We went up PNG’s second-highest mountain expecting a straightforward camping trip. What we found was the most challenging and rewarding bush walk of our lives.

One does not simply walk into Mordor. One takes a bus with 50 other people, hike for about eight hours, then take a bus back.

The suggestion came from Yvi, a soft spoken German-Swiss girl, as we soaked in a river fed by hot thermal waters in Taupo.

“You never heard of the Tongariro Crossing,” she asked, incredulously. “It’s considered the best one-day walk in New Zealand.”

The lure of the superlative. Since we arrived in this country, we hadn’t embarked on any grand adventure that demands courage, stamina, or strategy. Apparently our time had arrived.

Getting from Mangatepopo to Ketetahi, the two base camps on either side on Tongariro, takes seven to eight hours on foot. An 18.5-km trail that affords the hiker splendid panoramic views of the most active volcanoes in Tongariro Park.

Yes, they filmed Lord of the Rings there. A sprawling volcanic deadland, littered with lava rocks and sulphur vents that wheeze white smoke provided the perfect backdrop for Mordor.

That’s where the bad guy lives, I was told.

To get there, as tradition dictates in New Zealand’s North Island, you have to go through a tour agency. A bus takes you in the morning to one basecamp and picks you up on the other side in the afternoon. For a total of two hours on the bus it cost us NZ$55 each, a price that seemed abusive for a simple transportation. No guides are needed and we bring our own food and water.

But the pressure to brave “the best one-day hike in New Zealand” spoke louder.

By 6 am in the bus, the sun still hadn’t risen. We were given pamphlets with detailed tips on each stage of the hike:

“Between Soda Springs and South Crater there’s a very steep section called Devil’s Staircase. You’ll see why it’s called that when you get there.”

Gulp.

At the top of Red Crater: this ridge can be scary when there are strong winds. You could be pushed off and might have to crawl on your hands and knees. Please don’t walk close to the crater because if you fall you won’t come back.”

Double gulp.

“The climb up Mount Ngauruhoe is extremely hard and should only be undertaken by those who found the Devil’s Staircase to be easy and who don’t suffer from vertigo. When going down, keep your weight on your heels and be careful. If you lose your footing, you will slip down the mountain.”

And so the text goes, spotted with boldfaces, ALL CAPS, warning boxes, points of no return, skulls, crossbones, dangers, death, don’t become a statistic yourself.

On one side: Bianca, laughing nervously, eyes agape with the words “you won’t come back” on mental repeat, looking around if anyone else would turn around ask meekly for a refund.

On the other side: tourists – or rather, the brave explorers, likely seasoned alpinists here for a little R&R after a Himalayan death climb, strolling with the serene certainty of a CEO on a city tour.

In brief: vine, vidi, vici. I climbed the fearsome Devil’s Staircase. I counter-balanced the wind. I learned that the dog’s bark is far louder: the landscapes change so dramatically and so swiftly that time operates on another speed. In this generous trail, the reward comes not at the top, but at each section.

But the best counsel of the day came from Yvi: to get the the end of the trail, one must obey her own rhythm. We’re all capable of this, but we can’t forget that we’re all different, each with their own muscle structure, weight, height, leg strength, and physical fitness. You shouldn’t go any faster or slower to keep up with someone else. Unless, that is, you fear feeling inferior. Unless you need to prove something.

In our small group of one-day travel friends, I was the slowest. The one that panted the loudest. And far too prone to comparisons, to dreading being left behind, to feeling inferior to others.

It is not the mountain we conquer but ourselves.
- Sir Edmund Hillary

I hope I always stop along the way to admire a flower. And that I may have the humility to ask someone to give me a hand, or two, or three.

Santiaguito erupting right on schedule.

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The four-hour hike up Volcán Santa Maria starts at 1 am sharp. They tell you to bring a flashlight, but for much of the trail you don’t need it. The full moon exposes every rock, root and crevice.

