It turned out that most of the people in the hut were there for a party — a hen party, of all things.
You must be a real Kiwi if your idea of fun is dragging sacks full of dishes and pans, tinned food and fresh vegetables a good three hours from the nearest village. Or, more to the point, an hour and a half from the nearest car park.Then there are the sleeping-bags and all manner of other paraphernalia. Then you have fun all by yourselves in a hut where there’s barely room to move.
There were about a dozen women in the hen-party crowd. All the others in the hut were either lone hikers or couples. As we arrived the evening sky was already turning a dark shade of blue, so we were by default the last ones in.
There wasn’t any room for our rucksacks by the wall. We tried to rest them against other people’s stuff so that they wouldn’t be in the way. They had to be taken out for the night anyway, but it’s just nicer to do some things in the warm.
Then I saw the bunks. Every mattress had a bag, a pillow or a sleeping-bag on it. I tried to count how many people there were in the hut and how many berths there were; the numbers didn’t match, but perhaps there were still some people outside. I told her this, and she nodded. The disappointment in her eyes was bottomless.
Heidi
Everyone was fussing around the kitchen worktops or sitting eating or reading at the table in the long cabin. We stood in the middle of the room for a good while before anyone even looked at us. Nobody budged from the bench. Nobody moved closer to the person sitting next to them, not even to create the illusion that they were trying to make space for us. If I picked up on any kind of signal at our arrival, it was the message of barely hidden contempt shining from their faces: What the hell are they doing coming in here at this time?
Jyrki started rummaging in his rucksack, took out his mug and the bag with his change of clothes and stepped outside without saying a word. I stood where I was and sensed the sweat turning cold on my clothes, and with it a sense of paralysis flowed into my limbs. I was stiff, right through to my bones, numb and aching. Jyrki came back almost immediately, his brow furrowed.
‘The water tank was empty.’
‘How’s that possible?’
‘There are probably more people at this place than at the other huts.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Or else someone’s left the tap dripping or washed their dishes using too much running water. But there’s a brook down there.’ He looked around and sniffed. Well, I’ll bet you if I started running about here in the buff I’d be out of here before you could say sexual-harassment charges.’
I gave a start, and mixed with the feeling of chill and irritation and hunger and muscle ache came the memory of what this trip had cost me, and I couldn’t bring myself to laugh at Jyrki’s joke, although I appreciated he was only trying to lighten the mood.
There was nothing I wanted less than to walk down to the brook, but we needed water, and anything would have been preferable to the stiff atmosphere in the hut — so thick with rejection that when we opened the door it felt like poking our heads out of a viscous jelly.
The brook was wide, clear and lively, although it was pretty far away from the cabin. From the bank you almost couldn’t make out the cabin at all against the darkening sky. Nearer to the cabin was a small ditch, muddy, narrow and overgrown, Somebody from the cabin was standing there filling her cooking pot with water.
‘Idiots,’ Jyrki scoffed.
Taking off my sticky clothes felt awful, and the first mugful of cold water on my face and neck even worse, but after a moment it felt as though the water had flowed through my skin and was now roaring in my veins, as searing as pure alcohol, and when I stood up to dry myself my cheek were red, my heart was pounding; the icy wind felt cooling and refreshing against my skin, and I was ready to go back into the hut, be there dragons or not.
We cooked our noodles and ate our rice cakes — standing up, of course, until a couple of our fellow cabin residents returned to their mattresses to read by the light of their headlamps, and we could finally rest our backsides on the edge of one of the kitchen benches. We washed our dishes and brushed our teeth outside, and when we came back into the cabin I realized that everybody was inside by now. People had already retired to their bunks, some had slid inside their sleeping-bags, and the only people still giggling and chatting inanely were the hen-night crowd. Candles were lit on the table, and the bride-to-be — for whom, up here at an altitude of over a thousand metres, someone had been bothered to lug a plastic tiara — was subjected to a number of long, complicated tests, tarot readings, you name it, all of which invariably resulted in volleys of feigned virginal sniggers.
One of the mattresses must have been free. Simply counting the number of people in the cabin was enough to work it out, but it had been very cleverly covered with bundles of clothes and all manner of other stuff. Although I tried to stare meaningfully at the berth, when I finally went and sat on it out of sheer bloody-mindedness nobody offered to move any of the junk away.
I wasn’t planning on asking whether the place was taken or not. I could only imagine the general sense of irritation, the scowling that would have made the air in the cabin even stickier and turned us into even larger and more shapeless lumps of solidified intrusion than we already were.
In any case, there was only one free mattress — although all the mattresses were laid next to one another, forming a single soft surface. It wouldn’t have caused a great deal of discomfort to them if everyone had shifted ten centimetres towards their neighbour to make some more room. Both of us would have fitted into the newly created space.
There were very clear rules in these cabins: first come, first served, no reservations, not even for a friend turning up later on. And, when the cabin is overcrowded, you’re supposed to make room.
Apparently they hadn’t bothered reading the latter rule on the list, although the first rule was clearly to be strictly upheld.
