Ol' Mapsy Strikes Again..

With a few of the great walks under my belt I felt pretty sure-footed heading out to do another multi-day hike on my own. I hitched a ride to the uniquely gorgeous town of Glenorchy with relative ease and found a quaint backpackers hostel to stay the night.

I checked in and was told the backpacker lodge was around back, through the gate. I walked around the side of the main building and came to a gate. I pulled and it didn't budge. I jiggled the handle to make sure it wasn't locked and again it didn't budge. As I pulled I felt it give a tiny bit, then a little more and with one final yank the gate came flying open with a loud crack as a few boards gave way as it broke in half. I looked up immediately like a startled deer to see if anyone had noticed and of course, there in the window ahead of me was a crowd of backpackers: half laughing, half shocked and scared. I looked around to assess the situation. When I looked to my left I saw a large open gate, a second gate, at the end of a footpath just slightly around the corner and previously out of sight, about 20 feet from where I busted through the nailed up gate like the fucking Kool-Aid guy. Dammit! Idiot, that's me.

Gate conquered, in I walked and found my sweet little room where I unpacked my pack and reassembled it as best I could for what would likely be an 8 day walk. Hikers love doing that, unpack and repack, each time feeling like you've really made good changes somehow. Not a good thing: I found a 2 pound camera lens I had failed to leave in my stored camera bag, so there was 2 useless pounds I was stuck carrying for 8 days over two mountain ranges. I had resupplied in Queenstown and had about 7 pounds of food (including one pound of chocolate) ready to go. The others in the cabin were all hikers heading off on different trails. One guy was loosely following the Te'Araroa trail (tip-to-tip across New Zealand) and his stories were incredible. The majority of hikers you meet are even-mannered, genuinely nice people...but it only takes one bad one to spoil the vibe. We were all hanging out relaxing and unwinding when the bad seed decided to aggressively challenge us all, one by one, on our environmental beliefs. We entertained his attacks briefly then started making excuses and heading to bed. Thanks, asshole.

I woke up refreshed and ready for a day in the woods. I quickly got dressed and headed out to the road to hitch a ride. No cars. 30 minutes pass, still hardly any cars, and no cars stop. So i start walking. The sandflies were starting to circle so the walking was necessary at this point. I walked 3 kilometers before a car stopped. I hitched a lift about 5k further towards Kinloch and was dropped at a crossroads. I began walking towards the trail with a sign and thumb out and after about an hour I got another ride.

The man that stopped looked a little shifty but with my arms spotted with sandfly bites and the sun rising quickly, I hopped in. Perhaps I should have consulted the map a bit more since I really had no idea where to tell him to go. I figured the locals would know where the trail was, but I made a guess and pointed straight ahead. Again, idiot. As we drove, the driver began to ask odd questions that could have sounded threatening but I treated them as curious.. Questions like: Aren't you scared of getting kidnapped? Or hurt? It was odd to have him asking these questions but I continued to answer and act like it was an absurd thought. After the 5th or 6th question I started becoming uneasily aware of the finer details of the inside of his truck cab. The leather-wrapped handle of a knife sticking up between his seats didn't worry me as much as the one red women's  shoe in the floorboard. Had that once belonged to a backpacker? Is the other one on a foot in a ditch somewhere? I gathered my thoughts and tried to act uninterested without seeming rude. The road was bumpy and long and we saw very few other cars. The further we drove the stranger the dialogue became. I could see him glancing over at me every now and then and he asked me more personal questions about wether I thought I was confident, or able to defend myself, etc. Had that been my first hitch I would have likely never hitched a ride again but as it was my 50th I went along with the conversation and exhaled a bit as we finally made it past a herd of sheep and up to the trail head. He waved goodbye politely and wished me luck. 

I had lost a lot of time walking and hitching to the trail so I started quick and tried to keep up a good pace. About 20 feet into the trail I came across a smiling guy holding a map. As I passed him he shuffled the map under his arm and quickly asked me to take his photo for him. I stopped and snapped a shot, then surprisingly he started chatting with me and followed along. We navigated our way through a dense crowd of Asian tourists at the head of the trail and started on our way. He was Swedish, carrying a tiny backpack and full of quirky conversation. Unprovoked, he launched into details of his family and childhood as he walked behind me. I tried to listen but I wanted to keep pace so I missed every third word. It occurred to me that we had started hiking at a loop trail and Lon had followed me without much talk of direction. I asked to make sure he was headed on the Greenstone Track and he said yes, so on we walked.

