It’s the prairies of Iowa, it’s the craggy outcroppings of the Appalachians, it’s the volcanoes of Hawaii, it’s the muggy forests of the Amazon; welcome to the Tongariro Crossing, New Zealand.
The bus pulled up to a shed-like building in the middle of the tussock grass, and the imported heather flowers sprinkled the rolling foothills of the crossing. Heather was imported from a Scottish bloke who wanted to make New Zealand look more like home. The heather is unfortunately overtaking the native tussock, but it does look neat.
The area I was in was a volcanic zone stretching from this park (right in the middle of the north island) to White Island about 70 miles to the northeast. The date was March 17, 2005, New Zealand’s fall season. I’ll get back to the significance of the date later.
The bus driver gave us a speech, telling us to make sure to make it to the end by 5 p.m., because the last bus leaves there at 5:30 p.m. The time was 8:30 a.m. and the trail was 11 miles long. I thought to myself, “I can do six miles in two hours. This shouldn’t be too hard; especially since earlier in the week we hiked five miles on a 65-percent-graded gorge.”
I was wrong.
The first part of the trail wasn’t bad because it was fairly flat. But then, we went through a winding path through the tussock/heather rolling hills, and periodically would pass outcroppings of volcanic rocks.
I won’t bore you on the details, but it was the lighter colored variety of rock which is highly viscous when it is in liquid form, so it’s like the lava oozes out of the earth like toothpaste from the tube, meaning when the rock oozes out, it retains the shape. The formations left were cylindrical mounds.
Then, we reached the foot of “Devil’s Staircase” and this is where the trail got fun, because it started to drizzle and the wind picked up in velocity. I was struggling about half way up. Looking down reminded me that I was 300 feet away from being a Duncan pancake if I fell, but I had another 300 feet to go.
And if the drizzle wasn’t enough, the wind sped up and a fog settled in to block the trail to the South Crater. The fog hid our view of Mount Ngauruhoe, which was the model for Mount Doom in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings.
The terrain looked like Mars and the trail was thankfully flat, but the fog disguised how we went and how far we had to go to get to the Red Crater. At times I would let the group get ahead of me and behind me, so I could get lost in the fog. On those occasions, I got the impression that I was alone, thousands of miles away from home. The smell of sulfur filled the air and if it were hot I would have felt like I was on Venus.
Then, another steep climb towards the Red Crater. My legs, at this point, were screaming at me, but we weren’t even halfway done.
Sure, many of us complained, but in retrospect this wasn’t climbing Mt. Everest where fellow New Zealander (or Kiwis as the citizens of New Zealand are called) Sir Edmund Hillary and his Sherpa Tenzing Norgay risked their lives to accomplish the feat of the greatest “King of the Hill” challenge by their summit. Sir Hillary, I never met him but I sure felt like him scaling that rock in the middle of New Zealand. Sir Hillary passed away recently at the age of 88. Rest in peace.
The trek towards the Red Crater was a challenge. First of all, the fog was so thick we could barely see more than an eighth of a mile and the wind kind of kept us on our feet. Then we reached the ascent to the Red Crater in which we were climbing on loose, very loose, rock that arrived beneath our feet years ago in a cataclysmic eruption. I surely would have felt better knowing that if I fell large distances on my right or left I would stop soon, but I didn’t, due to the fog, and this made it fun.
It was about 45 degrees Fahrenheit with 20 mph wind gusts when we reached the summit of the crater, which of course, we could not see into because of the fog. That damn bloody fog.
When you look at pictures of the crater on a clear day it looks desolate and inactive. This could not be further from the truth. The rotten eggs smell of sulfur filled the air.
When I touched the ground at the rim of the crater it was noticeably hot. Then, I heard a cracking sound that seemed to come from under my feet. These sounds are commonplace when standing on a volcano. Oh, I forgot to mention that the Red Crater is a volcano!
The tour guide assured us that they keep tabs on the area and would have never taken us on the trail if they felt it was ready to blow. The volcano to really worry about is roughly a mile and a half away, Mt. Ruapahu, which last erupted ten years ago.
Still, it’s uneasy to know molten rock is trying to find its way to the surface right under your feet.
The way down was much the same as the way up, sliding down precariously on loose rock. We passed by some smaller craters filled with acidic water, again reeking of the smell of sulfur.
About 20 miles to the north is the town Rotorura, or sometimes called Roto-Vegas, because of the touristy aspect. You can bungee jump, mountain bike, see geysers and do something called zorbing (Google it, it’s fun). The town has one trait though that makes me not want to live there; it rests on top of a geothermal area and constantly smells of sulfur, but this is their energy source. The locals are used to it, I guess.
Back on the trail, we see a house like structure and relief sets in. We’re just a little more than halfway done and it’s just about 1:00 p.m.
After a short rest and lunch, we ready to move on. Now we get into the groove of things and then start to go downhill. Sore legs, a break and downhill don’t mix. This is where we start with the hot and muggy rainforest leg of our journey. Then someone, halfway through the leg, yells, “Road, I see a road!” tired and nearly collapsing in pain, we muster our energy to run to where he is, but it was only more trail.
Boy did we hate this guy. I would have commented on the flora and fauna of the area if I weren’t so focused on finishing the trail. At this point of the trail, I realized why you don’t want to drink too much water; I had to pull behind a tree to “tap my kidney” as they say. I had to urinate so much that Mike, one of the fellows that came along with us, was pretty worried, but I assured him that it was just that I had drank too much water.
When we got to the end at 5 p.m., the real end of the journey, I collapsed in exhaustion and took off my boots, which was a bad idea, because my feet smelled like something died and I was soaking-wet from sweat and the rain and so was everyone else. When we got on the bus to go back to the hostel, we never breathed through our noses.
When we all got back to the rooms we were staying in, I immediately took a shower and then took a nap. Another bad idea, because when I tried to walk, my muscles collectively gave me the finger. But, I fought hard beyond the soreness to make it to the pub. After all, it was March 17 and I am a third Irish, you know St. Patrick’s Day. Alcohol dampened the pain, which was good. The cigarettes probably weren’t the best solution either, but they felt good. The day was done and I was able to wake the next day in New Zealand.