For a moment I wondered whether or not to check for hut tickets. I was sure there would be people who hadn’t paid — I couldn’t see any ticket stubs dangling from their straps or rucksack buckles. After checking the bags, I’d inform them all that in these situations it’s clear that paying customers take preference.
Who did I think I was kidding? If I couldn’t bring myself to point out the fact of the unfairly reserved berth, how could I suddenly turn into a self-appointed ranger? And the wave of anger and disapproval that would undoubtedly follow would be enough to make you choke.
We stared at the floor.
In a way, it seemed symptomatic of these people’s indifference that no one had noticed we were speaking Finnish. Normally this was a sure-fire conversation-opener. Hey, what kind of language is that? We spoke in muttered, hushed voices, as though we were suddenly ashamed of our own language, too. Perhaps we were.
‘There’s nothing else for it.’
‘No.’
We dug out our sleeping-mats — all the while overly aware of the noise we were causing, our movements filling the air space, and trying to minimize the fuss as much as possible — and inflated them. We couldn’t go next to the benches because there was a constant flow of people going to and fro into the kitchen area. For the same reason we couldn’t go next to the door. Not next to the bunks, that was for sure, as anyone might have to leave their bed and get up in the middle of the night.
The only place we could find was half covered by the kitchen worktops. As we were laying out our mats and sleeping-bags I could feel that we were being watched all the time, and whenever I tried to return the gaze I noticed that eyes were turned away suddenly and deliberately to one side. We’re not getting your hints, their eyes were telling me.
I crawled inside my sleeping-bag. Already I could feel the draught coming up through the floorboards. Beneath my thin mat the planks felt very, very hard.
Jyrki gave me a kiss, then zipped himself inside his own sleeping-bag like an Egyptian mummy.
At first I tried to read Conr
ad, but it was too dark, and taking out my headlamp would have attracted as much hostile attention as a lighthouse. I tried to close my eyes, but the shrieks and sniggers from the hen-party table only seemed to increase, at times even bursting into song. Their enjoyment seemed to be blown out of all proportion, considering that, at least as far as I could see, they hadn't brought a drop of alcohol with them to Speargrass Hut.
Then the traffic started.
All of a sudden, almost all of the women in the hen-party group had things to do in the kitchen area. Fetching one thing, bringing another, looking for matches, candles, bags of crisps. Their feet hit us in the ribs, back, almost in the head; the girls were very uninhibited and utterly unapologetic. What have you gone and laid down there for, the feet were saying loud and clear.
It was well into the early hours of the morning by the time the last of the bridesmaids had stopped whispering and giggling in their bunks.
Everything was silent, and I needed the toilet.
Outside the moon was shining.
It was pretty damned beautiful.
I couldn’t be bothered to climb the steps up to the outhouse but crouched down next to the porch. As I clambered back towards the door, I suddenly remembered.
At first it came to me because of the mountains, then because of Conrad.
The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster; but there — there you could look at a thing monstrous and free.
I remembered what Fabian had told me.
The keas.
The keas, those mean, intelligent birds.
The hen party’s things were on the veranda, to the left of the door. I knew this because the girls had been going in and out all night to collect various things, to go to the toilet, and on their way tying their shoes or rummaging in their bags right over there.
Now I had a beak.
Now I had claws.
I ruffled my feathers in the night air and the pale golden moonlight shining across the glens. My wings fluttered for a moment before closing shut in a quiver.
I reached out a long agile limb.
A shoe lace, just like that.
A backpack buckle open, just like that, and what item would it be particularly annoying to lose? Keys? Absolutely. Car keys? Now that would be a shame.
The insole of a shoe left out to air, just like that; looks like it was one of those special-shaped ones, maybe even made to measure. Shit happens.
A few more shoe laces, clothes yanked out of an open bag, spilt out like colourful bowels — who knows where the wind might carry them? The capricious New Zealand wind.
Our boots were inside, and the rucksacks we’d left on the veranda were securely covered. Of course, I pulled back the covers over our bags, too, picked at them with my quick, nimble and oh-so-nifty claws and opened up a few zips: our things had to be touched as well, that was clear. But we didn’t lose anything; our luck was in.
I went back into the cabin, which was now filled with the sound of sniffling, gentle snoring and the smell of farts and candle wax, and once I had crawled back into my sleeping-bag I fell asleep like a contented child.
NATIONAL HISTORY DIGEST, MARCH 2006
‘Kea: The Open-Programme Bird’
by Jiselle Ruby and Anthony Verloc
The kea belongs to a group of animal species that can well be compared to humans, inasmuch as its ability to adapt to changing conditions, such as the diminishing of their living environment or the arrival of new sources of nutrition, is both fast and exceptionally efficient. The kea’s resilience as a species is based on its resourcefulness and opportunism, qualities which some researchers now believe can no longer be considered simply instinctual actions.
The kea is the only species of mountain parrot in the world. It lives primarily in the uplands of the South Island of New Zealand, often above the snowline, and generally in such harsh natural conditions that the acquisition of sustenance represents a significant challenge in itself. For this reason, the kea has developed into a master of survival.
