Aorere Shelter

We'd been going about probably 90 minutes when I became aware of what I call the "Lord of the Rings" syndrome — a sense of being a small party alone in surroundings that dwarf us.

Mike looks at his watch and decides he'd better be heading back down. All good things come to an end and I shoulder my pack.

The bush gets denser and darker and we get more and more tired. We have stopped for a breather here and there but we are well overdue for a decent break. Four hours and still not a sign of the Aorere Shelter.

Here and there, traces of the morning's rain catch the sun in a flashing prism of blue or red light high above us.

Every now and then we can see out and get some impression of this landscape we are travelling through.

Yet for all the steepness, the track preserves its gentle uphill grade, winding around headlands and along the side of gullies.

Eternity is measured in 50m segments, gently sloping upward for ever.

At one point the girls take a break on the edge of the path and lean back onto their packs, only to discover that they are cast when they try to get up. We passed the turnoff to Shakespeare Flats ages ago. That shelter has to be somewhere near. Yeah, right!

Suddenly, I can see a flashing through the bush, and a moment later the sound of voices. Australian voices admittedly, but you can't have everything. We round a corner, and the flashing is seen to be the rotating ventilator fan on the Aorere Shelter long drop toilet, catching the sun as the wind turns it. Just beyond it is the Shelter, and a group of bandaged and blistered Aussies on the last leg of their reverse trip. They have had a hell of a walk, and do their best to scare us. Fortunately, we are fitter than they are, we've done more training and we are not carrying items like a makeup kit.

The Shelter is larger than we thought, and contrary to our information, there's a plentiful, good-quality water supply, washing facilities and a good campsite. If you wanted to, you could even sleep on the benches inside the shelter.

It's feet up time. We are buggered.

The makings of lunch emerges from our packs, we swallow our mugs of tea and coffee, and feel quite a bit better. But two hours pass before we shoulder our gear again. John arrives. He's an Englishman, a few years older than I am, and he has made it up here in just over 2 hours compared with our 4½ hours. He stops long enough for quick boilup and he's off again.