Day 1, Level 2: 70s, Egg mayo, flats and mountains
So here's a promotional sales shambles for Omaha from the 1970s.
I’m not a sedentary creature and keep myself reasonably
active, but I cannot class myself as highly fit or physically robust. I enjoy skiing and golf and other general
activities but do not consider myself sporty.
Much as I love nature and the environment, I am not into spending time
camping or tramping in the wilderness.
So it is with some angst that I agree to undertake the Tongariro Alpine
Crossing, ranked as one of the top single-day walks in the world. I am familiar with the central North Island
plateau, having skied the area for many years, but I have never been tempted to
do this walk. I’m not sure what is
tempting me now. Some friends have
twisted my arm and it’s a case of now or never.
I sign up. I even organise
accommodation, transport etc. This is
commitment!
I do a few walks in preparation, including city hills and
isolated beaches, and invest time and effort doing daily exercises to
strengthen my bung knee. Other than
that, my preparation would be deemed minimal.
The day of reckoning looms quickly, and I’m not sure I feel particularly
ready. Too late now, I have signed up.
The alpine mission begins at the rather civilised time of
9am, under clear blue autumnal skies.
Daypacks are hoisted onto backs and we set off from the Mangatepopo Carpark
towards Soda Springs. We are a team of
four – me, Brett, Cec and Marie. Cec has
endurance, having recently completed The Camino walk across northern Spain,
Marie is an energetic dynamo and Brett is fit and in good shape. Alas, none of these things apply to me.
This first stage of the walk is classed as “easy”. With its gentle uphill gradient and
well-formed track, I manage it quite comfortably, albeit I am regularly passed
by other faster walkers, and my team are already surging ahead of me. Each at their own pace …
As expected, I am the last of our crew to congregate at Soda
Springs - along with a host of biting midgies.
I slap on some more sunscreen and insect repellent, take a deep breath,
and prepare for the next stage of the journey.
The dreaded Devils Staircase is looming. It will take us up to the South Crater and is
classed as “difficult”. Looking up, it
isn’t possible to see what lies in store, which is probably a good thing. Based on what I have read, this is the part
of the walk that I am dreading most and I am aware that an uphill slog awaits
me.
The whole reality of being here becomes a little more
daunting as we approach a sign which asks, are you properly prepared for the
Crossing? It suggests turning back now,
if not. Cec and I stand and consider its
message.
Yes, I have all the appropriate gear in case the weather
changes, as it so unpredictably can – although I know this mountain intimately
(as a skier) and can guarantee that there won’t be any horrible weather surprises
today.
Yes, I have food and water.
Well, I hope I have enough water.
No, I probably am not as fit as I could or should be. All right then, I know I am not very fit at
all. This is a big step up from Mt
Hobson, the small volcanic hill that overlooks where I live. And beaches are flat.
For a fleeting moment I think perhaps I should heed this
sign, turn back now and be sensible. But
I didn’t come here to be sensible. I’m
always up for a challenge, so I follow Cec and head on up the hill. At this stage I have no idea just what a
challenge this is going to be for me.
The sun is shining strongly and jackets are being
discarded. I can glimpse Marie’s fluoro
pink top way up in the distance. I’m not
sure if seeing it up there, so far ahead of me, is inspiring or just plain
depressing. Brett, in his black attire,
blends in with the masses. I pause,
collect myself and prepare for the task ahead.
Just follow Cec’s white hat. I
can do it.
A guy in Hawaiian hula gear swishes by me in buoyant
mood. His attire is highly
inappropriate, but he looks much more at ease than I do.
One foot in front of the other, this isn’t so hard, I tell
myself. I look up, and now I can’t see
Cec’s hat. I can’t see Marie’s
pink. My team, yet again, are way in
front of me, out of sight. I hadn’t
anticipated being so far behind them so early on. Already, I can tell that this mission is
going to require every ounce of residual fitness and mental stamina I possess.
Up, up and further up.
It’s getting tougher with each step.
