Fresh Fotos From the Front 2

There's a few new ones up on my Flickr page from Hong Kong, Caslte Hill and some from the Rees-Dart track. Click the surfing Kiwi to see them!

--MJPH

TRIP REPORT: Rees-Dart Track

The Rees Dart Track is a five day walk that takes you up the Rees River, up over the Rees Saddle, then down through the Dart river. I made a side trip up past the Dart Glacier and climbed to the Cascade Saddle.

DAY 1: Rees Valley to Shelter Rock Hut
Anne drove me as far up the 4X4 road as possible, but it had been raining on and off for the last two days in the valley so we stopped at a washout about 6km from the start of the track. I saddled up, waved goodbye and confronted my first challenge - the small wash-out river. After 10 minutes of walking up and down the thing trying to find a way across I decided I was going to get wet anyway, and that I might as well do it on purpose. I sloshed through the stream and filled my boots with water.

It turned out to be the right decision as being wet was what this Treking business is all about. I passed a Kiwi driving a backhoe down the road towards me in the rain, he had been clearing a landside off the road - I waved and smiled, he shook his head and kept driving. The track followed farmers tracks and eventually became more hidden as I walked along the river. I hopped on tufts of soggy grass trying to avoid the shin-deep mud holes that constituted the "path."

A few hours later, the weater had improved with blue skys forming behind me. I had made two more challenging fords across side streams - this time I tried to move quickly and the gailters kept me pretty dry (now understand that "dry" is a loose term here - more like my boots we're squirting out water with each step.) These river crossings had been what I was most afraid of: apparently its river crossings and streams that take the lives here in Mt. Aspiring park - these streams and rivers flood fast. I had lunch on the bank of 25 Mile Creek which I knew was going to be the most challenging ford yet. The creek was fast, cold, deep and as I was chewing on salami I noticed a memorial plaque in the high grasses commemorating the death of two Trekers swept away a few years ago.

I was dreading this crossing, but it had to be done: I walked about 2 minutes up stream and took off my pack. I eased my way in as my boots filled with freezing water. It was thigh deep and fast. Facing the stream I shuffed across until I was directly in the center of the stream. I felt ok, though I was almost up to my waist now; I figured I could do it. I shuffled back and threw the pack on, and slowly pushed my way through. I felt fantastic having make the crossing and attacked the second part of the day with fevor.



After a few hours of forest hiking I spilled out into Clarke Slip, a melting glacial field with many waterfalls, boulders and alpine shrubs. It was raining and ominous but I stopped for half an hour to take photos and breathe. VERY BEAUTIFUL. I met Neal, a Texan who had set up his tent in the field. We were both doing the same route, him by tent, me by hut. I pushed on for about another hour until I reached Shelter Rock Hut. It was raining heavily then and I was glad to have a hut to sleep in.

DAY 2: Shelter Rock Hut to Dart Hut
The rain was attacking the windows of the hut when I awoke, but I was so excited by just being where that I didn't care about the weather. My friend Simon once said, "there's no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing," I thought he was right. I got suited up with a hot breakfast and took off. The valley was getting more and more rugged with each minute of my ascent. The peaks surrounding me were covered in snow and there was a serious wind blowing. I pushed on past Falcon dive bombs, slippery grass and rain in my face.

I reached the top of the valley, about 100m below the Rees Saddle when the wind picked up again and I was left with the choice of climbing up the wet snow alongside the rock face, or climbing up the slippery grass beside it. Either choice was difficult and ran the risk of me sliding back down into the rock face. I found myself right on the edge for this climb; I'd kick snow-steps for a few meters, then start breaking through, so I'd maneuver myself to the grass where I'd slip, my pack and the wind conspiring to pull me back. Finally I made it to the top of the Rees Saddle and was greeted with a stiff wind and an amazing view up Snowy Creek.



The rest of the day was a nice descent along snowy creek to Dart Hut. It was a short day, but I was glad to get to Dart Hut early, start a fire in the stove and get myself dry.

