The Ascent of Titiroa

[Jezza]

I stood on top of the boulder with shaking knees, looking down at the snowfield below me that sloped away sharply to my left. It swept downwards for 400m, studded with rocks, becoming progressively steeper until it ended in a sheer drop. In the far distance I could see the trail we needed, leading away from a small alpine lake. So near and yet so far. The wind plucked at my backpack and I swayed alarmingly. We couldn't go back. I was going to have to jump...

New Zealand is justifiably famous for its scenery. From the subtropical beaches of Northland to the ramparts of the Southern Alps, it is a land of huge contrasts, with numerous mountain ranges serrating the South Island into a dizzying succession of contours – ranges which were they anywhere else on earth would have a steady stream of hikers (or Trampers, as the Kiwis say) along them. But in this land of unfeasibly dramatic topography many areas are still virtually undiscovered. It is possible, in some remote areas, to walk up a peak and be the first person to have stood upon its summit. The Kaherekoau Range, the Cameron Mountains, the Hunter Range; here, in the heart of Fiordland National Park, lies one of the last true wildernesses on earth.     

Perhaps the ultimate walking track, in a country famed for its Great Walks, is the Dusky Track. 84km long, crossing two mountain ranges and three valley systems, the Dusky is rated as a Tramping Track, the most challenging category of walks in New Zealand, requiring at least 8 days to complete, and even seasoned trampers have been known to quail at the prospect. There are no less than 23 walkwires – a three-wire system where you edge along the cable like a tightrope walker while swaying wildly above a raging torrent or ravine. In addition the Department of Conservation (DOC), who manage New Zealand's wilderness areas, state that you can expect 'tree falls, deep mud, tree roots and numerous river crossings'. Fiordland receives up to nine metres of rain a year, making it one of the wettest places on the planet, and the weather can make or break a track such as the Dusky; if you are walking in knee-deep mud all day you'll slow down so much that you can add three days or more to the length of time you're on the track, which poses the problem of how much food to carry. Too much and you are staggering along under an enormous backpack. Too little and you're going to run out.

I'd long been interested in the Dusky Track. I'd done most of the Great Walks and was looking for something more challenging, but wasn't sure if it might not be too challenging. As it turned out, it was. After a bout of severe weather, DOC were advising people to avoid attempting the track until some of the rivers had subsided in case they became stranded. I'd come off the Routeburn Track a few days earlier and was sitting on the sun-drenched porch of a hostel in Te Anau, kicking my heels and looking at a cloudless sky, while 40km away on the other side of the mountains in the distance it was pouring.
At that moment a car pulled up. A tall, slender figure got out and lifted a backpack and assorted tramping kit out of the boot. It was Simone. We had met a few weeks earlier on another track in the north, and had spent much of it walking together. Simone was German, in her late twenties, and was ferociously fit.

“Well hello,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Not much, at the moment,” I replied. “I wanted to do the Dusky Track, but it's pretty well closed for now, so I'm wondering what to do next.”
“I also was going to do the Dusky,” Simone said, “but I have found another route which maybe is better. It is just over on the other side of the Hunter Range, and crosses over Mount Titiroa. I am leaving in 30 minutes.”

I looked out at the wall of jagged peaks in the distance. Snow glinted along the top of the range, and the mass of dark grey rock looked grim and uninviting. In front of me butterflies flitted across the lawn, and the sun was warm on my face.

“So, what do you think?” she asked me. “Will you come with me?”

20 minutes later I was packed and ready to go.

[Jezza]

We hitched a ride to Manapouri with the hostel owner, who had been over Mt Titiroa a few years before. “It's rough in places,” Bob told us, “but once you find your own trail up the mountain, the tramping's sweet.” We would follow a track for the first couple of days which led to Hope Arm Hut, but after that the track ended and we would have to navigate ourselves up the mountain and over it. On the other side we would come down through the bushline and join the Borland Track, which eventually led to an Outdoor Centre. We reckoned on being out for a total of 5 nights.

