Katey Lehman Creative Writing Award (Journalism/Nonfiction)
Achill Strikes Again
by Katherine O’Neill
It is not easy, climbing bog. Picture a swamp or quicksand on the
outskirts of the Arctic Circle. I am wearing pants and a heavy raincoat
over a heavy sweatshirt so that I sweat and shiver at the same time. It
always drizzles in this place. The turf feels cool and smells clean. Our
guide Tomas points out the turf tepees that allow wind through in order
to dry out the peat. Peat. That is the name for it, but here people say turf
and burn it all year long. Rows of earth cut like slices of cake.
Where there is turf it is easy to step. The ground almost seems
firm. But most of the bog is “pre-turf:” mossy and about as solid as the
everglades. One wrong step and the bog steals shoes. It is June in Ireland
and the sun shines, when it shines, until eleven pm, but the heat is on
back at our cottage, and there we drink cup after cup of hot tea trying to
stay warm. On our hike, Tomas brings tea already mixed with sugar and
milk for me and the other bundled American college students. We drink
out of plastic cups and pass around chocolate Digestives.
The top of the mountain is only a few hundred meters above
sea-level, but it feels like thousands. The cliffs on the backside of the
mountain range are the highest in Europe. The air is thick with salt, and a
sea of green washes over the bare landscape like a cloak. As we look closer,
the greens break apart into yellow marsh and brown soaked soil. Even
closer and Tomas points out flowers. The Round-leaved Sundews reach
out to catch insects like Venus Fly Traps. The Creeping Forget-me-nots
are different. The entire flower is no larger than a thumbnail, and the
delicate blue petals fan out like a drop of dew. But these are no fragile
beauties; they stand against the hard and cold sea mist while sprouting
from soil so acidic no trees can grow.
North America is 3,000 miles west. The Atlantic Ocean laps
against the shore, creating pools among the moss-covered rocks. The
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