We wound our way along the edge of the valley with the river to our left, stopping every few miles for snacks and drinks. As we crossed pastures, the majority of the cows scurried away from the path as we neared but some froze in terror creating tense standoffs. It's hard to feel confident waving your arms and yelling at an 800 pound cow no matter how much of a badass you are. I was surprised to see so many cows so soon as I thought they'd be further along the trail. 

I stopped a few times to check the map and everything seemed right. I wanted to tell Lon that I thought he was going the wrong way but he seemed so sure of himself that I just let it go. He was doing the loop, he could afford to make the loop in the opposite direction. I was hiking half the loop and catching a different trail in order to get to the Milford Track so I had to make good time or I'd literally miss my boat! Besides, he was growing on me, would be fun to have him around another day or two. So on we hiked.

We walked for another few hours and finally came to the gorge. It was breathtaking. It looked a little different than the pics I had seen but it was incredible. As we crossed the bridge and entered a meadow and spotted the hut I noticed some workers and a barrier around it. Hmm.. Interesting. As I remembered from the map, the hut I was hiking to, the Greenstone Hut, was in a small field on a hill. Up a hill.. This was not a hill...Construction....

OH GOD.

THIS IS THE WRONG FUCKING HUT.

IDIOT IDIOT IDIOT!

I stood there staring at the Mid Caples Hut, the only hut in the network that was under construction and closed. I looked back at my map and I understood what had happened with a sickening clarity: Both tracks followed the right bank of a river, both crossed similar terrain and pasture lands, and both led up to a gorge right before crossing to the hut. I had simply paid too little attention at the beginning and gone the wrong way. Lon just kind of lingered for a minute pretending not to notice my embarrassment and frustration. He stayed until I told him I was fine and that I was going to head to the other hut. The other hut that was 21km away. Fuck. Everything.

I let the anger and frustration propel me through the first few miles. I crossed back through the endless cow pastures and up and down the edge of the valley as I retraced my steps. I cared less about the marshy cow shit patches and let my boots get covered. This hike was literally teeming with bullshit.

I ran out of water. Every stream I passed was full of cows, or their crap, or the possibility of it. By luck I crossed paths with a hiker who had an extra 2 liters of water. If you don't hike often you have no way of realizing what a significantly unbelievable occurrence that is, but it happened and it was much appreciated. 

Funny how on a hike when you're headed the right way and your mind is thinking positive thoughts all you see are butterflies and flowers, then your headspace changes and you notice things like the smell of the manure and an ominous dead cow.

After another hour I made it back to the trailhead, drooling with curiosity at what had gone wrong. There, in plain sight, a very clearly marked trail sign-post freely giving me all the information I needed. I recognized the small wooden walkway I had gone around earlier and realized that this is the spot the crowd of tourists had forced us to go around on the trail, therefore missing the sign. Deep breath, keep hiking.

The trail changed pretty dramatically as I headed up the correct valley. The pastures gave way to small elevation gains and losses and soon I was looking down on the valley where an emerald-green river was snaking it's way forward, toward the hut I presumed. I was too tired to get my usual shaky wimpy knees on the terrifying narrow bridges that crossed the ravines.

But even in my frustration and fatigue I was fully aware of the beauty surrounding me, and any moment spent in that place, no matter what the circumstances, was a moment well spent. I was literally in awe. With a new vigor and some water I filled from a waterfall I pushed on. At this point I had walked about 15 miles, and it was another 6 to the hut. I snacked and kept up a good pace. With no mile markers (and a blurry sense of time having crossed the whole damn valley twice) it was tough to gage how far I had gone. Did I pass the hut turn-off? I remembered a wide part of the trail a ways back that had an ambiguous path leading off into the woods. I backtracked about half a mile to investigate, found a small trail to a pile of toilet paper, then turned back around and plodded on. Finally, after about 35 km (roughly 21/22 miles) I came up the hill just as the sun was setting. I collapsed on the bench outside with my sweaty head literally steaming as sandflies swarmed my stinky face. I took off my boots, tied them together to keep them safe from the Kea (mountain parrots) and went inside. 

