Though there may be faster methods of travel, the shoelace express is reliable in both its durability, and its constant yield of adventure. This statement rang true and vibrated out of my first strides across the beach. The South Pacific break accompanied the endless flow of Bruce Springsteen pouring out of my iPhone 4. My youthful urgency and fear of losing precious fitness for the climbing season led me to construct, and follow, a training regimen throughout my family's two week holiday to the Cook Islands. The hotel had a gym and I frequented it, telling myself that if I didn't, half a winter's worth of training would be down the drain. For cardio, I turned to the mountainous jungle and the rolling beaches.
On Christmas day, my hair flew and I could feel the pressure of the air making my smile goofy as I surfed along the road in the truck bed of a Cook Islander that had kindly responded to my raised thumb. I could see the two locals in the cab laughing at this kid in their rumbling Tacoma who's actions were more parallel to dog than human. They drove me as far as they could. After another short ride in a Mini Cooper, I was close enough to start running toward my towering objective.
Te Manga is the tallest mountain in the Cook Islands, and was my goal for the day. The trail seemed moderate enough to run at a good pace. I was excited to challenge myself against these foreign mountains, whose power was cloaked beneath a green cape of thick jungle. With no food, but plenty of water, I began the 650 metre climb from the oceanside road to the roof of the island. The first few kilometres through the inland neighbourhoods and then on a 4x4 trail were the toughest mentally. My courtesy Air New Zealand flight socks had catalyzed a massive and painful blister on my run yesterday, and the blister made it difficult to feel light and get into a groove. But through self bullying and the dreadful thought of stopping before even beginning the climb, the pain nestled its way into a trivial part of my mind and I settled in. My spirits were lifted as I moved further and further into the jungle, and could feel the elevation in my quads. I felt light, powering through muskeg, darting up the odd rock slab, and zipping my way onto a ridge. Elation flooded into my working muscles as I swung with the trees, locked in a dance like state with the jungle. This dance was rudely interrupted by a symmetric and creepy collection of silk spun from tree to tree. The first spider web across the trail struck fear into me, "an irrational fear", I told myself.
At times, when my rhythm broke, or I stopped to question the direction of the trail, the jungle got the better of my straining mind. I felt isolated and claustrophobic. After spending so much time among the Rockies, I have become accustomed, and look forward to moments of growth that make me feel oxymoronically small. But the jungle's abundance of life is unrelenting. Every step is through a spider web, or on a nest of ants, or narrowly avoiding a gecko. The vines criss cross the trail as if at any second they will grab your leg, and pull you into the void. It was intimidating, and this fear was part of the reason I wanted to run the mountain alone. I reasoned with myself that if I can climb vertical rock and ice and just barely shit my pants, running among bugs and trees should leave me unsoiled and unscathed!
Just below the summit, I began to curse myself for not bringing food. I had run myself into a throbbing headache that was medicated by a dwindling supply of water, but my muscles began to cramp and my stomach screamed with the jungle heat and my idiocy oppressing it. I took a breath before scampering up yet another short rock step, with a rope installed by a former party for assistance if need be. At the top of this step I came across a small party of locals, hiking the mountain "for the last time". This ominous statement wasn't explained and my frazzled mind entertained all sorts of outcomes that it could mean. Some were unsettling, others utterly hilarious. Before parting ways, I swallowed my pride, sounding like the unprepared foreigner I tried so hard not to be.
"Hey! So, ummm, I was an idiot, and kind of didn't bring any food. Do you have any you could spare?"
These words tasted like vinegar as they stumbled out of my mouth, and the cherry-on-top that was my awkward chuckle really twisted the knife into what little image of a "savvy mountain man" I had left. The locals laughed, called me a dumbass, and gave me a couple of passionfruit. "Thank you!" I said again and again through impolite and large slurps of the nutrition. Immediately, I felt its effect and the energy spurred my legs into gear, keen on finishing the climb in good pace.