My lungs are working overtime trying to draw in breath to keep up a
steady pace. I let another group file
past me. They are in top gear and they kindly ask how I am going.
Slowly but surely, I reply.
Ah, remember the hare and the tortoise – the tortoise wins!
Their tone is jovial.
Haha, alas, I don’t think the tortoise is going to win
today! My tone is downcast.
The tortoise takes another break, puffing more than a
healthy tortoise should. The views are
impressive. I stop often to view
them. Actually, I stop mainly to rest,
the views are a bonus. And as far as the
views go, I haven’t seen anything yet.
Onwards, up the rocky track, up the endless steps. My walking poles are helping propel me on my
way and I am grateful that my knee is behaving.
It hasn’t given a tweak yet. I
guess those knee strengthening exercises I’ve been persevering with have paid
off. Be thankful for small mercies.
I’m struggling to inhale enough oxygen. I think of race horses and flare my nostrils like
they do to let more air in. Wish I had a nose as large as a racehorse. Dream I am nearing the winning post, even if
it is in last place. Alas, that finish
post is a long way off and I fear this is going to be tougher than grinding
through a Grand National Steeplechase.
I begin to wonder if I have bitten off more than I can chew
and at my next breather stop, I contemplate my options. There is really only one, to be honest, and
that is to keep on going upwards. Going
back down now seems totally pointless.
Exertion without completion, retracing steps without purpose – now
there’s a nonsense.
A young woman I have been watching stagger her way up alone
behind me reaches the rocky ledge where I am standing. She is panting as much as I am. I sense she is struggling as much as I am,
perhaps even more.
We exchange words between massive gasps for air and agree
that this is HARD. Nina is German and
her travel companions are long gone. She
looks more unsure about all this than I do.
Come on, I say, we can do this. We look up.
There is still a long way to go.
We have to do this. We get going. We mutter to each other that this is
impossible, and temper it by suggesting that there are only a couple more
corners to turn until the Devils Staircase is history. Wrong, there are many more corners and many
more steps. The devil has carved out
hell for us. I’m not struggling with
temperature or my knee, or even the weight of my pack, just the relentlessness
of the steep uphill climb.
Far away on the west coast, Mt Taranaki rises majestically
into the sky, a familiar silhouette on the hazy horizon. To our immediate right is Mt Ngauruhoe and
while we marvel at its stark imposing form, we wonder who in their right mind
would want to climb it, even if it is “Mt Doom” from The Lord of the
Rings.
My mobile bleeps and it’s all I can do to drag it out of my
pocket. My team are waiting near the
South Crater and wondering where I am.
Coming, I text back. But that
really doesn’t mean anything more than that I am advancing. I have no idea how far ahead they actually
are and they have no idea how far behind I am.
I am, quite literally, stuck between a rock and a hard
place.
Nina and I keep wending our way slowly upwards, moaning and
groaning to each other with reckless abandon, stopping regularly for breath and
to let yet more people pass us by. One
group is a young family and the dad is piggybacking the daughter. We lose energy just thinking about it.
Suddenly, Brett appears.
He has walked back down to find me.
He finds Nina as well. We are
stuck together by now. He tells us it’s
not far to the South Crater and offers to relieve me of my pack. My pack isn’t the problem, I say, walking is
– perhaps you could piggy-back me? He
probably could if I was a little more svelte.
I let him take my pack.
Soon enough, we round a corner and the others are there
enjoying a break, but I sense they are itching to get going again. I munch hungrily on a bran muffin, gulp down
some drink and am glad to sit on a rock for a while and look back at where I
have come from. That hard place.
There’s a mild sense of accomplishment, and Marie’s radiant
enthusiasm is somewhat infectious, but I don’t fool myself – there are still
many more rocks and hard places ahead.
The breeze is cooling and we are glad of our jackets, but
the hats, gloves, windbreakers, wet weather gear and extra layers that fill our
packs and weigh them down will not be required today. The weather is on best behaviour. We could not have picked a better day. Be thankful for small mercies.
