And so it began, the end of a week and the beginning of another adventure - this weekend, Mt. Cook, the tallest peak on the South Island. With ambitions soaring and intentions unknown, we packed Ol' Royale with a weekend's worth of grub and five excited bodies. We traveled down Highway 1 until heading inward toward the Alps where the sun was blinding and the roads were winding, dancing and moving to the rhythm of our favorite tunes until sunset, constantly reminding each other that there was really no other place we'd rather be. When finally close, we could see a faint turquoise glimmer of a glacier-melt lake by the glow of the moon and decided it was time to start looking for a flat, dry place to set up camp until... rain. Wind. A storm decided to blow our way. Well? Keep driving I suppose. We drove until we found a sign pointing right with the words "Lodge" and "Hut". Surrounded by mountains and darkness, we somehow managed to make our way to a little shelter-like place with a few vans parked out front. "I'll go in and check it out". I approached what looked like someone's private mountain lodge, and as I raised my fist to knock a man opened the door. He looked like a typical mountain man; mid 50's, tall, thin, a smoke ring around his long, scraggly, greying beard. He had a cigarette in his hand and looked at me with his gentle yet inquisitive eyes. "Hey there, " I said, "sorry for startling you. I don't know if this is the right place or not, but my friends and I are looking for a dry place with walls and a roof for the night." He directed me to a younger, more clean-cut gentleman whom we later found out is a biology grad student from Germany studying local birds. I explained my situation. He took his left index finger, wiped it on the bathroom door and after examining it said, "Looks pretty dry to me. We've got some beds for ya. A shower, kitchen, and some bunk beds. Just twenty bucks per person, per night. Welcome."
We woke up to sun beams through the dry, crusty window in our bedroom, and our spirits were raised once more after a night of pouring rain and hurling winds. In the main room of the lodge was a larger window facing the mountains blanketed by a large, white glacier. "We couldn't have been luckier," as Carsten (my German flat-mate) kept reminding us all. We cooked up some porridge, packed up our things, stuck our $100 total into the 'honesty box', and headed toward the Department Of Conservation (DOC), where you can get information on the area and register tramps (just in case they have to send out a search-and-rescue team). We spoke with what seemed to be a qualified and experienced DOC representative (and quite attractive she was, might I add) who gave us advice on overnight tramps. We agreed on a tramp to a small, free and public hut called 'Sefton Bivvy'. She also informed us that the glacial melt water was 100% potable - one of the last remaining places on planet earth where you can still drink directly from a stream. We headed out, crossing long and wobbly extension bridges, and after taking a wrong turn, we backtracked until finding the place where we were supposed to take a "vague game track to the left", as our written directions claimed. They were right, 'vague' it was. We really just made our own path through vegetated, rough and rocky terrain with a 'vague' idea of where we were headed. The weather was not ideal this entire time, despite waking up to a seemingly perfect morning, as it was spitting rain and nearly blowing us over with the winds bouncing between the surrounding mountains. We visually located the hut we were supposed to get to on top of a steep peak under a melting glacier - a mere orange dot in the distance. We continued making our own path through rough, and sometimes sharp, vegetation, across dangerous streams, and up a detritus boulder field from the eroding limestone, greywacke, and schists from the Alps. The detritus ranged from fist-sized stones to boulders the size of a small room. It got to the point where we should've come to our senses and turned back because of the instability and slippery texture of the sharp and vast boulder field around us. In fact, the women of the group refused to go on (Women. Just when I thought they were all completely senseless and lacked any rationale), and we sent back the German to go feed them and find them a place to sleep for the night while Ryan and I continued toward the small, humble prize awaiting us atop the cliff. Once we pushed our doubts asided, we began heading up an even steeper and less stable field of boulders. The views were breathtaking, as you can see from the pictures above.
