I save Middle Earth
I got up at 6:30 this morning with only a vague idea of what I was in for today. I knew I had come here to the National Park in the center of New Zealand’s North Island to climb Mt. Ngauruhoe (better known as Mt. Doom, from the Lord of the Rings movies), but that did nothing to prepare me for what I was about to do. It’s a little like knowing you’re going on a rollercoaster ride doesn’t help disuade the butterflies in your stomach at that first drop.
The bus to the start of the “walk” (New Zealand speak for strenous, exhausting hike) was full of people from mountainous Alpine nations such as Germany and Switzerland (and some Canadians, I think) wearing various fleece sweaters and vests, zip-off polyester/cotton blend Ultra-Dri pants, wolly socks, and proper hiking boots. Some of them even had those German style hiking poles and Camelbak water-filled backpacks. I tried not to think about my cotton t-shirt, cotton hoodie, jeans, and summer trainers that I found myself wearing as a bad sign. Or possibly the clothes I could be found dead in.
The walk was meant to take 7 hours straight through the Tongariro crossing, and if we wanted to climb Mt. Ngauruhoe (and no, I don’t know how to pronounce it), we would need to be aware that it took an extra 2.5-3 hours round trip. If this is what we intended to do, we were told, we should be sure that we were fit, agile, and able. Because the bus leaves at 4:30 from the other side, and he doesn’t like to wait. “So be sure,” the bus driver was telling us, “that you’re at the __________ by 2:30, because it’s a good two hours from there to the car park.”
We got off the bus and began our walk at 8:30, and I power walked the first hour at a rapid pace because I knew I needed to be ahead of the 7 hour pace if I wanted to climb the volcano. And that was, after all, the reason I was here. It was an easy, flat trail. Some of it a boardwalk to keep us from treading on the vegitation or slipping into the sharp volcanic rocks. Easy enough.
But after that first hour, things got tougher. And slower. Suddenly we were going up. The path seemed nearly vertical. I instantly lost any momentum, and a good amount of my drive. And soon after that, I began to worry about losing my heart when it beat right out of my chest. I was gasping for air and drinking my water faster than I should have been. But I managed to press through when I remembered a guy in my hostel last night telling me that this was the hardest part. Besides, I couldn’t stop now, I still had a mountain to climb! And I wasn't even up to the base of the mountain yet where my climb would start from.
I reached the saddle at 10:00 where I sat down and had a banana, a meusli bar, and some water while I contemplated the climb ahead. I knew I was going to try it. This is Mt. Doom. The same Mt. Doom that Frodo and Sam climbed up to throw The One Ring into the Fires of Mordor from whence it came, thereby saving Middle Earth from the rule of Evil-doing Sauron. And by God, if Hobbits can do it, so can I!
The side trek up the mountain was rated at 3 hours round trip. And those posted times are usually pretty generous, I’ve found. Since it was only 10:00, I had loads of time and began my ascent at the back of the line of other brave souls who had decided to take on the challenge as well. There was that one nut who started behind me, but ran (RAN) to the front of the line and then kept on running! I decided he was just a loon who wanted to be the first one to the top. I put no such pressure on myself, and was content making my own pace, keeping an eye on the time, and trying not to fall too far behind the other climbers.
It was like climbing up a really steep sand dune covered in sharp, jagged gravel. Two steps up, slide back one. After almost 45 minutes the guys I had been following at a distance realized that we were all on the wrong path. We had all been trying to climb up the soft, ashy side of the downhill route, instead of going up the solid rock formations to the left that would have eliminated the 2 up 1 down issue. They gave up at that point and headed back down the mountain, pointing me in the right direction as we passed.
Climbing the rocks was more efficient, but it seemed to be even more exhausting. I stopped every few hundred feet of elevation to drink some water and think about whether or not I wanted to continue. Something kept me going. Something drove me to climb on through the thin air at cloud level, gasping for breath, hamstrings burning. I kept climbing. Perhaps it was the knowledge of my Grandfather’s failing health, and understanding that at any minute he could be taking his final breath that drove me. That somehow my making it to the top would keep him alive for just a little while longer. Maybe it was the constantly changing scenery, the ever changing terrain, the view of the valley that got better and better the higher I climbed. Or maybe it was simply that I kept getting closer and I didn’t want to quit before making it to the top. I had seen a few people turn around at the halfway point (in addition to the 3 Finnish guys I was following) and as they passed me on the way down, I thought to myself “Ha! Quitters!” I gave no thought to the fact that almost every one of them suggested that if I planned to go all the way to the summit, I should really hurry up. I checked the time again, and was still well within the time I thought I needed to get back down by 2:30.
I climbed on. Hobbits, my Grandfather, and my own stubborn determination on my mind. After almost 1 Kilometer of vertical elevation, I reached the top at 11:45 where I sat down and drank nearly half of my water before admiring the view, eating my lunch, taking a few snapshots, and meeting Kevin, who had arrived a few minutes ahead of me. The clouds enclosing the summit of the volcano took away a small bit of the grandeur of the view, in fact, there was no view through the clouds, but sitting on the rim of a volcano staring down into a 100 meter crater filled with rock and ice is pretty spectacular nonetheless. The clouds cleared long enough for us to enjoy a multi-mile view before a new cloudbank closed in on us again.
I will admit that I spent a few moments replaying in my mind the epic Frodo/Golum battle that led to the destruction of The One Ring. I could have saved Middle Earth if I had been around. After all, I made it to the top of Mt. Doom, didn't I?