It is time to move on.
The next stage will take us up to the Red Crater. At first we have the luxury of an amble
across the flat dusty track of the South Crater floor. It’s barren like a desert and on the right is
the impressive sight of Mt Ngaurahoe which has dominated the landscape for the
past few hours and now towers over us.
Nina and I are still trying to fathom what madness might inspire someone
to scramble up and down “Mt Doom” when we come across a group of young English
tourists taking photos. The entire front
shin of one of the guys is red raw and bleeding.
What happened? I ask.
We climbed Mt Doom and I fell, he laments. He’s not looking happy. Ouch.
 |
| Mt Doom (Ngaruhoe) |
Then they all turn around to show us the seats of their
pants which are literally torn to shreds from their sliding descent on the
scoria. Nothing left but bums hanging
out. Our mouths drop open. They think
it’s hilarious and sprint off ahead of us, even the guy with the red raw
leg. They are young and foolhardy. I guess I was once too.
All too soon, the nice flat track comes to an end and we are
climbing upwards again. This part of the
track is rocky and craggy and requires care and attention. We take it slowly. Brett has vanished, the pink of Marie’s top
is long gone and Cec’s hat cannot be seen.
I really do have some catching up to do.
Another father with a kid on his back romps past us. A group of athletic young females in lycra
with bare midriffs, excitable voices and tanned legs power past us. An older couple overtakes us with ease,
nodding and smiling. We nod and plod on.
Smiling is just too much effort and would belie our state of being.
The sun is getting hotter, the views more impressive. Looking back, we can see how far and high we
have come. On the other side of the
ridge, far below us, is the barren wilderness of the Oturere Valley, the
Rangipo Desert and the Kaimanawa Ranges.
There is not a sign of civilisation except for the steady stream of
walkers picking their way up the mountainside.
Many of them are Germans. Nina is
glad to have a Kiwi companion. We are in
awe of those who head past us at great speed, but also relieved to notice that
we are not the only ones puffing our way up.
We are sure it is not far to go now until we are at the top,
just a few more steep rocky tracks to negotiate. Shiny new chains and wires have recently been
installed in places to help walkers pull themselves skywards. We haul ourselves up, glad we don’t have a
job as a mountain chain and wire installer.
There, to our right, is the Red Crater. A huge craggy fissure in the earth, red and
black and foreboding, this unique vision makes our toil seem worth it. Standing on the exposed ridge, we look down
into its depths. Where else in the
world can you see something like this?
It is spectacular – and just a little freaky. There is a breeze, but thankfully it is
moderate today. One huge gust and that
Red Crater could swallow you whole in one gollop. It looks like it is waiting
for a victim. We take photos, marvel
some more and keep going.
 |
| The Red Crater |
Time is ticking on and the going is slow. We are quite certain we will not make it back
to meet the 4.30 bus pick-up. Nina is
terribly anxious, as am I, but I tell her not to worry, we’re in this
together. There will be a solution. Let’s just worry about putting one foot in
front of the other for the moment.
It occurs to me that Brett has my lunch in his pack. It is well past most people’s lunchtime and I
suspect that my team have already eaten up ahead. Actually, I’m not remotely hungry. Having sucked in so much oxygen, my belly
feels bloated with air. There is no room
for food, I fear. I’m not sweating, I’m
not thirsty. I’m neither hot nor
cold. I don’t need a toilet stop. (Good job because there are neither toilets
or bushes). My feet are fine. Miraculously my knee is still fine. But my hips are starting to hurt with each
and every step and my lungs are screaming.
Nina’s English is excellent and our chatter, when we can
manage it, makes the time pass quicker.
Thank God for Nina, otherwise the toil of loneliness could have set in
by now, my state of mind questionable. I
like my own company well enough – but not at rocky altitude like this for hours
on end!
As we approach the rise over the very top of the ridge, the
gorgeous Emerald Lakes come into view below us.
