Getting back down the AGGRO CRAG.

This past Friday, with two visitors in tow, we finally got out canyoning. After seeing the brutalized but awestruck faces of people who have gone before us, we had decided we needed to do this a long time ago. Canyoning is incredible--all the fun of a water park with all the danger of Action Park, and the roughing it factor of a Barry Crump novel. It clearly was invented by a Peter Pan type, who after spending his childhood wading in knee deep creeks under waterfalls and climbing through crevasses decided he could make a living off guiding people through this sort of thing.

[Invoke dreamlike childhood sequence]
To me, it was exactly what I've wanted to do since I was 8 and roaming through the backcountry of Allendale, NJ. Of course, in Allendale, this type of thing is difficult to find, and thus we always settled on a small, rocky stream that would dry up every other week due to a lack of rain. Later on, I scoured the Celery Farm, a regional landmark, which wound around an open lake. It wasn't until I really started hanging around Crestwood Lake, exploring the area over by the Red Barn, that I found what I was looking for--A waterfall. Unfortunately, it poured out of what was believed to be a sewage reservoir (or at other times, molton lava) and then into the brook which ran parallel to my middle school. Getting wet was never an option, it was something so unbelievably awful that whenever I sunk so much as the toe of my shoes into the water my day would be ruined. I don't know why it was such an issue for me--but walking back home in wet shoes was a failure. The point was to stay OUT of the water.

I usually had issues with this sort of thing now that I think about it. I just didn't want to get messed up; couldn't stand soaking and absorbing events I had never planned for.

I can actually remember breaking this trend. I was in a bathing suit and crabbing in Seabrook Island with my Dad and Uncle sometime around the 5th grade. I was no older than 12. It was sweltering hot and we were in a marsh which intensified the heat tenfold. The water below the dock was like a warm soup with tall fronds of grass tipping downward as if the noodles bowed to the heaty froth it was served in. I was termed the netter--while the crabbers hooked the crab I was responsible for netting it and bringing it into our bucket. It was low tide though, and the dock we were on was a solid 9 feet from the ground, making the netting task nearly impossible. We needed a 9 foot net, and the length of the one I was holding, including my short armspan, was about 3.5 feet. Against my will, I was forced below the dock, onto a muddy enclave splattered by the tides. It wasn't stable at all, and after about 30 seconds I was about knee deep and commiserating with the small sand crabs around me. In order to net though, I had to get even dirtier, even closer to the water where the mud was even softer. That's where I lost my care to be clean--the effort was obviously futile--and began netting. Our success rate increased drastically, and the amount of crabs in the bucket outweighed any of my cares about being covered head to toe in slop.

Canyoning, in relation, used the same carefree faculties I learned that long ago. It was a willing submersion. It was a mess and we got dirty.


Canyoning was a chance to get wet, explore waterfalls, canyons, streams and rocks in a way that I really hadn't been prepared for. At least we appeared to be prepared, Me, Ryan, John, Shannon, Garry and Meg, with out wetsuits on, harnesses strapped up, and helmets fit securely on our heads. The whole suit was incredibly uncomfortable. It was the type of thing that makes nudists turn nudist. We were constricted in just about every way, and the hike to where the canyoning really began was pretty much unpleasant despite the untouched green forest we were walking through. We had a very brief primer on how to abseil (or repel, as it is commonly referred to in the States) and then jumped straight into the water.

Our tour guide, Cam, was an experienced adventurer, having worked as a guide for whitewater rafting and scuba diving as well as canyoning. He offered us choices along the trail, usually either to jump or to abseil. The water we waded in was mostly shallow, except for certain points that he knew would be deep enough to jump in. The water was also home to eels of many sizes, however they never really got in the way. We only saw them while we were out of the water and eating lunch. They like tomatoes.

The first abseil was a bit of a beginner drop, 18m, and marked the first time abseiling for all of us. You are basically hooked on to the rope by a carabiner and control how quickly you go down. Keeping your left hand on the rope in front of you for balance, and the right hand on the rope behind you for control, you manuever your way down the cliff keeping your feet spread wide on the rocks. You control the slack by moving your right hand to your side for more, and behind you to stop completely. We usually ran two ropes at a time, meaning the first two people down acted as belayers in case of emergency. We all got down from the first cliff no problem.