After we had stopped off at the DOC office to fill out intention forms with details of our itinerary, Bob dropped us at Manapouri jetty, where Simone had arranged with the postmistress to take us across the lake to the start of the track. We hefted the enormous packs into the little boat and set off, cutting a white swathe across the glassy surface of the water. Inside the packs was food for 6 days, tent, sleeping bags, wet weather gear, and an emergency beacon, which DOC had advised we take with us. We were going into one of the wildest parts of New Zealand, heading way off the track, and if we were to get lost the beacon might be our only chance of survival. I should have been reassured by its presence, but looking at the orange aerial sticking out of the top of the pack I was aware of a growing sense of foreboding at what we were about to undertake. 



We waved goodbye to the postmistress, watching her hunched figure in the stern grow smaller as the boat buzzed away into the distance. We began the routine with which we were to become so familiar over the coming days, heaving the packs on and tightening up the waistbelts. My knees sagged as I put mine on – it seemed impossibly heavy, weighing a fraction under 20kg, and I wondered how I was going to manage. But Simone was already striding off into the woods, so I took one last look at the receding boat, gave my waistbelt a final heave and followed her into the trees.

It was easy walking, with a wide path that led through the sun-dappled forest. Overhead in the canopy we could hear birdsong, and sometimes a melodic squawk like a busted harmonica which was the distinctive call of a tui. When it became wet underfoot the path was raised on a boardwalk, and our boots drummed across the planks. We were heading for a large pinnacle of rock called The Monument that stood overlooking Lake Manapouri like a sentinel. In the lee of it was the hut where we hoped to stay the night. All over New Zealand there are a network of back country huts operated by DOC, some so remote that they see only a handful of hikers each year, as well as the occasional, slightly feral, possum hunter. Hope Arm Hut was the last hut we would encounter before crossing Mt Titiroa; after that we would be camping until we managed to get down the other side. After a couple of hours the path began to head steadily uphill, levelling out on top of a ridge. We were still in the woods, but suddenly came to a break in the trees which offered a magnificent viewpoint. Before us the valley opened up, the undulating hillsides carpeted with trees. Off to the right Lake Manapouri glittered in the sunshine, and The Monument showed us where we were heading for. But it was what lay on the skyline that drew our gaze. There in the distance loomed an enormous peak, its flanks streaked with snow. Mount Titiroa. It looked like a very serious mountain indeed.



We descended the hillside in silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. I remembered the words of an Australian hiker I had met some weeks earlier who had just completed the Rees-Dart Track, one of the most challenging of the Great Walks. “I've been tramping for 15 years,” he told me, “all over the world. Every time I start a track, I look up at the mountains where I'm going and I get nervous. That's good. The day you stop getting nervous, forget it. You might as well go home. Because that's the day the mountain is going to kill you.” His words echoed prophetically in my head as we trudged downhill. “But that's alright,” I thought to myself, “I'm not going to die this time. Because I'm nervous as hell.” It was a thought which I clung to more than once over the coming days. 

[Jezza]

After a night in Hope Arm Hut we awoke to a bright, blustery morning, the waters of the lake fanned into whitecaps by the stiff breeze. We set off into the forest once more, the trees swaying and creaking as the wind rushed through the canopy overhead. We went upwards, mostly, gaining altitude the whole time and clambering over mossy logs. Periodically we stopped to drink and take in our surroundings: enormous tree ferns sprouted like umbrellas blown inside out, and bracken cloaked the hillsides above us. We began to descend over a carpet of moss towards the sound of running water. Ahead of us lay Garnock Burn, which marked the end of the path. The river was about 150m wide, with small islands of boulders in mid-stream providing a way across. In the centre of the river was an orange triangle on a post, used by DOC to denote a trail, but on the far bank the bush appeared to present an almost impenetrable wall. Simone took the lead, taking off her boots and wading across barefoot. Wary of stones, I decided to keep mine on, and fitted my gaiters, which more or less made me watertight up to the knees. The water was icy cold, the current plucking at us as we went, but we got across without incident. On the bank we sat down in the long grass, drowsy with sunlight and lulled by the sound of the river, for a lunch of cheese sandwiches and muesli bars, mustering our energy for the next section of the climb.



