Kiwi Tracks Read Online Free

Fiordland is so like Norway. I found the Norwegian winters impossible, but trolls thrived in that darkness. While the summers were paradise for me, they were lethal for the trolls; a single ray of sun would turn them to stone. They would thrive here all year round.
    In several areas, we cross open spaces cleared of trees by previous avalanches. Eventually we reach the bush line, where the trees end and there is nothing to shelter behind. Frequently we hear the noise of what sounds like a jet fighter flying up the valley; an indistinct grumble. Almost as often we locate the avalanche as it tumbles down the mountain. This dull pattern of background rumbles is broken by a resounding crack, louder and more threatening, like the clap of thunder we had been warned about. A cloud of upwelling snow billows as an avalanche cascades down, a semi-fluid river, carrying away everything in its path. It is on the same side of the mountain and frighteningly close to us.
    Although we are freedom walkers and therefore theoretically responsible for our own safety, Ruth the DOC hut warden leads
the way. A retired and diminutive schoolteacher, she plods through fresh drifts up to our knees and her thighs. Ralph from Kerikeri takes over the lead; being considerably taller than her, he makes faster progress. We are now well above the tree line, over a thousand metres high, which is nothing in terms of mountains, but with these stark alpine weather conditions we could be much higher. There are no points of reference, no cairns, no poles to mark the route. In several places, we wander off the track and fall into deeper snow up to our hips. Finally, we distinguish the vague outline of the stone monument marking the top of the pass.
    Ruth stops, almost hidden in the swirling snow. ‘The shelter hut is another twenty minutes further up. I have to stay here and wait for eleven other trampers.’ The quiver in her voice does not inspire confidence.
    Trusting Ruth, we trudge timidly towards the bearing indicated. The snow is deep enough to be difficult to walk through, especially for those at the front breaking the trail. I fall into a crack, snow up to my waist. With my heavy backpack, it takes two others to help pull me out.
    ‘What the hell are we doing here?’ one of my rescuers asks. ‘Doesn’t she realise we’re in the middle of a bloody blizzard?’
    ‘I’m not going on, even if she tells us to,’ the other replies. ‘It’s too dangerous and I’m freezing.’ No wonder he’s freezing, he’s wearing running shoes.
    We wander around blindly without any real direction, not sure where the path is, nor the shelter we are trying to locate. Ralph leads us, assuming the role of Sir Edmund Hillary II; but Ralph is from Kerikeri in the north part of the North Island, where they do not have anything remotely resembling snow.
    It occurs to me to take photographs, as if I have a premonition that something will go wrong and I will need photographic evidence later on. An English girl who immodestly calls herself Amazon Woman is taking reams of film of herself, holding her camera at the end of her long arms. She wears short shorts, what used to be called hot pants, and is so tall she looks as if she is
walking on stilts. I photograph her as she takes another satisfying self-portrait.
    The storm blows harder and it is difficult to see more than ten metres ahead. The temperature is below freezing, and with the wet snow and the wind-chill factor, some are complaining of the cold. Many trampers only have running shoes and, amazingly, three women besides Amazon Woman are wearing shorts. It seems there is a drop to one side of us, but it is impossible to tell how far. Despite having Kerikeri’s own version of Hillary with us, there is no real leadership. Snow collects on our jackets and backpacks, slowly burying us.
    Over the previous few summers I had led tourists on ten-day trips into the Norwegian mountains and onto glaciers. Even in summer it would