Gnu's Noose: Aoraki/Mt. Cook

While hurried initial plans may have overlooked Mt. Cook, we soon decided that the highest mountain in New Zealand more than merited at least a visit, if nothing more. We set off bleary-eyed, bidding farewell to “the hand”, and turned north once more. Driving along long, winding roads through hills that blocked all but the most resilient easy-listening AM radio channel (one we felt much gratitude for), we held our collective breaths silently, and waited to be dwarfed by majesty.

Before long, we turned a corner, and there she was, freshly awoken, bursting with radiance, and prettily arrogant.

We had to stop and stare several times before we finally made it to Mt. Cook Village, quite unable to digest the enormity of this blatant display of natural splendour. Our cameras toiled much.

The tent-shaped Mt. Cook is known (very spectacularly, I think) as ‘Aoraki’ by the Maoris, meaning “Cloud Piercer”, but was originally named in honour of the famous Captain James Cook, despite the fact that he never actually sighted the mountain during his travels. (Note: The Lonely Planet New Zealand guidebook has the most fascinating and well-written one-page extract about this controversial explorer, written by the Pulitzer-winning reporter and non-fiction author, Tony Horwitz. Wikipedia’s account is drier, but essentially says the same things). Nowhere close to Himalayan peaks in terms of altitude, this 3,764 metre-high mountain still very nearly convinces you that it belongs somewhere among the top 50 of the world’s highest peaks. It stands at… um… No. 476.

There’s something about climbing mountains that makes me go weak in the knees. Before, when I become utterly possessed with the most rabid, blind, ridiculous desire to push my body beyond anything it’s really capable of, during, when I’m cursing myself for underestimating the powers of exhaustion, and my lack of fitness in the foulest language I can muster while being completely out of breath. And, at the end of a climb, when the sheer magnitude of the experience, the unparalleled views, and the undiluted high, coupled with the aforementioned exhaustion crumple me into a ball of delicious ecstasy. It’s a strange addiction, not one that haunts me at frequent intervals, but every now and then, entirely unannounced, a sudden idea, or a longing glance at a peak out of reach is enough to ignite that manic gleam in my eye.

Mt. Cook “Village” cannot possibly pretend to be that. It comprises merely a couple of shiny, touristy hotels, another couple of uppity cafés, a Department of Conservation (DOC) office, and a ski- and climbing-equipment rental shop. We schlepped into the DOC office to find out what trails would take us as close to the mountain as time and our very average fitness would allow, and decided to first give a mild one-hour return trip to Kea Point a go.

Keas are apparently ugly New Zealand parrots, and the Tracks & Trails brochure we picked up at the DOC candidly admitted that we would most likely not see any along the way. What the walk did deliver, in the end, were miles of solitude, gentle, pebbly slopes, unimaginably crisp, fresh air, and, needless to say, superb views.

Our next mini-tramp was a walk along the Hooker Valley. Naturally, I smirked heaps when I chanced upon the name of this hapless valley. After Kray pointed out that “Hooker” was probably the name of someone terribly important, I chuckled loads. I would find out later that Joseph Dalton Hooker, was, in fact, an eminent botanist after whom the valley and its glacier were named. Heck, I’m still chuckling.

The name notwithstanding, this outing contained what would probably be a few of the most hilarious incidents of our trip. What started out as a bright, sunshiny day, quickly became capricious and moody, with gusts of squalls accompanied by stinging rain, immediately followed by sunny spells once again. Perpetually cold, I was swathed in my red-brown parka that served as a windbreaker, raincoat, and a warm jacket. Shivering John had his fleece jacket, and Kray, well, doesn’t shiver as much. Still, when the rain started to lash, the other two hurriedly extricated from their bags a couple of ponchos that they’d bought en route from Invercargill to Queenstown. Now, these ponchos, although ultimately highly effective in keeping out the rain, took lives of their own once they’d decided to team up with the screeching wind. For a considerable amount of time, all I saw were two figures wresting with blue and green flapping objects, markedly similar to sails of a ship. Flapaflapaflapaflapathud. Arrrghhhhh. More flapping, more struggling, loud curses, even louder peals of laughter from the strugglers and the audience. Fudfudfudfudfudthwump. Phew. Buttons forced shut, head in correct opening, arms flapping at sides, and the rain-armour now under control. I nearly died laughing.

Not only was this walk more fun, it was also much more startlingly beautiful. Gushing glacial meltwater, over which hung fragile, rickety bridges, swaying under the force of the wind left us speechless, as did the process of trying to cross these bridges without being blown away. A small memorial along the way, a hut shelter, and a stray sundial all served to charm us tremendously. As for our ultimate destination, it was only after an hour of walking that we realised that we didn’t really know when or where to stop. Nearly airborne at that time in lieu of the ridiculously strong winds, we were nearly at the terminal face of the Hooker glacier, goggling at the large blocks of hewn ice bobbing about in a river of meltwater. We were delighted enough to keep going, but a timely glance at our watches and at an ominously large, dark cloud slowly making its way toward us suggested that we take to our heels and flee. Good sense prevailed, and we did, but not before casting more than one longing glance at the kingdoms of ice all around. The ice axe will have to bide its time for now.