ABSTRACT
We were all exhausted. None of us, I think, had carried a pack before. I hadn’t walked further than the corner shop since getting my driving licence five years earlier. Now we needed to rest after carry ing packs of around thirty kilos for three days up and down
steep tracks high in New Zealand’s moun tain ous and densely fores ted Fiordland. We were there because a New Zealand friend had convinced me to go tramp ing, as they call it in New Zealand. While my compan ions were resting in the hut, I went alone for a short walk towards the ridge that defines one side of the Hollyford Valley. It was raining, but the wind was high and clouds swirled dramat ic ally, parting every so often to reveal blue sky, encour aging my hope that when I reached the ridge I might be able to see across the valley-but when I got there, I could see nothing. Disappointed, I turned to return to the hut, but had taken only a few steps when some thing promp ted me to turn around. Through a break in the clouds, across the valley, I saw a moun tain of dramatic nobil ity, trail ing a snow plume. Her name was Mount Christina. Moved almost to tears by her beauty, I resolved I would become a moun tain eer.
