The Freewalkers Guide to the Milford Track: Day Three: I hate this place, Part 6.
Friday, January 19, 2007 at 1:10PM The din of rushing water ripped at the thoughts crossing my brain. Tiredly, I watched the water pour down the mountain. I checked my watch. We had been hiking for five hours. My bag felt incredibly heavy. My knees ached. I didn’t want to wade out into that river. All it would take was one tired misstep and the inhuman water would exact a terrible price. I wondered if we were lost. I had no idea exactly where we were without consulting the map, and as I thought about it, even if I looked at the map, I would likely still have no idea exactly where we were.
It was a terrifying moment. The idea of being lost in the green, miles away from help, trapped forever in its quiet moldering and growing expanses gnawed at my mind. It was easily possible that I had lost what trail there was. I stopped such thoughts. I closed my eyes. Fear, I noted to myself, was the killer. Not the wilderness. There were inherently dangerous things in the wilderness that would kill us, but not unless I let the fear lead me into their jaws. I took a deep breath. I pushed such morbid and self-defeating thoughts into the recesses of my head. I opened my eyes.
Calmly, I looked at the river. The trail had to pick up somewhere along its banks. Then I spotted it. It was in a diagonal line twenty feet from where I stood. I paused. I wanted to be sure that what I saw was where I should go. A flash of orange caught my eye. The river had shifted along the colossal trunk in the middle. On its decomposing bark, four orange triangles clearly signaled the open patch of forest I had spied. My shoulders relaxed slightly. Now clear about where to head, I cautiously led us into the mouth of the river.
Water sucked and leeched at our stability. Each droplet glommed onto every square inch, every centimeter, micro-meter, and bit of our bodies as we grimly pushed across. Midway, as small rapids cascaded around us, we braced ourselves against the fallen giant and forced ourselves through the final section of cold river. On the far bank, I futilely stamped my boots and looked ahead at the smiling triangles that led us further into the forest. As we continued down the trail, I heard my wife state clearly in a small but firm voice, “I hate this place”.
I splashed through another puddle that encompassed the trail. My bag was impossibly heavy, water-logged from the exposed straps on down. My legs and feet were soaked prunes. The rain still fell and the wind still blew. Moss caught excess water and intentionally spilled it on our already wet coats. The trees stood in cold, indifferent silence. There was nothing comforting about the grey muted hues of the day. I could not hate it. I could not hate it because I could not devote the excess energy to such a luxury. I also could not hate it, because despite everything that had happened, it was still beautiful in a ghastly way.
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