In the Footsteps of Giants

I have just come down off the Muller Hut track, which is the approach to Mt. Olivier, rumored to be the first mountain climbed by Sir Edmund Hillary (probably as a five year old). The track these days is nothing like what he climbed, of course. While the DOC officers warn of the need for serious hiking experience, the track is semi-improved and generously sprinkled with orange guide poles.

It being 1530 and “rain building” in the forecast, I made a scramble to throw together a pack and beat what foul weather I could (sleeping bag, headlamp, peanut butter: check). Mt. Cook National Park is truly beautiful, and the hike begins as a pleasant stroll through a golden valley leading up to the “cathedral” of jagged peaks for which the park is famous.

After 45 minutes, I put the pleasantries behind me, and begin what more closely resembles a stair-stepper workout. It is all very much worth it though; thinking the view of valley and mountains grand enough, I come over a ridge and find myself staring straight into a the rugged internal organs of the cathedral itself.

There are no trees here, hardly any liquid water. Lichen and moss cling in the leeward hollows of bare rocks. The wind whips past in gusts, throwing my feet forward, shoving me into tumbled boulders. The air temperature drops. The rain is beginning, and a few arrows of ice sting my cheeks. Just as I am debating the effort to pull off my pack and dig out another layer, the Mueller hut appears, an isolated beacon of hope.

I stumble in a side door, wedging down the heavy iron bar behind me. Silence. No wind. No rain. Only four Israelis, staring at me.

“Hey.”

There are 18 of us in all, and we huddle in the kitchen area, the warmest room from gas stoves and body heat. Some cook, some play cards. Two have proper down jackets, and a silvering Australian climber offers me his. How cold must I look? Too embarrassed to accept, I thank him and slip into the antechamber, where I proceed to do pushups and jumping jacks, trying to encourage my metabolism.

I spend the rest of the evening chatting, eating peanut butter, and watching a kea pick at decking. The rain builds. The night grows. Eventually we are quiet in our own tasks, and I turn to read Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the second time this week.

~

In the morning we all eat porridge and wait for the weather to clear up a bit. By 1030 it has mostly stopped raining, so I scramble the final ascent to Ollivier, and spend a good 25 minutes, gawking at the incredible scenery.

The descent is surprisingly easy. The sun is shining and occasionally Mt. Cook peaks out from white puffy clouds. As I descend I gradually drop layers: one, two, three, until I am in the golden valley once more, standing in my underwear trading thermals, fleece, and windbreaker for lightweight hiking trousers. I meander back to my car at the bustling tourist mecca of Mount Cook Village. It’s hard not to feel grand in these surroundings. As I walk past the hotel I am greeted by a statue of young Hillary, leaning on his ice axe gazing at Mt. Cook. I may never amount to much, but I can try to see the world through the eyes of men who have.