There was no path, it was clear, so we tried to take the line of least resistance through the thick bush, the route becoming progressively steeper. We were aiming for the summit of a 1000m hilltop, from where we would descend to a small ridge. It was rough going. The soil was loose underfoot, and consisted of wood chippings and bits of moss, with small, lichen-encrusted branches sometimes offering a precarious handhold. Sweat was running into my eyes and dripping off the end of my nose, and my glasses kept steaming up. I began to suffer from what the Germans call an 'earworm', a tune that goes round and round in your head. In the age of the ubiquitous MP3 player it seems that we cannot do without continual music, and if none is available, we make our own. In my case I appeared to be going through the entire back catalogue of Simple Minds, a band I haven't listened to for some 20 years. I struggled upwards, showers of earth going down my neck and into my hair as I flailed for grip. It was so steep that if you stood upright and stretched your hands out in front of you they immediately encountered the hillside. 'Woo-oh, alive and kicking,' Jim Kerr wailed in my head, as I hauled myself upwards.

On my hands and knees, shaking and steaming like a kettle, I clambered over a boulder to find Simone waiting there. We took a break, gulping down water. 'That was insane,' I said. 'Just nuts. We can't go back down something like that.'
'Then we must go up,' Simone replied. Practically. Germanically. So we did. Onwards and upwards, heading through the trees. Soon they began to thin, and became more sparse as we reached the bushline. The sun was hot on our faces and we were down to half a litre of water each. According to Bob, there was a reliable stream further down the ridge. I listed hard, and thought I could hear the gurgle of a brook  down in the gorge ahead of us, but it might have been the rushing of the wind in the trees. We had to find water as a matter of urgency.

As we sat there in the sunshine, something caught my eye. Down in the valley below I could make out the glint of water against the bare rock. It shimmered in the heat haze, and for a while I thought it was quartz sparkling in the sun, but it seemed to be moving. We shouldered the packs again and set off towards it. After 20 minutes or so we came down into the valley which was studded by enormous, house-sized boulders. Sure enough, there was water there, but it was no more than a succession of muddy pools, with a sluggish trickle between them. Luckily we had a water filter, although every litre required a laborious 5 minutes of squeezing to purify it. We filled every container we had – about 3 litres each – and while I cooked dinner Simone built a fire in the lee of a large boulder. We huddled next to each other on the Thermarest in front of it as darkness fell, with the thermometer reading 3°C, and as the sky changed colour from ice blue to pitch black, an enormity of stars emerged, endless constellations wheeling slowly overhead.

[Jezza]

We rose early and were packed up ready to go by 8.00am. Leaving the valley behind we headed across a hillside covered in mounds of tussock grass that rippled and danced in the wind. It was treacherous terrain, ankle-wrenching hummocks interspersed with boggy marshland, and more than once I got a bootful. Higher and higher we went, until we were passing through a landscape of jagged boulders with glittering mica underfoot. We had to keep to the ridge as it fell away steeply on either side, but the drawback was that we were continually cresting false summits – each time we plodded up another hill I would start to think “Is this it? Have we finally done it?”, only to see another summit beyond it. Hunger gnawed at my stomach and I trudged along with my energy rapidly subsiding. Eventually I entered that state of mind where my surroundings were lost to me, and I began to question my purpose for being there. What am I doing here? Maybe I should be sitting in an office somewhere, having a real life like everyone else. Maybe if I hadn't been so keen to run away, I would still have a relationship. My life that never was. Finally, worn down by the excruciating self-analysis as much as the weight on my back, I stopped.

Simone looked back at me. “Come on,” she called. “We'll have lunch at the top.”
“I'm having lunch right here,” I retorted. “Not another step.” I swung off my rucksack and began to unpack the food.

