By Cassandra Dasco
I run down the lane with my sister and two brothers. The wet gravel pulls down on my rain boots that don’t fit right. I stop to adjust them, “Wait up!” I call, and they let me catch up.
We arrive at the bottom of Mount Sheemore, in county Leitrim, Ireland. It’s more of a hill than a mountain, small and grassy, dotted with cows. And yet I’m still impressed as I gaze up at our journey ahead. I swing one leg over the wooden fence and look for a big stick like my grandfather, Paddy Joe, taught me, in case we run into a bull we need to scare off. Once I find our weapon, we begin the climb.
We come to an area covered in bushes. It reminds me of my mother’s warnings about nettles, leafy green, harmless-looking plants with hairs that sting if you touch them. I keep an eye out for them, my bull-fighting stick carving a path as I whack the bushes out of our way.
My brother Kevin calls out for me, I look up to see him standing on a pile of rocks. I reach my hand up to meet his, he pulls me up. It’s a quick and uncomfortable tug, and my body scraps against the rough face of the stone, while my legs fail, and my other hand is looking for something to grip onto. But once I’m up I can see the massive white cross, just one hill away.
“We’re almost there!” I yell down to my other siblings with excitement. “Race you to the top!” Kevin says, breaking into a sprint.
Caught off guard, I shout back and take off running until I practically slam into the cross. I pant, the deep heavy breaths I take fill my lungs with the cool scent of wet grass. Kevin and I sit on the stone wall that circles the cross, and while we wait for the other two, Thomas and Alison to reach the top. When they catch up to us, I think of Paddy Joe, and the stories he’s told me, including one about this very place. The wind blows a soft whistle. “Hear that? That’s the sound of Finn McCumhail,” I say. They lean in closer.
“Finn McCumhail was a giant who led the clan of Irish warriors called Fianna,” I begin, feeling a sense of closeness to Paddy Joe that I could pass on to my siblings through the tale. “Legend has it that when another giant, Benadnonner of Scotland, threatened Ireland, Finn McCumhail tore up land across the Irish Sea to defend Ireland. When he died, he was buried under this very cross.” Just as I finish, the wind howls, dark clouds covering the sky. As I look up, a fat raindrop lands smack in the middle of my forehead. “We better get going,” I say to my siblings as we get up.
It’s completely downpouring, soaking my hair and clothes. We bolt down the hill, a tricky thing to do as the rain turns the ground to mush, making for a dangerously slippy way down. It’s a good thing I have my rain boots, because I’m not sure if that mushy brown stuff I’m stepping in is mud or something else.
I’m relieved to see my mom’s car at the bottom of the hill, waiting for us, and I pick up the pace. Suddenly, I lose my footing, falling flat on my back and start sliding down. I stand up, covered head to toe in mud, but at least I’m at the bottom.
Cassandra Dasco (she/her) ‘25 is a senior studying finance & public relations. She is pursuing financial communications, and this summer, she gained industry experience at Joele Frank as an intern. At Syracuse, she is a part of the Division I Women’s Rowing team that won the 2024 ACC Championship.