We swam around in the freezing cold water that the waterfall spilled into and then moved forward through the creek, encountering yet another abseil. This one was the largest of them all and only our second abseil ever. It was a 50m straight down, and directly next to a giant waterfall (the one pictured above). Their was a pretty intense crack you could end up in, which gave you pretty much no footing on the way down. All of us seemed to get lost in it except the girls. Shannon managed to escape it entirely on the left and Meg mastered it by going right into it and putting her feet down. Both are in stark contrast to John, who desperately tried to avoid it by pushing off the rocks like starting blocks and launching himself away from the crack only to uncontrollably sway back into it like a pendulum.

Our last abseil was unlike the others. Rather than trying to avoid the waterfall, we plunged directly into it. The opening was very narrow, and we could only fit one person down at a time. I went down first and was responsible for getting set up at the bottom and belaying two people down. As I went down, I became entirely engulfed by the roaring water around me. The farther down I got, the more impossible it was to hear or see anything. I reached my legs down to where I'd finally hit the pond which marked the end of the abseil.

We all got down safely and started slithering around the stream, climbing on top of giant boulders like contestants in GUTS. Cam finally pointed to an area where we could cliff jump and we went for it. Because we are already soaking wet, the moment of impact was a flash flood of cold and felt rigid rather than smooth. We continued climbing around and jumping off certain ledges where it was possible. Each one seemed to be getting higher.

At other points we were told to squeeze ourself through small caves and between rocks. I believe there was always an alternate route, even when abseiling. But choosing not to do those sorts of things would be like playing beer pong with 7up. Canyoning is meant for those who want to experience it.

After a series of caves and jumps, we walked our way through the stream back to the car. We derobed in a motor lodge bathroom and brought our wetsuits back to the garage we picked them up in. We were back at Railway about 45 minutes later, all with aching joints and eyes worn but wide.

Surf n' Turf

My picture book continues.
So damn far behind, I hate to consolidate two posts in one. Especially with locations being such polar opposites as Piha Beach and Tongariro Crossing. But haste is necessary, and local diametricity is the norm here in New Zealand.

Example A) Piha Beach
Piha is a rugged west-coast town. Dark beach sands and nasty rip and surf. It's known as a particularly great surf spot, along with Raglan which is farther south down the coast. The location is actually a mere 40-minute drive from downtown Auckland. Like most beaches in New Zealand, the drive curves through varying amounts of rainforest and mountain ranges, until you finally peek around a corner and spot the ocean. Lion Rock, front and center in the shot, is Piha's most recognizable landmark. The surf at Piha is known as being incredibly dangerous, especially for novice surfers or daring swimmers. The beach is also unpatrolled, adding to it's risk.


Example B) Tongariro Crossing
This is the area known internationally as Mordor. To the left, Mt. Ngauruhoe stands as the real life Mt. Doom. It is one of the most mountainous regions of the North Island, with three of the largest peaks in the country. Mt. Tongariro, Ngauruhhoe, and Ruapehu are all active volcanoes, with Ruapehu being the tallest of the three, doubling as the country's largest ski field. This is the view looking west towards Mt. Taranaki on the west coast. The other side is the Rangipo Desert. The entire area is at a relatively high altitude and is particularly barren on all sides, with a large amount of thermal activity. On the North end of the crossing, it is possible to view Lake Taupo, the largest lake in New Zealand.

Piha was our first destination. It had been a long time since we've seen a clear day in Auckland, with record amounts of rainfall coming down since our semester break. With the outbreak of sun and the arrival of a new visitor in town, we hopped in a rental car and headed west to Piha. The drive was brief, and not long after curving through the Kaiteriteri ranges we spotted the rough surf. Our rental car, the Sprinter, headed straight for the beach. We parked and got onto the wet dark sand. It's been a while since anyone had been on a beach, so we dabbled for a while, scouring the sand for weird objects such as the odd embyonic type object to the right. Even more fun were the tentacly palm fronds that were littered all over the beach. When kicked, they flew through the air like flailing octopus legs. The beach was also littered with dogs, alive and kicking, playing fetch with their owners. As such domestic creatures are rare sights for college students, particularly students abroad, it was exciting to see the dogs in action.