Simone came back to join me, and we tried to find a place out of the wind behind some rocks. There was literally no level surface to sit down on. The hillside was so steep that I was leaning at an angle of 45° as I ate. But gradually, as my blood sugar began to increase, my energy returned, and I took stock of our surroundings. Facing back the way we had come we could see the ridge we had struggled along all morning. Beyond it the hillsides were cloaked in thick bush, which dropped down to the lake. Away in the distance I could just about make out a road that ran through green fields, and a small cluster of farm buildings. Down there it looked flat and warm, without the icy gusts of wind and shreds of freezing cloud that billowed across the mountaintops. Part of me wished I was there, sitting in a sunlit study with a cup of tea, not stuck on this wind-blasted mountain top.



Lunch over, we began to slowly move uphill again. Much of it involved scrambling over boulders, and there was a lot of backtracking to make any progress at all as the way was frequently blocked by deep gullies. After about 10 minutes we came over another summit to find the way ahead blocked by a wall of rock some 10m high. Back we went, over to the right of the ridge, and then up again, trying to find a way round. We clambered over more boulders, all the while scanning the ground for a clear route across the next few metres. I squeezed through a gap in the rocks and over yet another boulder, until suddenly I emerged onto a platform. There was a small cairn standing nearby, and looking around the ground sloped away on all sides. I could hardly take it in, but we were at the summit. As far as I could see, serried ranks of snowcapped peaks marched away into the distance. It was an awe-inspiring sight. I shouted to Simone “We've done it!” and she whooped and began to applaud. Giddy with elation and exhaustion I was grinning from ear to ear.



As I looked around the summit my grin began to fade. Ahead of us there were a few more rocks, on the other side of which was a small cliff. There was no way we could climb down it. Below that the hillside was dazzling with snow, which dropped sharply downwards in a sweep of mountainside to end abruptly at another cliff. I stood on top of the boulder with shaking knees, looking down at the snowfield. In the far distance, perhaps 1000m below us, I could see the trail we needed, leading away from a small alpine lake. So near and yet so far. The wind plucked at my backpack and I swayed alarmingly. We couldn't go back. I was going to have to jump.



“Look,” shouted Simone. “Footprints.” I followed her pointing arm. Sure enough, leading across the snowfield just below  where the snow had been swept into a knife-edge by the wind, there was a trail of footprints. They had been there some time, by the look of them, but suddenly it gave us fresh hope. Someone else had made it across.

“I'm going to jump,” I told Simone. “I don't know how deep the snow is, so I'll get on the rope. Tie me off on that boulder and hold my backpack. If I get stuck, you're going to have to pull me out.” She looked worried, but began to unwind the rope. I tied it round myself, and shuffled up to the edge. The drop only appeared to be about 5m, but I had no idea how deep the snow was, or if it concealed a crevasse. “OK, on the count of three. Three...two...one...” I jumped.

It only took a second or two, but to my immense relief, I landed perfectly. I was buried in snow up to my waist, but soon dug myself out. “Come on, it's fine,” I called. Simone lowered the two backpacks to me and then jumped herself, sinking up to her armpits. Giggling I crawled over to her and helped her get up. The footprints were a short distance below us, and we made our way down to them. They had clearly been made by someone a lot bigger than me, as I had to take massive strides to stay in them, but they led right the way across the snowfield, depositing us on a small hillock of sharp rocks. On the other side the snow continued, but the footprints stopped abruptly. This was not a reassuring sign.

I edged forward onto the snow again, and almost immediately lost my footing. On this southern side of the mountain the wind roared up the valley with nothing to block its path, and in it was the sting of winter – the southerly wind in Fiordland comes straight from Antarctica. It had covered the snowfield with a sheer patina of ice. There was no way we could get across it.

We retraced our steps and looked around for an alternative route. Below us lay a hanging valley, with a green ridge rising just the other side. Beyond that lay the bush-covered hillside. Although it was precipitously steep, I thought we could find a way down into the valley if we traversed the mountainside. We slowly picked our way around the boulders, descending all the while, until we began to find sand and mica underfoot again instead of bare rock. Zig-zagging our way downwards we dropped into the valley and set up camp.

