The Kepler Track: Day 1

The mind says no, the body says go

Me, the most enthusiastic hiker in the world, on the Kepler

This is a story about a meat pie. The most delicious meat pie you can imagine. But we haven’t gotten to that point yet. First, we have to hike.

When my partner, Oli, and I arrived at Te Anau to hike the Kepler Track, I was in a precarious state, digestively speaking. We had essentially flown straight from the hospital in Sydney to New Zealand and then spent a few days making our way via rental car down to Te Anau, which is the closest town to the start of the trail. I felt tender all over, like someone had shaken me in a giant cocktail shaker and then dumped me on the ground. I was afraid of food, but also afraid of not eating enough to sustain me.

I grew up with a Nurse Mom, and so I inherited a very hardline stance on what it means to be truly sick and, therefore, what makes for a valid excuse to quit something (practically nothing). I kept scanning my body, searching for a specific pain or sensation that would explain why I was feeling so fragile, but I found nothing but doubt and fear. I started mentally chanting this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip and you want to do this anytime I felt my brain fogging over with uncertainty, but the positive self-talk wasn’t catching.

The night before the hike, we rented a dismally industrial hotel room and spread all of our camping gear out onto the floor to dry. We’d been sleeping in our tent in campgrounds on the way down the island— between that and the practice hikes everything we had was soaked with the pervasive cool tropical mist that seemed to perpetually hang in the air that week. As Oli dried our things and repacked them, I felt so overwhelmed I could do little more than lie on the floor and watch. We hadn’t managed to book beds in the comfortable huts that dot the Kepler Track until the final night, so we were packing in everything—a tent, sleeping bags, freeze-dried food, a butane burner, pots, bowls, sporks and socks socks and more socks. We had everything we would need and nothing more and yet our packs were still incredibly heavy. We put them on our backs and wandered around the room, long enough to know we could carry them, but not so long that we would get discouraged at the weight.

The next morning, we made our way to the start of the trail. I was feeling increasingly nervous, and Oli had to lure me forward, gently. He pointed out that the first leg of the hike would be easy, flat, and about 5.6km (~3.5m). In the worst-case scenario, we would do this relatively easy hike, spend the night, and then hike back out. I couldn’t argue with that. I strapped on my bag and began to walk.

The further we walked the better I felt. It was a beautiful day—sunny with only the barest hint of mist. We hiked alongside the brilliantly glimmering Broad Bay among tall, straight trees and nodding ferns. We passed no one, and when we arrived at the campsite, there was only one other person there. We placidly set up our tent in the golden late afternoon light. Once we were settled, Oli gently broke the news to me. If we continued, tomorrow’s hike would be 22.8km (~14m) with about 2,215m (~7267.06ft) of elevation gain. On paper, it would take us 9-10 hours, if we didn’t stop much.

I sat beside the sparkling water, reeling. The numbers were almost incomprehensible to me. We had pointedly not talked about the sequencing of this hike—I knew it was four days, but now how the distance would be distributed. Or maybe I did know, at some point, but there, sitting at the edge of what would be the longest hike I’d ever done, the reality of the effort set in. It seemed impossible. Instead of saying anything, I unzipped the tent and crawled inside. Oli poked his head in. We shouldn’t do this if I was feeling this worried. We’d turn back in the morning.

I didn’t feel the relief I’d expected, but I didn’t say anything about that. I stayed in my sleeping bag as dusk began to fall, and then night, my mind looping through the same series of thoughts. I thought about how far I was from home. I thought about how I had spent many high school nights lying in bed in a house in a subdivision in a small southern town wishing for an adventure like this, a life like this. I realized that I had, up until this point in my life, felt like I could rely on my body. I had been a competitive gymnast—mastering my body was everything I knew. I had been a collegiate athlete with a punishing fitness regimen. Pushing past pain and fear was, it seemed like, the main theme of my life this far. Where was all of that now? What had I become? It felt like my brain was spitting sparks.

There was no answer, no matter how much I turned it over in my mind. So I did a thing that I often do when confronted with a decision that seems insurmountable.

I made a deal.

If I sleep all night, I’ll do the hike.

I slept.

---

Next time: the hardest hike of my life: Day 2 on the Kepler Track.

---