Maybe even more amusing to watch was Piha's lone surfer that day. I don't know much about surfing but I could tell this guy knew what he was doing. He was jumping from wave to wave like he was playing hopscotch.

Then we turned our eyes to Piha's finest landmark--Lion Rock. It is a natural rock formation standing smack in the middle of the beach. I believe it's also been recognised as a war memorial as their was a plaque at the base with a roll of honour. (Ah--I'm starting to spell like them. All these NZ English academic papers. Z's replaced with S's, unnecessary U's. I can barely recognise myself anymore. Anyway...)


We climbed up Lion Rock. That's what we do here. Broken down real simple: we climb and we jump. We left jumping out this trip, since we've already done our share of expensive jumping. (Suprisingly, climbing seems to be the cheaper option)

There was a trail on the way up, but it was a pretty steep incline. The trail was made of dirt and rocks which were a little bit slippery and seemed to be falling out. When a sign prohibited us from going any further, we stopped for a little and took in the scenery. From either side you could see well down the coast. I figure if you look in the direction Lion Rock is facing you'd be able to see Australia.


Then we continued going further into the bush, past where the sign and the wood gate blocked us off. We were dedicated to getting to the summit, as any ultimate traveler would and should be. Bernie, Garry and I unfortunately had to settle for getting as close as physically possible, due to the route being completely impassable. I guess the danger sign was right. We turned back and started our descent down to the bottom. We all piled into the Sprinter and vamoosed back to Auckland packed like walrii in a clown car.



A couple days later...
The climb up Lion Rock proved to be the equivalent of speed bump in the landscape of New Zealand. We climbed into yet another Sprinter (apparently the only rental vehicle this side of Queen St.) and journeyed southward, past the bustle of Hamilton and then around Lake Taupo. Pulled into Turangi, our overnight shelter at around 10 PM, ready to rest up for the early hike in the morning.

We arrived, circa 7 AM, circa 20 degrees fahrenheit, at this:The flat looking path didn't last for long. The Tongariro Crossing, our full day hike, was my personal first foray into serious tramping in New Zealand. The crossing was graded as "challenging", and about a 17 km and 8 hour hike through the most active volcanic areas of Tongariro National Park. The entire track was elevated, starting at a base of 1150m, ascending to 1886m, then downward spiraling to 700m. We geared up, renting hiking boots and packing backpacks full of hats, gloves, extra socks, liters of water and PB&J sandwiches. It was an intensely clear day, but we had been told the weather was unpredictable at some of the higher altitudes, and sunny skies could easily turn into all out blizzard-like conditions in minutes. We were adequately prepared.


We began our walk on the flat path pictured, yet within minutes we began our ascent and left flat walking ground for higher peaks. We were winded early, hiking at a steady pace and wishing we could borrow a marathon runner's gaunt frame and swollen lungs for just the day. We looked ahead of us and saw "The Devil's Staircase", the part of track which caught the steepest incline between Mt. Tongariro and Mt. Ngauruhoe. Once climbing up the nearly 90 degree incline, while slipping on tumbling dirt and rock, the name seemed to make sense and didn't. The track was obviously created by some kind of evil, however a staircase it was most definitely not. It was just dirt and rock. No sight of stairs anywhere in sight. Using our hands for stablity and sometimes upward mobility, we sledged up the "staircase".

It was about 45 minutes to the top, and we stopped occasionally to check our view from the higher altitudes. It was actually so clear that from the centrally located park, we could see Mt. Taranaki all the way out on the west coast. The peak had been featured as Mt. Fuji in "The Last Samurai". Getting to the top of the staircase was by far the most strenuous exercise of our trip, however it granted us an extremely priviliged vantage point at basically the summit of Tongariro, extremely close to the summit of Ngaurahoe. The Ngaurahoe side track had been closed off for the winter, yet several groups equipped with crampons and ice picks chose to attack that track as well. I looked for Garth the glacier man but didn't find him. It was a nearly vertical climb to the top of the perfecly conular summit.