The colour is dramatic due to minerals leached from the rocks and the
fact they are embedded in a sea of espresso brown makes the colour of the lakes
even more intense. Turquoise is my
favourite colour and I am mesmerised.
The smell, on the other hand, is not so enticing - that familiar sulphurous
aroma which emanates from the steam vents in little plumes of white. Nina is gagging, she has never smelt anything
quite like it.
We take in the entire 360 degree views. We look back at where we have come from. We look down to where we are going. We celebrate that the uphill is over. Oh, if only we knew …
The next stage is classed as “moderate” but comes with
caution. It is steep and narrow,
downhill with loose scoria underfoot which can move quickly. Balance and coordination are required. Nina and I negotiate it with relative
ease. We slide and surf our way down the
loose dark brown substance at speed.
Some parts are soft like sand, some are just loose rocks. Many people seem to be having trouble
picking their path down, falling and stumbling, and we realise we are actually
passing other people for the first time on our journey. I am smiling.
I am joyful. I have to be honest
and say there has been only a modicum of “joy” in the walking thus far, but I
actually truly enjoy this part of the crossing. Hey, this is downhill, it’s got
to be good! We might even have made up
some time.
As Nina and I near the bottom of the scoria track, we look
down and see Cec sitting by the shores of the larger Emerald Lake. She is
alone. We join her for lunch in the
sheltered sunshine and reflect on the journey so far. She is impressed at our rapid descent down
the scoria and luckily this is top of mind for us. The earlier toil is, for the moment,
repressed.
Brett has left me my lunch - bread rolls I had dutifully
made that morning. They aren’t what I feel like but I munch on them
anyway. I need some sustenance after all
this toil. I want lollies and a Fruju.
It’s 2.30pm at this point. Brett and
Marie have made the call to go on ahead to make sure they catch the bus. They will come back to pick us up later. Good plan.
Phew. Even so, Nina and I have
been having so many mini-stops that we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of
long ones. We must keep going
onwards.
 |
| Emerald Lake |
And so, after we have soaked up the colours, rested our
bodies briefly and had a perfectly pleasant break, we head out across the
Central Crater towards the Blue Lake.
Again, it is a large flat expanse and we enjoy just walking in a
straight flat line for a while. I keep
looking back up at where we have been.
It’s a stunning sight. More so
in knowing we skimmed down that scoria without problem.
After completing another short rocky uphill burst in strong
sunshine, we rest briefly by the shores of the Blue Lake and prepare for our
descent. I feel exhausted, my hips are
really sore and I am ready to go home now.
But I feel happy that I have made it this far and have seen what I have
seen, done what I have done, in perfect conditions. Hard as it has been, it has been worth it. And we’re now on the downhill track home.
I am only capable of such positive thoughts when I am
standing still and admiring the view. At
this moment, it is probably a good thing that I have no clue what lies ahead,
and just how arduous the home run is going to be, on top of all that I have done.
The next stage is also classed as “moderate”. As we walk on, Nina and I realise with horror
that there is yet more uphill ahead, taking us to the North Crater. It may be a “short easy climb” for some, but
after all we have been through, it is a nightmare for us. Those positive thoughts are unravelling
already.
On and on and on we toil.
Much of it is now downhill, but every so often we will turn a corner and
are dismayed to see uphill inclines.
It’s playing havoc with our minds.
Where is the helicopter?
Eventually we turn a corner and there, spread before us, is
the magnificent vista out across Mt Pihanga and Lake Rotoaira with Lake Taupo
in the distance. Emerging a little later
is the steaming Te Maari crater on our right, the one which erupted in August
2012. These scenic views are
distractions, but we still don’t seem to be making any headway or getting any
closer to ground level. We walk and
walk, surrounded by tussock hills. There
are lots of steps, up and down, but we simply don’t appear to be
descending. It is so disheartening. On and on we go, relentlessly,
tediously. Cec, who is keeping up her
speedier tempo, waits for us at regular spots and tells us we are doing well. We don’t feel well at all, and we cannot hide
our suffering.
