“Anywhere
you like,” I was told, “except Roy’s Peak. Roy’s Peak does not deserve its renown. Roy’s Peak is an ugly slog of a walk.”
“Thank you,” I said.
At nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, the car peak at the foot of Roy’s Peak was already a quarter full. Some trampers had all the gear, others none. I lay in between.
Since falling repeatedly above Kaikōura I had acquired a pair of hiking shoes and a telescopic walking stick. But I had retained my 66-year-old sense of balance.
A sign announced it was a 16km round trip and would take five to six hours. A metal cylinder bolted to a stake requested a $2 track fee per climber. 13 cents a kilometre seemed reasonable but I didn’t see anyone else pay it.
The track zigzagged steeply. We were soon overtaken by a pair of young women wearing several thousand dollars worth of branded mountain wear. We in turn overtook a bulky threesome in track pants.
I took off my beanie and put it in my jacket pocket. Then I took off my jacket and tied it around my waist. I stopped at the end of each zag to take in the view by leaning on my telescopic stick and staring at my boots. Then I started stopping at each zig as well.
We passed through a scatter of brown and white cattle. One raised its cumbrous head from its grazing and stared at us in evident incomprehension. It had a point.
This was Sunday, the day of rest. But we 21st Century children of luxury were voluntarily taxing ourselves. And what for? To climb a much-climbed mountain for a view that wouldn’t surprise us. And then to come back down. No cattle beast in history ever did such a thing.
The upwardness of the track was relentless. Every step became a conscious effort of putting one foot in front of the other. The only pleasure to be had was the anti-pleasure of not yielding.
Footsteps came fast behind us. I turned to see a man in yellow shorts. He was running up the mountain. You know the brown twisted flex you sometimes find on very elderly electrical appliances? That’s what his thighs looked like. He wore a facial expression that is common among stroke victims.
“Bravo,” I said as he ran past me. But I wasn’t sure that I meant it.
The temperature lowered. There were pockets of snow. I put my jacket back on, my beanie too. I was grateful for my stick. The last half hour was a trudge through snow a foot deep. I Wenceslassed the footsteps of those who’d gone before.
The summit had wind, cold and views as advertised. Also, the inevitable communications tower into which were carved the inevitable sets of initials, statements of triumph, assertions of identity. We are seven billion in number and all so sure of our own significance. One day we’ll run out of places to carve our names.
While we were on the summit, and despite the fierce wind, a small native thrush, a pipit, perched on the snow at my feet. I doubt it was the spirit of a long-lost lover, but it surprised and pleased me.
Going down didn’t. I am told that more mountaineers die going down than going up. I’d have happily joined them. Down is tough on the knees, the hips, the thighs. And especially, as your feet slide forward in your new hiking boots, the big toes. To ease the pain I leant more and more on my stick.
Telescopic sticks have the advantage of telescoping when required for ease of storage. They have the disadvantage of telescoping when not required. When it happened I was back among the cattle. They were kind enough to look away.
It took longer to go down than it did to go up and I wanted it over with long before it was over with. But the pleasure of taking off my boots was almost sexual. As, later, was the long hot shower. It would have been nice to top it off with clean underpants.