DAY 3 - Dart River to Cascade Saddle
The mountain Gods decided to give me the Saddle that day as the clouds had parted just after breakfast and sun came spilling into the valley soon after. I was feeling great because I wasn't wearing my big pack but I had discovered a problem the night before - my right boot had been hitting my heel for the whole descent to Dart Hut and I had badly bruised the bone. Determined to reach the Cascade Saddle, I took out the insole of the boot, cut off a section of my shorts, and put the fabric ball behind my heel. This worked well enough to take the pressure off my heel and get me out of the Hut.



The climb up the valley was amazing, with moss and alpine flowers everywere. The mountains had neon-blue glaciers hanging precariously off them, and the sky was blue. The wind kept me cool. The walking was great and after a few hours even the plant life seemed to dissapear, it was as if I had been transported to the moon. I was attracted to these strange grey caves way up ahead, I assumed they must have been glacial silt that had piled up higher and higher over time. After each hill I'd stare at them trying to figure out what they were. Eventually I decided to break off the path and go examine them first hand. Of couse it was the Dart glacier's snout, huge chunks of ancient ice melting and covered in silt. It was beautiful and I wanted to climb them, but knew better.



I spent about an hour trying to find my way back to the path. I knew I should backtrack to where I had broken trail, but something masculine in me wanted to push onward and find the path myself. I forded the same stream 4 times thinking that I had spotted a cairn, half the time they were stacks of rocks that the glacier must have piled. Eventually I caved in and walked back.


The path took a steep ascent over scree and south of the Dart Glacier. I heard what I thought was thunder and then I looked behind me down the valley I realized that it was a small avalanche. One of the glaciers up on the mountain peak had given birth to a chunk of ice and it spilled down. It was awesome. I made the fastest lens-change in my photography career. I had a bit of lunch there. It was about another hour up loose scree and snow patches to the Cascade saddle which was probably the most amazing mountain climax I've had. I was looking almost straight down into valleys, there were views of Mt. Aspiring, and I could make out farms which must have been near Wanaka. Outrageous wind - the sort that makes your eyes water. I met Neal at the top and we had another lunch.





The trip back was equally satisfying, but after the goal of summiting my foot decided it no longer needed to be stoic and started producing increadible pain. I made good time back, but was limping most of the way.

DAY 4: Dart Hut to Daley Flat
I suppose I was so stoked about the Cascade Saddle that I decided to head up the Whitborne Valley the next day and tack another 5 or 6 km on an already tough 16 km walk. By morning all signs of the previous day's great weather had dissapeared and there was fresh snow about 100m up the mountains from the hut. I had oatmeal and coffee and departed into the thick wet forest burdened again with my pack. About 2km up the track I ditched my pack, and climbed down the waterfall to a swingbridge. I crossed the Dart River and made the wet ascent of the Whitborne. An hour or so up the valley, I was soaked from rubbing against trees and the temperature started to drop. I wasn't sure what I was doing either because I knew I didn't have time to make it to the glacier itself. I decided I'd get up there, take a good picture and leave.

By the time I reached the valley the rain had turned to snow, but I could see no opportunity for a photo. I told myself, just abit further, just a bit further...I was gettting cold so I decided to jog. By the time I reached a descent spot the snow was coming in sideways and my foot was making a big deal about the running. I took a crappy photo and made the call to leave. I jogged back to the forest and tried to make my way back quickly, but found the rocks had become slippery with the drop in temperature. I decided to keep it cool, and walked out. By the time I reached the swing bridge, the clouds had parted and it was hot and sunny again.

