Solo Fiji Trek

Once again, I take a break from my group backpacking trip to put into words an adventure I never want to forget. And, due to my less-than-perfect memory I decided that sooner was better than later. After all, if I want to recall the backpacking trip, I need only to contact some of my fellow travelers. When it comes to tackling the Sleeping Giant, it's only me.

A Fine Line
I was on the side of a cliff. Looking down, I knew it was a hell of a drop if I fell. I was unafraid, sure of myself and sure of my ability to accomplish the task at hand. I had no harness, no spotter, and was putting all my faith in a tree at the top of the cliff. I needed to trust my hands to grasp the line, my feet to find purchase, and my judgment to tell me when I was taking it too far—to tell me when I was crossing that fine line between acceptable risk and unnecessary risk. That fine line occasionally becomes hazy.

Setting Forth
6:30am that very same day saw me at the bus stop, pack on my back, hat on my head, and machete in my hand. Back home, in the States, had I attempted to board a bus with a two foot machete, I would be tased and tackled, no questions asked. In Fiji, though, it was normal.

I dug the proper fare from my pack for the bus ride from Nabila to Nadi. Bo the mutt stood at my side, thinking he was coming. I had to leave him, though. No dogs on the bus. Besides, dogs can’t climb cliffs.

The bus came, Bo wandered off and I was headed to Nadi along with all the uniformed high school students headed the same way. I found a seat near the back of the bus. Along the way we picked up more students at each stop. The bus filled to capacity and kids finally had to sit next to me, the only foreigner on the bus. They had avoided it for as long as they could. Not because I had a machete (it was tucked nicely between the seat and the wall. Besides, each of these boys probably had two of their own.), but because I was the vavalungi on the bus. No one, however, was ever offensive.

I arrived in Nadi ready for breakfast. Two coconut rolls (a baked good similar to a cinnamon roll) later and I was wandering among the carriers (pickup truck taxis), asking how much it would cost to charter a ride to base of The Sleeping Giant because I was told there was no bus that went out that far. I was given the price of sixty dollars one way. I’m sure this was inflated due to my vavalungi status (it is assumed all whites are tourists and have full bank accounts. I wasn’t a tourist and had a nearly empty bank account) and made my way to the buses. I figured that my best course of action would be to take a bus to Sabeto Road and hitchhike my way to the mountain.

Sabeto Road
I got on a bus headed to Latoka and got off halfway there, at Sabeto Road. Along the way I had my headphones on and was listening to the Into The Wild soundtrack, by Eddie Veder. Call it cliche, but I felt it was appropriate music for the adventure at hand.

I walked for a while along the road. According to my map I had covered about two kilometers before I got a ride with two guys in a pickup truck. The map I carried was a topographic map of the area. It showed roads and elevation changes, but the tracks were not included in the map’s drawing. My plan was to travel nearly the length of the Sleeping Giant—a short mountain range that strongly resembled a giant sleeping on it’s back—climb to the top of his feet and make my way along the ridge to me goal. This goal, one I had kept for the majority of my time in Fiji, was to stand on the giant’s nose.

I threw my pack and machete into the bed of the truck and climbed into the back of the crew cab. The driver said he could take me about seven kilometers down the road, but he was turning off there to go home. I said that was great, it was seven kilometers less that I would have to walk.

They dropped me off at the intersection and I resumed my walk east along Sabeto Road. Soon, I found myself crossing paths with an elderly Indian man. His hair was grey, nearly white. He had a thin beard of the same color.

“Hello,” I said to him.

“Hello,” he said to me.

I offered my hand to him. “My name’s Craig.”

He shook it. “I am Abdul. Where are you going? To the resort?” There was a backpacker resort along the road, named Rustic Retreat, or something else along the same vein that would catch the ear of the wandering, and thrifty, tourist.

“I am going to climb The Sleeping Giant,” I told him, motioning to the mountains behind me.

“Ah,” he said. Then, with the kindness these countrymen are renowned for, he said, “Would you like to join me for tea?”

I thought about it, but only briefly. I was tempted, for I knew how good the tea was, but I could not afford to spend any of my daylight time doing anything but trekking.

“I’ve very sorry,” I said, “But I need to hike as much as I can because I need to be out of the forest before dark. Thank you very much for your offer. I’m very sorry I cannot join you. Maybe on my way back.”

He nodded, seeming slightly disappointed but understanding.

“Well, good luck. I live at the end of that road,” He pointed up the road next to us. I noted that directly across from the turn was a marker that said 4km.

“Thank you. Maybe I’ll see you this evening”

With that he resumed walking.

I did the same. We walked in opposite directions—Abdul towards his home, me towards my goal.

Finding Tracks
Christian Camp, the sign said, pointing left. I was excited. According to the map, this road led directly to the base of The Sleeping Giant. I knew that by following this road, I would be deviating from my original plan. However, my original planned area where I would have begun my climb had no roads leading to it and I could not count on tracks (In Fiji, there are no trails, only tracks. One and the same, yes, but during my entire stay in the country I never once heard the word trail). I decided to take this road to the base of the mountain. From there I would hike to the cliffs than ran nearly the length of the giant, and follow them east until I found a point where I could climb up. I cut a piece of sugar cane from the field next to the road and headed north, toward The Sleeping Giant.

