The seas of change forever churning. A plea for this world only dimly burning. I ache to move beyond ideas, to exist, as existence is being experienced.
And so we find our heroes, adrift in the midst of an April slumber, awaiting the return of star-crossed travelers (there is little here to offer misguided lovers).
The moment soon came. It was one that had been tediously prepared after pouring over maps, guide books, native expertise. The route was smart and long. And at the end of the trail, the holiday would be complete. Such it had been and such it was.
April 13 - April 21. Eight days. The task of covering the south island. Daunting? No. Inviting, perhaps. Certainly. The weather? Constantly concerning. The push, the departure, you ask? Innocent and unsure, yet there it was in the early morning on that brisk April day.
Filling the car to capacity (five individuals, five camping packs, two tents, and an assortment of food carelessly stuffed into plastic grocery bags), the road south was located and engaged, carrying all towards the first destination.
Mt. Cook National Park, in answer to the question regarding the identity of said location. Situated about 325 kilometers from Christchurch, it required the utmost patience as excitement bubbled forth from the vehicle's inhabitants.
Winding along an assortment of vibrantly desolate state highways, the mood was that of tense anticipation. The experience was fresh and the journey still in its infancy. The honeymoon period, if you'd be so kind as to allow. Some read, others joked, slept, stared off aimlessly. Oh, to spend four hours in restless expectation? The air may just burst.
Soon enough, though, all eyes were directed on the scene unfolding beyond the glass of the window. Mt. Cook, the highest peak in New Zealand, sits at 3754 meters, or just below 12,500 feet. But given the nature of cloud coverage surrounding the mountain, catching an unobstructed glimpse of its grandeur was something of a rarity.
Elsewhere in the park, near the tiny shelter in which we huddled throughout the rainy and windy night, long stretches of grasslands made for a pleasant contrast to the massive peaks looming with a mere turn of the head.
For a brief moment it appeared the clouds would disperse, giving us sight of the spectacle we sought.
It was not to be. Below is the clearest image of Mt. Cook managed to be captured on this first night.
Frustrated by the uncooperative weather, refuge was taken in the shelter, as card games and cooked noodles provided a brief respite from the minor disappointment dealt on this day.
The following morning left little time in flashing its potential. Quickly packing belongings and escaping the confines of the small shelter, the red glow of the young sun had already begun to slowly creep above the hillside.
There is much that can be said about an afternoon sky riddled with meddlesome clouds. A sunrise viewed in the distant mountains, however, leaves one with fewer words readily available.
It was then that the goal attempting to achieved in this national park was finally turned to. The hike to Mueller Hut, barely more than 100 meters below the summit of Mt. Olivier, was a route that had compelled many visitors of New Zealand to seek it out, and this occasion was no different.
A steep, stair-like ascent followed along a rocky path, offering views of the surrounding Mt. Cook area as travelers steadily rose. In one direction lay open fields and expanses of wild grass, stretching and weaving along the finality of the mountain range that was its border.
In the other, snow-capped peaks and clouds obscuring their grand potential, among them the beast itself, Mt. Cook.
As the elevation changed rapidly - and that it did, as Mueller Hut was reached in three hours, more or less - the impressions created by the scenery were deep. Time was not necessarily spent in catch breath during the frequent breaks, but more in marveling, in gawking. The wind whipped, startling in its power. But stare on! How can one not, overcome with awe?
To immortalize in words is one thing, an image, but another. The former, I would argue, is always the most powerful, shifting its shape and living forever in the reader, if done correctly. An image, however, is a unique breed. A blend of art and stark reality, the power of visualization is one that cannot be overstated.
I only wish my musings could deliver justice to such a worthy subject. Their lackluster nature cannot stand, not in this instance. The route, as I've said, was harsh to the legs and those lacking the necessary endurance, but it is rather irrelevant. I'm left with the images, etched in time, entombed, in some form, within my brain.
Reaching a once distant ridge, the stroll to Mueller Hut would completed in less than an hour. But how the conditions change on such an elevated ridge! Knowing the weather would be inclement, with expected wind gusts hovering around 90 kilometers per hour, the severity of standing exposed, 1800 meters above the sea, hit with a surprising jolt.
The wind - oh! - that wind. 100 km/h, most likely more. Walking in a crouched position, trying to stay as low to the ground as possible. A burst! A gust! Low, low, must stay low. The opposite side of the ridge, coated in snow, a glacier hanging, as if suspended in the air.
