When I booked a place in Te Anau, the plan was to spend one day gaping at sounds and the rest of the time sitting in quiet areas of the national park, pretending to have profound thoughts. Toe-blistering hiking was very much not on the itinerary. It was a little strange, then, that I found myself setting off to scale a mountain on the first morning I was there. I had been looking into walking spots near my accomodation when I came across a one-day version of the otherwise multi-day Kepler track, one of New Zealand's Great Walks. You would hike up a mountain to the first overnight hut and then simply turn around and head back, investing about 10-12 hours all up. Sure, I thought: that sounds like me. As I had not really planned for it, I set off later than I should have, around 10 am. Knowing that if I were too slow I would be hiking back in darkness, I was somewhat panicked and hurried during the initial stages—which is exactly how I would recommend anyone embark on a 10-12 hour hike.
If you walk to the setting-off point from town, as I did, there is a preliminary white gravel trail that curls along the western shore of the lake. It takes about 45 minutes all told but the monotony of the scenery makes it feel longer, and no shade is cast to offset a beating sun. Had I the luxury of time I would have peeled off the path and sat for a spell by the lake, enjoying the pristine weather. Sitting is the method by which nature can be properly observed and enjoyed; barreling through it seems rather to defeat the purpose of being there at all.
The Kepler track begins in serene natural forest and continues to run parallel to the lake on a soft dirt path, where crosshatches of sunlight mark the way. Occasionally the foliage clears to reveal pebble or white sand beaches, the largest of which connects with a camping ground. You can break up the repetition of the forest by stopping at them. You could; obviously I didn't. At the camping ground the path veers suddenly inland and you are drawn towards the mountain.
The pathway up the mountain takes the form of a rising zig-zag through dense forest. A few zigs and a couple of zags in, I realised I had been foolish to have wasted so much energy running along flat planes and downward slopes. It was here that energy was required. The climbs are manageable in and of themselves but there is a cumulative strain when they're piled one after the other, with little respite. It wasn't long before my footfalls fell heavier and I began to trudge. At my weakest I could only operate in short, pitiable bursts. Leaning back on a mossy stump, trying to make a meal out of Vegemite sachets and dry biscuits, I felt very unfit and very old.
Even now I'm surprised I persevered. I actually cleared the forest trail far sooner than I had anticipated. I was taking so many breaks by the end that I was sure I was well behind the estimated time, but it turned out the opposite was true. I was now on the final stretch, the mythical hut a mere 45 minutes away. The view from the top would have been breathtaking, had my breath not already been taken by the journey to reach it. The mountain was covered in straw-coloured patches of grass and a narrow path ran along its ridge. The inclines either side seemed relatively gentle, though I couldn't help but fixate on the ground most of the way. When I reached the hut I rested for a while in the sparse wooden living area, drinking water that a sign informed me was 'probably' safe to drink. Returning over the mountaintop with the knowledge of what was in store, I was able to enjoy the ludicrously clear vista of rivers and lakes and mountains more than I had the first time round.
My writing at this point is not concurrent with my activities. Presently I am seated in a McDonald's opposite Checkpoint Charlie, having left New Zealand some weeks ago. I am here only because my digestion is amis and the McDonald's presented the nearest toilet. Actually the nearest toilet was in Starbucks but—I guess fittingly—it was occupied. This information was imparted to me in an unfortunately graphic fashion, thanks either to the absence of a locking mechanism or the absence of mind of the young woman I stumbled upon. And now back to our story.
You would think a return journey that was largely downhill would be a breeze. In fact it presents a number of challenges. These include an increased pressure on your knees as well the likelihood of blisters forming on your feet from the friction inside your shoes. There is also the sheer strain of continued exertion after half a day's worth of hiking, whatever the topography. Even with the momentum of gravity, the descent seemed endless. When I finally reached the bottom I felt as if I could scarcely walk another step.
Unquestionably the worst part of the whole endeavour, perhaps discounting the obligation to exchange empty Hellos with fellow hikers, was reaching the entrance of the Kepler track and realising that I still had that dreaded lakeside path to walk. The hard gravel was punishing on my feet and it took me over an hour to get back to town, fortunately while there was still some light remaining. Falling on my bed, I vowed never to set one foot in front of the other again.
Two days later I tackled the other end of the Kepler track, a mostly flat trail to Rainbow Bridge. It would have been unremarkable but for the fact I had not sufficiently recovered from my previous hike and was in a measure of pain most of the way. A return journey was out of the question so I ended up hitching a ride back to town.
I returned to bed and renewed my vow.