Where Sea Meets Sky

After we make our way past streaming waterfalls and gorges, the climb evens out and we find ourselves in a high valley. Here the river widens, soaking into the tussock plains and stretching out until it hits the surrounding mountains. The sky has turned gray and the mountaintops disappear into the mist, only to reappear minutes later.

Gemma, who is at the front, stops to get water out of her pack and then points to the distance, where the valley and river seem to converge with the mountains.

“See that lip,” she says after a drink of water. “We’ll be staying up there tonight. I booked us a room at the hut.”

Damn. That lip, that little area high between the mountains, is way the fuck up there. We’ve already been walking for hours, or at least it feels that way.

But this is an adventure and there’s no turning back on an adventure. My muscles are not sore yet, so that’s a good sign. We bring out some energy bars and almonds and drink more water before heading forward.

In another couple of hours we’re rewarded with the most epic views over the valley. We’re up even higher than I thought and we can see the river below us, meandering through the tan grass for kilometers and kilometers. Little colored dots slowly move along the river, hikers going to and fro.

Further up, the Routeburn waterfall spills down the mossy banks of the mountains, spraying us in fine mist every time the breeze picks up, and there’s a massive wooden building jutting out of the trees. This is apparently the Routeburn Falls hut, but it’s nothing short of a hotel. There’s a wide deck with people leaning against the railing, steaming mugs in hand, waving at us and admiring the view that won’t stop taking their breath away.

The four of us nearly collapse once we reach it—even Gemma and Nick are sweaty and red-faced. We stagger into the hut and haul our bags through the giant mess hall and over to the bunk beds. It’s just row upon row upon row of bunks, but at least they’re divided into groups of four and have the illusion of privacy, even though there are no doors.

The first thing I want to do is take a shower, but even though there are toilets and running water, there are no showers. I have to make do with my sweat. Tired and “buggered,” as Gemma would say, we decide to cook up our favorite staples—hot dogs—on the stoves in the communal kitchen and break out the bottle of whiskey that I decided to buy before we came. You can’t exactly carry a bunch of beer or wine with you.

We do a few shots, play an old board game, and then it’s time for bed. Even though I’m starting to get sore and I can barely keep my eyes open, I stay up sketching for a couple of hours, hoping to capture all the passing moments before they fade forever.

The last thing I draw is a picture of Gemma as she sleeps in the bottom bunk across from me. While drawing Gemma from memory back in Vancouver felt slightly intrusive (okay, so it didn’t help that she was naked), drawing her asleep with her eyes closed, her face open and vulnerable is . . . necessary. I hope that by the end of the trip I can give her the whole sketchbook, so she knows just what kind of effect she’s had on me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let her know otherwise.

I’m still too afraid to fall.

Chapter Eleven

GEMMA

If you ask most people from New Zealand what’s on their bucket list, they’ll usually start listing places and activities far, far away from their home country. I mean, driving through the American Southwest in a pale blue convertible was always high on my list, and I finally did it (though the car ended up being more navy than powder blue). But there have been a few other places on my list that are in New Zealand itself.

Tramping the Routeburn Track in the Southern Alps was one of them. Skydiving over Lake Taupo is another, as is swimming in Lake Tekapo. And even though I grew up on the East Coast of New Zealand, I’d always wanted to venture to the remote East Cape and see the first sunrise of the world grace the beaches there.

Now I can cross Routeburn off the list. Even though it’s only day two, the trip has been absolutely amazing. Yesterday went perfectly and everyone woke up happy and not too sore. My thighs burn in some places, mainly my hamstrings, but that’s always a good thing; it means you’re pushing yourself. And I need to be pushed.

This morning we’ve almost made it to the top of Harris Saddle. It’s a side trip off the main track, but since we made good time yesterday I don’t want to miss an opportunity. Luckily everyone was game, even Amber, who is the least athletic out of all of us.

Still, she can’t help but whine. “Are we there yet?”

I turn around to look at her. She’s nearly falling backward into Josh, with Nick at the very back. The last bit of the hike is always the hardest but I know if we keep pressing on, we’ll get to the summit.

“Just a bit farther,” I tell her, as I have been again and again.

Finally I can see the top of the A-frame shelter poking its head out among the rocky outcrops and endless waves of tussock grass and I nearly yelp with delight.

It’s so fucking stunning, I can barely believe my eyes.

The tiny, windowless A-frame shelter looks so small against the valley and mountains that it looks as if it could blow off into the abyss at any moment. All around us the wind crackles around our limbs like lightning; the hum of the land can barely be contained.

We are so, so, insignificant here and the mountains go on forever and ever, the distance so vast and great between us and the peaks. I’m almost getting dizzy and I lean back for a second. A small hand goes around my arm and I know Amber is keeping me upright. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">