Blissful Hiker's friend from Day 1 falls and dislocates her shoulder and another tramper needs rescuing, and she decides to take things slow so as not to fall – and to not rush to the end.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Milonga sin Palabras by Astor Piazzolla as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
Blissful Hiker's friend from Day 1 falls and dislocates her shoulder and another tramper needs rescuing, and she decides to take things slow so as not to fall – and to not rush to the end.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Milonga sin Palabras by Astor Piazzolla as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
The hut is spacious with two separate sleeping areas closed off by doors, plus a large living area with benches and tables and a long metal cooking shelf. No wonder NOBO’s or northbound hikers sung its praises when I passed them, calling it the Hamilton “Hilton” Hut.
We still can’t quite keep the sandflies out, but most of us are pretty tired from the last days. Me too, even after taking a zero. But not too tired to wander up again to Mirror Tarn for a view down on the Harper River, its braids rushing along a wide rocky bed below beech-covered mountains eroding in massive rock piles. No interested in joining me up there, all wanting to just lounge around the hut
The place is full with Kiwi, Dutch, an Englishman and German and this American. They mentioned an odd note left asking for someone to call for emergency help. But the hut was empty, so no one knows what it means. I’m sitting on the porch, eating dinner when a woman walks out of the woods and I smile, saying welcome!
She does not smile back. And that’s when I see her legs shredded and abraded, one knee twice the size of the other and an angry purplish-black. Oh my god. What happened?
She’s French and speaks very little English. She’s the source of the note. A tramper all alone, injured and needing help. But why leave a note? And why leave at all?
Someone sets off the SOS on their GPS and all we can do now is wait for rescue. Marjolein and I make her comfortable on a mattress from one of the bunks and I proceed to wash her legs from dirt and scratches, killing hundreds of sandflies in the process.
With my tiny bit of French, I find out she went away from the hut looking for cell service – oh, mistake number one. You should always stay put and wait for help, especially if there’s a cozy and safe hut where other hikers will come.
She brought no first aid, had no tent and only a little food and water, yet stayed out in the forest all night. Second mistake. Also third and fourth, you should take extra food, water and some rudimentary first aid when out in the wilderness.
And, no one knows she’s here. OK. No sense in making her feel worse. We wash her legs and get her comfortable as we hear a helicopter on its way.
I must say that I have been incredibly lucky on this trail – blessed, gifted, charmed – whatever word you want to use. I feel some power providing for my needs as I navigate the rough and varied terrain that pushes me to my physical limit as well as manage the psychological challenges of taking on something this huge. I rolled my ankle in the first few weeks, but somehow managed to work my way past it and I’m walking just fine. But I haven’t fallen or slipped or hurt myself, just really pushed hard.
Tomaš and Alessio entered this drama right on cue and were true to their word, sticking close by when things got tricky. We made it up to Goat Pass right before the rain came and left us in a white out. It’s only a short day to Arthur’s Pass with some river crossings, so we’ll see how we do getting out of here. Arthur’s Pass – or Harter’s Puss as Alessio calls it – is about 1/3 the way down the New Zealand’s South Island and west of Christchurch in the heart of the southern alps. We had a fabulous day walking up the Deception River to get to this alpine hut. But now it’s right back down in rain gear, the trail, a rock-filled stream with several chicken-wired boardwalks placed over wet areas. It’s easy at first, cruising actually, until the first crossing.
The anticipation turns out to be greater than the reality. Yes, I step on stones with gallons and gallons of water pouring over, fast and furious, but I have the gist of how to step in, balance on the big rocks, and move through.
What does challenge me are the downhill portions over slippery roots and slanting rocks that dive down like a roller coaster. I touch roots like well greased handles and slowly lower myself. Then, I shoot right back uphill trying to make up for my careful stepping as Alex follows, politely allowing me to go first.
The familiar feeling of being a burden returns and I dwell on what Alex will say later, something to the effect of, “Guiding a middle aged lady was not what I signed up for.”
