Crossing Alps & Expectations

by Samantha Whitehead (Canada)

I didn't expect to find New Zealand

My father was turning 60 and what better way to celebrate than dropping everything and travelling to the other side of the world, New Zealand. It certainly would beat the frigid Toronto cold. I always thought I knew my dad well but what we were about to experience changed my view forever, a view I certainly didn’t expect to find. We had been walking for about 2.5 hours at a moderate pace, the sun beaming down, in a pleasant way. Just ahead we could make out the image of some of the people from our tour, escaping beyond the horizon to the beginning of the incline or what would become the beginning of a new perspective for me. Almost as suddenly as the incline began so did the pain. Three feet behind me, my dad’s legs were giving out on him. He crumbled to a rock below for balance. I could hear his breathing, heavy, the strain on his face apparent as he squinted up at me through the blinding sun. I pulled out what little water I had left, offering the final drops, reflecting on my earlier insistence for him to bring his own water. I grabbed his hand, bringing him to his feet, “Just a few more steps and we can break again, you got this!” The words flowed methodically from my mouth, my brain not registering if I truly believed them. Step by step we made our way up the incline, his breathing getting heavier, his legs shaking more, the pain he was experiencing palpable. It took everything in me not to break down. I feared he was going to collapse or worse. His own father had died of a heart attack around his age, the horrid thought was not so inconceivable. My lips trembled as I pushed the thought from my mind. A helicopter soared above while the reception signal on my phone remained dormant but step-by-step, trembling foot by foot, between words of encouragement we made our way. As the slope reached its peak it was clear we might not make it but as we looked back down it was equally clear there was no turning back. Taking his backpack, with one on my front and one on my back, I somehow never felt so light. Adrenaline, fear and survival instincts made it feel as though I was walking on water. Something was happening inside me, I was becoming the protector, a dynamic we had never experienced. His survival was in my hands and I was not going to let him down. I was struck with great pride and admiration as I watched him push through the pain, commanding his legs to move, even if only slowly. Somehow, he had never appeared as strong, he would not be defeated. With a final step we make it to the top but we are only half way, we now had to descend. I attempt to balance the packs but find myself sliding down the mountain instead. I feel nothing but desire to get to the end, to safety. Shoes full with stones and blisters pounding we continued, knowing time was running out, the bus at the end would be gone soon. Time passed but we didn’t seem to be getting any closer and he was drained, I didn’t know how much longer he could keep going. I know I have no other choice, so seven hours into the hike, I begin to run, faster and faster passing people, staring at me with amazement as I sprint the last hour to the exit, finally collapsing at the hands of help, so overcome with relief I sob, for a long time. With help now on its way, I stare longingly at the exit awaiting my dad’s emergence. He finally appears, half bent with a smile on his face. We gained a lot that day that we didn’t expect to find, a shared memory and a new found respect and pride for both ourselves and each other that is relived every time he retells the story of how “his daughter saved his life on the Tongariro Crossing. We did it, together.