Kepler
Sing to me, folly, of men clothed only in glory and misery, of fleet-footed Frenchmen and ancient men in floppy billed hats, of wind-washed Kepler Pass and why you should always bring a coat on a multi-day hike, particularly in the rainiest part of New Zealand, particularly particularly if your hike involves an alpine pass.
Okay, so the Kepler Track was my first Great Walk. Theoretically Rakiura, which I also did, is also a Great Walk but it's not really up to snuff as far as multi-day hikes goes; the woman at the DOC center for Rakiura told me all the other hikes I was planning to do were more enjoyable than the one I was buying passes for her from, which doesn't exactly demonstrate overblown local pride in thier offerings. Also she told me that she was a dirty, dirty girl, which was - FREAKY! - in no small part because she was 60 years old. Yes, I am planning on coming back in two days. No, I will not spank you. You know the drill.
So this being my first Great Walk, and reportedly easier than the track I had just done, I was feeling pretty confident. One might say overly confident. One might say retarded. The morning I left I misjudged when the DOC office opened, so instead of waiting around until 8:30 am and purchasing a survival pack - a liner for your tramping backpack to keep things dry - and checking the weather, I set off. It was kind of cloudy.
The first day's walk is only signposted as 6hrs, which means it takes about 4. This proved the case. You go up 1100 meters the first day, which is fairly intense, but the trail is as gradual as it could be - you do all of it by zigzagging up the mountain, so you're never really going full bore, at least not if your calves are rock hard - mine are. Seriously, you should touch them. They're like twitchy granite, with hair. Not too much hair. But enough so you get the idea: hair.
On the way up I passed all these old people, sixty or seventy year old couples taking breaks midway up the switchback. It was sweet, actually, seeing these guys still going strong, without being in nursing homes or dead. The sweet part, to get into specifics, was blowing past them and waving my in-its-prime ass in their wrinkly faces.
About 30 minutes from the first hut, you get above the treelines, which is always an interesting moment in a hike, as you realize the extent to which you forgot to Pack a coat when the wind starts knocking you about. There was a front - the first of three I would walk through - blowing in from the ocean. As it was explained to us that night at the hut meeting - weather systems blow past South America, past Africa, just barely under Australia, and then run right smack into the west coast of New Zealand. You can see the alpine shrubs, dry, scrubby tussocks of grass, as the wind blows through them, which means you can anticipate when an especially strong gust is going to hit you. When the hut warden told us about this, he smiled, and said we could use this natural warning system to tell when to crouch down and grab the track surface to avoid being knocked off the saddle, or ridge between mountain peaks. People laughed when he said this, assuming he was exaggerating humorously. Instead, he was exaggerating assholishly, which wasn't really his fault: he was a big asshole.
So I the rain kicks in really hard as I leave the hut the next morning, and the wind is pretty bad, but I'm not too worried. I pop out my poncho, and figure I can take the cold. The poncho took about fifteen minutes to rip, at which point I used it to wrap up everything in my pack except for my sleeping bag, which is in it's little sleeping bag holder at the bottom of the pack, and I keep walking. Let me stress something: these were pretty bad conditions to be taking the Kepler saddle, as the views were obscured for much of the way for fog, and the fog only lifted when it was blown off the mountaing by - I'm not exagerrating, assholishly or otherwise - 95 km winds. That said, it was really, really spectacular. With the exception of the unreal over-the-clouds view I had on the Hump Ridge Track, this was the most amazing I views I had seen - it was topped two days later by the Milford Rd., but not by much. The whole region - Fiordland - is glacially formed, which in this case means there were lots of crags and grooves in the rocks, which meant, in heavy rain conditions (it started raining the night before) that there literally dozens of waterfalls in sight along the way, all with these ridiculous 200 meters at a time drops from rocky outcropping to another. You couldn't so much do the tussock-watching trick, as even when a big gust wasn't coming there was enough wind to keep all the alpine vegetation aquiver - I just used tussock and aquiver in one sentence, immediately; you're welcome - but there are these small alpine lakes (called tarns) dotting the landscape below you as you walk, and you can see lines of rain ripping through them - the best I can approximate that verbally is like seeing a huge shape passing over very quickly, reflected in the water. For those of you who are huge geeks, alpine Fiordland looks alot like that part of Fellowship of the Ring where they're walking up to the icy pass where they have to turn back, with the cool rock formations on the horizon and the impossible cloud formations. So, in any case, 95 kph winds, deteriorating track conditions, knife-like rain, no coat, no gloves, bupkis.
