My Reader’s Digest “I Survived” Story

Ed. Note: In March I went with a friend to New Zealand for a two-week trip exploring South Island. This little misadventure happened on our first day out.

Nothing against Kiwis – they are some of the friendliest people I’ve ever met – but I’m beginning to think they’re either a bunch of practical jokers or New Zealand is the Understatement Capital of the World.

After waking to a stunning view of majestic Mount Cook from our hotel room, Ned and I were anxious to get out on the trails and finally realize our 6-month plan to test our mettle on the rugged terrain down under. After a quick breakfast of smoked salmon and bagels at the local café, we stopped at the visitor’s center to get some trail suggestions and a weather update. The bored blonde at the counter could have been a robot for all the personality she put into the weather report and what turned out to be a grossly understated account of the trail we chose – Kea Trail to the Mueller Hut situated almost 6000 feet up the slopes of Mount Olivier. After paying our $70 in hut fees and promising to check in the next day, we left for the trail with high spirits, heavy backpacks, and the optimism only non-clairvoyants enjoy.

We got on the trail around 12:45 and snapped a few shots of each other against the breathtaking backdrop of the mountain range we were about to scale. Fifteen minutes into the hike, I was horrified to discover my heart pounding, lungs burning and hips aching with the effort of hauling the 35 pounds of camping gear strapped to my body over knee-high steps of rock and dirt. Ned let me take the lead so I could set the pace, which slowed to a mere crawl compared to the brisk walk I was looking forward to. Not more than 45 minutes into the trek, we had to stop so I could rest my burning muscles and get a few gulps of water. We took the opportunity to snap a few pictures of the now-visible Mueller Glacier and the odd grey lake at its terminus. I started looking forward to the end of the trail as the ache in my lungs and legs began to outweigh the thrill of the ascent.

As the hours wore on, the trail became steeper, rockier, and so narrow I was having trouble getting both feet on the path at the same time. I began to be a little worried as my pack shifted with each step, throwing off my balance and causing me to teeter precariously on my now-aching feet. My pride was wounded with each muscle twinge, and I was ashamed at having to so obviously struggle along while other people breezed by us in both directions. Admittedly most of them were carrying little or nothing and had only hiked as far as the rest point at Sealy Tarns, a pair of mountain pools a little over halfway to the peak. As we neared the Tarns, people began to enquire about our ultimate destination, and we were discouraged by the number of eyebrow raises and sideways good-luck wishes we got in response to our aspirations of reaching Mueller Hut. Most of them advised us that the trail was “a bit rougher and not so clearly marked” once past the Tarns. As I crawled over a particularly steep rock on my hands and knees, one man even stopped us to point out that I was carrying too heavy a load. Ned agreed and decided to leave me to rest at the tarns while he made the final 1.5 hour ascent to the hut. He said he’d come back and carry my pack so I could make the steepest part of the ascent unencumbered. I noted the time and warned him that if he wasn’t back in three hours, I was going to start down and look for help. He laughed and assured me he’d return well before that, then left.

I watched him ascend the steep trail above me for a minute, then found a rock by one of the pools and sat down with a big sigh, unbuckling my pack and dropping it gratefully on the ground beside me. I grinned at the sight of Mr. Nova T. Lion – the little spark mascot with whom I’d been entrusted – sticking his furry head out of a pocket. I’d forgotten he was back there and had to pick a few bits of foliage out of his face before tucking him safely back into his little carry on. I sipped at my last bottle of water as I studied the giant expanse of the valleys between Mounts Olivier, Sefton, and Cook. I watched the clouds cast an enormous shadow over the village tucked into the base of the mountain and snapped a few pictures of a rainbow in the distance. As the minutes ticked away, I heard thunder rumbling along the glaciers and shivered as the sun disappeared behind an angry grey cloud bank. I got out my poncho and prepared for a downpour, praying fervently it wouldn’t be too cold or too windy. At almost 4000 feet above sea level, I was worried about being blown off the ledge that cradled the little pools now reflecting the heavy clouds rolling in. As the hour of Ned’s expected return drew near, I watched the ridge above me doggedly, waiting for him to appear. It was almost fifteen minutes past the three-hour mark when I finally saw a tiny figure crest the ridge and heard him whistle. I waved and started packing up my camera and readjusting my pack. It was almost a full half hour later when he turned onto the path to the tarns. He looked worn out and was breathing hard as he gulped the last of our water. He looked almost grim as he prepared me for the path ahead.

