My Mind Wanders

It’s easy to lose focus, easy to forget the reasons behind what we do.
For some it’s just being there with friends and sharing the
experience, other people do it for the rewards at the end of the day.
Some do it for that feeling of relief when you see the hut or the view
you get by reaching the top of that hill, the hill that made you
question what it is that you’re doing here in the first place.

Nelson Lakes National Park is a place that makes you remember why it
is that you go out in all weather, why you put on a heavy pack then
walk up the steepest hill to get to what you thought was the top only
to find your not even half way up. All those things take a back seat
when viewing the beauty of the deep blue lakes filled by enchanting
streams and majestic rivers flowing though thick green beech forest.
Forests filled with the sounds of Tui, Korimako and the fearless South
Island Robins. When you look above the bush line onto the sea golden
tussocks filled with alpine daisies and giant buttercups, flashes of
red can be seen as the tussock grassland grasshopper jumps from rock
to rock trying to avoid becoming part of someone’s boot.

Beads of sweat roll down into my eyes. A cool wind blows across my
face but gives little relief to the heat this zig-zag track seems to
create. The shoulder straps of my pack dig deep into my shoulders
letting me know that it is going to be there for the next seven days.
It’s times like these where for just a small moment I think that maybe
I should abandon my heavy canvas pack, that I should discard all the
equipment that feels like it’s pulling me back down this mountain.
Perhaps I should join all those people with their light-weight nylon
bags and their weight-less flies, cook with hexamine just so my pack
weighs no more than 12kgs. It’s only for a few seconds that this
thought crosses my mind. I like my pack - it’s bomb proof, it makes me
feel like I’m putting all the load on a trusty old donkey that will
never complain how steep the hills are. This donkey will just keep
going as long as I give it a carrot. There is also something secure
about knowing that my pack isn’t going to burst open every time a
branch brushes against it, to leave a trail of goodies for the next
unsuspecting tramper to find.

No matter how hard this wind blows the mist will not move and I have
to keep reassuring Steve that it will clear and we will see those
amazing views that I promised. It was not hard to convince Steve to
come along for his first South Island tramp. I just had to say it
would be better then the Tararuas and tell him it would be typical
Nelson weather - clear blue sky as far as the eye could see. I chose
to leave out that when I had last done this track in February it had
started snowing and we could only just see our hands in front of our
faces.

Every rock looks the same, this scree seems endless - snaking its way
down the mountain. I can see the top but find little comfort as it gets
closer, because I know when I get to the top I will only have to go
straight back down. That is the name of the game, climb up to the top,
have a look, take a photo, then go back down again, sounds like fun!
Up ahead of me I see Steve, his movements are the same.

Step after step we push on to the top hoping that it will bring relief for aching
calves – it doesn’t. This climb is relentless. Waiau pass at 1800m
gives us a commanding view over Lake Constance and the valley that it
feeds. We can also look onto Thompson pass with it’s lake below and
our next camp. The mountains seem to be laid out at our feet, they
fill me with energy and give me the drive I need to keep going. When
we finally reach Lake Thompson we are able to look back to that
formidable mountain and it is worth that hard work. We reap the
rewards as we set up our tent in this idyllic setting with these grand
foreboding mountains that stand to remind us that we are just a dot on
a page in this vast wilderness.

My mind wanders, easy to do when we have been walking for the last
20km, 10km of that being a bush bash though winter avalanche
territory. We frequently find ourselves clambering over fallen trees
and traversing screes. Only another 10km to go before we get to
Christopher hut, not a walk I’m looking forward to. It will bring us
onto the St James walkway but not before crossing cattle grazed river
flat in a hot Canterbury sun with little wind or shade.

We come to Ada flats, I can see a stand of exotic trees with a few homesteads amongst them.

The homesteads are surrounded by solar powered electric cattle
fences, some of which we must cross. The first fence we come to has
wire on each side of the gate so we have to do a tricky little switch
that doesn’t go too well and ends in both of us getting a bit of a
wake up call. The next two gates require a different strategy to avoid
getting a shock, so we throw the packs over then crawl under. Safe at
last and with Christopher hut in view I can already taste the
dehydrated meal, yum yum!

I hear a car horn, the road must be close. It’s been 7 days since we
left St Arnaud, I could do with a shave, maybe a wash too. Looking
back on my time in the hills I feel I have recaptured my passion for
tramping, I now know why I do it. Why I carry a heavy pack, why I walk
up unrelenting slopes of scree - taking one step forward and two back.
I know what drives me. Do you?