I woke up this morning at 6:45am to the sound of rain on the roof and nothing but slowly brightening white out the windows...no change there then. Part of me contemplated staying put for a day, especially as my body didn't feel up to it. Eventually it was only the thought that the weather tomorrow might be worse instead of better that finally got me out of bed at 8. From here there was only one peak between me and a forest-sheltered track that would drop me 1200m down to the river valley and another hut, a mere 8km away. So I breakfasted, donned yucky wet clothes once again, and set out. It would be a shame to have come all the way up here and not see the view, but I'll decided I'd just have to come back another time, in better weather, because right now all I want to do is get off this mountain.
Not feeling very enthusiastic I headed up the short slog back to the main track. From there it's a climbing ridge walk up to the summit of Mt Crawford, from which the view is supposed to be spectacular. I wouldn't know. Not being able to see more than a few meters into the cloud whipping up and over my head the only indication I'd reached the summit at all was a random metal rod sticking out of the ground at the highest point within view. Happily I was going ok time and energy-wise and was able to enjoy the little nature had on offer today: alpine miniature gardens and cloud streamers.
Down the other side of Mt Crawford I unexpectedly came to the trail intersection leading to a different hut right on schedule. The track down from the summit to this point has nice flat or undulating ridge walk sections. Beyond the intersection are a couple of small but unnerving boulder scrambles. On the worst of these I was hanging on extra carefully, but on a comparatively benign one my foot slipped on the wet rock and I tumbled head over heels down onto the track below, and then--partly propelled by the rotating momentum of my pack--on down the mercifully not too steep ridge beyond. I came to a halt on my back, pack-side down slope, legs tangled in a low bush, poles poking out at odd angles somewhere around my knees. I lay for a moment waiting for pain or some other sensation to kick in from some or other bodu part, and when it didn't set about righting myself. After scrambling back up onto the track I took better stock: one twingey ankle, one twingey wrist, and a sharp pain on the crown of my head wear my sunglasses had dug in. I wear them on my head no matter the weather as it's the only place they seem not to get broken--I'm now on my third pair! (Fortunately I only buy cheap sunglasses...). By some miracle these hadn't broken now despite apparently being used as a shock absorber for my head. By another miracle neither of my poles was broken, or even bent! All in all I counted myself extremely lucky not to have come to worse harm, and set off gingerly down the ridge once again, more keen than ever to get down off this mountain!
I came upon the bush line earlier than expected and soon began the steep and gruelling descent down into the river valley below, first passing moss-covered trees, then gradually the more familiar temperate beech forest. I set my GPS to display altitude so I could monitor my progress, which was painfully slow. Despite being extra careful and trying to minimise the strain on my sore ankle by putting a lot of weight on my poles, I still managed to slip and end up bum-down on the trail half a dozen times. Using the poles also helped save my knees, but dud nothing to help my toes which spent a good few hours being crushed into my boots. My right big toenail in particular hurt, so much so I'm sure that I was experiencing it's death throws.
In trying to spare my knees and ankle it turns out I was also sacrificing my thumbs. Hands slung through the wrist straps on my poles I was using the straps to bare weight as much as the pole grips, with the end result that by the time I finally emerged onto flattish ground near the river at the bottom of the 1200m descent, I'd worn blisters into the sides of my thumbs where the straps pass up from my wrist, so much so one was just about to start bleeding. But I didn't care. I was down off the mountain and out of the cloud for the first time in what felt like a lifetime but really had only been two days.
There was one more hurdle ahead however, on the short walk to the hut: the scariest swing-bridge on the trail yet. Built entirely of metal you can see through the mesh on the bottom to the drop below--not good if your eyes happen to momentarily refocus on the water flowing beneath your feet rather than the steel clamp running across three cables that you're supposed to be aiming the arch of your foot for. The scariest bit was actually climbing up the ramp to get onto the bridge itself; while the bridge also has wires (and mesh) running at elbow height as handholds, the ramp up to the start of the bridge does not. It's like climbing an inclined steel rope ladder that though taut is not ridged, and that's not quite widen enough for two feet, without holding on. Some people love this sort of thing. Even on a good day is be apprehensive, but today, tired, sore, wet and generally dishevelled I was bordering in actual fear. I contemplated having a break before attempting the thing but decided that would give me time to get more scared, so I went for it, one careful step at a time. I had a death grip on my poles lest I drop one in the river, and also on the handle wires as the thing swayed and bucked gently beneath me. Having seen a video shortly before I left of a swing bridge breaking beneath a bunch of French tourists did nothing to help my nerves...
My euphoria on getting to the other end intact sustained me the short distance to the hut. I staggered up the steps to find someone at home, a solo middle aged woman. Her name was Nicky and she proved to be the first North-Bound ("NOBO") TAer I'd meet on the trail. My impression that she was a woman familiar with the outdoors was confirmed when I discovered she works as a shepherdess in the Alps back home in Switzerland. No wonder she's finding Te Araroa a doddle!
We swapped advice about each other's upcoming sections of trail and I sympathised when she said she missed her dog. Oh how I miss my cat!
We each had our own dinner before Nicky retired with a book to the tops row of bunks and I crashed into bed on the bottom. I'd been watching a pair of rats playing in the rafters outside while we'd been chatting...I only hoped that this otherwise large and lovely shelter that is Waitewaewae Hut was secure enough to keep the rodents on the outside. (Nicky and I were certainly both very careful to shut the door immediately behind us every time we went in or out!)
PS. I couldn't understand why someone had written "YTYY" on the hut logbook box...but eventually I figured it out.
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