Still unsure of any direction (hut long out of sight) and unable to see any 'obvious bright orange trail markers', we continued upwards, grabbing at anything that looked stable, and barely making our way upwards in the rainy, windy mountainside. We watched as we kicked rocks downwards, bouncing and rolling down the slope and eventually falling off a 100-meter drop to a cold and rocky glacier (sorry mom, remember: I do survive). We continued our ascent, becoming even more doubtful and watching as the sky became ever so dim. We discussed the prospect of turning back, but were too consumed with the thought of actually reaching this physically attractive and dangerously tempting little shelter. We actually heard it shouting our names, "Ryan! Tommy! Come on you couple of pusses! I'm not that far away you damn amateurs! Suck it up and keep on chuggin'!" So we did - until I watched a thin boulder break and slip beneath Ryan's feet, as he fell on his stomach, arms and legs outstretched, gliding down the mountainside until his feet caught some sturdy ground. 'Sh**', I thought. I watched as his hand was quickly painted red. 'Seriously, Sh**. Stay calm. Don't get him excited with an outrageous reaction. First-aid kit? Of course not. Sh**.' My mind racing with unattractive outcomes. "Rinse it out with water," I calmly told him, with which he responded, "Sh**, I definitely need stitches. I feel like I'm gonna pass out," as he picked at tissue and skin. Four letter words became a thick filler in our conversation. I conjured up a couple pairs of socks, tied them together, and wrapped them tightly around his wound while watching him wince in pain and sweat in fear.
The walk back down was worse than the crawl up - mainly because we were constantly reminded with a visual of the cliff toward which we were gravitating, it was getting dark, and well, Ryan was a working-limb short. By the time we found the nice tourist trail, we could see stars piercing the darkness. There wasn't much of a conversation on the way down other than, "Doin' alright?" "Yeah, fine" "How's the hand?" "Hurts. What the hell is that? Thunder?" "No, that's a debris avalanche on the neighboring mountain!" "Sh**!! Keep moving!!"
Despite the circumstances, it was still a beautiful walk down. I'll never forget the moment I looked up and saw the peak of Mt. Cook for the first time (covered by cloud on the way up) shining in all its brilliance and majesty by the remaining light of the tired sun; a gluttonous moon hovering above (top picture). The walk across the long, wavering bridges over the roaring white-water river lit by the now monopolizing light of the moon and buried in the valley of the surrounding ominously dark but white-rimmed mountains are visuals forever etched in my memory. In an attempt to comfort my beaten friend, I reminded him, "Remember when I told you on the bus on the way to Rotorua that if I didn't end up in the hospital in my time spent in New Zealand I'd be disappointed in myself because, well, I wasn't extreme enough? Well, you've succeeded in my book. Enough for the both of us." I think he squeezed out a chuckle.
We made our way to the nearest (and only?) hotel in the area, got some free medical attention along with hot chocolate, constantly running into people claiming, "Sefton Bivvy? Yeah, what a great hike huh?" or, "Oh yeah, Sefton Bivvy! My husband does that hike all the time. He loves it!" Hmm. We went back to the cabin where we had stayed the night before and woke to the same sun beams through the same dry, crusted window. After conversing with the locals we heard a series of bone-chilling stories, such as, "Yeah, an American died on that trail last year" and, "I knew some girl that took that hike alone, fell, and broke her neck. She had to crawl out." (again, sorry mom)
The drive home was the most relaxing ride I've ever had. We stopped at random places; we ate lunch on a turquoise lake, took a break in a secluded valley, jumping out and lying in the sun for a while before heading to the next random stop. I know, what a bunch of hippies.
As for the tramp, we were given the wrong directions and deceiving comfort from the hot DOC lady, as was confirmed by locals. Our luck, go figure. Ryan got six stitches in his hand free of charge from Christchurch Hospital. As for me? Well, I'm done being invincible for a while. It took me a while to fall asleep that night on the top bunk, going over every possible outcome with which the day could've concluded. In the end, I decided, it was probably better that Ryan slit his hand open - we needed that slap in the face to hurl us back to reality. Plus, we got a sweet tour of the the South Island's Search-and-Rescue building while waiting for the paramedic to clean up Ryan's wound.
Beauty is in the EYE of the beholder, not the BODY.
Beauty. I WANT to be there so bad.
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