The summit came shortly after, with the only slight challenge being an exposed, muddy section of ridge. The delicacy of the easy moves made me yearn to be on a mountain face rather than a trail. After another passionfruit on the summit, and then touring around the small summit plateau, I began the descent. The ridge was once again handled with care, and then I tried to speed down in order to both push my body and beat the exhaustion clock. Ah, the logic of expending more energy in order to avoid exhaustion! Bulletproof! Halfway down, I ran out of water and simply put my throbbing head down and moved quickly through the descending jungle. I forced an exhausted laugh as my care for running through spider webs dwindled away with my energy. After a slight ordeal of stumbling off the trail and slipping down a muddy slope with Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and my iPhone 4 stumbling beside me, I made it to the familiar muskeg of the valley floor. This gave my mind the strength to kick my cramping quads into overdrive, and soon after I got to the road. I confirmed the asphalt wasn't a mirage by touching it with stumbling hands. A satisfaction surged through my now walking body. I checked my phone and was shocked that my miniature jungle epic had all taken place in less than three hours. I nodded to the summit of Te Manga, 650 metres above me and buried a few kilometres in the jungle. My attempt at a sentimental moment was interrupted by the honk of a scooter, and the friendly ring of the accent of an islander. "You need a ride little buddy?"
I was overjoyed! Without even putting my thumb up I had a ride! The bald, and incredibly large operator of the scooter was a kind man who introduced himself as Ike. He was out running errands, and first had to stop at a friend's, and then he promised to give me a ride all the way to my hotel, across the island. I insisted it wasn't necessary; That as far as he was planning on going was generous enough. But he would not have it, "because its Christmas!" I thanked him, and enjoyed the obscure transportation that is clinging to the back of a speeding moped. After a joyous ride rich with good conversation and laughs, we came upon his friend's beachside shack, where two men with dreadlocks were strumming guitars at a picnic table. Between them sat a 2L Coke bottle, about half full with an orange concoction. One was Gypsy, the others name eludes me, but they were both lovely. We conversed at length topics that strangers don't typically dive into. Big things. Religion, the meaning of life, hardships, struggle. I felt among friends; Perhaps slightly catalyzed by the orange concoction that they insisted, "I needed after a run like that, you crazy little Canadian bugger". But the warmth within me was mostly rooted from the personal connections I had quickly formed, and the friendships that were forged on the fires of kindness and open hearts. After a rare silence, we all looked out at the sea.
"Nat, God loves you mate."
While Jesus may not make my top fifty, Gypsy was certainly up there.
I thanked them for their hospitality before Ike and I left the two guitar playing men. Ike and I then stopped at his place, as he now insisted there was something that I had to see. He hadn't led me astray yet, and I obliged as the obvious excitement in his eyes showed that he spoke of something he treasured. Moments later, I found myself on a small bluff above the lagoon, sitting beside Ike and marvelling at the beauty of the sea. Ike's soft voice broke into a delicate rhythm, as if it was floating on the same current as the waves we were gazing at: "The sea is my healer, I've been through some really fucked up stuff. We all have. But, no matter what is happening in my life, I can come here and feel peace." Neither of us spoke. My mind flew to the peace that nature so often bestowed upon me. A quotation from Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It summarizes this theme in a far superior way than I can. "All things merge into one, and in the end, a river runs through it."
I thought of how benign all of my problems were in that moment. How a river, unique to each moment and individual, will always be running through the peaks and valleys of our lives. When we find our way to its banks, without even noticing our souls are washed clean and our worries quickly flow downstream.
Ike broke the silence with a joke that forced a smile to erupt from my pondering face.
My aching muscles were a sweet reminder of my journey through the jungle as I rose from the moped, and hugged Ike, thanking him for the ride back and the wonderful afternoon. As his moped sped off, I thought about how happy I was for all of the "rivers" that I had flowing through my life. Once again, an idea sprang into my youthfully urgent mind that constantly betrayed my body. I could feel the tightness of my body as I sprinted back to my room scouring, for my journal. I found it, and in big, rather heinous writing I wrote two words: JUMP IN.
