hiking ben lomond

Two days ago, I hiked my first ever mountain. Sure, I’ve hiked some mountains, some hills. But this was a 1400m high mountain. A legit mountain. I was stoked.

I started around 10:30 am, from Queenstown, and took the Tiki Trail up with a girl from the hostel. I think she might have originally been totally into doing the whole hike, but she backed out at the top of the Tiki Trail, which stopped at the skyline/gondola/paragliding centre. The Tiki was brutal. I’m talking a 600m practically vertical with few stops. Brutal. The view from the skyline was pretty sweet, but I knew that I would be getting better views as I went up. I just didn’t know HOW COOL. 

Let me start out by saying that I was pretty sure I wanted to do it, but I was also half convincing myself that I could back out at any time – no big deal – if I felt unsafe. So, leaving my former partner at the paragliding centre, I headed up the skyline track to the Ben Lomond track. My first views were on this immense mountain to my left, and a gentler snow-covered slope to my right. I wasn’t sure which slope it was, but based on my time references, I assumed it was the one to my right, which admittedly sort of freaked me out, because it was seriously snow covered.

Along I went, stopping every ten feet or so to catch my breath. Final consensus? Either Kiwis are crazy fit, or I am totally UNFIT. Because I was damn near out of breath. I took a ten minute break at the start of the saddle, which would lead me along up to the ridge walk to the summit. I could see the airport, and Frankton, and some of the lake. I wrapped up my trash and kept on. About twenty minutes later, I ran into some girls coming down the mountain. They were in snow pants and hiking shoes. I was in leggings and hiking shoes. I asked them where they had come from, and they pointed up to the left, where the craggy summit was shrouded in mist. There, they said happily. Okay, I said, and we exchanged pleasantries and off they went. They told me they had been the first to the top, and that there were two boys up there also. They had trailblazed, so all I had to do was follow their footsteps through the snow, which was over a foot deep in places.

About twenty-thirty minutes later, I came upon the sign that labeled the summit path. Off to the right, 1 hour. I looked at the summit, back at the sign, and figured, well, why the hell not.. I’m already here.

The trail was wet, muddy, rocky, and it was more ridge than trail. Soon enough, I saw two figures slipping and sliding down the trail. We stopped and chatted briefly, but I was less than an hour from the summit and had about an hour left on my timer (I set an alarm so I knew what my absolute latest time I could turn around would be, in order not to be hiking in the dark) so I wanted to move along. Off I went, striding quickly, stopping to take panos every so often. And then I hit the rocks. I’m not talking small things I needed to step over, I’m talking rocks that I crawled over so that I didn’t fall thirty feet. Up and up, I couldn’t even see a trail, just rocks. Just a vertical summit above my head that I knew I needed to get to, since I was already practically there. I came to a spot where I could sit, and sit I did. Perched on a slanted rock, looking down at the ridge and the saddle, the lake in the distance, and the town, tinier than I’d seen it. To my left, the Southern Alps range. I was well above the snow line, and I was well on par with any of the other mountains. 1400 meters ain’t short, people. I sighed, looked behind me at the final slog, and stood up, careful not to jostle any of the rocks, for my fear of avalanche was, well, there. One foot in front of the other. One hand steadying myself on the snow-covered gorse that lined the path. I could see only the footsteps of the 4 people that had gone ahead of me. Thirty, forty feet up, I hit icicles and fresh powder. The trail wended around to the left as it approached the summit and the views of the lake and the mountains were beyond stunning. These pictures don’t do it justice.

I reveled in the mist that surrounded me and looked across at the sun glinting off of the mountains, and then I took a deep breath and turned around, heading back down. The path down, once I got through the snow and the rocky bits, was muddy and slippery. I could see now why the two boys had been sliding down, because there were definite points where I balanced on my hand and let my legs slide a few feet down. Just past the lower summit, I ran into two more people heading up. They asked how it was, I said it was good, and I kept moving. I wanted to be back in town by 5 or 6 at the latest, and I wasn’t sure if I’d want to stop at any point. In the end, I just kind of booked it back. My legs hurt, and the downhill put a lot of stress on my knee, which was painful.

I arrived back to the gondola just as the sun set behind the clouds, as the snow was falling in the hills. I took advantage of the gondola and sank into the vinyl seat. Back in town, I sought a hot shower and a whisky – the perfect thing to end a long hike with.

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