Climbing a mountain at night is intensely film noir. The lush vegetation and earth tones are reduced to shapes and shadows, like in a dark black-and-white movie. It’s freezing at this altitude, but you keep peeling layer after layer as you work up a sweat.

This full-moon hike is led once a month by Quetzaltrekkers, a wonderful all-volunteer team in hilly Quetzaltenango — Xela for those in the know — who give all proceeds to charity. They are mostly American kids who haven’t yet found their calling and figured that three months of working 10-hour days, seven days a week for no pay might point them in the right direction.

For 150 quetzales (about US$20) they give you all the equipment you need (sleeping bag and pad, coat, gloves, toque) and a sandwich. If you’re ever in Xela, please support them.

The daringness of hiking in the dead of night really put a spring in my step. Roberto A. R. Rocha, tamer of mountains, fearless adventurer, undaunted by the absence of sunlight or by the merciless cold of night.

That lasted for about an hour.

The excited chatter of climbers gave way to heavy breathing. You first stopped to rest after 200 paces or so, which soon dropped to 50. Twenty. Ten. After three hours my legs felt like Jello held together by chicken wire. Every stepping stone seemed like an insurmountable chasm. My backpack’s straps started slicing into my shouders, and any knots I had in my back muscles became hot shards of glass that poked deeper every time I moved my neck.

An occasional surprise would give me that extra push, like when I stopped to look at the little parade of adorable stereotypes trudging up the trail: the English guy smiling politely. The German guy with the headlamp, flashlight, hiking pole, and backpack full of gizmos and straps. The Scottish guy wearing just a fleece jacket and shorts. The French guy issuing edicts on how things should be done around here. The Swedish girls going bork bork bork bork. (Sorry. Couldn’t resist).

But little could keep me from cursing the moment I decided to go on this stupid hike in the first goddamn place. What the fuck I am doing going up a mountain at 4 am? I didn’t leave Montreal for more of this bitch-ass cold.

Climbers getting some rest after reaching the summit.

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Then you clear the last line of trees. Only rock and bush left, and what looks like the mountain leveling off above. And when I glanced behind, I saw Xela and its neighbours from 2,500 metres above, all their thousands of lights, as though a ton of tiny shimmering marbles were spilled between the mountains. And yes, those are clouds hovering between the peaks below. It’s a sight that would cow into silence the biggest blabbermouth.

A wave of energy swept over me, as if a hidden backup power tank roared to life. I heard shouts of celebration above and sprung to join them.

It was still pitch black. Still an hour to sunrise. Freezing climbers at the top huddled inside their sleeping bags but no one dared sleep. Our eyes were transfixed at the thousands of lights below, each one representing 10 people, each person its own little universe of joys, agonies and dramas. And then it happened — that moment so exalted by poets and philosophers, an internal collision of psychic extremes wherein you feel at once like an insignificant speck of dust and a priceless member of the living.

The horizon turned a faint pink. A few metres away a pair of Slovenians started a fire, drawing climbers like moths. I passed around a flask of aguardiente. It came back almost empty. Then the top arch of a deep orange ball emerged, restoring the colours of everything, the far-off mountains, the valleys, the towns, the rocks and bushes at our feet. Everything was bathed in a nurturing hue of yellow. What was menacing and dark became hopeful. On the other side of the sky the full moon still shone, and in between was the deepest indigo sky. Space. The universe.

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I sat beside Anna, a lovely Swedish girl, to share body warmth and enjoy hot instant coffee. Sheer exhaustion battled with the rapture of the moment. We could only communicate in one-sentence clichés:

“This is amazing.”
“Nature is beautiful.”
“It’s good to be alive.”

Just south of us, Santiaguito Volcano rumbled and belched a thick plume of sulphur and ash, as it does reliably every hour. Anna is a fellow journalist in Gothenburg. A welling of tears made her eyes sparkle and quiver above her rosy freckles. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. She appeared to be choosing her words carefully. Then she said something that will probably take me a long time to realize what was going through her mind:

“There’s just one deadline in life.”