“Thirteen hundred metres. It can’t be *that* far”.
“Two point six k, return? We’ve hiked much further than that before”.
“The map labels it ‘difficult’ though”.
“But the view should be amazing from the top”.
We’re at the base of a trail that disappears upwards at an alarmingly steep rate. At the summit is an extinct volcano crater, filled with turquoise waters that should make for beautiful, cool swimming.
So off we set, quickly subsumed into the rainforest. To people on the path below, we must have melded into the leaves within feet.
Ten minutes later, it is clear that ‘difficult’ was a vast understatement. Also, ‘trail’ was a generous description of the vaguely cut-out path we were attempting to follow.
In places, the path shot upwards vertically, requiring an inelegant, unbalanced scramble up a sheer cliff-face. Tree roots knotted the way, providing ample opportunity to trip and plunge off the hillside.
The trail was in fact, the washed-out path of heavy water flow that had cascaded many-a-time down the hillside, wiping away some obstacles and leaving others, like logs, strewn in its wake. Deep rivets dug into the mud, forming hazardous trenches two or more feet deep.
Rusty mud smeared our legs where we’d used our knees to leverage against the earth. Pieces of foliage stuck to my hair, giving the impression of a mangy crown of leaves. A slick sheen of sweat, bugspray and toil covers our faces, pooling on the upper lip.
Flies buzzed around us, attracted by the heat, moisture and scent of desperation.
“How far do you think we’ve gone?”, I pant, hands on hips, miraculously finding a flat plot of land on which to stand.
“We must be over half way, surely?” J doesn’t sound too sure. His tone indicates more hopeful than factual.
Through the dense bush emerge two figures heading in the opposite direction. Both must be in their mid-sixties. She has the air of a healthy retiree, seeing the world in between organising church fundraising projects and volunteering on the boards of several prestigious local charities. She sports binoculars around her neck, and sunglasses perch on her head. Not a hair out of place. He looks like he’d rather be drinking beer and playing golf.
“How much longer?” I plead, willing the response to closely resemble ‘just around the corner’.
Instead, “Oh, maybe 40 minutes” is casually thrown out.
J makes some sort of yelping noise.
We push on. Or rather, up. Scrambling over rocks, hauling ourselves through crevices and trying to plot the path of least resistance. Or steepness.
I begin muttering to myself. “It better be bloody well worth it. This better be the most spectacular lake in the whole bloody entire world”. I imagine diving in, the refreshing water stripping away layers of grime, sunscreen and rocks.
Behind me, J curses.
Our legs turn to jelly and cease obeying their owners’ commands. They plod leadenly, hooking themselves into roots and stumbling over branches. We pass a woman heading down with a toddler on her back. A large toddler. After staring after her in astonishment, I vow that if she can do it, then I damn well can too.
We take breaks more often. I swear 1300 metres came and went a long time ago. Breath ragged, teeth clenched, we finally emerge at the top an hour after we set off.
We stand on a small patch of earth, the grass trampled and scuffed beneath us. We are indeed at the peak of the mountain. Yet the bush around us grows so tall, so fiercesomely thick, that there is no real view. Apart from a brief glimpse of a lake some 300 metres below.
We can just about make out the figures swimming in the aqua waters. Their laughter floats upwards to us. But we cannot reach them. And even if we could ease ourselves down, we’d have to clamber back up again, and my legs protest vigorously at that possibility.
This. This it. No lake to swim in. Just one to taunt you. No view, unless you find a close-up of trees stimulating.
We spend the 15 minute recovery period debating whether, in theory, it would be possible to sue anybody for misrepresentation.
And then, we start the careful climb back down. Much of which is accomplished by sitting on my backside and scooting forwards with my hands. Low centre of gravity you see. Less chance of falling off a mountain.
We pass a young couple heading up. They were us, 40 minutes ago – exhausted, filthy, fractious and close to despair. “Please tell me it’s worth it when you get there”, they joke.
“Oh, absolutely. Beautiful. It’s great”, we reassure them. I felt that’s what they needed to hear.
