We crash in and around the Homer Hut that first night. And according to the Hut Warden Rachel—“Rach-the-Mus”—the forecast for the week looks A-O.K. In the hut and surrounded by the Rock Jocks of this island country. Casual cool. But there it is late. And we are tired. So we sleep. And we sleep sound. And we wake at the work-week hours between six and seven o’clock.
Pack up the packs in the pale light and set off toward the Gertrude Saddle. The goal for the day is the J.C. Crack. Situated high on Mt. Talbot and visible from the Homer Hut parking lot. The early morning sun lighting up the tip of Talbot like a rock-top light bulb as we set off down the trail. The bright pinnacle shining and we are on our way.
And on our way, the first obstacle a series of river crossings. The four of us with boots slung over shoulders—barefoot and Gollum-like into the frigid snow melt. Pale-footed through the icy blue and teetering from rock to rock to rock. Tip-toeing through the deeper crossings in a vain attempt to keep out pants—our pants rolled thigh-high—to keep our pants out of the water.
And as we begin up the trail—boots now tied to feet, packs strapped to backs—I accidentally kick a loose rock with my left foot and the sole of my leather Merrell hiking boot flops off. Flip. Flop. Flap. I’m a right sorry sap, and the tramp has only just now begun. Now. Wrap climbing tape around the toe of the injured boot and keep on keepin’ on.
The injured ankle is beginning to throb as well. Uphill. The tape unraveling. Re-tape. The tape unraveling. Re-tape. Miserable and wondering what will come of the trip.
But I’m afforded an out when Carl’s Asthma kicks in three quarters of the way up the Gertrude Valley Trail. And when he decides to hike back down for an inhaler, I opt to follow him back to the car. To trade in the leathers for Chester’s plastics (a pair of super-stiff boots made for snow tramping and ice climbing).
On the way down. Down. On the way down the front half of the other boot-sole flops off of the other boot. And so. I flip-flop along behind Carl. Carl the experienced mountaineer. I flip-flop along behind Carl with two broken boots—the soles hanging loose like the lower mandibles of twin slack-jawed yokels. Yes. Each boot like an open mouth. Flip-flop, tic-tock, marking our progress down and gobbling up gravel all the way back to the car.
Make the trade and slog back up the Gertrude Track—Carl and I the self-proclaimed Gertrude Gurus. And I move woodenly. For the plastics are like plank contraptions of 2x4s strapped stiff around each ankle, around each foot. Teeter-totter over the river crossings, over the loose scree and up the snow-melted river. To Black Lake. To Black Lake at the base of the Gertrude Saddle.
Drop off one pack and pick up the pace. Let’s try to catch Simon and Chester before they abseil off the face.
And we do.
As we cross the snowfield below the rock tower we first hear and then see the boys topping out the East Ridge. So we flag the J.C. Crack. Following instead the foot-prints in the snow. Steps cut in the snow. To the base of the East Ridge and up we go. Up and up and up we go. To meet the boys sleeping at the top. To meet the boys sleeping at the top and then down climb the rock on the north face of the peak.
The down climb just as exciting as going up. The ropeless descent, tip-toeing down the overlapping flakes. And then the heel stomp through the snow field. Stiff-legged scarecrows on the backs of our heels. Jabbing foot after foot into the soft snow. And back down the slabs to set up a bivvy above Black Lake.
A communal pot of beans and rice. Communal utensils for the gypsy commune. The commune of climbers commuting through the Darran mountains.
To bed to bed to rest our heads for a big day planned for tomorrow. Tucked away by seven o’clock, and I read aloud from The Bone People. The Bone People a novel set on the South Island of New Zealand, written by a New Zealand writer, and leant to me by a native New Zealander—the lovely Miss Anna Sintenie.
Conk out mid-sentence and wake in the darkness to the sound of rain on the bivvy sack. The darkness of early morning. So much for plans. So much for the Sentinel. Sleep-in. The wetness seeping into everything. Cold. Oats and milk powder passed from hand to hand in the drizzle.
Pack up and pull out.
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