Indomitable will for a walk up a hill
To some it’s Mt Herbert, to others it’s Te Ahu Pātiki, to geologists it’s basalt, to the farmer it’s his farm, and to me, for all the years I’ve lived in Lyttelton, it’s been part of the view from my window. And on my 67th birthday, after 36 years of looking at it, I climbed it.
A sign in Diamond Harbour told us it would take six hours to the top and back, with nothing to be gained but exhaustion. I was armed with a bottle of water, one of those telescopic sticks I used to sneer at, a ham and egg sandwich and an indomitable will.
Amid regenerating bush we soon overtook a lone and plodding woman who looked a little older than me. “See you at the top,” she said, smiling.
Beyond the bush the land was autumn dry, but the sheep looked well and fat. Climbing is an exercise in self-absorption. There is nothing mystical about it.
You don’t take in the view. You don’t commune with the mountain. You plant your stick and take two steps and plant your stick and take two more. Your eyes are down, your breath is audible and your indomitable will is in dialogue with your domitable flesh. Go on, says the will. Stop, says the flesh.
We met people coming down. Gravity is supposed to be a weak force, but it made these people happy. That could be you, said the flesh. Pretend to smile, said the will.
It was warm work. We stopped to take in the view. It included a lone and plodding woman not far behind.
Passing over a stile we found ourselves among cattle who had lived their whole lives on Mt Herbert but never thought of climbing it. They stared at us in mute incomprehension.
There’s a lot to be said for being a cattle beast. You live with friends. Your food is
all about you. You own nothing but an ear tag. And castration frees you from the main source of worry and expense. Admittedly you make one bad journey in the end, but you don’t see it coming, and your mates go with you. And you’re spared the horrors of old age.
When we stopped to take in the view again, the lone and plodding woman plodded past us. “See you at the top,” she said, smiling. From then on she was a receding dot.
Reaching the summit was like a very slow-motion orgasm: the last bit was breathless, then suddenly it was over. Larkin once wrote of “fulfilment’s desolate attic”. When I got my breath back I ate my ham and egg sandwich.
There were a dozen or more people on the summit but the plodding woman wasn’t among them. Presumably she’d plodded on. There was plenty to plod
on to. The whole of Banks Peninsula lay spread below us and beyond that the whole of Canterbury.
There was a little plaque to take selfies with, announcing that you were 919 metres above sea-level. Other than that there wasn’t much to do up there but pat your own back.
On the way down we met a man running up. I said “bravo” but he did not respond. And I fear I stared at him in much the same way as the cattle stared at us.
From the bar of the Governor’s Bay Hotel I could see Mt Herbert, lit gold by the autumn sun. I was sore, smug, sipping beer and 67.
Sisyphus was condemned to push a rock up hill for all eternity. Whenever he reached the top, it rolled back down. He followed it and started again. Camus called Sisyphus a happy man.