I picked up my pack and started walking again but I knew I was in shit. My foot throbbed at me with every step. It was worse than it had been all day yesterday and I had just started my day. I stopped an hour later, took out the insole, cut off more pants and tried that again. It worked for a few minutes, but eventually the pain came back and I was dealing with my toes hitting the front of the boot and pain on the bottom of my foot from the impact of having no insole. My pace had been reduced to an old-man's limp for a few hours and I was getting frustrated. I wasn't sure I'd make it to the next hut at that pace, plus I was so absorbed in the pain I couldn't really enjoy the walk. I had come out of the forest and was walking across Cattle Flat, a beautiful valley of grasses full of birds and animals under the clear blue sky. I tried to enjoy it, but the pain was too much.

I stopped for a while to take off my boot, and accidentally tore my gaiter snaps off. I walked for 1/2 an hour in my sock and found it much better. My pace increased but soon I came upon deep mud and rocks and had to put it back on. I discovered that the ties on my gaiter had also been lost. I was frustrated, it was getting dark and I was angry. I sat down on a rock and decided to take care of business. I pulled out my knife and cut the heel out of my boot. They were 15 year old Scarpas that I bought used for $40 almost 10 years ago. It had to be done. I stuck the knife through the leather and hacked out a whole the size of my heel. I then cut off some of my shoe laces and made new gaiter straps. I tied up the boot in a way that would keep my heel pressed against the sole of the boot, did up the gaiters and moved on.

It wasn't perfect, but my pace must have doubled. I was Rocky Balboa for a few minutes there, running up those grey concrete steps with my hands above my head. I was so far behind schedule by this point that I resigned myself to counting breaths. It was 254 until I I had to stop. Then it was 165. Then in was 78. But soon enough I made it to the hut exhausted. Neal was there and we made a fire. I tought him how to play crib, I patched up my boot with duct tape and crashed having the best sleep in days.

DAY 5 : Daley Flat Hut to the French Girls

I felt good.

I know I didn't look it and my feet would have told you otherwise but I felt good. I took my time in the morning, taking pictures and having a slow breakfast. When I walked, I walked quickly that morning. I had to stop a few hours later to cut off more of my boot, but I knew I was going to make it. The track was nice, full of steep climbs and descents but I was happy just be be able to move and feel the burn in my legs.

I caught up to Neal just before we reached Chinaman's Bluff and told him about the beer I had waiting for me. I'd met this other Canadian named Guy who didn't have enough food with him. I gave him some of mine and he'd given me the key to his car and the location of his beer. Neal and I walked quickly to the car where we downed victory carbs!

With a good buzz on, a good hole in my boot and a sunny day ahead of my I kept walking through Dan's Cow Padock with my thumb out. I was picked up by a car full of French girls who were doing Lord of the Rings sight-seeing (I had just spent the day walking through Isengard apparently). They were headed to Arrowtown (were I'm staying with Anne) but they had some places to go first. I piled in the back of the small car, with my stinky armpits and massive bag and spent the next 4 hours sightseeing until I was dropped off at the house. I slept so hard it actually hurt and ate for 2 hours straight the next morning.



It was an amazing expereince. I learned a lot about the mountains.

Now I just have to get a new pair of boots.

The Curious Incident of the Japanese Girl in Red Rain Boots

There had been a precipitation cold war escalating for the last week. Each day seemed more hell-bent on the conjuring of ominous clouds, chilling winds, and horrifying forecasts - threatening at any second to commit to full out thunder showers - but it seemed nobody up there had had the guts to push the button. In defiance of this situation which kept me darting from coffee shop to coffee shop when all I wanted was to depart on my backcountry trip, I had purchased myself a large piece of olive bread, a jar of hummus and sat down by the pier to read.

As I sat there reading and trying not to notice the group of thirty Japanese tourists all holstering their digital cameras with ichy trigger fingers, I was suddenly aware of a great many ducks around me. There were about twenty of so of different shades and species all angrily quacking about as if they were owed something just for being ducks. I was angry at them - I was reading a book of dense philosophy and had enough trouble understanding it without distractions. I was in one of those causal moods where you take it personally that ducks are quacking at you. As I thought more about it more however, I made the connection - the ducks were not out to get me, they just wanted my bread.

