Stop thinking and climb
We were mere minutes into the hike when we got passed. That’s what it felt like, anyway. It could’ve been an hour in, or two, or three. When you look back on a hike that took 14 hours, it’s impossible to be accurate about time, which constricts and stretches depending on the terrain. This first part of Day 2 on the Kepler Track began with a relentless uphill climb, which is to say, time stood still.
The man who passed didn’t help with that. He was walking at a tremendous pace, one that we heard before we saw. We’d spent half a day hiking into the first camping spot yesterday and I hadn’t seen him there, which meant he’d hiked the entire first leg of the trail that morning and still had the energy to pass us. “Don’t worry,” my partner said from somewhere behind my distended, overstuffed pack. “He’s Kiwi.”
Many years ago, I decided I would make a solid effort to understand running. Someone once told me that a person should work twice as hard at the things they’re not good at, and I’ve been regularly punishing myself with impossible tasks ever since. I both hated running and was supremely bad at it, so I had no choice but to sign up for a 5k with six months to train. I downloaded the “Couch to 5k” app and started to run (and walk and run again) everywhere. I ran (and walked and ran) to the beach, I ran home from work, I ran endless loops around Centennial Park, and while I never became a fleet-footed marathoner, I was able to tap into that flow state that makes running enjoyable. You know, the part where you stop thinking.
It had taken me a lot of mental gymnastics to get to this point of the Kepler Track. I’d been sick and wasn’t sure my body could take the rigors of a hike, much less a day as daunting as the one we were slowly, painfully climbing our way through. Unsurprisingly, the first part of this hike was rife with overthinking spliced with regret. Then, the mental gymnastics began—I went through all the ways I could’ve avoided being here, on this trail, but didn’t. I went through all the things I’d do as soon as I was finished (namely, never hike again)—desperate thoughts.
But then, with no warning, came silence. I stopped thinking, and it was just motion and breath. Time slipped past.
Views of the imagination
By the time we reached the top of the climb, it was lunchtime and I had entirely forgotten about my stomach troubles and my fear of weakness. This is not to say I was feeling triumphant—I wasn’t. I was feeling angry at no one and nothing in particular. The kind of anger that is your body’s not-so-subtle signal that it’s time for a break, and, luckily, we were not far from the first hut. As soon as we’d left the tree line the fog that had been gently hanging in the forest pressed in close around us. Visibility was close to zero, and I refused to let my guard down (surely another climb was coming up) until the hut suddenly came into focus among the clouds.
It was a surprisingly modern-looking structure with two buildings set at right angles to each other, surrounded by a deck on stilts that indicated that it might face a mighty view—one that was merely a shifting wall of white for now. Inside, there were a handful of people scattered around a large, open room lined with picnic tables. We chose one, slipped our packs from our backs, and sat down, neither of us talking. We also ate our lunch in silence and drank our tea. I was aware of my partner closely watching me, monitoring me. I gave away nothing. There was no reason to—there was no turning back.
Though we had no excuse to linger—nothing to look at, no one looking at us in a friendly or curious manner—both of us held back on drinking the final sips of our tea. Then, the door opened, and a young couple walked in that caught everyone’s attention. The guy had on a large, top-heavy hiking bag, and the girl had just a school bag in the rough shape of a Jansport. They were wearing jeans and sweatshirts, which stood out among the hiking pants and fleeces in the room, but, more notably, one was wearing flimsy sneakers, and the other was wearing flip-flops.
I’ll admit: I stared. They set their packs down and began pulling out full-sized pots and pans to cook their lunch. I looked at our specialized, lightweight camping dishes that were capable of packing down into a single cylinder only slightly wider than a coffee mug. Our technical gear, our rain-resistant outer shells, and hiking boots embossed with the Gore-tex logo. It had taken so much for me to get here, and they had somehow made it on so little. It was time to go.
There would only be one more passing shortly after we set off from the hut. This time, we were passed at a dead sprint by two children who appeared to be somewhere around 7-10 years old. Their parents were close behind, practically jogging. None of them were carrying heavy packs, and they hadn’t bothered to stop at the hut. I didn’t want to be insulted by that crew, but their sheer speed was a slap in the face. Little did I know I’d think of that family all of the time in my mid-thirties. That little group, joyfully and speedily hiking in the peaks of New Zealand together, would one day become a touchstone of what I wanted for myself and my family.
It can’t be much further
We hiked along the top of the Kepler Track, occasionally getting glimpses of fjords far below, but only for a moment before the clouds encircled us once again. It was like running on a treadmill without being able to see how long you’d been running or how fast or how far. Some portions of the trail dropped away on either side, and that was a little pick me up. It’s impossible to hike along a ridgeline and not feel powerful.
This part of the hike seemed to pass incredibly quickly, punctuated by a stop for a snack and a break from our packs at a lean-to that was presided over by an erratic-acting kea bird. The bird came close, exhibiting body language I would’ve called aggressive in a chicken or a goose, but I welcomed it in this incredible creature. He had clearly been fed by passing campers and was expecting us to pay the food tax. When I didn’t, he wandered away into the mist.
Soon after, we began our descent and, to my absolute horror and surprise, the most challenging part of the hike by far. During this relentless descent, time not only stopped but began to stretch to the point of breaking. At this point, the hike began to be measured in steps—each one so painful it felt like all of the cartilage was gone from my knees. As I walked, peering at the dimming path in the thickening forest, I couldn’t shake an x-ray-like image, transposed over my sight, of my femur and my tibia grinding each other into dust within my leg. More than once, I pulled over to the side of the path and said I couldn’t go on. “You have to,” Oli said. “It can’t be much further.”
It was much further, so much further than either of us could’ve even guessed. The light left the sky, and still, we wound down, down, down. My legs no longer seemed to be functional—I was moving entirely from my hips, and wherever my feet landed was none of my business. The trees pressed close now, and the mosses and the ferns. The desperate thoughts crowded my mind, refusing to dissipate. The pain kept them close by.
When we did eventually reach the campsite for the night, it was pouring rain. Despite the pain, the hunger, and the almost manic urge to get dry, I dimly realized I definitely wasn’t sick, and I had definitely done the most challenging part of the hike. I crawled into the tent, took one of the pain pills the excellent Sydney doctor had given me for my stomach, and got inside my sleeping bag. Warm and dry and overly medicated, I distantly heard Oli zip the tent closed and open the mini-bottle of whiskey he’d been talking about drinking for the last four hours.
I smiled in the dark. I was deeply, peacefully proud.
Next time: day 3/4, and the unraveling of a partnership
Love it, of course! Oli sounds like my dad, who always said it was “just a little further” when it was at least a couple miles. The stories of the “passers” made me think of Korea, where I lived for six of the past seven years. Hiking is huge there. And every time I went, there were always ahjussis and ahjummas (men and women of a certain age) steaming past, even on the steepest parts of the climb. To be past by someone thirty years older than you--and maybe even crowds of them--is humbling, to say the least. But also inspiring. Not only could they do that, they always looked like they were having a blast, playing music on their phones and stopping for selfies. Best lives, without a doubt!
Phew... I was exhausted reading your exhaustion. 😓😰