He said he hadn’t made it all the way to the end, but had stopped to drop his pack on a flat ridge where he’d met some descending travelers who gave him water and assured him he was only an easy walk to the hut from that point. He admitted the path before us was rough terrain and that halfway up he’d almost turned around but didn’t want to disappoint me by cutting short our adventure. Now refreshed, I was eager to get going. Ned hauled my pack onto his back, transferring both camera bags to my shoulders and clipping them out of my way with a carabiner. We left the tarns behind us and headed up the trail.

The track to Mueller Hut ascended steeply above us, a series of switchbacks marked by orange triangles and very little else. I became increasingly nervous as the trail became less trail and more rock, with hairpin curves so tight we had to edge around them sideways. I held my breath as I prodded my shaky legs along an 8-inch-wide rock ledge that jutted out over a sheer drop off. I tried not to look down, but found it hard to look elsewhere as solid footing became less and less apparent. After forty minutes of scrambling over rocks, sometimes on hands and knees, I was relieved to see the top of the ridge just ahead. I clambered over the top and felt my heart drop and my throat tighten with tears of disappointment as I was met by the sight of yet another steep, green slope laced with veins of rock and mud that were the only evidence of the track now, aside from the orange-tipped markers every 200 yards. We rested a moment on a convenient tussock before pushing upward, picking our way through the high grass, slippery mud and jagged rocks, all the time shooing away flocks of curious parrot-like keas. I egged myself on under my breath, fighting desperately to keep my focus on my footing and off the wide expanse of nothingness dropping steeply away behind me.

The trail seemed endless, and I became increasingly panicky as the ascent became ever steeper and the footing more precarious. My hopes were painfully dashed as we crested each hill and ridge to find more hills, more rocks and steeper inclines. It wasn’t long before I was exhausted by the constant disappointment of each false

peak. We stopped for a moment before a field of giant boulders piled against each other, creating deep crevasses between their jagged edges. My balance even without a pack was so poor I could barely stand on one foot, let alone leap across the bottomless gaps to the next boulder. I stood on a flat rock and looked around as my resolve suddenly dissipated into the chilly air. I felt my eyes well as I contemplated the unwelcoming landscape stretching before me.

“I can’t do it.”

Ned stopped and turned around, holding out his hand. “Come on. Just put your foot there and grab my hand.” He pointed to the 6-inch wide rock about 2 feet away from me, urging me to jump. I shook my head miserably, feeling every minute of last seven exhausting hours of climbing.

“I can’t. I can’t do it. It’s too far and my legs are shaking.”

Ned nodded and suggested we take a rest. I sat down and fought back angry, frightened tears, turning my face away from him. I denied it when he asked if I was tearing up, then to my horror, felt a terrified sob escape my throat into the gathering dusk. I covered my face with my hands as another tired sob escaped. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is stupid. I don’t know why I’m so upset.”

Ned looked on in helpless sympathy. “Because you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and this is some of the toughest terrain I’ve ever seen. Believe me when I tell you you’re doing exceptionally well, especially for a beginner. I had no idea it would be this hard.”

I looked at him doubtfully.

He continued, “I’m not kidding you. I’ve hiked the White Mountains, the North Georgia Mountains and the South Rim Trail at Big Bend, and this is the hardest trail I’ve ever been on. If I’d known it was like this, I’d have never brought you up here.”

I sniffed and mumbled, “Are we almost there?”

He assured me that after the boulders, we had just a short gravel scree to scramble up before we reached the ridge where he’d left his pack, and then an easy 20-minute walk to the hut from there.

I took a deep breath. “Well, we’d better go if we’re gonna get there before dark.”