[Jezza]

We were off early the next morning again after an unsettled night where the wind had howled and shook at the tent incessantly. We needed to get out of the valley and down the next hillside towards the river. On the far side of the river we hoped to rejoin the track that led to Borland. We were beginning to run low on food, but I wasn't unduly worried – judging by the map we were only about 6km from the track – albeit 6km of dense, bush-covered hillside. We could see the hills sloping steadily downwards, and figured that we would simply walk down through the trees to the valley floor.

We hadn't reckoned on the bush. It's one thing to go on a bush walk along a prepared trail. But this was something else. The bush was incredibly thick. We literally had to push our way into the wall of foliage, which seemed to just get more and more impenetrable. Low branches on the trees snagged on our backpacks and tangles of vegetation caught our feet as we tried to walk. Sometimes it was so thick we ended up crawling on our hands and knees. Twigs whipped across my face, and countless times I barked my shins on gnarled roots hidden by the undergrowth. We were really struggling. All the while the hillside descended, which we reckoned was good news – at least we were heading in the right direction. Simone was in the lead, just visible through the bush, although she was only about 5 metres ahead of me, and I could hear the snapping and rustling of twigs as she pushed her way through.

Suddenly she called out to me. “We can't go further. It's too steep.”
“What do you mean, too steep?” I shouted. I went forward to take a look. Sure enough, what had looked like a gentle gradient from on top of the ridge hadn't revealed the true scale of the hillside. In front of our boots the ground simply disappeared, in a cliff 200m high. There was no way we could get down that. “We go up again,” I said, “and try to cut across the hillside further along.”

It was agonizing having to crawl back up the hill we had fought our way down, but there was no alternative. After we had gained 300m on the altimeter, which must have taken us 20 minutes or more, we cut left and pushed our way through  the trees. At one point a root caught my knee at the same time as a branch hooked on my backpack, and I was pulled completely off my feet, landing upside-down and winded in a patch of fragrant greenery. I struggled to my feet and carried on. We began to descend again, Simone in the lead, until once again I heard a call that made my heart sink. “It's too steep!”

Back we crawled up the hillside, heading westwards all the while, trying to find a clear way down. We were both exhausted by now, and running out of options. For the first time the thought began to occur to me that we might have to spend another night on the hillside. It was now midday, and we had barely gone 2km. And it looked as if the way ahead was impassable. We decided to stop for some lunch. Breaking out a couple of muesli bars, I tried to reassure Simone. “Look, we're only a few k's from the track. We've still got about 6 hours of daylight. We have to just keep going west until we find a hillside to descend without cliffs half-way down it.” I had to believe that we could do that. We set off again.

We'd been going about 10 minutes when Simone cried out: “My glasses! Where are my glasses!” She'd had them on at the lunch stop, but was no longer wearing them. “I must go back and find them.”
I halted in my tracks. “Look at it,” I said, gesturing to the wall of impenetrable vegetation. “You could lose a house in there. We'll never find them.” She became distraught. “I must find them. They were 400 euros, and I can't see without them.”
Cursing under my breath, I said “Alright. We'll give it 10 minutes. If we can't find them, we come straight back here, and it's too bad.”
“No, I will go,” said Simone. “You have a rest.” Although the idea of a rest was tempting, there was no way I was going to let her wander off into the bush with cliffs on all sides. “I'll come too,” I said. “But 10 minutes and that's it.”

We were standing in a small clearing marked by a tree, and it was now that we made the decision that almost killed us. Even today I can't think what entered our minds, other than to say we were both exhausted and a little frightened. But however it came about, we made a potentially fatal mistake. We took off our packs.

Weighing 20kg, the packs were a serious impediment to our progress in that thick bush. By leaving them propped against a tree in a very obvious clearing, they should be straightforward to find, I reasoned. They weren't. We found no trace of the glasses – we couldn't even find our lunch spot, and so when after 10 minutes we decided to return to the clearing, we couldn't find that either. Fighting a growing sense of panic, we decided to retrace our steps yet again. Still no clearing. I climbed a tree, but all I could see was a wall of foliage. I began to swear. We were standing in T-shirts on a hillside in the middle of Fiordland, with only a few hours of daylight left, and it was beginning to rain. My raincoat was in the pack. So was the food, the tent, sleeping bags and even water. How could I have been so stupid? It looked for the first time as if we might just need that emergency beacon after all. I looked at Simone, hoping to ctach a glance of that reassuring orange webbing round her waist.

