“Take your time.” He joins me at the edge of the path, not a bead of sweat on him, the bastard. He shifts the rucksack higher on his shoulders, carrying all our water bottles along with the jacket he insisted I bring.
“Do you know why it’s called the Old Man of Storr?” he asks.
I gasp in another secret lungful of oxygen. “Are you testing me? To see if I did my research?”
“Absolutely.”
Perfect. Exactly what I need: a pop quiz mid-ascent.
“It’s supposed to look like an old man’s face.” I force out another breath, praying my wheeze isn’t audible. I am trying to be the sort of athletic goddess he’s used to, even though he’s being a gentleman and I know he’s slowing down for me without making it obvious. “Legend says a giant lived here with his wife. When he died, they buried him under the ridge, but his thumb stuck up through the ground to form the rock.”
“Good girl. You’ve done your homework.”
Normally, that sort of praise from him would send me into a full hormonal meltdown. Right now, I’m more concerned with not collapsing and rolling into a sheep field.
“How much further?” I ask, trying to sound casual rather than desperate.
If you say halfway, I will cry.
He tips his head up. “About ten minutes’ walk.”
Ten minutes. I could sob with relief.
Only ten more minutes of pretending my legs aren’t made of jelly and that I’m not about to faint into a patch of sheep shit. I can do this. Maybe. If the fairies drag me the rest of the way.
By the time we reach the trail’s end, I’m dead. Bury me here among the sheep and midges.
But I bloody made it without collapsing in a heap or requiring helicopter evacuation.
I stare up at the massive stone pinnacle that gives this place its name, wheezing quietly, thinking maybe I should consider exercise when I get back to London. Start small. Perhaps walk to the printer instead of wheeling my chair. Baby steps.
“It’s beautiful,” I pant, folding in half with my hands braced on my knees in what I hope looks like a contemplative pose rather than someone trying not to expel their breakfast all over Skye.
He’s been deliberately slowing down this whole time, stopping to “admire views” that I suspect were just excuses to let me catch my breath. I lied every single time with enthusiastic flair. “Oh absolutely, this pace is perfect!” I chirped.
“It sure is,” Patrick says, hands jammed in his jogger pockets. “The best views are up there though.” His chin tips upward. “Photographer’s Knoll.”
I follow his gaze and feel my soul leave my body.
Up.
He’s pointingup.To what looks like a goat path designed by Satan himself, vanishing into actual clouds.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“That’s where you get the proper panoramic shots. Views over Raasay and Rona, the mainland mountains.”
You havegotto be shitting me.
“I thought we were finished,” I say, attempting a light laugh that comes out slightly strangled. “I thought this was the top.”
“This is where the main trail ends, yeah. But for the full experience...” He gestures at Satan’s staircase. “We’d go up there. It’s your call.”
I stare at the rocky path winding higher into the clouds. Story of my life. I think I’ve made it, that I can finally breathe, and then someone points higher and tells me I haven’t done enough yet.
“I mean, I could probably make it, but...” I trail off, studying the path with what I hope looks like casual assessment rather than terror. “You’ve been going at quarter-speed this whole time, haven’t you? It must be like taking a toddler for a walk. Why don’t you go on? I’ll wait here and take photos of the main pinnacle. You can get your proper views.”
Embarrassment burns my cheeks. He’s used to hiking with people like Maren or Jake.