But then I tell myself something a very wise person once told me – what people say about you is none of your business. It’s a funny axiom, that at first seems to mean ‘mind your own affairs,’ but after some contemplation I realize is more about not trying to control people. Just be who you are, act with integrity and let them develop whatever impression they choose.
Alex doesn’t have to walk with me if he doesn’t want to.
We go up and down again, crossing side streams and hopping over boulders sheared off the sides of high mountains, their summits beginning to appear as the sky clears.
Alex and I talk about his work in wineries and free lifestyle, three years away from Florence with no home. He tells me he likes to walk with people and sometimes to walk alone, and is pleased to stick together – ok, whatever. He also tells me can always pick out the American hikers – carrying small backpacks and in such a hurry, they make no time to stop and talk. I feel competitiveness from certain hikers – many of them Americans – but I’d hate to think I’m projecting my own on them or that I’m in a big hurry.
How do I ‘hike my own hike’ and have it be enough for me? I like that I went really far some days on this thru-hike for a variety of reasons like avoiding a group of ten hikers or positioning for good weather. And at least I think I do it for me and not to be the fastest or the strongest middle aged woman on the trail.
We arrive at a boulder strewn river bed, four crossings of the braided Bealey river and then the highway across train tracks.
And just like that, this section ends.
The guys walk the six k’s off trail to Arthur’s Pass where our resupply boxes await pickup and I get a ride with Tom in a vintage Chevy, on his way home from a car show in Christchurch. He wants my pack and sticks in the boot to protect his pristine interior and refuses to take any other riders.
I get to the DOC office and there’s a package for me from Will including a note he’d like me to deliver to his best friend who just happens to live in White Bear Lake, Minnesota plus a cookie and lollies – dispatched immediately – and a card telling me to remember “knowone (sic) has walked a step for you.” Funny that Alex tells me the same thing.
I immediately begin calling motels and hostels for a place to break, but everything is full due to a race – the runners we saw on the Deception River? Probably. I make a call to Steve in Nelson on the off chance he knows someone in the area. Ten minutes later, Jane calls me offering the use of her bach – or cabin – for a few nights.
She graciously allows me to include Alessio and Tomas who saw me through these last days. So after a big meal in town of steak pie, fries and salad, we make ourselves at home in this cozy, comfy 1950’s bungalow with wood stove and a long drop. Music is playing and we cook up eight packages of noodles and wash them down with strong Czech liquor Tom has squirreled away in his resupply. Tomorrow the weatherman promises rain and I will sleep through it on a well earned zero day.
I spend most of my zero cuddled in bed reading while the rain hits the windows sideways. Tomas leaves in the morning and walks right into the rain and I’m certain I’ll never see him again.
Alessio and I close up the bach the following day, pack up and head to the road by 7:00 am to hitch rides – me back to where I left off two days ago since Arthur’s Pass is not on the trail, and Alex to Christchurch where he needs to return to work.
My ride is one of those massive two cargo trucks driven by a guy named Tom of the missing front teeth. He explains that the road was only recently rebuilt. It used to be one lane and truckers needed to radio ahead. Some would forget and then they’d come face to face with another truck and one would have to back up on these narrow, windy roads.
Still, most bridges are one lane and require taking turns. The ride is short, but smooth. When I thank Tom, he gives the usual Kiwi, “That’s alright.” An even more laid back form of ‘no worries.’
I’m alone again walking on the road to begin the next section, one fairly short and reasonably straight forward, the river crossings on this side of the divide will be numerous, but likely not flooded and scary.
The mountains come into view behind me, so I turn around every so often seeing them grow, capped with glaciers. I realize today is January 29 and the beginning of my fourth month walking. I feel an urgency to finish and a nagging insecurity that I can’t keep going. I’m tired and my feet are complaining. I know I need to rest more but have settled for walking fewer kilometers per day. It’s an odd place for me because I want to ‘get there’ but once I do, it’s over. Am I really ready for this to end?
A man with binoculars is parked on the side of the road and I ask him if he’ll take my picture. He obliges and tells me he’s finding rare endemic birds, a tern and black tipped gull I see soaring on the river terrace.