Take a moment to picture me. Not me on the mountain, just me as you last saw me. Remember how much I reminded you of a pillow? Cool, we're on the same page.
After walking up 300 more meters to the peak of Mt. Luxmoore, you hit the first emergency shelter, designed for exactly these circumstances. I stopped for a few minutes, then went on. At this point the rain was bothering me more than the wind, as it was hitting my face as if it were little pieces of ice and slicking down the track, which at this point is mostly gravel. The 2hr. stretch between the first emergency shelter and the second was a little worse, the track conditions are worse and you start hitting ridgeline, so when the wind hits you, even though it's not really strong enough to knock you over, it veers you a little bit to the left or right in midstride, so you have to be very deliberate in your steps to avoid stepping off the track, or onto the side of the track which is slipping away with the rain, and possibly sliding a way down the saddle side.
Do you like your pillow? I like my pillow. It's soft and is a place for me to put my head when I am sleepy.
It wasn't until I stopped at the second shelter at about 11am, where two German people were attempting to walk another 9hrs back to the start of the track as soon as one of them stopped shaking too much to put on his gloves, that I realized how cold I was. I was cold, because I HAD FORGOTTEN TO PACK A COAT. Or waterproof pants. I was wearing shorts and a lightweight hiking shirt designed to repel sweat, but not steady rain for seven hours. I had trouble eating some of the peanuts I had brought along - for some reason I only packed some peanuts to eat, which is a different story, and I had some trouble getting my fingers to do the thing you do to make them pick up small things and carry said small things into your mouth. I haven't felt that clumsy since I learned to use chopsticks, which is to say, never.
Then I walked down 1200 meters to the Iris Burn Hut, which is well below treeline so wind stopped being an issue but is well below the treeline, so the water is dripping on you in heavy leaf-rivers. Where's your coat, asked the warden when I got there. I was the first person there, which I felt pretty cool about.
The next day was easy; I walked 34 km or so, which is pretty far - 20 miles? Somewhere around there - in seven and a half hours, with a few scrambles, a few stopovers, and a couple of points where I had to ford knee-deep rivers. It rained all day this day too. I hadn't slept well, as my sleeping bag bag - think about it - apparently wasn't waterproof, and the bag itself got wet. When I got back to the hostel I took a literally thirty minute hot shower, and only then did I start feeling warm - again, didn't realize how cold I was until I warmed up.
In conclusion: be nice to your pillow.
Okay, so the Kepler Track was my first Great Walk. Theoretically Rakiura, which I also did, is also a Great Walk but it's not really up to snuff as far as multi-day hikes goes; the woman at the DOC center for Rakiura told me all the other hikes I was planning to do were more enjoyable than the one I was buying passes for her from, which doesn't exactly demonstrate overblown local pride in thier offerings. Also she told me that she was a dirty, dirty girl, which was - FREAKY! - in no small part because she was 60 years old. Yes, I am planning on coming back in two days. No, I will not spank you. You know the drill.
So this being my first Great Walk, and reportedly easier than the track I had just done, I was feeling pretty confident. One might say overly confident. One might say retarded. The morning I left I misjudged when the DOC office opened, so instead of waiting around until 8:30 am and purchasing a survival pack - a liner for your tramping backpack to keep things dry - and checking the weather, I set off. It was kind of cloudy.
The first day's walk is only signposted as 6hrs, which means it takes about 4. This proved the case. You go up 1100 meters the first day, which is fairly intense, but the trail is as gradual as it could be - you do all of it by zigzagging up the mountain, so you're never really going full bore, at least not if your calves are rock hard - mine are. Seriously, you should touch them. They're like twitchy granite, with hair. Not too much hair. But enough so you get the idea: hair.
On the way up I passed all these old people, sixty or seventy year old couples taking breaks midway up the switchback. It was sweet, actually, seeing these guys still going strong, without being in nursing homes or dead. The sweet part, to get into specifics, was blowing past them and waving my in-its-prime ass in their wrinkly faces.
About 30 minutes from the first hut, you get above the treelines, which is always an interesting moment in a hike, as you realize the extent to which you forgot to Pack a coat when the wind starts knocking you about. There was a front - the first of three I would walk through - blowing in from the ocean. As it was explained to us that night at the hut meeting - weather systems blow past South America, past Africa, just barely under Australia, and then run right smack into the west coast of New Zealand. You can see the alpine shrubs, dry, scrubby tussocks of grass, as the wind blows through them, which means you can anticipate when an especially strong gust is going to hit you. When the hut warden told us about this, he smiled, and said we could use this natural warning system to tell when to crouch down and grab the track surface to avoid being knocked off the saddle, or ridge between mountain peaks. People laughed when he said this, assuming he was exaggerating humorously. Instead, he was exaggerating assholishly, which wasn't really his fault: he was a big asshole.