My first instinct was that there was no way in HELL these things were getting my bread. Firstly I refuse to be annoyed into action - especially by animals. Secondly, I don't think feeding wild animals is a good practice, and thirdly I didn't want to create a situation that would send those looming digital cameras into a frenzy. I took the bread, stuck it into the plastic bag it came in, stuffed that into my backpack, pulled the draw string tight and went back to my book.

I then had a moment of realization: I am no longer a child. It may seem like a strange thing for a twenty-seven year old to say, but I had realized that the act of feeding a duck to longer held any thrill or excitement for me, I was made to think of consequences and meanings rather than simple delight. I was saddened for a moment and put my book down.

A few meters down the pier a seven year old Japanese girl was trying desperately to get the attention of the ducks. She wore a bright red rain coat and red rain boots which might as well have been the only colours left on earth on this grey day. I reached into my bag and tore off a piece of the bread, called her over and gave it to her.

"Little bits," I had told her, indicating the size with my fingers and pretending to toss one to the ducks. "Little."

She smiled and made off with the bread, tearing off little pieces and was probably as happy as a human being is capable at that age. With the ducks called to action the Japanese tourists started snapping like crazy as lens-caps were popped, auto-focus beeps chirped, and flashes went off all around her. The girl turned to her mother, who like me was face down in a sea of words. The girl in the red rain boots jumped with excitement as the ducks fought over the pieces.

She looked at me and smiled and I smiled back, but a cool aloof smile, like for some reason I just happened to be looking her way. I of course was watching her out of the corner of my eye and I may well have been as happy as a human being is capable at my age.

I decided then, as the waves lapped against the cement below me, and the winds conspired to push everybody around, that I would head off on my trip into the backcountry the next morning no matter what the forecast. I too have my duck-feeding to do, it just takes on a different form at my age.

Last Night in Berlin

"There's round six thousand out there," he tells me, shivering, cupping his hands together as he looks nervously back into the darkness.

Whether he's right about the number doesn't matter - I can hear them. The sounds of impassioned speeches, stomping boots and united cries of support echo throughout the stadium and into the dark passageway. We squat in shadows, cold and wet, hiding in the false warmth of our jackets.

"Six thousand sets of eyes that we need pointed in one place for one minute." I can see his eyes now as he leans forward - tired and worried after years of being behind enemy lines, of lying, exploiting, fighting, murdering, justifying.

"We all know what ya did. But we know that ya wanna make good. Ya wanna do your part to make it right." I remain silent letting the guilt surge through me as I re-live events yet again. "This is your way out. I don't think you deserve even this, but the man upstairs does and when you're in deep like you, ya take what you can."

A huge ralley of applause erupts. He looks at his watch and gets serious again.

"They have to have your complete attention. Once you're sure you've got it, you run towards the rear fence as fast as you can and climb as high as you can. From there our boys can get you and run you out of this pit. Just run, and climb and you'll be okay. Do you understand? What did I just tell you?"
I cough a bit, the reality of it settling into my body. I want to sound strong "Climb the fence. High. Fast."
"Right. They'll get ya on the other side. They'll have clothes. They'll have you out of Berlin in hours and all this shame you hold will be finished you understand."

I don't believe him, but I have no choice. It's this or back to the barracks and I won't last there.

"Its time."
He reaches down and undoes the cuffs binding my hands. I rub my wrists.
"We're counting on ya," he says.

I start taking off my clothes. The cold wind that rushes through the tunnel freezing me.

I give him my shoes, standing there naked, my feeting sticking to the frozen concrete floor. Looking out into the huge courtyard flooded with artificial light.
"Just climb." he says.
"Yes sir," I say but when I turn to look he's gone. I'm alone and naked with my shame.

I start breathing deeply. Deeply. Trying to forget that I'm naked. Trying to forget that I'm cold. Trying to forget what I've done. I swell with anger, then I run.


