with small trails stretching off into the distance.  Too much distance.

A passing visitor told me basking sharks were visible in the water down below. Hmm. I was still much too dizzy to walk near the cliff edge, but I really wanted to see.  I inched as close as I could on my feet, then flopped down and crawled to the edge on my belly. The sharks were easy to spot (they were being circled by three tour boats). There was an amazing vista of rocks, sea and sky. It was mesmerizing, maybe even more so as my brain made it dip and turn.

Sometimes you get to see the cool stuff even if you have to crawl (and obviously I did get back down).

PILGRIMAGE

One of the things that drew me to this trip – apart from the fact that the whole concept was completely out of my comfort zone – was the pilgrimage walk. Joining an ancient Christian tradition, even in a small way, was intriguing. And the fact that it was seven miles long seemed like a good incentive to get into better physical shape. I worked at losing weight and walked several miles every day. I was really ready for this.

The delusional nature of this belief became evident as soon as we left the road. Of our group of forty-some, I was dead last the entire way, except for the “sweeper” whose job it was to make sure slowpokes didn’t get left alone in the wilderness. It was difficult. Really difficult. Aside from the odd glimpse of those ahead, usually disappearing around a bend, I couldn’t look at anything but my feet and the terrain a few steps in front.  I couldn’t stop to admire the lovely heather, didn’t savor the no-doubt-inspiring rocky vistas. Just the feet, trudging slowly.

But what I did see – and feel – was the exquisite kindness of my companions: offering a hand over a particularly boggy spot (I frequently sank anyhow), suggestions on where to put my feet in a steep area, a piece of marble from the quarry, a “Would it help if I took your backpack?” Not just on the hike – innumerable offers of snacks, suitcase help, an arm to get down the steps, on the rest of the trip. As someone whose “regular” life is aimed mostly at helping others, it’s revealing to be on the receiving end. Thank you all, so much.“And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love…”

       -- Sue O'Hara