Finally, far below, we spy the Ketetahi Hut.
But we also spy the long zigzagging track that will take us there. It is most definitely not as the crow might
fly. Zig. Zag. Zig. Zag. We trundle wearily on. We can see Cec in the distance approaching
the hut. She is nearly there. We are still so far away. We are envious beyond belief. Beam us up Cec, please. Actually, down!
I try to put things in perspective. Imagine doing this in low cloud, freezing
temperatures and a howling wind, I say to Nina.
Some people do. We agree we ought
to make the most of the blues skies and a stunning view that neither of us will
ever see again, given we’ve sworn this is definitely a once in a lifetime
event.
We finally make it to the Ketetahi Hut and collapse on the
deck in the warm afternoon sun. My hips
are aching, Nina’s knees are sore and Cec has blisters. Sitting is good. Looking at the signpost is not. I don’t believe what it says - we have 6.4km
to go which equates to two hours. This
can’t be right. Given we are not making
anything like the timeframes suggested, this only means one thing. It’s going to take us at least three hours. It is now 4.30 and most walkers will be
safely on their bus back to base. And we
still have so far to go.
We check in with Brett and Marie and yes, they are on board
the bus, drinking the shiraz that Brett has carried all the way in his
backpack. The plan had been to have a
celebratory tipple together at the Emerald Lakes, but alas my slow speed screwed
up that plan. Believe it or not, wine is
the last thing I have felt like all day.
Water is my wine today. Until
this is over and I get access to wine …
Nina is out of food and out of water and gratefully accepts
Cec’s offer of both. The rest of my food
is in Brett’s pack. Now that was poor
planning. Good job I’m not hungry. I still feel bloated.
Before we leave the hut, we inspect the holes created in its
wall and floor by a boulder from the 2012 Te Maari crater eruption. We can see the white steam from the crater
billowing forth across the valley and it’s hard to imagine volcanic debris of
such size flying through the air from over there to hit its target in this
way. The hut is no longer habitable. This is sobering and reiterates what a volatile
area we are in. It’s not every day one
walks amidst a bunch of live volcanoes but we are doing it today. Nina still can’t quite believe this.
We set off again on the long and relentless last leg. Cec trots off ahead and Nina and I grind our
way on down. It’s never ending. It’s tedious.
We are sore. We are tired. We are slow.
We stop often which gifts us views of things we are sure other faster
walkers must miss. Like large red ants
battling across the track lugging great big juicy black dead spiders. Dinner.
Well, it is coming up dinnertime, after all. Earlier on, in the rocky terrain, we had
spotted crickets. Black creatures of
reasonable size, with vibrant orange patterns like a monarch butterfly, they
were leaping and bounding across the rocks at breakneck speed, having the time
of their lives. Lucky crickets.
People are passing us.
Often. They are energetic, almost
romping along the home run. We can
barely lift our feet.
I suggest that we must be in the running for the longest
time ever taken to do the Tongariro Crossing.
This makes us laugh. But it’s
probably true, and really, this makes us want to cry.
A young couple romps past us. She has a camera around her neck that’s
almost as big as my backpack.
Excuse me, what time did you start your climb?
9 o’clock, they reply.
Nina and I look at each other. That’s the same time as we began. Yay, we’re not so slow after all, we shout
with relief, and even find some energy to jump up and down with glee and
hi-five each other.
The male, amused at our delight, smirks a little and adds
that they have also climbed Mt Doom, a 3-hour expedition on top of the Crossing
itself. We are deflated beyond
words. We laugh, otherwise we would
cry. Actually, I think tears are
brewing. The female offers a look of
apology and they disappear out of sight in a jiffy, never to be seen
again. It is with great despondency
that we trundle onwards.
Don’t worry, I tell Nina.
Our bus driver said that once you hit the bush, it’s about an hour from
there.
Nina scans the surroundings and tells me that she would most
definitely call the tussock around us as “bush” in Germany. So we pretend. It’s easier that way.