So I the rain kicks in really hard as I leave the hut the next morning, and the wind is pretty bad, but I'm not too worried. I pop out my poncho, and figure I can take the cold. The poncho took about fifteen minutes to rip, at which point I used it to wrap up everything in my pack except for my sleeping bag, which is in it's little sleeping bag holder at the bottom of the pack, and I keep walking. Let me stress something: these were pretty bad conditions to be taking the Kepler saddle, as the views were obscured for much of the way for fog, and the fog only lifted when it was blown off the mountaing by - I'm not exagerrating, assholishly or otherwise - 95 km winds. That said, it was really, really spectacular. With the exception of the unreal over-the-clouds view I had on the Hump Ridge Track, this was the most amazing I views I had seen - it was topped two days later by the Milford Rd., but not by much. The whole region - Fiordland - is glacially formed, which in this case means there were lots of crags and grooves in the rocks, which meant, in heavy rain conditions (it started raining the night before) that there literally dozens of waterfalls in sight along the way, all with these ridiculous 200 meters at a time drops from rocky outcropping to another. You couldn't so much do the tussock-watching trick, as even when a big gust wasn't coming there was enough wind to keep all the alpine vegetation aquiver - I just used tussock and aquiver in one sentence, immediately; you're welcome - but there are these small alpine lakes (called tarns) dotting the landscape below you as you walk, and you can see lines of rain ripping through them - the best I can approximate that verbally is like seeing a huge shape passing over very quickly, reflected in the water. For those of you who are huge geeks, alpine Fiordland looks alot like that part of Fellowship of the Ring where they're walking up to the icy pass where they have to turn back, with the cool rock formations on the horizon and the impossible cloud formations. So, in any case, 95 kph winds, deteriorating track conditions, knife-like rain, no coat, no gloves, bupkis.
Take a moment to picture me. Not me on the mountain, just me as you last saw me. Remember how much I reminded you of a pillow? Cool, we're on the same page.
After walking up 300 more meters to the peak of Mt. Luxmoore, you hit the first emergency shelter, designed for exactly these circumstances. I stopped for a few minutes, then went on. At this point the rain was bothering me more than the wind, as it was hitting my face as if it were little pieces of ice and slicking down the track, which at this point is mostly gravel. The 2hr. stretch between the first emergency shelter and the second was a little worse, the track conditions are worse and you start hitting ridgeline, so when the wind hits you, even though it's not really strong enough to knock you over, it veers you a little bit to the left or right in midstride, so you have to be very deliberate in your steps to avoid stepping off the track, or onto the side of the track which is slipping away with the rain, and possibly sliding a way down the saddle side.
Do you like your pillow? I like my pillow. It's soft and is a place for me to put my head when I am sleepy.
It wasn't until I stopped at the second shelter at about 11am, where two German people were attempting to walk another 9hrs back to the start of the track as soon as one of them stopped shaking too much to put on his gloves, that I realized how cold I was. I was cold, because I HAD FORGOTTEN TO PACK A COAT. Or waterproof pants. I was wearing shorts and a lightweight hiking shirt designed to repel sweat, but not steady rain for seven hours. I had trouble eating some of the peanuts I had brought along - for some reason I only packed some peanuts to eat, which is a different story, and I had some trouble getting my fingers to do the thing you do to make them pick up small things and carry said small things into your mouth. I haven't felt that clumsy since I learned to use chopsticks, which is to say, never.
Then I walked down 1200 meters to the Iris Burn Hut, which is well below treeline so wind stopped being an issue but is well below the treeline, so the water is dripping on you in heavy leaf-rivers. Where's your coat, asked the warden when I got there. I was the first person there, which I felt pretty cool about.
The next day was easy; I walked 34 km or so, which is pretty far - 20 miles? Somewhere around there - in seven and a half hours, with a few scrambles, a few stopovers, and a couple of points where I had to ford knee-deep rivers. It rained all day this day too. I hadn't slept well, as my sleeping bag bag - think about it - apparently wasn't waterproof, and the bag itself got wet. When I got back to the hostel I took a literally thirty minute hot shower, and only then did I start feeling warm - again, didn't realize how cold I was until I warmed up.
In conclusion: be nice to your pillow.
posted by Jeremy at 9:08 PM
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