The Lair
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The air was hot around us, we had miles left to hike and a finger's width could measure how much water remained in our one water bottle. The weight of our packs and our forward momentum were carrying us downhill faster than we might have liked, between trees sporting barely enough space between them to admit our wide packs while our feet sank through forest brush up to our hips with every step. Nobody knew where we were, and night was falling. We had passed our ceiling of endurance, both mental and physical, hours ago. This was the culmination of a disastrous three-day hike into Cradle Mountain.
We began the hike in very different weather. From the outset we were drenched, the rain turning into sleet, and in our great ignorance at the time we were wearing cotton jeans. We each had a walking staff that Aubrey had carved from white oak, and heavy packs laden with everything we might need over the next few weeks. Our intentions were to hike along the Overland Track until we came out the other side- a long journey through isolated mountains. Mom had warned us that, despite our theoretical knowledge, we had chosen a dangerous and difficult route considering our practical inexperience, but our enthusiasm surpassed our regard for such warnings.
And it was a difficult route, indeed. Tempteratures continued plummeting throughout the day while we battled strong winds, fighting our way over boulders bigger than we were and scrabbling up vertical rockfaces. I quickly became hypothermic, and I wasn't the only victim of the freak weather- a fellow hiker in a different area of the path tragically died that same weekend. We had no choice but to keep going, hoping to reach our campsite before dark. Along a ridge, the path narrowed and became two wooden boards placed side-by-side, which we were not allowed to step off of in order to protect the mountain vegetation. Unfortunately, winds we so strong that we had to move at a crawling pace in an attempt to keep our balance, and we suffered falls that blackened our knees and made our misery even worse.
So we sang. Eating frozen, rain-bleached peanut M&M's, we fell into the lulling rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other, singing to each other and together. It was well after dark before we came to our campsite, and as we were half unconscious by that point, we were too far gone to appreciate our luck in making it at all. We slept through the next day, jumbled together while the wind ripped at our tent, and then we took stock of our provisions. We had been inhaling our food, desperately trying to replace the calories lost to cold and exertion. Perhaps fortunately, we wouldn't have enough to complete the trek as we'd planned. So we decided to set out for home the next day, via a different route than the one that had brought us such torment.
We quickly learned that we had effectively traded the hardships of the original path for the equally tormenting hardships of the new one. On that day, the weather mocked us by becoming hot and dry, while the floodwaters of the previous rain carved mudslides and waterfalls out of our downhill path. After a while I walked in a trance, awakening only when my brother reached me and broached the subject of a plan concocted between the others. He and I would pick up the pace, sprint ahead and drive the car from its distant parking lot to a nearer one, where we would reunite with our parents.
Neither of us considered our water or food situation until we were already too far ahead to turn back. He had assumed that I had water, while I had done the same about him. We had a bag of nuts, which we shared, and a very little bit of water. We kept our pace to a fast walk, which was an effort with the weight of our packs to carry along that path, which had started to climb again. The excitement of reaching the saddle, which loomed just ahead, and maybe seeing from that vantage point our final destination was exhilarating and motivating. We hiked faster, our muddied walking sticks flashing.
It was a very still, horrified moment when we broached the saddle. Cradle Mountain itself was to our left, and down below was the large, silent navy beast of a lake. On its far side was the manmade square gray of a parking lot- the one at which we had agreed to meet our parents. And the path continued to our right- up, up, up a towering, forbidding mountain peak. I looked at my brother, and he looked at me, and in silence we knew we could not climb that mountain. So instead we opted to go cross-country.
We were in for the roughest part of our trek yet. There was a slender walking path, circling the lake far below us, and we knew that we had only to walk downhill to intercept that path and then follow it to the parking lot. The distance between us and the path couldn't have measured more than half a mile, but the decline was steep and the terrain was vicious. It took us over two hours to cross that distance, always fearing that we would be bitten by snakes or spiders (the venomous varieties abound in Australia) when our legs sank into the deep forest brush, out of sight and unprotected.
Our first sight of the path was a moment of sheer, unadulterated joy and relief. From there, the walk to the parking lot was easy. I collapsed on the ground, unwilling to get back up in order to continue our journey, and Aubrey then did the most miraculous thing I have ever seen. He unhooked his pack, let it fall, and told me to stay where I was. I watched in stunned amazement as he ran, at full speed, away towards the other parking lot where our Landcruiser waited. After everything we had been through, after I had seen the exhaustion in his eyes, he rallied himself enough to run as though he had the energy of a rested, fed athlete.
Meanwhile, our parents were still in the midst of their nightmare. Unlike us, they had reached the saddle and decided to continue along the designated path. That mountain peak featured chains, nailed into its stony hide. Mom and Dad clung to these chains, lowering themselves down the almost vertical mountainside inch by inch. Any slip could have resulted in broken bones or death.
Aubrey drove the car into the parking lot where I waited, and we loaded our packs into the back, eagerly stuffing our mouths with packets of milk biscuits and swigging from the full bottles of water we discovered. Wide awake now, anxiously keeping our eyes on the path, we waited. One hour passed. Two. And then three. Still, there was no sign of our parents. It was approaching eleven at night before we saw the weak beams of flashlights, angling from side to side with the gaits of their holders. Mom and Dad had arrived safely, though, like us, dehydrated, starving, exhausted and hurting.
Since then, our Cradle Mountain hike has turned into legend. I have never again gone beyond the limits of my endurance to such an extent, although I now know that I can survive physical and mental tests I had never before imagined. And, of course, we learned our lesson about biting off more than we could chew. The next time we wanted to go to parts unreached, we took our Landie with us- stocked full of food and water.