On and on we go, up and down. It’s not all down. We can’t do any more up. But we have to.
I suggest we could just curl up under one of these tussock
bushes and let the red ants take us away for dinner. It’s not a very sensible idea, I admit, but
it actually appeals more than continuing on.
I feel so bloated through all the desperate inhaling of
oxygen over so many hours that my stomach has expanded to an uncomfortable
state. I don’t usually burp, but burps
pop out at random during my descent, gentle
ladylike burps which evaporate into the open expanse. Alas, unlike Charlie in the Fizzy Lifting
Drinks Room at the Chocolate Factory, the burps don’t get me down any
quicker.
We meet Cec sitting on a seat and join her. Imagine our horror when we look at the
signpost and realise we still have 3km to go.
We can’t go on, we say. But we
know we have to and she tells us we must.
She is right, we simply have no choice.
The toil gets harder.
We don’t seem to be making any progress. We are getting slower and
slower. It occurs to me that both my
childbirth labours combined together were over quicker and easier than this
nightmare. I tell Nina that childbirth
is seriously preferable to this overrated lark.
Despite the hardship she is enduring, young, childless,
world-adventuring Nina does not understand and she looks at me as though I’m
mad. Seriously, I say, for me,
anyway. I think I am going mad. I contemplate the fact that having
quadruplets, sextuplets, even a litter of lion cubs, may well indeed be easier
than this. I laugh at the absurdity of
this thought, but here, in this moment of bewilderment, it feels like a more
survivable option.
Nina is thirsty. I am
not. I give her the last of my water. We
had better not get stranded now, our supplies are nil.
We come to another seat and take a breather. Three fellow walkers come along as Nina and I
lament loudly ‘This is the worst day of our lives’. We’ve muttered it before but at this point we
absolutely mean it like we have never meant it before. The other walkers nod, and the agreement is
clear on their faces. ‘Worst day ever,’
they say in a tone sadder than I’ve heard in a long time. The anguish in their foreignaccented voices
and the look in their eyes is nothing more than tragic. I hope I don’t sound and look as tragic as
that. But I probably do.
It turns out our fellow last-place-getters have more reason
to be beside themselves than we do – they started out at 6am and climbed Mt
Doom as well. They can barely go
on. The guy is Japanese and the couple
are from South America somewhere we think.
It seems irrelevant where they are from.
At this moment we are all human beings in the middle of nowhere trying
to complete a seemingly impossible task.
Small talk is not an option.
Come on, get a grip, I say to myself. This is a first world problem you have here,
you chose to do this. No one forced
you. And it’s really quite splendid. Look where you are. Look what you’ve done. And it’s coming to an end. Think of Chinese women with bound feet
walking long distances. Walking even one
step. Think of I Shouldn’t be Alive
people with busted legs dragging their way through icy crevasses and freezing
temperatures to make it to safety. Or the guy stranded under a scorching sky in
the middle of a desert with broken ankles exploding inside boots he can’t get
off because his arms are broken after a terrible accident. Get a grip. This is not so hard. Put it in perspective. I do, but I’m still dubious that my own
tortuous nightmare is actually going to come to an end.
Nina and I are slightly more buoyant in the knowledge that
this other group is struggling as much as we are and we perk up to some
extent. It’s a little sadist, I know,
but we need every tonic we can get. We
walk mostly as a group for the rest of the way.
There are moans, but no smiles.
‘Worst day of our lives’ are about the only words spoken. We must indeed be the last on the mountain.
Finally, we enter the bush.
I point out to Nina that this is lovely native New Zealand bush, but we
really don’t care. It feels like a
miracle we are here at all, and we know there’s still an hour to go. That’s if you’re a fast walker. We are slower than tortoises. There is still a long way to go.
The bush is cooling but there are steps galore, more than
ever, up and down and up and down. They
are steps made for giants. There is the
occasional bridge. Nina’s knees are
suffering, my hips can’t take much more.
We want this to end.
