The Top

I'm one of those guys who has to get to the top, if I possibly can.

But I really respect those who don't.

I'm going to get to an Ireland story, but first ...

The Pines

My cousins and I have a favorite camping spot near Silver Glance Lake just below the ridge that separates American Fork Canyon from Cottonwood Canyon in Northern Utah. I am pretty sure a group led by a cousin has been up there a couple of times a year for going on 15 years. And I'm pretty sure that every trip has included a hike to top of one of the Twin Peaks.

It's a beautiful view from there. You can see the three Silver lakes, Utah Lake, the Great Salt Lake, another AF lake and two Cottonwood lakes from that spot. You can see dozens of peaks, including Timpanogos, the other Twin and Mount Superior along with the fabulous views of two gorgeous canyons. (More than one lucky group of tourists has gotten a great view of a three- or four-moon salute from the top of Snowbird's summer tram, but that's another story.)

Those trips to the Pines, as we call that spot, are some of the best we've ever had. Grandpa Joe showed us the place, of course, and someone could weave a fantastic tale on its tapestry, featuring the lives of all the varied characters who've showed up there since.

The Stag Years

As we grew older and began making the trip without the stabilizing influence of Grandpa, the trips got a little wilder. The nights got later, the dips in Silver Glance got colder and the trundling got more thunderous. During these heady years, even the latest night was followed by a cleansing splash in Silver Glance and a trip to the top -- always right to the top -- of the Twin Peak.

One incident to characterize those trips: We all stayed up late, but one guy outdid us all. We were awakened occasionally by a shout or a splash (a tiny creek runs through the camp) all night, but we never paid much attention until he said, "Come on. Let's go. It's already nine o'clock." Well, it wasn't 9, it was 6:30. But by the time we'd figured that out, the water was already boiling for breakfast. So off we went, even Dave, who hadn't slept a wink.

It was an amazing display. Dave, laboring up the mountain, would land his foot on a loose boulder, lurch backward and fall -- straight as a board -- about 120 degrees backward. In that moment, his body seemed completely at rest. There was no attempt to break the fall or protect the vital organs or shield the head. But that was the only break he got. As soon as he landed he would fight for his feet, let out a stream of curses, and struggle on.

Still, after a 35-degree dose of Silver Glance, Dave regained a bit of his balance and punished himself all the way to the top of the Twin Peak, where he let out the most harrowing victory cry of his long and storied peak-bagging career, took a nap, and descended.

A New Element

A few years passed and we entered the next stage. This involved the introduction of estrogen -- with its strange mix of sense and insensibility -- into the camp. The first girl never made it -- she just shouted at her companion from the middle of the rockpile approach (the farthest she would go) until he said goodbye to us and headed for home.

But she and others eventually made it to the camp, to the lake and to the top, and on the way they reminded us - me at least - that it did get better than watching a sofa-sized boulder crash endlessly, mindlessly down a debris field.

The hike to the Pines is a short, steep, hop over lots of big boulders. The hike to Silver Glance is a battle with scrubby brush. The hike to the ridge is a very steep scree field. The ridge to the top is a knife-edge scramble. And what I never noticed until Des hiked up there with us that day was:

The view from the saddle, where you first hit the ridge, is virtually identical to the one from the peak, and it can be had without the last knee-buckling moves.

The View, Fellas, The View

That day, Des outhiked us all the way to the ridge. She's fit, strong, agile and she just motored past us to the top. Well, almost the top. When she hit the ridge -- first, I might add -- she stopped. When Aaron caught up, he couldn't believe it.

"You made it all the way up here and you're not going to THE TOP?"
"No. I don't want to hike along that ridge, and I like the view from here."

It was simple, and she would not be moved. So she sat there in that spot, looked at eight lakes, a bunch of peaks, two canyons -- some of the most beautiful scenery on earth -- while we struggled to the top, shouted at the top of our lungs, saluted the tourists, rolled a rock or two and hustled back down.

Slieve Elva, The Burren, 2008














All that said, this is me, at what I thought was the top, as seen by Bettie, who'd already had enough. She's thinking, "Can I go down now?" And I'm thinking, "How do I tell her, through this whipping wind and rain, that this isn't the top and I CANNOT turn around now?"

Slieve Elva, 1,139 feet, is the Burren's highest, well, not peak, not point ... maybe roll. The Burren, Ireland's rocky west-coast peninsula, is known for its bleak, exposed limestone seashore, endless stone fences and high sea-cliffs (see a previous post). We went looking for a nice walk with a constant view of the ocean. And it brought is within a half-mile or so of Slieve Elva, which is not rocky, not bleak, not exposed, not steep, not high. But it's the highest spot in this little corner of Ireland.

So I looked at the map, stopped where the trail got me nearest and pointed them at this altar that I was sure marked the top. Bettie looked at the map, too, and drew my attention to the word "Bog" typed several times all around Slieve Elva's dot.

Look at that picture again. I looked at that scene, pointed it out to Bettie. Piece of cake. Rolling, grassy hills. Even a few dry tufts of grass. No bog. Bettie came with me anyway.

Let me tell you about bogs, now that I know what a bog is. They look like that. But even the highest points hold water. Even relatively steep hills. There are thick mats of vegetation clumped on top of the water. But slip off the clumps -- or step squarely on one of the false ones -- and you drop a foot-and-a-half and fill your shoe with water.

That's where Bettie stopped. I said, "Maybe on top of that ridge there's a better way down." She said, "Well, you let me know."

I marched off. At the top, there was obviously no better way down. But it was obviously not the top. The hill nudged upwards almost imperceptibly to another vague hump on the horizon. The wind was too loud to discuss, but finally Bettie belted out: "Well, is there a better way down?" "No." She turned around, picking her way toward the trail.

I turned around and headed for the horizon. Now, I'm running, dunking a foot on every third step and the horizon is unfolding in front of me. I'm moving toward it, although the incline is so gradual it's difficult to tell the quickest way to the highest visible spot. It keeps inching left, then right and I'm stumbling onward. Finally, I hit a strange ridge. Almost like an ancient berm, raised to divide fiefdoms or something. That was a little easier going, so I got out my level, decided which way was up, and climbed.

Soon I came to a concrete pillar that nothing, not even my own two eyes, could convince me did not mark Slieve Elva, one of the lowest, shallowest peaks even in Ireland. A little plaque had been removed from the top of the pillar. And though the hill looked like it might have continued to slope upward in as many as 110 degrees to the south and west, I decided that marked Slieve Elva and not an ancient legendary battle (which did take place near there) and turned around.

Not wanting to keep Bettie waiting, I kicked it up another notch and made it down very quickly, wet up to each calf and shoes filled with water.

She was relatively dry, had no twisted ankles and was humming a Simon and Garfunkel tune in the soft Irish rain.

I am pretty sure I found the top.