I don’t know if this is a real thing…but I think I might be exhausted.
It feels a bit like my body is shutting down; my legs aren’t working properly, every part of my lower back aches for reasons I don’t understand and the space between the roof of my mouth and my eyeballs feels like it is full of week-old rum and coke.
Any time I sit down, I fall asleep. Any time I get into bed, I lie awake and sleep for maybe 5 hours a night.
I do not feel entirely capable of withstanding even small bursts of activity. Life has become a clumsy, sticky-fingered God daughter and I, I am Jenga.
Hear me roar?
So anyway, today I attempted to climb Roy’s Peak; a modest 6-hour trek up to an elevation of 1578 metres. Upon reflection, this is 250 metres higher than Ben Nevis…but I don’t know its prominence, so that is largely irrelevant.
What is relevant is that I couldn’t do it. Or rather, I could have done it…but I didn’t. I just didn’t want to. I was bored; bored of spending my time in New Zealand walking around – normally on my own – for days and days for fucking scenic panoramic views.
It didn’t help that I got up too late for breakfast, so had to wolf down a hot crossed bun, a ham roll and a banana during the hour-long hike through the mists, to the foot of the mountain.
Along the way, I also accidentally grabbed hold of an electric fence and got the literal shock of my life.
Simply put, I wasn’t in the best state – mentally or physically – by the time I started the actual climb. After about half an hour, I was all out of grit; I had no more grit and no more shits to give. I was done.
So I sat down, drank a nutrient drink, ate another hot crossed bun and moped. I was frustrated. This should be a walk in the park; I should be running up this bloody mountain and bellowing my victory to the puny Gods of Wanaka themselves!
Instead, I felt sick and weak. The mere thought of spending another 6 hours trudging up and down wide, grassy paths for the sake of some more views was repulsive.
There just seemed nothing glorious about thoughtlessly plodding along a clear, wide track until I inevitably reached another predetermined ending point – along with everybody else with a day to spare in Wanaka.
Instead, I decided to cut my losses and massage my legs into shuffling the 90 minutes home instead.
That’s when I noticed where I was; at the bottom of a sheer face of grass and bracken.
Somewhere deep inside me, I felt something rekindle. Now there was a challenge…
2-hours later, I was at the top of a rock pile, overlooking Wanaka. I wasn’t as high as the people on Roy’s Peak, but I was the only one here. Granted, I was also caked in sediment, bleeding from a hundred thorns and mentally shaken from the near constant rock slides…
…but I was alone. Finally, I had done something that every man and his dog wasn’t doing casually every day. It wasn’t a hugely impressive feat, but it was a unique one – and that’s all that mattered.
Finally content, I looked out over the lake and mountains, ate my lunch (another ham roll, a second banana and some chocolate)…and fell asleep.
I know. It’s ridiculous.
Luckily for me, I woke up before too long and still had plenty of time to descend. Even so, I wanted to get home quickly, so I ran.
Quickly, because I had left the beaten path hours beforehand, I was lost. Luckily, when it comes to small mountains, one can figure out which way to go without great difficulty…down.
I’ve heard the quickest way down a mountain is to jump, but I had no parachute. So I took the second quickest way; I slid.
By this point, I’m fairly sure I had lost my mind ever so slightly.
Eventually, I made it to the bottom. Then there was just the hour’s walk back to town, which ended – as all good things do – with beer and cake.
Then I made some dinner, cleansed myself and went out drinking. I was home by 23:00.
I shall decide whether or not to stick around tomorrow when I wake up. After breakfast, maybe.