It was all worth it in the end. Through all my trekking that day I had no idea that this, Valentine's Day as a matter of fact, was going to be one of the best nights of my trip.. But that's a different story for another time.

It all works out in the end. 

Lost in the French Alps

Have you ever had a wanderlust-fueled adrenalin rush that ended with a non-refundable flight booked to the French Alps? I have. I remember looking down at my credit card (and glass of French wine) and realizing what had just happened with horror and delight. 

The original plan was a trip to Ireland for my sister's wedding. But I figured, if you're going to fly all the way to Europe, might as well see a little more and stay a bit longer. I mean the trans-Atlantic bit was the hardest part, right?

With all the hiking I had been doing I figured I might find a trail or two near Galway along the western coast of Ireland. This is roughly how the next two minutes of my life played out: Google>pretty irish hikes west coast>pretty irish hikes>best irish hikes>best UK hikes>Scotland hikes>Europe's best hikes>Prettiest hikes Europe>Alps hiking>French Alps>Book Flight>Confirm payment>Thanks for booking your nonrefundable flight. So it was happening.

I arrived in Ireland with just enough time to catch my flight to Lyon, France. I made it to Lyon and couch surfed with a guy there overnight before catching the morning train to Chamonix. This was my 6th trip to Europe so I felt confident arriving with no plans and winging it, and sure enough I was able to find a sweet little chalet with a room available. It was a laid back place owned by one of those perpetual-backpacker types; A real enterprising guy named Cody split his time between paragliding, romancing the pretty girls traveling through, and renting out rooms (in the house he himself was renting) to make the cash to continue living the dream.

My plan was to stay 3 nights to check the area out before taking the train back to central France for some exploring. However, as I woke up with wine-stained lips in the cozy loft room and stared out the window towards the sun sparkling on the glaciers flowing down the side of Aguille d'Midi and took in the life-affirming views of the Mont Blanc Massif I knew 3 days wouldn't suffice. I convinced Cody to rent me his camper van for half the room rate and I booked another 10 days.

It took two days of wandering the valley and sharing meals at the chalet to make friends with some fellow travelers. One in particular seemed interested in my hiking goals. He had just finished the Tour de Mont Blanc and was relaxing in the living room with his disgusting blistered and taped feet perched at odd angles on the table which was covered in maps when I swooped in to gather some info on the area. His name was Alex and he was German and he seemed pretty pre-occupied with Tala, the 6-foot blond Swedish girl that, at that moment, was walking nonchalantly out of Cody's room. After a few glasses of wine and pointing at maps it was decided that I would be borrowing Alex's maps and hiking a combination of trails down the length of the valley the following day. I tried to sleep, oblivious to how long a day it was actually going to be.

You couldn't have asked for better weather as I laced up my stinky boots and headed across the dew-covered grass for the free bus up the valley. The light hadn't made it into the valley yet but you could see the clouds overhead were getting brighter as the bus slowly worked it's way up towards Le Tour, the end of the line. By the time I hopped off the bus the valley was glowing, as was I. In all my travels I try and find time to realize where I am and how lucky and happy I am to be there. This was one of those moments and a couple happy tears snuck out before I could stop them. It's hard to not feel like a total badass with your daypack on, wind in your hair, worn-in boots on your feet and sun on your face as you hike in the French Alps. Hard, but seemingly not impossible.

I had studied the maps and as I walked I recognized features that told me I was on the right track. Waterfall: check. Glacier: check. The sign posts were helpful and after a few hours I had climbed up and arched along the Balcon Sud trail and I was again descending into the valley into the town of Argentiere. I stopped in town and picked up some cheap salami and cheese and continued on my way. There was a trail marker pointing up the north wall of the valley and I took it, piece of cake. 

About 500 vertical steps into this trail I stopped and regrouped. As I had climbed, my unstoppable momentum had faded to a wavering mix of optimism and exhaustion, and I pulled out the map. All on course...ok, let's go. I didn't start cursing in my head for another half mile, and I din't mumble my first audible motherFUCKER for another half mile after that. But once it started, I was a sweaty ball of rage stumbling my way up the mountain. I found a small clearing on the trail and sat down with a little asthmatic sigh to evaluate the situation. The backpack I was carrying weighed about 10 pounds. In this pack was some salami, cheese and bread, a liter of water, an inhaler, iPod and headphones, a map and about 7 pounds of camera gear. I pulled out the map and again convinced myself that I was on the right trail. According to the topo map I should be climbing but this felt a little steeper than I had imagined. I pushed onwards.