“Simone. Where is the emergency beacon?”
She looked at me, the full horror of our situation suddenly dawning on her face. My heart sank.
“I put it in my side pocket. In the pack.”
“Oh god.”

I was really scared now. “So this is how it happens,” I kept thinking. “This is how you end up starring in some survival documentary on TV. At least hopefully it's a survival story.” The night time temperatures were near freezing, and in the rain, in T-Shirts, we would quickly have become hypothermic. After that, it's all too easy to make a dumb decision, like trying to climb down a cliff. I was panicking again, and forced myself to calm down. This wasn't fun any more, and I just wanted it to stop.

Back we went, trying to find the clearing. I went up another tree, and again saw nothing. We were going in circles. I found another tree, and leant my forehead against it with my eyes closed. I felt Simone's hand on my shoulder.

“Look!” she said. “What's that?” A flash of blue stood out against the green. I could make out the silhouette of the waistbelt. We had found the packs. They were about 7 metres from where we stood.

[Sergeant Pluck]

Wonderful read, Jezza, thanks for taking the time to do it 

[mike]

fantastic Jezza, just fantastic.  great to see you back in one piece!!

but what we need to know is -  where there any tent-sharing-shennanigans?

[juliet]

Fantastic read, Jezza. 

[Jezza]

I walked cautiously up to my pack, almost as if it was going to disappear again. I don't think I've ever been so glad to see an inanimate object. I was still shaking, and announced to Simone that before I did anything else, I was going to sit down and have a cigar, which I had a supply of in the top pocket. It seemed as if we had got away with it, although I spent several minutes mentally beating myself up for making such a beginner's error. I'd spent many years climbing mountains in Africa, and had done too many bush walks to mention, but I'd always have a daysack with basic survival kit which was never out of my sight. It just goes to show that, no matter how experienced you are, you're always capable of making a silly mistake, and the wilderness is unforgiving of mistakes.

But we were not out of the woods yet. We were still stuck on the hillside, and with no choice but to plough our way upwards again. It was dawning on us that unless we wanted to spend the rest of the week crawling across the hillside, we were going to have to get out of the bush somehow. With new-found determination we climbed back up the hill, trying to get above the treeline. It took hours. Eventually we ended up high on the ridge again, and picked our way cautiously across the scree to try and get further west. We stopped at a small stream and refilled the bottles, before heading upwards once more. We were both covered in scratches and bruises from fighting our way through the undergrowth. 

Down below us the hillsides looked deceptively gentle. Ahead a series of bluffs sloped down from the mountaintop, and the fifth one along looked to be longer but less steep than the others. We decided to head for it. It was now 4pm, and I had basically given up hope of getting off the mountainside that day. The only thing worse than getting stuck in that bush, I felt, was getting stuck in that bush at night. Just above the treeline we decided to pitch the tents, although there was no water source nearby. We were also running short of food; we had one packet of pasta and sauce left, some emergency lentils, and a bit of bread, as well as a nearly empty pot of manuka honey and some teabags. As I fired up the Trangia, Simone took a walk up the ridge. (“Hasn't she had enough exercise for one day,“ I wondered to myself.) When she came back a few minutes later, she squatted down beside me and said “I think I can see a hut down in the valley.” While the pasta bubbled away I followed her back up the ridge, and there, sure enough, just on the other side of the river which ran through the valley, was a small square building.

“That must be it,” I said. “North Borland Hut.” It looked about 3km away as the crow flies, and seeing it gave our morale a massive lift. “Well at least we know what direction to head in now.”

Breakfast was a pretty sparse affair the next morning: black tea with honey, and one piece of bread each. Still, I was excited at the prospect of finally getting off the mountain, and although it was a bit premature, started to fantasize about having a hot shower again, or ordering a meal in a restaurant. With our by now well practised routine we cleared the camp up in a few minutes, and walked down to the treeline again. At the edge of the bush we caught each other's eye; neither of us were particularly looking forward to bashing our way through the bush again, but we had no choice.