I run hard and I run fast feeling the thousands of eyes on me magnetized to me. Feeling the confusion entering all those heads, the viewers, the speakers, the guards, the dogs. Who is he? they'll be asking themselves.

I am blinded by the lights - running crazy. I am fast because I am naked. I start screaming before I stop running. Alone in the middle of the courtyard.

I surprise myself as I start to scream. I conjure profanity the likes of which I didn't realize existed. It is as eloquent as it is caucauphonic, and most surprisingly of all, it is LOUD, as if the God's themselves have lent their power to my meagre vocal chords and with the force of windstorms and atomic explosions I swear. I swear long, wide, the sorts of things that would make a man with Turret's blush. They will not understand the English that I scream, but they will get the idea. They will understand as my words crash into their bodies, and they will watch, they will be unable to do anything else but stand there with guns in their hands and jaws agape.

When I stop I can hear only the falling snow. The floodlights pains petals of shadows around me. An explosion erupts in the distance.

Now get to the fence. I will be safe.

I turn and sprint again, and with my action comes a great roar of activity as six thousand German soldiers were suddenly digging in their uniforms for weapons to hurt me. I crash into the chainlink fence looming 100 feet high before me and start climbing, the frozen metal stinging my skinny hands and feet, ignoring the razor wire as it cuts my skin.

Just climb. Just climb. I am breathing hard and fast. The cold setting in, my finger's numb on the metal. I can't tell if there are bullets whizzing past or I'm just hypothermic. What did he mean they'd pick me up? Where the hell are these guy's? Helicopter over Berlin? Truck? What. Why didn't I ask specific questions. What if I've been set up? Then it dawns on me...nobody really expects me to get out do they? Death is my release from shame.

My body is numb, my mouth is dry. Fear pushes me harder and harder up the fence until it becomes soft and inconsistent and warm and there is a great silence.

I move my hands, and the sting of fresh circulation overcomes them. I swallow, bringing new moisture to my mouth. I'm in a hostel dorm in New Zealand. I roll over but don't dare to open my eyes because I am gripped with a new fear - I have, in all likelyhood just screamed swears at the top of lungs while sleeping.


I close my eyes tight. Maybe I can get back to my dream.

Something Begins.

Real beginnings are like a fanfare of trumpets, like the first notes of a jazz tune, cutting short tedium, making for continuity; then you say about these evenings within evenings: "I was out for a walk, it was an evening in May." You walk, the moon has just risen, you feel lazy, vacant, a little empty. And then suddenly you think: "Something has happened." No matter what: a slight rustling in the shadow, a thin silhouette crossing the street. But this paltry event is not like the others: suddenly you see that it is the beginning of a great shape whose outlines are lost in mist and you tell yourself, "Something is beginning."

Something is beginning in order to end: adventure does not let itself be drawn out; it only makes sense when dead. I am drawn, irrevocably, towards this death which is perhaps mine as well. Each instant appears only as part of a sequence. I cling to each instant with all my heart: I know that it is unique, irreplacable - and yet I would not raise a finger to stop it from being annihilated. This last moment I am spending - in Berlin, in London - in the arms of a woman casually met two days ago - moment I love passionately, woman I may adore - all is going to end, I know it. Soon I shall leave for another country. I shall never rediscover either this woman or this night. I grasp at each second, trying to suck it dry; nothing happens which I do not seize, which I do not fix forever in myself, nothing, neither the fugitive tenderness of those lovely eyes, nor the noises of the street, nor the false dawn of early morning: and even so the minute passes and I do not hold it back, I like to see it pass.

All of a sudden something breaks off sharply. The adventure is over, time resumes its daily routine. I turn; behind me, this beautiful melodious form sinks entirely into the past. It grows smaller, contracts as it declines, and now the end makes one with the beginning. Following this gold spot with my eyes I think I would accept - even if I had to risk death, loose a fortune, a friend - to live it all over again, in the same circumstances, from end to end. But an adventure never returns nor is prolonged.