The three of us: Ryan, Drew and I, rested and ate an early lunch at the spot, enjoying the sustenance of peanut butter and raspberry jelly while meeting up with a couple of other students staying in Railway. At this point, we were barely 1/3 through the journey, but already us three Sir Edmund Hillary's felt like we achieved something of interplanetary excellence. And damn, the view from excellence is superb.
In the opposite direction--a giant crater.

We continued, walking around the edge of the crater and eventually slicing directly through it. It was extremely snowy, and thus very slippery. At one part there was a steep decline on ice, so I put my recently purchased waterproof pants to work, sat on my ass, and slid for as long as I could. To the right was a giant red crater--The Rangipo desert. This area looked like miles of barren red turf. It was, in fact, the last leg of Frodo's journey in Mordor, Mt. Ngaurahoe serving as Mt. Doom. After watching the movie, the area is quite obviously Mordor, however it shows the incredible amount of digital retouching that must have gone into the films. The volcano itself, well it's a volcano. It could easily be believed to be Mt. Doom, when it isn't the winter and isn't covered in snow. Peter Jackson felt the need to stretch it a little taller, make it a little less of a perfect cone, and billow hot reds and oranges out the top of it. The real life Mt. Doom does have a small cloud of smoke coming out the top of it since it is an active volcano. Continuing on the track we came to two perfectly emerald thermal hot pools, with ice surrounding the edges and steam oozing from the surface. The green of the lakes was pretty much the only green we had seen in the barren area we were walking on. Once went down the hill towards the pools we cut across the crater and began climbing up towards the larger blue pool that was at the top of Mt.Tongariro.
From there, we started a slow and long descent from the high crater. Falling from such great heights was painful, as there were several parts with large stairs 1-2 feet high that we seemed to be sprinting down. The snow began to vanish and slowly lakes popped out of the distance. But it was still a long downhill walk before we got to the end of Tongariro Crossing.

The last leg of the walk was through the Ketetahi Hot Springs, a private area that was granted to the government with limitations on access. This point, as a landmark on the end of the journey, was such a welcome sight, and an excellent place to stop to snap some shots. We crossed a stream and kept walking, down more dirt stairs. The stairs felt endless, the backpacks grew heavier on our shoulders, and knowing that this difficult part of the journey would only lead us to a parking lot was less motivational. We made it down the stairs on the mountain, ended up on stairs in the rainforest for a while, found flat ground and walked to the opening in the dense green brush.

Pictures

Technical Disturbances

I've relocated, for reasons various and unamusing.
Inknoise, my previous provider has cut me off from the mother wolf's teet.
Perhaps I've gone over my free-account storage limit?
Or is it Inknoise being shaky again, dealing with it's own "dos-attack" issues?
I'm hoping the issue is resolved soon so I can get back on it, but as for now this substitute is the quick and easy answer.

I've been gone long--not solely due to Inknoise.
The brunt of responsiblity lies with my failing Toshiba Satellite Laptop and inadequacies of kiwi computer repairmen named Merritt.
Since I'm incapable of expressing the complexities of my feelings in this brief post, I've broke them down into a simple 3-line haiku:

Computer Graveyard
Red keys, burnt hard drives and you
Among the wreckage

Powerful stuff.
I think I got the guy working on my computer fired.
That's what happens when you spend 6 weeks and bill 400 dollars for a simple manuever (reformatting the hard drive) that should cost nothing and take no more than 4 hours.

I've got a paper to write, so I must bid adieu.
In the meantime, look forward to posts on previous happenings, such as our tramp/climb through Tongariro Crossing and our road trip to Piha beach.
I've got loads of catching up to do, thank you Toshiba, Merritt, Inknoise and Schoolwork.

Webshots up soon.