I turn up a country lane that takes me to a track and past Bealey Hut where Marjolein and Floris are packing up. I hoot a hi and they wonder why I’m hiking so early. The trail goes up and up in the forest – native mixed with exotic, dark and cool – it’s steep, but again, reasonably so compared to what I’ve done so far.
Finally, I’m on the tussocky top where the view opens right up, huge mountains down to the sprawling riverbed. Below my feet are tight-to-the-ground plants in deep reds - apparently this color helps them manage the harsh cold. Also, yellow and faded violet flowers along with sand-colored mini mushrooms.
I meet three friendly Kiwis on this saddle who move on quickly while I linger with my mountains before reentering the forest. I stop often, taking in more food and orange drink before reaching a cute A-frame shelter. I could simply sleep right here on this tiny shelf, but I move on hoping my feet hold up.
I cross the river over and over and then a massive land slip like a rock avalanche, dirt and rock pouring into the forest and stream. It’s very careful stepping here as I dislodge rocks that crash below me. At a tiny shelter, I see that Amelia from day 1 dislocated her shoulder and was evacuated. But she is already back on the trail a day ahead of me.
Eventually a bridge takes me across to the ‘Hamilton Hilton’ a lovely, sprawling hut where I arrive in time for a first story bunk. The ambience is super relaxed – the Kiwis, two Dutch and an Englishman plus Jill from the other night and a German who calls himself the ‘cheese man.’
I cook a late lunch and we talk about the state of the trail, English Adam saying he prefers the tough challenge to maintained trail. For me it’s a matter of degree. Challenge is great, but poorly designed trail is another. Would Amelia have taken such a fall on a US trail? I’d love to know the statistics. We leave it unresolved as I take a short side trip up to Mirror Tarn.
From here, the view is superb down the valley and I sit for a long time above the Harper river, the bridge far below at the bottom right edge of a ‘C’ of land pushing out like a snout from the mountain. Likely it’s an ancient slip now covered with trees and forcing the river to bend to its will and around it.
The river floor is gray braids, though only one stream comes through, with evidence of others so impatient to be first, they dug their own channels last spring. Now only an indentation remains. I turn my head and the fizzy roar changes timbre. Stones give way to tawny meadow, a few tree pioneers staking their lonely claim.
Except for draped sheets of faded grass on the slopes, the mountains look like enormous piles of gravel exfoliating in V-shaped sifts, stained black and red. Mirror tarn is an algae rich pond, but lovely in its stillness, seemingly pondering what towers above her. The sky is gray except for a strip of baby blue, the trail here is steep and also eroding, sand and rocks washed away. One false step and I’ll tumble hundreds of feet.
Which is exactly what happened to the poor French woman. Badly shaken and crying, she doesn’t have a head or spine injury and nothing appears broken. Her name is Lorraine and she thanks me over and over for taking care of her. The helicopter comes quickly, first landing below near the river, then maneuvering up next to the hut so she doesn’t have far to go. It’s strange that she didn’t stay in the hut since it’s high season and there will always be people coming and going. Maybe she thought it was private or off limits to her. Odd.
The others watch the helicopter lift then lean over and turn away, the blades whipping the air like a tornado. They’re oddly detached. They appear to blame her for her predicament. I agree, she did not make great choices, but that could have happened to any of us and I identify with her traveling alone, not always sure how things work or what to do when there’s a problem. That’s especially difficult if you don’t know the language.
After they go, we settle into the evening. A jigsaw puzzle is found and a few begin turning over the pieces and building the frame. I like the relaxed nature of this crowd, so different from the previous days. Floris tells me they hardly plan each day, so tend to miss the weather windows whereas I push hard to get them and thus walk up rivers and over passes that they missed. He’s more sanguine than I, telling me those that go fast just get it over with faster.
There’s a good point for these coming weeks, to take time and enjoy because before I know it, I’ll be done. And I’m not quite ready to be done yet – and most definitely, I’m not willing to go so fast I fall.