How Stories Have Influenced My Real World Decision Making

A view of Mount Ngauruhoe, AKA Mount Doom

One of my favorite opening lines in all of literature is from Salman Rushdie’s Satanic

Verses:

To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to

die.

Soon after finishing the book, I myself was tumbling from the heavens, skydiving for the

first time.

That is one of the great things about stories: the best ones can inspire one’s real life

decisions, often for the better.

I have been noticing this has been the case a few times already during my travels, so I

figured I would share a few instances.

Taranaki Falls, a viewpoint on the first day of the Tongariro Circuit

I would be remiss to not begin by mentioning The Lord of the Rings. The series was,

and remains, some of my favorite movies of all time, and is likely the way I was first

introduced to New Zealand. The cinematography dazzled my eyes and captured my

imagination. It should be no surprise, then, that my main goal, when I decided to come

to this country was to do as much hiking as possible and explore the natural beauty.

One of the Great Walks of New Zealand is in Tongariro National Park, where a volcano

looms over the landscape like some legendary beacon. This is where they filmed

Mordor, and the volcano, Mt Ngauruhoe, became the stand-in for Mount Doom.

Naturally, I was very excited to be doing this hike, not only to see the filming sites, but to

see some of the other interesting features the park had to offer, such as the Red Crater

and the alpine lakes.

The Upper Tama Lake, another viewpoint on Day 1 of the circuit

The first day boasted of clear skies and panoramic views. But as I was preparing for the

following day, where I’d be completing the bulk of my mileage, climbing steep and

narrow slopes, the park ranger (called a warden) told me that the next few days were

looking really rough. She said the wind predictions (over 90 km/hr) were the worst she’d

seen in the six years of working at this park, and that the weather would be cold and

wet, and all of these conditions would be even worse going through the Tongariro

Crossing, as was my plan. If I happened to fall and injure myself, a helicopter wouldn’t

be able to get to me for several days.

This was very disheartening news. I spoke to a few other hikers staying at the hut, and

they recommended I not even try. Instead, I could turn around and go elsewhere, or

perhaps do a short day hike early in the morning and spend the night at the same hut I

was currently at.

This was a hike I was really looking forward to, though, and I ended up consulting my

own opinions. I had done challenging hikes before. I was in pretty good shape, and I

was prepared with trekking poles, gloves, and layers of clothes, which would give me

stability and warmth. Furthermore, I am an American, and wind speeds in kilometers per

hour meant little to me on face value; I was uninterested in doing the math.

Nevertheless, I didn’t want to be the brazen fool who ignored sound advice and suffered

(or died) because of it.

I was torn.

But there was another factor at play. I was in the middle of reading The Worst Journey

in the World, a nonfiction book about the 1910-1913 British expedition to the South

Pole. It is an astonishing tale of perseverance, survival, and tragedy. I had just finished

the portion of the book where 3 members of the expedition, in the middle of winter,

where there is no sunlight at all, go on a 6 week journey through mountains, crevasses,

and sea ice to acquire Emperor Penguin eggs for the sake of science. They endured

temperatures of under -70 F where it took an hour to get into their frozen sleeping bags

and frostbite occurs as soon as one touches metal. At one point, they were sheltering in

an igloo during a hurricane, and the canvas roof was torn to shreds and their tent flew

off. They spent two days in their sleeping bags as the storm swirled around them, and

somehow, when it finally died down, they found the tent in the dark a quarter mile away

and somehow made it back.

Reading about the Antarctic Expedition climbing the Beardmore Glacier reminded me of seeing Grey Glacier in Patagonia last year

When I read that, my situation paled in comparison. What is a little bit of wind and a little

bit of chilliness compared to what these men accomplished? As long as I was focused

and careful, my present conditions could be managed.

So, I woke up early to try and avoid the worst of the weather, and by 6am I was

tramping along with my full pack, just as I had originally intended.

A view of Mount Ruapehu early in the morning of Day 2.

In exposed parts, the wind was very strong, and once, it came from behind unexpectedly and knocked me off my feet. But this happened on a flat surface, and made me more aware of what I’d need to be prepared for once I got to higher elevations.

Part of the trail I crossed on the morning of Day 2. In the distance on the left is the pass I climbed.

When I got to more precarious places, where a bad gust of wind could spell disaster, I

steadied myself, planting my poles firmly in the earth and taking small steps to keep

myself as grounded as possible. I made sure I was as far from steep edges as possible

and paused regularly to make sure I was not getting sloppy from exhaustion.

Thankfully, in the most dangerous spots, the mountaintop blocked the wind and made

for a relatively smooth climb. Meanwhile, the clouds glided past and every now and then

opened up views of where I came from. I saw almost no one.

When I reached the summit, it was about a half hour before noon, which was when the

weather was expected to worsen. Even so, I was exposed to the gales and cold up there. Hardened frost formed frigid figures on whatever it could cling to. Wind whipped

about me to where I had to pause and brace myself for a good half minute before it felt

safe enough to walk.

The summit was frigid and windy.

On my way down, I started to come across clusters of hikers crawling to the summit I

had just left. Some of them lacked gloves. Surprisingly only a few had trekking poles. I

shook my head in wonder, especially as I lost elevation and noticed even more people

still a long way from the top, destined to either turn around or face much worse

conditions than I had.

I ended up making it safely to the hut where I was planning to spend the night, grateful

for having not been daunted by the weather, and for having approached the challenge

with the proper preparations.

The view coming down the other side of the crossing. Hidden by the clouds in the center is Mount Ngauruhoe

Part of me wonders if I would’ve braved the Tongariro Pass had I not just read about the

Winter Journey in Antarctica. Perhaps if I had just finished reading about the race to the

South Pole, where five of them perished, I would have calculated things differently.

Admittedly, not all of the ideas I get out of stories work in my favor. To celebrate finishing

the Tongariro Circuit, I went to a Mexican restaurant for some tacos. I noticed they had

a bar, and it made me start thinking of another book I had read while in New Zealand,

Under the Volcano. It takes place in Mexico and follows an alcoholic consul through a

very depressing day of drinking. The Consul can hold his liquor for the most part, but he

has a weakness for mezcal, which whenever he drinks it, things really start to go

downhill.

So, in a surge of curiosity, I asked for a shot of mezcal to see what it’s like. Perhaps I

would gain a greater understanding of the book, the character, or perhaps even Mexico

in the process. I took a sip of the agave-distilled concoction of 45% alcohol and nearly

choked. I didn’t want to simply down the shot, because then I’d be missing out on the

flavor and experience. But the flavor and the experience were both horrid. I can safely

say I never plan to do that again.

After the crossing, I also visited Putangirua Pinnacles, another filming site for Lord of the Rings.