Ned patted my arm reassuringly and rebuckled my pack onto his back before leading me across the rest of the boulders to a steep footpath layered with loose gravel. I chose my footsteps carefully, gasping each time the ground gave way beneath my boots , sending a cataract of tiny stones bouncing down the trail below me. Ned encouraged me to stay balanced over my feet as best I could and just trust my boots to do the work. When the top of the ridge came into view, I gathered the last of my resolve and charged ahead, muttering under my breath, “It’s just a walk. It’s just a hike along any old path, it’s not that hard.” I pulled myself over the top on my hands and knees and nearly collapsed onto a flat, rocky ridge about fifteen yards wide. Ned led me to where his pack was hidden and we sat down to drink the last sips of water and eat a handful of trail mix. My eyes began to well again, this time with tears of relief as I imagined the hut just around the other side of the rocky peak we now leaned against. Ned nodded toward the murky white mist beyond and below us. “That was a beautiful view a few hours ago.”

I nodded. “Then maybe we’d better get going. It’ll be dark before long.”

As Ned picked up his pack, I shouldered mine again, wincing as the straps dug into my shoulders and the weight settled on my sore hip muscles and tired feet. We set off down a slight descent, now surrounded entirely by piles of boulders, all tumbled around us like the carnage of an ancient rock slide. We picked our way through the jagged stones, pushing our pace in hopes of seeing the hut just over the next peak. We crested the first pile of rocks and instead of the hut, we saw only more rocks on every side of us. We pushed on, counting the passing minutes and peering hard into the mist for signs of the next marker or cairn. My spirits wilted further as we crested ridge after ridge, each time greeted by the sight of impossible rock formations and, if we were lucky, a dim flash of orange topping the next trail marker. Full darkness came on quickly now, and as the markers became fewer and further apart, I began to panic. Between the dark and the fog, even our powerful LED flashlights could only pierce about ten feet into the thick soup. Ned instructed me to sit at the last marker we’d found and shine my flashlight after him as he searched for the next one. Whenever he found a marker, I moved toward the sound of his voice and stayed there while he struck out to find another. We continued like this, keeping track of one another by flashlight and voice contact until the visibility was less than a yard and I was shivering in the damp mist. Ned went to look for one last marker, this time striking out to my right. I waited, staring hard into the darkness as his light bobbed away from me, sometimes to the right, now to the left. When his light climbed above me and disappeared, I called out to him nervously.

“Ned?”

No answer, so I shouted louder.

“Ned, can you still hear me?”

My heart climbed into my throat as my shouts were met with more silence. We both knew from the guidebook that once past the hut, the trail extended out onto a steep ridge where only experts with mountain-climbing gear could go. Knowing we could easily have passed the hut in the dark, I listened hard, staring at the spot where his light disappeared. I wondered what the hell I was going to do if he didn’t come back. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Ned! Where the fuck are you?”

I nearly collapsed with relief when a tiny pinpoint of white light appeared to my right and I heard him shout, “Over here! I’m coming back.”

It took him almost ten minutes to pick his way back to me, where he slumped down onto an adjoining boulder. “There are two more markers over there, but then they just disappear. No cairns either.” He grumbled in frustration, “We have to be close, I just know it!”

My teeth now chattering uncontrollably, I asked quietly, “Can we quit now?”

He nodded and sighed, “Yeah, we’re done. Let’s make camp.”

We found a tiny enclosure surrounded on two sides by a low stone wall and dropped our packs yet again. We unrolled our sleeping bags, separating them from the rocky ground with thin inflatable pads. I kicked off my boots, squirmed into my narrow bag and lay quietly as Ned set out some open Ziploc bags in hopes of catching condensation. We had been completely out of water since we topped the ridge three hours before and were both thirsty. I drifted off, slipping into a dream where my feet kept sliding out from under me, pitching me over the edge into a tumbling freefall to nothingness. I jerked awake violently and felt my stomach lurch. I vowed not to drift off again, and instead lay there feeling the droplets of mist gather weight and splash onto my face.

I didn’t realize I’d drifted off again until I opened my eyes. I was disoriented by the view – instead of thick grey mist, I was greeted by an inky sky impossibly crowded with bright, glittering stars so close I felt I could pull one down. I gaped in awe until I drifted off again, waking again to wet fog, drifting off again and finally waking to a lightening sky. Still tied snugly into my sleeping bad I gasped, waking Ned.

