Browning Hut - Slaty Hut

Ever more efficient at dismantling camp, we stuffed down our moist tents and set off into the crisp morning. Toby and I kept a good pace through the forest and frequent river crossings to Hacket Hut, where he drew off and I was left alone for another heinous climb. I’d been nervous about the weather after last season’s constant rain, but it looked like we were in for a splendid summer. I’d braided my fringe off my forehead to help with the heat and felt rather gutsy staking along the green trail with Eddie Vedder’s voice in my ear. Those were the early days of my infatuation with the Into the Wild soundtrack, which is now a staple on all my outdoor adventures.

But I was at the mercy of the unkept trail as it forced me to scramble hunchbacked upwards on screaming legs. The gradient was merciless, and roots and ledges kept forcing me to take huge leaps. The 10 km stretch between Browning and Starveall Hut seemed endless. Tina Turner pushed some good strides out of me, but after four hours of battle I was done in. Leaning over my trekking poles, I roared out all the curse words I could think of. Beast of a trail! What the fuck had I done putting myself out here? The tall sun-flecked trees didn’t have much to respond, astonishingly.

Whimpering through gritted teeth, I finally crawled half-dead over the treeline to Starveall Hut. It’s an amazing location, the hut is perched on an outcrop overlooking a vast mountainscape. Toby sat waiting by the table in a spot of shade. I peeled off my t-shirt and we sat down, smashed, picking at lunch for over an hour. Toby didn’t seem to get the whole “use SPF 30 or die”-thing and acquired sunburns he’d be nursing for a week.

We could see the next stretch of trail winding up a steep alpine ridge. But somehow, 300m climbs just don’t seem as bad when you’re above the trees. For the second time, we were rewarded with the kinds of views that made us want to hike the TA in the first place. Vast green mountains stretched into the far horizon, cotton clouds rolled slowly through the blue skies, and to the south lay the snowy peaks of the Southern Alps. Toby and I were completely awestruck and stumbled through the tussock along the ridge, drinking in the views. The dreadful climb to Starveall was only a faint throbbing memory in our feet now, all our world was mountains and sky. Too soon the trail dipped back down into the trees, but I pushed hard throughout the forest until I reached the ridge above Slaty Hut.

Nestled in the high tussock just above treeline, Slaty married cosiness with a spectacular location. Our afternoon was a blissful few hours snacking on jerky, chatting and drying out our wet gear in the tall grass. I wrote my journal and looked at my now tan knees. A few scrapes here and there from various slips, but I felt amazing. Patrick and Etienne caught up in time for dinner, and we all sat munching the mushy contents of our freeze-dried bags on the hut porch in the last orange rays. I was melting with happiness and so ready for bed, but Toby pushed us all to do an extra sunset hike. My feet screamed in protest, but he coaxed us all up the steep hill into the pink sky. We climbed up to the top of the tussocked mountain and were smacked in the face by the most splendid sunset imaginable. We were in the sky; everything was blue and gold and beautiful and ours.

Just writing about it now – years later - gives me goosebumps. How wild it was, how crazy hard and glorious to rise up into this remotest outcrop of the world, electric with power and joy.