Let’s jump off a bridge, I say, and end it now. The bridges are not high enough. We laugh and
keep going.
We come to a small stream.
The water and the rocks it flows over are white and murky with mineral
deposits. Perhaps this water is
poisonous, I say to Nina. We could drink
it and end this right now. We laugh and
keep going.
More bridges. More
steps. More twists and turns. No exit in sight. It’s 7pm by now, ten hours since this all
began. On and on and on with the
tedium. Please, get us out of here …
We walk and we walk.
We’ve walked enough already. We
listen for cars. We hear none. We think we see a clearing. There is none. At 7.15, we know for sure that, unless this
is some kind of sick joke, the end simply cannot be far now. We find a second wind, we step it up a
notch. We are rocking along now. The Japanese guy and the South American
couple are struggling to keep up with us. I feel sorry for them.
We don’t have time to stop, we are nearly there. Let’s not delay the finish any longer. Let’s romp.
Our pace has never been so fast.
This corner, it has to be the end. It’s not.
This next corner, it must be. It’s not.
It suddenly becomes a rather exciting game which passes the
time and takes our thoughts off our aching bits.
We turn another corner and here is Brett coming towards
us. We stop in our tracks. Joy upon joy, we know we simply must be
almost there. The end is nigh.
How much further? Nina asks Brett.
Oh, not far. This is
not the explicit answer we are looking for.
We walk and we walk and we keep walking. The end does not
seem nigh.
How much further? Nina asks again.
Mmmm, about 500 metres, says Brett.
Are you serious? But
that’s half a kilometre!
We keep going. We are
almost running. 500m is actually
nothing.
And finally, we are there.
At the car park. We are at THE
END. It is 7.30pm. To borrow the words of Sir Edmund Hillary,
after he conquered Mt Everest – “we
knocked the bastard off”. Not
quite in the same league, but in our world the achievement feels as epic.
The committee meeting I am missing back home is under
way. I’m very glad they cannot see the
state of me.
The welcoming party is cheering, but my mind is a blur.
Marie is delighted for me.
You did it, you did it!
I really don’t care. I
am just glad that a once-in-a-lifetime hideous nightmare is over. I ramble
darkly about the relentless hideosity of it all.
I know this is dousing the euphoria of the others, but I
can’t help myself. I think I may be
delirious with the dubious combination of shock, exhaustion and
completion. Although the process of
offloading my pack and knowing it is finally over, does make me feel a little
euphoric myself. If indeed I can feel
anything at all. My legs are about to collapse.
Back at the car I am offered wine and it tastes good. I need to sit down. The car seat is comfort beyond my wildest
dreams. Poor Brett and Marie have been
waiting for a couple of hours for us.
Cec has paced herself and given us TLC the whole way. I am grateful for all the support and
encouragement, really, but my ranting about the misery overshadows this.
The Japanese guy, Eugene, has obviously missed his bus and
is stuck. We offer him a lift to
National Park and he is grateful. He
tells me he fell badly on Mt Doom and damaged his knees. No wonder he suffered for the rest of the
walk. He actually looks like a fit and
active type, now I have a chance to observe him properly, so this is a shame
for him.
I look across to the South American couple, who have
collapsed into the arms of their welcoming party. The guy takes off his
pack. The back of his white t-shirt is a
great massive splat of blood, like something from a cartoon. The whole t-shirt is a dried red mess. Oh no, he must have fallen down Mt Doom as
well. And he had to put his pack on that
blood red ink squirt on his back, and walk all the rest of the way. No wonder the big fit healthy-looking guy was
in trouble. And no wonder his girlfriend
looked so tragic, she was feeling his pain as well as hers.
Mt Doom sure lived up to its name today.
I do believe that Nina and I have indeed created a record
for the Tongariro Alpine Crossing. After
asking around, the longest known trek is 9 hours, maybe 9½. Ours took 10½ hours. This is seriously a great big fail, even
though completion was achieved. I give
myself an “F-“ rating. Oh, I sat the
exam and got a mark all right, but it was a very poor one. My worst ever, by far. But then again, I guess I really didn’t do
the swot required for this exam. Or
perhaps I’m just not cut out for this type of thing.