The fog had lifted, revealing snow-capped peaks all around us, lit pink by the rising sun. I shivered as I realized we were level

with most of them, taking comfort now in the huge boulders separating us from the edge of our own 6000-foot-high peak. In the morning light I could see clearly four trail markers around us, and my hopes of finding the hut and some warmth rose. Ned kicked free of his wet sleeping bag and stood up, getting ready to go in search of the elusive shelter once again. As he stretched and looked around he exclaimed, “Oh shit.”

I whipped my head around. “What? What’s the matter?”

He shook his head and pointed, “See that? There’s the hut.”

I struggled out of my bag and stood, looking in the direction he was pointing. There it was, not 200 yards away to our left over yet another rocky ridge. We packed up our bags and mats quickly, still shivering in the damp air, and started off in toward our destination. We lost sight of the bright red building several times as the deceptively short walk stretched into yet another 25-minute hike over rocky crevasses and jagged boulders.

The wind was blowing us nearly sideways as we crossed the final few yards to the steps, clambered up and almost fell into the relative warmth and safety of the crude shelter.

Once in the bunkroom, we shed our parkas and pack, then made our way to the kitchen where Ned began to heat water for dehydrated meals. I sat at the table watching four or five of the previous night’s guests stuff their packs in preparation for their descent. As the realization that I’d have to retrace my steps back down the terrifyingly steep terrain I’d just covered settled on me, I began to well up yet again. I put my pounding head down on the table and let the dread and despair crash over me. I poked at the stew Ned set in front of me, my stomach churning now with anxiety rather than vertigo. I swallowed against the tears, ashamed to be caught crying over what every other guest in the shelter apparently took in stride. As soon as the room cleared, I whispered to Ned, “What are we going to do? I cannot go back down that mountain.” He simply sighed, “I don’t know.”

At that moment the door behind us opened and the warden walked in. She greeted us with obvious curiosity, and Ned explained we were supposed to have been there the night before, but got lost and had to camp outside. She looked horrified.

“Base never told me I was missing two visitors. I read the list of guests to him last night and he never mentioned there were two more. Oh, my god. I can’t believe it! Are you okay?” She looked at me in concern, and once again, I threw my hands over my face to hide another mortifying wash of tears.

Jan turned out to be an angel in Teva sandals. She rubbed my back and hugged me as Ned explained our situation. She offered to put me into her own bunkroom in a warm, dry sleeping bag and even to help us get back down, bearing some of our heavy load. Ned inquired about the possibility of getting one of the tour helicopters to take us back down the mountain and Jan went to radio down to check.

I felt like shit at this point. Not only had I broken down on the trail, now I was letting Ned pay for an airlift, inconveniencing any number of people so I could take the easy way down the mountain. Ned tried to reason with me, explaining that ten hours of hard climbing on nothing but a bagel and a handful of trail mix was enough to knock anyone out for a day or two. We considered the possibility of staying another day and trying again when we were more rested, but I was still reasonably sure I couldn’t get my pack down those steep slippery grades on what would inevitably be a six- or seven-hour trip to the bottom. He agreed, and gave Jan the go-ahead to ask for the chopper.

I’ve never been so relieved as when she popped into the bunkroom and announced the helicopter was on its way in five minutes. We rushed to pull our packs together and put our boots on as we heard the whir of our approaching rescuer. I still felt shitty about being too tired, too weak, and simply too terrified to attempt the descent on my own, but not enough to turn down a five-minute ride to the bottom.

After we reached the ground, the DOC transported us to our vehicle at the base of the trail. I sat down on the back bumper of our rented SUV and sighed deeply, pulling off my parka in the now-warm air. I looked up at the mountain we’d just left, and marveled again at how high and steep it was, not quite able to wrap my brain around what just happened.

After shedding our extra layers, we drove back to the visitor’s center to check in and have the clerk radio Jan to let her know we’d reached the bottom safely. Out of curiosity, Ned glanced over the Mueller Hut trail guide on the counter as he was waiting for the bored blonde clerk to notice him. It said: “Mueller Hut trail is an energetic four-hour walk from the bottom of Kea Point Track, past the scenic Sealy Tarns. Parts of the route are quite rocky.”

Understated, indeed.

Because I post here, I don’t really have anything to post here. I might try someday anyway. . I don’t accept notes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t comment.