Puddle jumping in the Cook Islands | It's only four hours. How hard can it be?

It’s mid-afternoon on Monday. I am sitting up half-heartedly on my bed, legs stretched out full length, stripped down to my lacey next-to-nothings.  I’ve just woken from the inevitable post-lunch nap. Beside me in the next bed is the dead-weighted body of Margaret, the only sign of life the gentle rise and fall of her breathing under the arms that cross her chest.

Outside a blazing sun beats down. Gusts from the western coast of the island send a fluttering through the lush verdant gardens outside our louvered patio doors. An occasional splash into the pool interrupts the faint chatter of birds. Somewhere a blossom bursts forth under the heat, a seed bursts from the ground, a green papa shows its first sign of yellow ripening. Like every day, it is hot. Here in our room a fan moves the moist warm air around, falsely suggesting a cooler temperature.

Since we arrived back here on Rarotonga on Friday, we have been planning today’s adventure. Indeed, we started researching the Cross-Island track back in September when Margaret was in Edmonton. Last night we went over the printed sheets about the track, packing a light lunch, filling water bottles, organizing an early breakfast. Ever the cautious one, I was leery.

“It’s only four hours. How hard can it be?”  That’s when I suggested to Margaret that she wasn’t always the best judge of distance, and that we had a tendency to underestimate the difficulty of some of our adventures. I thought I was being generous in accepting half the responsibility. “It’s because we start too late, that’s our problem, not that it’s too difficult”, she said. Agreeing to disagree, we planned our getaway in the morning so that we could catch the 7:40 am bus and beat the afternoon heat.

The Cross-Island track is not a track, or a trail. It’s not a hike, or a walk. It’s 90% scramble, 10% swinging from tree branches, hanging from strategically-placed ropes, and fording the creek on rocks. Your handholds are roots of shampoo (that’s not a typo) and chestnut trees; each step is carefully placed in the tiny spaces between, half on the ground, half on the gangly roots. Ankles scream with each twist and turn.  Like most challenges, it takes 90% of your effort, both mental and physical, to go the last 10%. On the way up. And on the way down.

But we finished, which of course is the point. I think. The pinnacle of the hike is The Needle or Ta Rua Manga. This tall rock formation is what you notice most when you fly into Rarotonga. Climbing The Needle itself is a technical climb so we skipped that most adventuresome of adventures, thank you very much. But like every story this one has its gifts. Just as I was feeling most sorry for myself, and ready to hang up my hiking shoes forever, a face appeared over the ledge behind us, and it was Caroline, whom we had met birding on Atiu. She had climbed the distance on her own, and yes, she was going on to the very top, which is the base of The Needle. With her encouragement, we did too.  We’ll see Caroline and Craig again before the week is out. And it was at the base of The Needle as we watched a young woman make her way down, step by ever-so-carefully-planted step with the help of her local guide. , that we met our companions for the trip down. Two young women, Trina and Jenna, and their local guide became our newest friends.

The trip down is at least as hard as the trip up. But with Trina and Jenna up front and Tuhe Piho at our backs, watching our every trip, slip and stumble, I felt much more secure. I suppose it depends on what you fear the most: your lungs caving in from the steep climb or your knees buckling with the strain of the downward slope. There are guide ropes to keep you on the ledges and help you down (and up) the slippery bits. You cross the stream 8 times, each crossing relatively easy, if you can find it. With the help of our new-found guide, the occasional hand-up (or down) from one of the women, and lots of encouragement we arrived at the dry pool that is (was) Wigmore’s Waterfall. A ride n Tuhe’s SUV got us to the main road, and to coffee, groceries, and the bus. Adventure over.

We are safe at home, fed and rested. The only casualty is Margaret’s white hiking shirt which she has thrown in the garbage, rather than try to scrub out the red grunge and sweat. Mine will wait. In the meantime, we are planning tomorrow’s (much lazier) day of shopping around the island.