Within minutes we were stuck back in the same hell of foliage that we had been in the day before. At least the ground descended more gently than the day before. We did an awful lot of zig-zagging, trying to find our way through. After a while the sound of water reached our ears, and we came across a river plummeting downhill. Along the banks the undergrowth was thinner, so we tried to follow the watercourse. But soon it became clear that this was not going to be easy. A roaring sound reached our ears, and I could see spray ahead. A waterfall. There was no way we could climb down it, so we had to go back into the bush once more and fight our way through it. Then my worst fear was realised. The ground began to slope sharply away, getting steeper and steeper. Simone suggested we traverse the hillside, into thicker bush. When she said it I was locked in a full embrace with a particularly dense shrub, and was literally incapable of moving more than a foot ahead. “Let's just try it here,” I said. “It may level out again.” In the back of my mind was the knowledge that if it was too steep to walk down, we'd have no chance of getting back up it if the way ahead turned out to be blocked. But we were getting desperate.

It did get steeper – much steeper. But with a new-found recklessness I forced myself forwards, sitting down and sliding, mostly, digging my heels into the soil to stop myself falling. Then, miraculously, it began to level out. “It's OK!” I called out. “It's getting level.” Simone came sliding down the hillside after me in a shower of earth and leaf litter. Cautiously I stood up and began to walk again, taking small steps and keeping my feet pointing downhill.

I can't recall exactly when it happened, but at some point I realised we were walking on level ground. The trees reminded me of Epping Forest back at home, and the hours I had spent playing there as a child. I had a new spring in my step now, and felt confident we were going to make it. I became aware of something different in the environment; perhaps a change in the light. Yes, that was it. I could see more light ahead. The trees began to thin, and I could see tall grass ahead of me. Then, suddenly, I was at the edge of the forest.

I stood almost shyly next to the last tree, intimidated by all the space after the claustrophobia of the bush. Then, taking a deep breath, I walked out into a large clearing. About 200m ahead of me was a wide river that swept in a series of arcs  across the floodplain. And there, just on the other side, was the hut.

We waded through the knee-deep river no longer caring about wet boots. The hut was a small corrugated iron box, about the size of a garden shed. A pile of wood stood next to the door, and I walked up and knocked hesitantly on the window. Then I slowly pushed the door open. Inside was a single bunk bed, a table and chair, and a large stove. I made a fire while Simone hung her clothes out to dry, and then we both sat on the bunk looking at the flames, the ache of tiredness in our limbs, our minds numb with the events of the last days. “We've done it,” she said. “From here there's a trail that leads to the Outdoor Centre – shouldn't be more than a couple of hours.” I smiled. This time yesterday I had seriously thought that we were not going to make it. All the events of my life had appeared meaningless, and I would have given anything to have another chance to go back and do them again, to do better this time. But we'd made it. We'd been given another chance. Lulled by the warmth of the fire, I soon fell asleep.

[Jezza]

It rained in the night, and there was a fine drizzle as we set off next morning – a little later than we normally got up. We had next to no food left, and my stomach was yowling, but I could deal with that – we were only a couple of hours from civilization. We soon found the trail, and followed the orange triangles through the trees. But something was wrong. The map showed the trail running alongside the river pretty much all the way, but this trail was heading away from the river. A sick feeling inside me was growing. What if we were on the wrong trail? If we were heading further into the wilderness, with no supplies at all? I called a meeting. We were both worried by the trail's direction, but the only other option seemed to be forcing our way through the bush to keep to the course of the river, which neither of us wanted to do. We decided to stick to the trail, and if we hadn't come to the lodge in 3 hours, we'd return to the hut and make a new plan.

The trail seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time going uphill. Something caught my eye – a large skull and crossbones sign nailed to a tree. “DANGER – 1080 poison” it said, part of DOC's possum eradication programme. Although possums are native to Australia, in New Zealand they are a pest, devastating the native birdlife by snacking on eggs, as well as on indigenous trees. DOC's solution is to drop cyanide from the air all over some of the most beautiful wilderness anywhere, resulting in a curiously sterile ecosystem; there are birds in abundance, but an almost total absence of mammals. We began to encounter gruesome little patches of fur along the path – the remnants of possum. They appeared to have almost been dissolved.

