Otago Harbour from Harbour Cone

On an impulse, I’d decided to walk up Harbour Cone. Well, in actual fact that’s not totally correct. I looked it up the night before, so it wasn’t on impulse at all. I decided I was in need of a good walk, and now seemed as good a time as any to scale the 315 meters (or about 1,033 feet) to the summit! The previous evening, I’d looked up a local pamphlet, which said time: 3 hours, distance 4.5 km.‘Three hours? To walk 4.5 km? Even if it is uphill, surely that can’t be right’ I’d thought to myself. I’d noted it had stated: Difficulty—hard, very steep. I’d nonchalantly discarded this as meant for those people who were doing this sort of thing in jeans and sneakers and weren’t quite as outdoorsy as myself.

The next day, I woke up to rain. The clouds were dark and grey, a soft misty rain was falling. I’d read the track up Harbour Cone began from the suburb of Broad Bay. This is where I headed and undeterred by the changing weather, I parked my car and set off. Confident it wouldn’t take too long and I would be home in time to mow the lawns!

I hadn’t gone more than 50 metres—maybe 100 if I’m being generous—before my hands were on my knees and my lungs were already screaming. Clearly, this is something I’d wildly underestimated.

When I got to what I felt was about halfway up, I found a viewing spot and stopped there for a rest. Suddenly I heard the voices of two people coming down the track. When they arrived, they weren’t out of breath at all. In actual fact, they were in quite a spritely mood. They looked to be in their seventies and were wearing jeans and sneakers. I did my best to stand upright and pretend that I was just merely catching my breath in as manly a way as I could, trying not to act as if I was about to collapse at any moment.

“The lady informed me, ‘There’s rain in the forecast. I checked on my app—it’s meant to come down at 1:00 p.m.’ I looked at my watch—ten to one. ‘It’s a lovely view up there, if not just a tad windy.’

‘Enjoy,’ she added before bounding down the hill.

I trudged on. The rest of the walk up the hill was steep, very steep as it turns out. I wasn’t so much walking, as slowly trudging up the hill. Every time I looked up, just as I thought the summit must be near, I’d find in astonishment that another peak loomed further on. Wearily, I continued up the hill, wondering why I’d brought so much camera gear with me and cursing myself for bringing that extra lens and camera body that I knew I wasn’t going to need anyway.

At one point just as I thought that the top was in sight, I stepped over a row of rocks hoping to see the last few feet in front of me. “Oh, fuck,” I said, finding that instead of being at the top, I was still only three-quarters of the way up with another 20 metres to go.

At the summit, I stayed a while to take a few photos, enjoy the view and have a drop of water. It really was quite spectacular. I stood a moment, fixed my gaze beyond the horizon as the wind blew through my hair. Standing there, at the highest point on the peninsula, I suddenly knew what it must have felt like for Sir Edmond Hillary when he reached the top of Mount Everest. It was nice to have something in common with the great man. That’s when I noticed—it was spitting with rain again, this time a wee bit harder. And the wind? Oh yeah, definitely picking up. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I was actually starting to feel rather cold. It turns out that pamphlet was right. It was steep, very steep and the weather was changing quite quickly. Who knew that the people that wrote these things actually knew what they were talking about.

I started my descent, taking in the view. About halfway down, I met a couple that were on their way up the hill. They were looking tired and exhausted. So I said to them in a spritely voice, “It’s a magnificent view up there. Starting to spit with rain a wee bit, though. Enjoy.” And off I went, striding down the hill like someone who hadn’t just been on the verge of collapse 20 minutes earlier.