Tongariro Crossing. Photo / Supplied
On the last day of February, five of us from work finally ticked off the lingering item on our list: the Tongariro walk.
It was meant to happen late last year, but the weather intervened. Two days before departure, Raniera twisted his ankle.
Our team of six became five: John, Sally, Usaid, Shane and me. Plans, once again, proved fragile. Determination, however, remained.
We left Rotorua about 4am. By the time we reached Ketetahi Car Park, dawn was only just breaking, yet the place was already full.
Cars were packed tightly together and hikers gathered in clusters. Voices rose in different languages. Bright jackets cut through the pale light. Some were in organised tours, others in small teams like ours.
After the shuttle transfer to the starting point, our walk began.
Before we set off, Shane realised his sunglasses were missing, likely left on the shuttle.
A staff member suggested checking the security office at the finish later.
“You’ll need sunglasses today,” he said, returning with both hands hidden behind his back. He revealed first a tiny children’s pair, then an adult-sized pair. “Kiddy or this one?”
We burst into laughter.
Mangatepopo Valley was deceptively gentle, but Tongariro does not stay that way for long.
Blackened slopes from last year’s fires stretched across parts of the landscape.
“It won’t take long before it comes back,” John said.
Already, green shoots were pushing through the ash.
John, the oldest among us, had completed the crossing once before Covid. This time, he moved with quiet assurance. He knew where the steep sections began and when we would most need a pause. His backpack seemed bottomless, packed with sandwiches, fruit and extra tissues.
The track has toilets but no toilet paper. It is the kind of detail first-timers overlook. John did not.
A sign appeared: Turn back if tired or cold.
The Devil’s Staircase rose ahead, exposed to wind and sun. We climbed steadily until the slope eased into South Crater. For a brief stretch, the land felt forgiving.
Along the track, we noticed timber boards, rubber matting and large white bags marked “Rubbish.” Everything here must be flown in or out. The effort required to maintain such a landscape is immense.
Then the path rose again.
Beyond South Crater, the track climbed sharply toward Red Crater, the highest point of the crossing. The ground was loose and exposed.
On that steep section, Usaid’s leg cramped, and he fell onto the gravel. The track was narrow, the slope falling sharply away at the edge. I caught hold of his backpack, afraid he might slip over the side.
Not far from us, a woman sat on a rock as a rescue worker assisted her. A helicopter hovered above. There was nowhere to land. A line was lowered, and soon both were lifted into the air.
They were carried down to a clearing below, where the helicopter remained for some time before finally departing.
Usaid rested, took some painkillers and sat silently for a moment. Then he rose, steadying himself with walking poles, and moved forward step by step. Slow, but forward.
We had trained for this, walking Purple Track, Rainbow Mountain and other weekend trails to build endurance. No one wanted to turn back.
At the summit of Red Crater, the vast red slope silenced us.
“I came here on a school trip when I was a kid,” Shane said.
The mountain had not changed. The child who once stood here had.
From Red Crater, the track rose once more before revealing the Emerald Lakes below, luminous against dark volcanic earth. After the harsh reds and blacks of the ascent, the colour felt almost unreal.
Sally, carrying her professional camera, kept stopping along the way to capture the landscape through her trained eye. We measured the journey with our feet. She measured it through her lens.
The descent toward the lakes was steep and slippery. We moved carefully.
Between the Emerald Lakes and the Blue Lake, we passed a backpacker carrying a pack taller than her head. She was hitchhiking across the country. I admired her endurance. My own pack felt heavy enough.
Further along, the Blue Lake lay still beneath a shifting sky.
A small boy, no older than 5, cried out that his legs were cramping. His parents knelt beside him, speaking softly.
As I passed, I told him, “You might be the youngest hiker on this mountain today.”
He stopped mid-complaint and looked up at me. His eyes brightened.
We continued on.
The long descent toward Ketetahi felt endless. Near the forest exit, thunder rumbled in the distance. The rain never reached us.
We walked out exhausted, our legs barely responding, yet smiling.
Somewhere behind us, the mountain stood unchanged.
Ahead, the road waited.