I spent about 20-30 minutes on the lip of the crater before deciding it was time to head down and move on. But not before I investigated a small area of thremal activity on the other side of another saddle. Steam shooting out of the rocks like a subway vent in New York City. But this steam was hot, and smelled like sulfer. I guess. Though it occurs to me as I write this that I'm not really sure what sulfer actually smells like, except that people tell me that thermal steam smells like sulfer. I've been told that rotten eggs smell like sulfer, too. But the steam didn't smell like rotten eggs. So was it sulfer that I smelled? Whatever it smelled like, it pushed it’s way out of the rocks with such force that you could actually hear it rush through the opening.
Kevin took advantage of my investigation to get a head start down the hill, as he had a gimpy ankle. He had twisted it stepping off the sidewalk about a month before. But ankles can take a long time to heal. I caught up with him soon enough, and we decided that it would be safer for him to slide down the volcano on his bum instead of running/sliding down the soft ash rock as I was. I probably could have made it down in about 20 minutes if I had held up my pace, but as I had plenty of time and didn’t want to leave Kevin alone in case he rolled his ankle, we took our time and took turns taking photos and videos of each other sliding down the hill and just having fun. When we reached the bottom, it was 1:30. An hour ahead of schedule.
I found it a little odd that there was no on else in sight, but took advantage of the empty landscape to shoot a few uncluttered photos before heading towards what we thought was the last rise, over which we would be able to at least see the car park. At the top of that rise, however, there was no car park in site. In fact, the path turned left, and continued up. Now we began to get worried.
At the next summit, we met a pair of Canadian “walkers” who were studying their guide book and gently informed us that we still had 5 hours to go to reach the car park, according to their map. SHIT! It was 2:00. That gave us 2.5 hours to travel 5 hours of distance. That's when I heard the bus driver's voice in my head: . “So be sure that you’re ready to leave the second hut by 2:30, because it’s a good two hours from there to the car park.” The second hut was about 2.5 to 3 hours away. It seemed hopeless, until we realized how generous the signposts and time windows given usually are. We figured all we had to do was double the pace of a typical walker. Remember those “typical” walkers from the bus? The ones in their fleeces, and their high-tech fabrics? We had some running to do.
So we ran. And we ran. Across volcanic craters, down zig-zag trails of dirt and wood, up hills, down stairs. I felt like an Olympian. We stopped occasionally for water and bananas, but it didn’t seem like that would possibly give me enough energy. I haven’t run that far since my freshman year of college over (gulp!) 10 years ago! I’ve been on antibiotics for 5 days, and decongestants for 10 days before that to fight off a flu-turned-infection that I picked up in a not-so-sanitary hostel dorm in Australia. All of this should have kept me from trotting for more than 10 or 20 minutes. But we ran on. We ran for two and a half hours. Over uneven terrain and through rivers and grass, we ran on like a couple of amateur cross country runners in a Nike commercial. We started passing more and more people, but no one from our bus. And the people coming the other way weren't very helpful at telling us how far we had left to go. And they weren't terribly good at getting out of the way either. So all we could do was run. From volcanic peak, to volcanic crater, up to the volcanic lake, through the second hut (where we paused briefly to catch our breath), down rolling hills, through the rain forest...and suddenly the trees parted, and we came into the car park at 4:29 exactly. People were sitting around the exit of the trail, relaxing from their leiseurly walk. A few people started clapping when we came out of the forest, but I think it was for the woman in front of us who may have been in their tour group.
We were tired, exhausted, legs like Jell-O, feet sore, vision blurry and double, mouths dry and sticky, with smiles on our faces. And we had made it. 5 hours of distance covered in 2.5 hours. I’m sure the views were stunning. I’m sure the thrill of walking for 7 hours in proper hiking boots, and ultra dri clothes is fantastic. But I was so high on the adreneline of running for 2.5 hours in my trainers, jeans, and hoodie sweatshirt that I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Kevin decided that we surely must have set some sort of record. I just couldn't stop grinning and chuckling as I wondered how long it would be before the lactic acid in my legs began to stiffen and I wouldn't be able to walk. And as it turns out, we had actually managed to pass two other people from our group along the path. They didn't make it back in time and the bus left without them.
That night we celebrated with a few beers. My first in 15 days, because of the antibiotics. We couldn’t really move, so sitting at the quiet bar and drinking with my new friend was a perfect way to end the day.
The next day, I learned that my Grandfather had passed away two days before my climb up Mt. Doom. And I no longer wonder where I got the energy to summit the volcano and the run for two and a half hours to reach the carpark in time.
When travelling for a length of time, it's easier to avoid getting homsick if you keep telling yourself that things at home don't really change that much. Your friends will still be your friends. Most of those friends will still have the same jobs. Some will have the same girlfriends or boyfriends. But most importantly, your family will still be there. Because family is always there for you. My family has always been there for me.
When we lose a member of the preceding generation, each of us grows up a little. We hope that what they've taught us is enough. We hope we've listened to everything they've tried to teach us. We hope we are ready. We hope we've told them everything we meant to. And we hope they were happy while they were here. And we hope that we did enough to repay all the wonderful things they've done for us.
Because I’m out of the country for the services, all I can do is dedicate my climb to Bob. Thanks for the love, the laughs, and the energy to make it to the bus on time. You will be missed.
Props to my Peeps, and Peace on the Mothership,
Chris
"What's the most important rule in Comedy?" Grandfather asked me one day, when I was about 10.
"I don't know, what's the most import..."
"TIMING!"