WHERE THE HELL IS CAMERON?
Dictionaries define “epic” in multiple ways. It could refer to a long narrative poem about a legendary hero. It could refer to something being of impressive size or scope. It could be slang, as in “Duuude, that was epic!” But in the outdoors sense, at least as I see it, its meaning is a little different. Epics are those adventures talked about for a lifetime and are when the real lessons of the outdoors are learnt. It’s when a standard day out goes a little sideways, like dropping your belay device on pitch 8 of 15 or getting surprised by a storm and you don’t have the clothing or the shelter because this was supposed to be an easy day trip into the backcountry.
It’s also when, as I was now, 14 hours into a supposedly eight hour trip to Cameron Hut deep in the Arrowsmith Range on New Zealand’s South Island. The hut, however, was who the hell knew how far away, and it was 9pm. Darkness had fallen hours ago. On the way, we’d been post-holing through snow, forced to retreat to the valley, waded for hours through evil vegetation, and been led astray down a ravine. Plan A had moved to Plan B and we were now on Plan C. And despite us being delirious with fatigue, a bivvy was out of the question. A massive storm was bearing down on us, due to hit in just a few hours. We needed to reach the hut tonight.
There was one further complicating factor: After three days of outrageous drinking, I had a hangover of such