But how long we admired every view we discovered! Stepping lightly and struggling to offset the weight of the packs to find balance, this moment was clutched for as long as it could be withstood.
A lull in the driving wind resulted in only a somewhat deafening experience. A periodic outburst left one driving to the ground, clutching to a rock, blind to anything but the explosion taking place within the ears. Tread softly, friends, be still. Move quickly and definitively when the gale momentarily recedes. Strength, smarts; it mattered little.
I hear the wind still, when I close my eyes and meditate on this day. I do not know if it will ever cease to blow.
Here, again, I find that my diction allows me only to do so much. It does not yield complete justice, but then again, there is little that can.
The walk along the ridge eventually began. Slow was the pace, as the elements sought to remind all of their feebleness when matched against such an opponent.
A flat scramble for a kilometer or so, the rocks had grown to become boulders. Struggling to scale them as the wind tried desperately to hurl the trespassers to their deaths, tensions eased as Mueller Hut appeared as a blip on the horizon.
And was finally reached.
No sooner had we arrived, dark clouds swallowed what little light was left in the sky. Visibility dropped substantially. Freezing rain and hail slammed into the side of the hut from a horizontal angle. They say timing is everything...
The night was spent fighting to stay warm, as Mueller Hut is absent a fire pit or any other type of heating device. Sleeping bags were lounged in. Hot water was drank recklessly. Fire blankets were draped across shoulders as scarves.
Time was passed through methods similar to any other downtime throughout the trip; wandering inside a novel or silently engaged in a card game.
As the weary hikers climbed into their respective bunks for the evening, the howling coming from just beyond those seemingly paper walls of the hut screamed to us all. Waking up in the dead of the night, the groaning wind continued. Listening hard enough, and allowing romantic notions that come as a result of the lonely locale, one would begin to hear voices, whispers permeating through the air. Indulge too long and you may grow hysterical. Stay too short and you would only wonder.
In the morning, the weather had not improved. The same icy, gray nothingness continued to exist out every window. Sleet and ice cakeed the hut. Plans for travel were put on hold.
Amusing ourselves, a poker game was arranged, with puzzle pieces being the only chips to be found. Five men played, but only one would win. The first to lose received 4 minutes, the second just three, and so forth. Minutes, you ask?
Minutes to be endured outside, in the elements, you see.
As to the outcome, I will say only this: your humble author - ahem - would not fit well with the label of a gambling man. Do not weep for me; others chose to laugh.
By midday it was evident that the weather would only deteriorate further. Understanding that the shelter of Mueller Hut would have to be deserted if the safety and comfort offered beyond the mountain were to ever again be enjoyed, preparations were made in earnest.
Futile and foolish were the efforts of these five friends as they hesitantly flung themselves out the door and into the fury that awaited them.
That wind...
It was a mad scramble. Sleet stung the eyes and the picturesque scene that had existed only 24 hours before was now replaced with walls of gray and a wind-blown hell, tossing all as if they were nothing more than feathers caught in a summer breeze.
The ridge, the ridge. Just reach that ridge and drop down one hundred, two hundred meters. Escape the insanity that was the wind. Must move, focus. Keep moving. Have to keep moving.
Throwing our bodies back below the side of the mountain, the path down was attained. The gusts became more and more infrequent. The sleet ceased. Sunlight began to creep out from behind the clouds. Amazement at how quickly conditions change when on a mountain confronted us in glorious fashion.
At the base of the trail, exhausted and wet, soggy clothing was stripped. Food was inserted into the mouth and chewed mechanically, laboriously. Exhaustion had set in. Memories began to blur. Reflection began.
Soon packs were repacked and loaded into the car. Two days and three nights in Mt. Cook National Park. Moving on always means moving on.
At the start of the journey to Queenstown, several kilometers beyond the border of the park we had just left, the car was stopped, halted by the shores of Lake Pukaki. There it was as if we had traveled to another world, far from the brutal elements existing nearly 2000 meters above the ground. The water was so blue it seemed out place, though it was matched by the clear sky that was reflected above. Sunlight beat down in steady waves, warming tired bodies and provided much needed energy to push forward towards the next leg of the journey.
Mt. Cook is real. And though I know exactly what we did and what we accomplished over those three days, I find myself feeling detached. Feeble man and his idle plight. It is truly nothing. To sit and write, it is meaningless. To remember is to deceive thyself.
I am not moved by words, nor by images.
To experience, that is all.
"Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada."
-Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place
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