Story

Sulphuric fumes and volcanic pools where things dare to grow

Tongariro National Park, New Zealand. The wind whipping the volcanic gravel in all directions. We hasten as we still need to pitch the tent before darkness falls, but I have a sense of deja vu. We have taken this path before; maybe a week ago, I don’t remember. Ngauruhoe to the West, Rangipo Desert to the right. How far have we to go yet? But it’s hot now. The still, sweltering heat forces us to halt for a respite. So we eat the homemade Vietnamese rolls we had pre-rolled and which have liquefied and become one with each other in the hot resealable sandwich bags. I can’t tell if I am chewing salad or cellophane or rice paper. What does it matter? I turn around, Ngauruhoe to my right, Ruapehu on the left. Are we hiking anticlockwise? Why are we still standing here, eating bits of melted plastic?

Now that the tent is pitched, we are urged to take a dip in the stream nearby. It’s beautiful because dusk is creeping in and we are alone, naked in a shallow pool, and desperately trying to shake off the cold. The stream plunges over a sheer drop just metres away, with views over the valley and I’m feeling dizzy looking at it. So I dry off and watch the sunset and then the sunrise which awakes me, though I haven’t slept yet; shivering all night in a flimsy sleeping bag at this high altitude.

Rangipo Desert to the west, Ngauruhoe to the right. It’s hot again and the punishing heat, the breathlessness of an arduous climb stops me. Drinking straight from the creek I realise that we still have a long way to go and there’s no time to rest. It’s almost dusk but it could be dawn too. The ground falls apart as I scramble. Ashes and rocks. A crumbling, barren land where no vegetation but the red tussock and a few occasional shrubs dare to grow.

Sulphuric fumes distract me while I climb, the air is crisp and bitter, the temperature flirting with zero. The landscape is well alive. How far does a lahar travel, I wonder? Without warning, Ngauruhoe spews his last meal, and the scolding lava mud runs fast down the slopes, and there’s no way to escape it. I feel the heat penetrating my body, smothering my insides. “It’s too late!” I yell at Kelly, who is sound asleep beside me in the tent, breathing in the icy air.

Wide awake, the wind is biting, piercing the layers of my clothing, eating me whole. Zombie fingers, lilac lips, teary eyes. There is nowhere to shelter so we carry on, far above the glistening, green-emerald lakes which are beautiful and unreal. Suddenly, we are not alone anymore. A queue of tourists has formed and I need to be patient and wait in line. The ridge is steep and exposed. My feet slip in the deep ash. I find it difficult to keep pace. Clambering uphill, the wrong way on the escalator.

To the east, the vulva-shaped crater openly displays its cracked, rusty, dry labia and I don’t know if I find it obscene, arousing or just beautiful. I feel faint. I’m out of breath and gasping for water. There are no streams between Oturere and the bottom of the Devil’s Staircase. Ngauruhoe has defeated us. Worn out, wind burnt and starving, I crack the whip for the two hours that separate us from Whakapapa village. As we unwind on the pavement, the bus driver opens the doors. I sweep away the last fragments of this memory and doze off.


Words and images by Anne-Marie Arpin.



Shares