The kea’s diet is normally plant based, consisting of various seeds, nuts, shoots, etc., although it should be noted that it is exceptionally flexible with regard to its diet and is eager to seek out alternative sources of nourishment. In fact, the kea will eat almost anything that comes its way and switches readily to animal proteins whenever they are available.
The kea is a very lively creature and always seems in need of challenging activity. If food is readily available, it spends a greater proportion of its time engaged in other activities such as social games and competitions. It would appear that these games and displays of prowess in part serve to create and maintain hierarchical relationships within the flock.
The kea is an extremely inquisitive bird — a trait that is clearly a key factor in the survival of the species — and can even solve complicated problems with relative ease. When it encounters an unfamiliar object, the kea will normally examine it carefully, often by breaking it into pieces. This behavioural pattern becomes more common when food is in greater supply, meaning that the bird’s energy is not spent searching for its daily nourishment.
SOUTH COAST TRACK, TASMANIA
Deadman’s Bay to Louisa River
Thursday, March 2007
Jyrki
I look up and squint. How the hell could anyone ever think of going through that?
Then, after a moment, the eye latches on a tree root that might serve as a wobbly step, or makes out a hole in the rocks big enough for the tip of a boot, and with considerable effort, all but crawling, we manage to inch our way forward. There’s water running down the path. Further up on the ridge it must be raining.
The path is a stream is a path. In this terrain it’s the only track there is.
The path is a sick joke.
When you look up you can’t see the sky, because the steep, almost vertical wall that is Ironbound, with its giant intertwining sodden trees and bushes, both in front of us and above us, are the sky. The ridge almost seems to fall in on top of us with its crushing gloominess. Even at midday there’s so little light in this all but sheer tree tunnel that everything is shrouded in a greenish darkness.
And even when we’re not hauling ourselves up across this hybrid of way and waterway the shelf-like plateaux in between them are nothing but immense quagmires. The mud is black, churned into a thick porridge. And it’s bloody deep. You can’t avoid it or walk around it. The only thing you can do is look for roots or brandies sticking out beneath the enormous pools of slurry, trampled clumps of grass or, if you’re lucky, a blessed stone to stop your feet sinking too far into the depths.
The myriad tree roots stretching out into the path are like very cleverly designed hurdles or traps. They offer your boots about as much friction as a bar of soap. They are elevated either just enough so that you trip over them or just enough that you have to make an effort to step over them. They form tangled networks, the gaps in between them just too small to put your boot through but large enough that they could twist your ankle into the most contorted positions.
On top of that, this joke of a path is pinned down with a fair number of impressive-sized fallen trees forming sheer walls or barriers as thick as your waist. There’s no option but to climb over them and force your way through the thick branches for all you’re worth.
Heidi
Jyrki uses his hiking pole to support him on the other side of a fallen tree. He apparently feels something firm beneath the surface and lowers almost his entire body-weight on to his pole. There comes a yell as he disappears behind the tree trunk, followed by a sticky squelch as he hits the ground on his side. His pole is stuck into the ground almost up to the handle. Jyrki hauls himself upright and, cursing and standing up to his groin in mud, tries to wrench his pole up from the sludge. But the mire just burps and gurgles, as if some creature living inside the earth didn’t want let go of the strange titanium-aluminium object that had suddenly b
een thrust into its underground kingdom.
Jyrki yanks at his pole, cursing profusely. If I weren’t so weak with a sore stomach and standing up to my ankles in mud myself, I might even have suppressed a laugh. Seeing as we’ve stopped, I take the opportunity to crouch down for a piss in the middle of the path. I don’t bother taking off the rucksack, although the struggle to stand upright once more makes my thigh muscles recoil. Taking the thing off and heaving it back on to my shoulders would require way too much effort.
The first leg of our hike across Queen Charlotte Track in New Zealand had been a bit muddy towards the end, but compared with this it was a breeze. Here, if you put your foot down in the wrong spot you could be up to your thighs in squelching sludge.
It’ll soon be time to suggest stopping for a bite to eat; there hasn’t been anything in my stomach all morning, save for those couple of minutes. We’ve been moving uphill for three hours, but it seems we’re not even halfway up the steeper-than-thou incline at Ironbound. The forest is damp and thick and ugly, rising like a wall on both sides; mud churning all around us and nowhere to put our rucksacks down. If we want to eat or do anything more complicated than thrashing about in the undergrowth, we’ll have to balance our rucksacks against a tree trunk and do whatever it is we have to do standing up, shifting from one foot to the other.
I'm beyond caring. I just keep moving through the bush and mud without thinking about the amount of shit my boots are gobbling up, stumbling and bruising myself, swallowing back the tears and four-letter words — anything, so long as Jyrki behind me doesn’t notice how I’m panting, my mouth wide open, almost hyperventilating, whimpering like a woman in labour.
When it gets even worse I start thinking about Dad — his arrogant face, his fat fingers bulging beneath his signet rings, his hands, quick to punish and quick to buy the kind of behaviour he wanted — and the thought makes me lift my feet again and again and push forwards instead of slumping into a weeping wreck in the mire at the edge of the path.