We are ready to leave the car park but we have a major
problem. The keys are missing. I can barely register the potential disaster
of this as frantic searches are made. I
keep drinking wine, in the knowledge they simply must be somewhere nearby. They are duly found and we drive off into the
sunset, back to our accommodation. It’s
at this point we discover that Eugene’s hotel is actually in Taupo. There is no way to get to Taupo from National
Park at this late hour. His day just got
a whole lot worse.
The heaven of a shower, food, drink and bed awaits us. Nina is staying at the same hotel and heads
for her room. We exchange numbers and
part ways, knowing we have forged a rather unique bond throughout today’s
ordeal.
A short time later, refreshed and relieved, I apologise to
my team over dinner for my poor and sluggish performance and give thanks for
their support. I can barely eat a
morsel. The wine goes down easily.
Two mature women next to us are having a quiet wine in
contemplation of doing the walk the next day.
They hear me recount some of my woeful moments and I’m afraid I fill
them with dread and horror. But I do
assure them the views are worth it. And it’s not really that hard. A few short hours ago, I was struggling to
believe this. Just like childbirth, the
pain and toil can be obliterated once it is all over.
Upon reflection, it was indeed residual fitness and mental
stamina that got me through this. Along
with my team, which now included Nina, who kept me going and ensured I never
walked alone. Cec who waited valiantly
for me many times, recognised that this was indeed a tough assignment and made
sure I was coping all the way. Brett who
came in search of me. Twice. (Those were the only times I saw him!) And Marie whose enthusiasm upon completion of
my mission made me understand the magnitude of what I had done. There is no doubt that Brett and Marie’s
swift pace back to catch the bus certainly took the pressure off, but I doubt
they anticipated it would be so long until I reappeared. Waiting for someone for hours is a gruelling
mission in itself, so even though they loved every moment of the walk, the
waiting was their hardship.
There is no doubt that each team member has a different
story to tell of their time on the mountain. This story is only my perspective.
I was expecting it to be hard, but it was so much tougher
than I ever imagined. Nevertheless, in
line with own philosophy, I took myself beyond my limits and I went beyond my
expectations. I give thanks again to my
team for getting me through it. It’s a
tough walk and I couldn’t have done it without them.
Many years ago, I walked Mt Parnassus, a limestone mountain
in central Greece that towers over Delphi.
The terrain is not dissimilar, the views as vast and barren. It is higher and longer and in those days
only for the intrepid, requiring a guide.
I remember not being highly enthused about this escapade at the time,
but I don’t remember doing it with too much anguish. But that was 25 years ago!
Don’t get me wrong, I love being in the mountains. But there must be snow and a skifield. So, to conclude, here are six reasons why,
for me, skiing the mountains is preferable to walking them.
1. Chairlifts take you uphill. 2. Downhill is swift and
joyful. 3. Food, drink and toilets are on hand and only a ski run away. 4. Lift
queues might be annoying, but they provide enforced resting time for all. Cafes provide another resting
alternative. With wine. 5. Ski patrols provide peace of mind. 6.
Being last off the mountain is all part of the plan rather than something to be
ashamed of – and usually involves a bottle of rosé watching the sunset before
the final run of the day.
Post Script: An
article appeared in the NZ Herald on 4th April 2014 warning hikers not to
underestimate the challenge of the Crossing, or the length of time and level of
fitness required, especially with autumn approaching.
During the month of March 2014 (when I did the Crossing)
there were a number of rescues required.
People were lifted off the mountain by helicopter for a raft of reasons
including collapse, dehydration, exhaustion, asthma attacks and a fractured
ankle. I’m just glad I didn’t really
need that helicopter I so longed for, and called out for often!!! s
Very Important Message Please do not let this story put you
off doing the Crossing but at the same time, do not underestimate the challenge
involved!
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