Friday February 9th: Christopher Hut (St. James Walkway, Canterbury)

The path was not a path here, but a deeply eroded track for SUV's, used for hunting down half wild cattle. The land was wide open, like a pulsating wound of beauty. The naked hills were overshadowed by mountains, thickly covered in forest, who scoured the horizon with their rocky heads. And whatever they saw, it never seemed a reason to move. Standing still was the rule, whatever the wind wanted and the rain ordered. The mountains were boss.

People complain when a mountain top is covered in fog, but they just don't get it. Fog is the most beautiful thing there is, because it leaves so much to the imagination. Picture yourself arriving by night at a deep and dark lake, fringed by dark green hills, ancient rocks and white spires, mirroring themselves in the silent, deadly water. Imagine you don't have a clue where you are. Because of the dark you only see slight shadows of the mountains on the other side of the lake. The first thing you do the next day when you open the curtains of your window, is feeling how your mouth falls open in astonishment. How could you have missed this yesterday? This is how fog works, but faster. But today there was no fog. The tops of the trees were basking in the sun. No mystery, but cold, hard reality. Clear lines, nu surprises, no amazement.

The side of the hill was covered in clean white trunks. The pathwas surrounded by a forest of wooden skeletons, that once carried branches full of little green leaves. The trees were long dead. Maybe they became victim to an avalanche and hadn't seen daylight in months. Maybe it was a mass suicide, born out of despair, because winter took so long. Maybe these were Lemming Trees. I considered the avalanche more credible. I walked through the forest and watched the naked branches, that heaved themselves to the sky. This was Pompei. Here hundreds of lives had perished in ash, and now only their hard-baked skins were left standing.

On a crossroads of valleys Ada River pulled itself away from Christopher River. It was a meeting of valleys, a branching off of old roads that weren't made by man. The true history of this land was made by stone and water, covered with grass and trees and coloured with floweres and leaves. Nature was master here and humans could only come and see.

The valley filled itself with the distant bellowing of a bull. They roamed freely here, this was a cattle station after all with a walking track through it. I walked along the golden fields and a cow and her calf pottered away to one side. They weren't afraid, like sheep. They possessed an incurable curiosity. This herd seemed even more curious then normal.

Cows are like water. They follow the way of least resistance. In this valley they followed the tramping tracks as if they were their own. The trick in dealing with roaming cows is walking gently and giving the beasts space to walk away from you. Put a cow on the spot and she will trample over you, especially when she's with her calf.

Five minutes after I passed the cows and their calves, I put down my backpack to have a drink. I looked around me and felt big, dark eyes staring at me from behind. Part of the herd had followed me and was now standing there with their big, brown bodies hidden behind some bushes. They looked at me as if I was a new neighbour, albeit a rather strange one. I did not feel threatened, just touched by their gentle curiosity.