The Last Adventurer

At the four hour mark, I suggested that we stop for lunch. We dropped our packs at a small glacial pool that was next to a seasonal fast-falling multi-threaded waterfall, and began to eat. We had fortunately reached an altitude where it was too cool and windy for sandflies. A couple minutes into lunch, the wind failed to deter two heavy New Zealand bees that dove out of the bush. Their thick yellow bodies whizzed about our heads as we tried to avoid them by any means possible. Standing still was useless. Arm waiving was futile. Running about was too tiring. Throughout it all, they tirelessly buzzed our packs and bodies in organized dive-bombing runs. They wanted one thing and one thing only: our lunch.

Since we had ravenously devoured our meal seconds before their interruption, and weren’t going to fight over the crumbs with them, we grudgingly hoisted our bags and tramped out of their circling reach as fast as we could. As I looked at the sky, I suspected that being evicted by insects from a lazy lunch might have its advantages. All morning, thin streamers of cloud bits had been whipping and dissipating across the cold sky. As we had sat down to eat, a thick bit of dark cloud had stuck at the far corners of the mountains, and had gradually spread. As the sky inexorably had a blanket of grey pulled over it, the temperature began to drop significantly.

What had started as a nice day was rapidly turning into potentially a nasty dark, wet experience. The change in weather conditions was a great motivator to pick up the pace. Although we had gone eight miles under excellent conditions already, we preferred not to walk the remaining three in a downpour. We crossed empty creeks on metal footbridges that seemed superfluous. We wound our way in and out of forest, as the stands of trees slowly changed into different species, and different clusters. The crystal snowfields of the mountains disappeared into mist, and the rocky slopes slowly merged into a seamless sky.

At daily mile ten, or total mile thirteen, whichever we were counting, the trail actually began to head uphill steeply. I felt bad for my wife, who I knew was very tired and very sore. I asked to take her bag again to help her out. Brusquely, she refused and continued on doggedly for the hut, despite uttering a litany of complaints about leaving the uphill portion for the very end of the day. I sympathized with her complaints, because I was also tired after eleven miles. I wasn’t sure whether Mintaro Hut would be at the treeline or, slightly above it, but, between two trees, the turnoff appeared. We trudged up to the hut, and once past the sticker and inside, were finally able to relax with the knowledge that we would stay dry another day.