-- Jean Paul Sartre. (NAUSEA)

The New Danger

Though it may seem strange to say so, I have found that traveling in the developing world is safer and somehow easier than traveling in a developed one. This is to say that in places like China or India where language and cultural differences more closely resemble canyons than creeks the amount of time one spends looking out for their personal wellbeing is proportionately high. If I were to approach say... a sketchy dark alley, lanes of fast moving crazed motorists or a street stall selling meat, I will exercise practiced caution, ensuring awareness of all potential hazards and act accordingly.

Ironically enough, traveling in a first world country like the one I find myself in now I have on several occations found myself at the mercy of complacency. Though it may look like Canada, taste like Canada and occationally sound like Canada, I have to actively remind myself that this is a different place. Looking RIGHT before one steps onto the street will prove a useful tactic for example, as will picking up this new language - Kiwi - where FANNY PACK is something quite offensive in the wrong circles, there are no toques, and coffee is long black. I have on four occations found myself narrowly missed by speeding cars, but only twice insulted someone.

Same same but different.

Fresh Fotos From the Front

Here are a few picks from Yangshuo. Click on the photo to go to my Flickr page.

Hello Yangshuo

Well, I sit now on the 21st storey of a Hong Kong highrise in soho, staring out over the phallic monuments of supercorporations and their mightly lightshows, drinking a large Heinekin while thinking what a unique experience it is to be a traveller. It is about being present, reacting to the world and situations around you, and ultimately its about taking opportunities as they arise and paying attention when you find yourself in awesome places. I'm staying with Kris tonight, he's a pilot for Cathay Pacific, the brother of a girl I met in Yangshuo climbing, and one hell of a host. His cat is flying in from Edmonton today, he's very excited.


Yangshuo was amazing as the pictures will soon illustrate. To begin with the bennifits of making India one's first travel experience are fantastic: everything is absoluely good and easy and relaxing after you've travelled in India. Sample conversation re: the bus.

Xiao Si (Thick Scottish Accent): "There's things you just don't need to do. For example I've never slept on the street before, but I don't need to do it to proove that its not something I want to do."
Michael: "So you wouldn't take the bus in China."
Xiao Si: "No FUCKING way man, its absolute terror. They flip all the time."
Michael: "I thought the bus was pretty pimped. The beds were dry, there was glass on the windows, they even provided a blanket!"


Yangshuo is small and overrun with tourism but most of the tourism Chinese or older folks who are a cultural phenominon all of their own and who don't much get involved in the climbing scene. I arrived in town eager to climb these limestone Karst towers I'd been reading about but nothing would have prepared me for the how much I got done.

A small guiding business called ChinaClimb is home to 30 or so serious climbing bums from all over the planet. They come to work here for the season, living and eating cheap, guiding kids during the week and taking every other day to crag, crank and bolt new routes on 20 or so of the 70,000 towers in the area. Being only one of three non-China Climb staff in town I quickly became part of the group roping whomever had a day off into cragging (not a tough sell.)

The climbing is beautiful, from endless rain pockets, to obsene over-hanging jug-haulin' thuggery. I found myself pushing through some mental and physical barriers, and on my last day sending some difficut routes.

The scene here feels like the beginning of something prolific. I would find myself lowering off a climb, arms throbbing, chest pumping with humid sweat pouring down my face and would say something like:
"That was amazing. What's that one called."
"Don't know, some English guys put it up yesterday."
"SO AWESOME!"

Like all climbing excursions life is good and simple, working your body to the edge, eating well, sleeping hard and taking the occational swim. The community here is such that you can emerse yourself in the ambience of climbing. By the time you notice you've been smiling for 10 days you're allready bargaining for your bus ticket home: time slips through your fingers like water. I left late last night, pretty damn drunk on 3 yuan beer and a descent ChinaClimb sendoff and managed to surive another sleeper busride back to Shenzen.

Tomorrow begins a new adventure: further south and for the first time in my life... south of the equator. I'm gonna take a photo of my first flush.