A diversion in the mountains

So there we were, our last day in Wicklow, sitting side by side in the back of Christopher's blue van as it rattled down the road to Drumgoff. We had our packs, our rain jackets, a couple of sandwiches, plenty of water, stout shoes, and cameras. This was our fifth day of hiking, and we knew the drill: Just follow the signposts marked with the little yellow guy and he will lead us safely home.

The little yellow guy, who indicated the Wicklow Way, had taken us all over the place in the last five days--through forests, along the coast, across fields of sheep, over stiles and fences, across bridges and rivers.

Now he was about to take us over the top of a mountain. We were hiking from Drumgoff, which was little more than an inn on a blue, blue lake, back to Glendalough--eight Irish miles through the valley of Glenmalure.

It sounded, like all the other hikes, gorgeous. And it was. But ...

Christopher dropped us off at the trailhead and said good morning. Doug and I shouldered our packs and set off up the hill. Ten or twenty yards up the trail, the path forked. The yellow man pointed left, but that way was roped off with caution tape. A sign indicated a "diversion"--a detour--that would continue until June on account of tree-cutting along the trail.

I immediately suggested we duck under the tape and continue along the Wicklow Way; I couldn't hear any machinery, so perhaps they weren't logging today. And I did not want to get lost. Doug said absolutely not; he did not thinking hiking on a closed trail and running the risk of having trees fall on us was a good idea. 

The diversion sign pointed right, so right we went. This area, while beautiful, was remote. There were no houses. There were no other hikers. We were walking along a dirt road, but a very narrow, seldom-used road; we never saw a car. Forest pressed on either side, and blue-green mountains rose in the distance. We were completely alone.


After not too far, we came to another fork. A diversion sign lay in the grass. Which way had it pointed? Left made more sense--a slight incline and on into the forest. The right-hand path went down, perhaps back to Drumgoff. We chose the left fork and kept walking.

After fifteen or twenty minutes we came to another fork. But this time there was no sign at all. I didn't like this. I did not want to start taking forks willy-nilly and find ourselves lost and forced to rely on Mountain Rescue to somehow notice that we were missing and come and find us. It would be embarrassing. Someone would write a brief about us for the Irish Times, like the one we had read just two days before, about the lost hiker rescued in County Kerry.

We veered left. "Look!" Doug said. Two triangular faces stared out at us from the trees--mountain deer. Instead of finding them beautiful, I found that they only added to my sense that we were in the middle of nowhere. We kept walking.

Presently we came to another fork. It, too, was unmarked. "I think we should go back," I said uneasily. But Doug remained sanguine. "I feel like we're going in the right direction," he said, and I trusted that feeling--to a point. And anyway, I had a secret plan: If, after two hours, we had still not found the Wicklow Way, I would demand that we turn back. Not knowing where I was preyed on my mind.


We were nearly at the two-hour mark when the road forked again. This time, though, it was a three-way fork. And this time we saw the little yellow man on his signpost, just as though he had never left us. I was filled with relief.

There was just one thing: There were two signposts, and two little yellow guys. We could either take the fork to the left, down into the forest, or the fork to the right, up into the hills.

We turned right, and pressed on. I felt better, knowing that we were finally back on the trail, although I had no idea if we were going in the right direction. There were many, many beautiful things along this path. The views were the best yet--to the left was the glacial valley, and beyond were mountains beyond mountains. The pine trees were fragrant. We saw more deer. Ferns grew lushly at the edge of the trail, and fluttered in the breeze.

Slowly my unease began to drop away. I remembered my first trip to Ireland, back in 1990. I was driving the backroads, trying to find Mallow, and I stopped and asked a farmwife if the road was the right road. "Ah, maybe it 'tis and maybe it 'tisn't," she said. 'But it's a glorious day to be lost."

And this day, too, with the bright sunshine and gentle breeze and green and blue surroundings was a glorious day to be lost. We had sandwiches and water, we had cameras, we had stout shoes. We would be fine. And if we didn't come home again, well, Christopher would surely call Mountain Rescue. (Actually, Christopher is Mountain Rescue.)

The road took a steep turn up, and then more steeply up, and then more steeply still. The little yellow man commanded that we walk up the slick rocks of a trickling waterfall, and so we did. He guided us along a lengthy boardwalk covered in chicken wire that went up the hill like a long and steep set of stairs.


He pointed upward, ever upward, and we found ourselves on a mountainside so steep that it was nearly perpendicular; I briefly dropped to all fours, like a goat, because it was easier and because the hillside was right in front of my hands anyway. The wind was strong. I climbed that hillside like a ladder.


The path turned perpendicular to the top, and as we hiked along the side it was so steep that we could not step flat, but only at sharp angles to the ground; we walked on the sides of our feet. Finally, we staggered over the top and started down the other side.


And then, miraculously, we knew exactly where we were. We were in the high part of Glendalough Nature Preserve, above the waterfall. Through the trees, we could see the Upper Lake, where we had hiked our first day, still confused and jet-lagged.

We began to encounter other hikers, many--who had not just climbed a mountain on all fours--striding past us with great vigor. The trail headed gently down through the trees.



Now, Wicklow Way signposts were everywhere. The little man had not abandoned us. He had reappeared when we needed him, and he had guided us safely home.