I was getting weak with hunger, and we agreed to stop at the river for lunch. On the map a walkwire was marked, but as the trail led downhill and the river came into sight, I could see no wire. This was definitely the trail – there was the orange marker on the far bank. But was it the right trail? And if so, where was the walkwire? More worry. We sat down to the remains of our food – one piece of bread each and half a sausage. I was supposed to be a vegetarian, but felt that given the circumstances, a bit of sausage wouldn't do any harm. It wasn't bad. Meaty, as you'd expect.

We decided to press on, and waded out into the river. The water wasn't too high, but it was fast-flowing, and more than once I nearly lost my footing. I staggered out on the opposite bank, water streaming off me, and waited for Simone. After a quick readjustment of the packs, we set off again. After an hour of more walking I was getting more and more concerned. We'd been going three hours, which was the time we'd agreed to cancel if there was no sign of the lodge. But something told me to keep going, and I didn't say anything to Simone, who was whistling jauntily as she strode along.

Four hours. Then five. By now we knew something was wrong with our navigation, but the path was well marked, and  seemed to be getting broader. After I climbed over one log, I looked down in the mud and suddenly noticed the imprint of a hiking boot. Someone else had been this way recently. It gave me fresh hope, and we kept going.

The trees were more spread out now, and ahead of us I could see something through them. It was a small footbridge. On the other side a sign stood. “Circular Nature Walk”, it said. “Follow the signs on our nature walk. Time: 45 minutes”. Oh great, I thought. We've just crossed an entire mountain range, barely making it down, and we're stuck on a frigging nature walk. Which is circular. I've had about all the nature I can take for now. Still, off we went, round the circuit.

The signposts grew more frequent. Then, shocking in it's unnatural geometry, I could see a shape through the trees. It was the lodge.

We literally staggered out of the forest. We were covered in cuts and scratches, faint with hunger, and I had a pronounced limp from wrenching my knee. There was a row of small cabins in front of us, and pylons humming overhead. On the far side of the field a woman was hanging out washing. We trudged over to her.
“Er, hello,” I said. “We wondered if you could help us. Is this Borland Lodge?”
“Certainly is,” she said. “Do you have a booking?” She looked at us for the first time. “Oh. You've been in the bush, haven't you.”
“We've walked from Manapouri. Over that.” I pointed to the towering range of mountains behind us.
“Gosh, you've done well. You look a bit tired.” She smiled.
“We are. And we're very hungry. I don't suppose... could we buy some food? Just some bread or potatoes or something.”
“We can do better than that. Would you like fish or chicken as a starter? Come inside – I'll show you the menu.”

I couldn't believe it. This was an outdoor centre, and she was offering us a three course meal. “I'll have the fish, please. And could we use your phone? It's just that – is it the 5th today? We're a bit overdue, and in an hour-and-a-half they're going to send up a helicopter to look for us. So we'd better give them a ring.” We'd been out 7 days.

Simone and I sat down to dinner in a long dining room with motivational posters all over the walls. “Take charge of your life!” “Never give up!” they exhorted. We were the only people there. The lady bustled back and forth, serving our food: “I've given you three rolls each... I thought you'd appreciate that.” Fish with some kind of salad. Roast chicken and veg. Finally, strawberry ice cream with chocolate wafers. I was in heaven. “I'm not really a vegetarian any more,” I informed Simone with my mouth full of chicken. “But I'm OK with that.”

After dinner we braved the sandflies to sit outside while I smoked a cigar with my coffee. It was a beautiful sunset that turned the clouds a deep shade of pink, and made the snow up on the mountaintops glow like fire. I looked up at the monolithic summit we had come over, and the bush-covered hillsides which I could now see ended in sharp cliffs that we hadn't been aware of. Titiroa loomed on the skyline, immense and unforgiving. And yet this time, for some reason, it had forgiven us. The mountain had let us live.