 

It was 1pm as I came upon my first sign post. I looked at the map, then back to the sign. Then back and forth a few times until it hit me. I was nowhere near where I thought I was. Goddamnit. I looked around. Suddenly the depth of the valley terrified me and the heat of the sun reminded me of how wrong my current elevation was. How long had I been hiking the wrong way?! Apparently, the entire time. As I had left Argentiere I now noticed with startling clarity that the trail I had taken, the trail that by all means had looked like the exactly right thing to have done, that trail was actually the wrong trail. If you look really closely, partially hidden among the tiny French text of the map there was a second trail, a glorious moderate trail that began about 15 feet further along the road past the trail I had mistakenly taken. A trail where, I imagined, baby squirrels giggled and waved at you as you passed and fellow hikers gifted you with fine chocolates as you high-fived each other on the prettiest trail in France. Had I walked another 15 feet, or taken 15 seconds to compare the sign to my map I would have been on that utopian path, but instead here I stood on a trail more suited for mountain goats, 4 miles away and UP from the road, and there weren't a lot of options.

Option 1: Turn back. Fuck that (for now). As every hiker knows, 4 miles of steep downhill is tougher on the knees than another 7 miles at a moderate gain/loss of elevation, so..

Option 2: Keep going. As I studied the map I saw that if I kept climbing I could make it to the cable cars at La Flegere and ride down into Chamonix. 

I forged ahead. The trail got tougher in terms of requiring more careful navigation and steeper drops. I passed two hikers with full packs, trekking poles, sun hats and concerned faces. I smiled as I passed them, full aware of what they must be thinking of the unprepared girl with the monstrous camera and no safety gear. I passed the tree line and came into fields where the sun beat on my face until I was forced to take my only warm layer off, a flannel shirt, and drape it over my head as a makeshift sun visor. I looked like a castaway and I kind of felt like one too. As the sun began to start toward the horizon I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I looked at the map and then back at my phone. The sun would set in 1.5 hours, the lift closed in 30 minutes and I was still an hours hike away. Again, MOTHER FUCKER. 

I checked my pre-paid phone for signal but of course there was none and I started to think about wether a rescue of an idiot American off the mountain would make the news back in the states. With any luck, a photo of my raccoon-eyed sunburnt sweaty face would accompany the story. I wilted into a pile of defeated anguish and pulled out the maps and nibbled on a block of cheese like a feral child. My only option was to walk down. Night was setting in and the temps were dropping fast. If the light faded I would be in a very bad situation. Looking at the maps I picked a route down that would be brutal on the knees but it looked like my only shot.

With adrenaline and gravity on my side I started off down the mountains. I took a wrong turn, realized it, backtracked and started again on the right path. Switchback after switchback I crept down the mountain, increasing my speed at the rate of the dropping sun. Back in the trees again I quickened my pace as it grew darker in the thick pines. It took an hour and fifteen minutes to descend about 2,000 feet. If I stopped, my legs began to shake. As I neared the end of the steep descent I could see the lights of the town and I knew that everything was going to be fine, despite my best attempts at sabotaging myself. A few more tears of joy slipped out as my feet hit pavement. Then I was almost hit by a bus. But after the bus passed and the noise died down I finally could exhale. 

As I walked into town towards what I hoped would be a bus back to the chalet I heard faint chanting and saw flashing lights. Immediately I thought there must be some sort of emergency and I was relieved it wasn't me causing the scene. Rounding the corner I saw lights flashing and thousands of people filling the streets. Wow, I had forgotten about this. I limped into the crowd and sat on a stone wall and watched as the world rock climbing finalists competed in front of me. I sat for a few hours as the sun set, watching as people made my climbing attempts look wimpy, but it didn't bother me. I was safe and sound.

The next morning I gave Alex his maps back. He noticed my terribly comic sunburnt face but didn't mention it. I told him in my most confident tone that I had decided to hike to La Flegere. He glanced at me knowingly and said with a wry smile, "I decided something similar, the first time I hiked that trail."

. . . . . . . . . . 

As a side note, this is where I was given the trail name 'Mapsy' which was meant as an endearing mix of 'oopsy' and 'maps.' :)