The road turned west, I followed a farming road north east, chewing on sweet sugar cane the whole way. This road ended with the end of the field, so I crossed a stream and found a track on the other side that headed east. I found myself walking directly towards a homestead, complete with thatch bures and people bathing in the stream. I wanted to avoid contact, because I had no kava, nor time, for a sevusevu-a traditional welcoming ceremony in which I would ask to cross this property. The stream turned north and I followed it. I nearly made it past the property, but a young man, about my age, saw me from the opposite side of the stream.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the Sleeping Giant,” I told him, but he did not hear me. He crossed the stream and I climbed down the steep bank to meet him.

“I’m going to the Sleeping Giant,” I said, “Is it okay if I cross this land?”

“You need to ask my uncle,” he said, motioning to the bures.

Shoot, I thought. I know I was being completely insensitive to local customs but, as far as I know, this was the only time in three months I had done so. I felt bad doing it, but I knew that it would be unsafe to be in the jungle after dark.

“You need to bring kava for a sevusevu,” the young Fijian said, “Do you have any kava?”

“I don’t,” I grimaced. I have found that, when you need to get away with something, such as trespassing, playing the dumb out-of-towner is your best bet.

The young man seemed to hesitate, looking towards his uncle’s house and back to me.

“Is there a road or a track I could take to the mountain?” I asked. He seemed to make up his mind.

“Go up there, past the cassava plants, and there’s a big road.”

“Thank you,” I said, and began walking up the hill without a damn clue what a cassava plant looked like.

I kept climbing the hill, carefully treading between rows of plants that I assumed were cassava. These plants were tall, like small trees, but were very thin at the top. I was keenly aware that I, and my bright orange pack, was now exposed to the homes below and exposed to any uncles that may disagree with trespassers. I walked uphill as fast as I could, careful to avoid stepping on or knocking over any plants. Pushing my way through the tall grass at the end of the second field of cassava plants, I emerged onto a dirt road. I turned right and followed this “big road” northeast.

This road was without tree cover so the sun beat down on me without end. The road climbed higher and soon I was overlooking a mine. It occurred to me that this road was for that mine specifically. If I followed it to the end, I would be hanging out with some miners. After a short break in the shade of a tree, I found a track that left the road and traveled north and up.

I was still in the sun, but was now traveling directly towards The Sleeping Giant along a lower, north-south running ridge. It got larger as I got closer. The track took a sharp turn west, away from the nose, my goal. I left the track and took to the woods.

Into The Shade
The long grass fell away behind me as I descended the ridge and entered the forest. The trees were dense, allowing little direct sunlight to shine upon the forest floor. I kept my compass deep in my hip pocket, thankful it was there. Without a view of the sun or the mountain range, I could have been lost without it. At first the going was easy; there was the occasional track or decades old logging road that would start abruptly, in a seemingly random place, then end in the same fashion. As the ground turned from gradual uphill to a steeper scramble, it became more strenuous. I would have to lean forward and reach for the next tree to pull myself up. These handholds became footholds to keep me from sliding backwards.

Often I would pass a hole the size of a bathtub dug into the ground. These holes were excavated by wild pigs, the only dangerous animal in Fiji. They had been known to kill dogs and wound people with their long tusks. Most of these temporary pig homes seemed old, some even had plants growing in them. Some, however, were much, much, newer.

Occasionally the land would level out again. Occasionally I had to cross streams and climb over boulders. It was during one of these such occasions that I jumped from a boulder and found myself in dirt freshly kicked up. Looking around, I saw holes dug into the adjacent hill and beneath the boulders themselves. I saw no pigs, but heard a sound nearby. Looking back on it, this sound could have been anything: a bird, a lizard, two trees rubbing together in the breeze, but in the moment it was a wild pig. I knew this pig, the largest of the group, was just beyond those boulders. He was ready to charge in, sharp tusks lowered and ready to tear up my legs. I got my ass out of there in a hurry.

Battle After Battle
The ground stopped leveling out and decided to stay steep. I was getting closer. Slowly but surely, the forest that I had first found myself in transformed itself into a dense jungle. I was using the machete more and more frequently to get through the vines that wanted to grab at me and my pack and pull us backwards.

Getting higher up, I would be faced with the occasional cliff. The first of these cliffs was not completely vertical nor was it excessively tall, perhaps twenty feet. I began to climb it. About four feet from the ground, I decided I was taking a risk that was both unnecessary and unacceptable, given I was alone. I descended the four feet and looked for a way around. That way around led me to my newly most despised plant in Fiji. Grass.

In my previous trek long grass had managed to cut my hands and ankles. I still hadn’t forgiven it for that. This time, the grass was seven feet tall and about an inch in diameter at the base. The dry, yellow grass cut easily with the machete. However, the green, alive grass merely bent. I could nearly hear it laughing at me while it tripped me, obscured the rest of the world, and simply pissed me off.

I knew I needed to head north and west, and the only way was through this grass. I chopped with the machete, stepped high, and tried my hardest to just not get stuck. In one situation, I knew I was close to a sharp drop off and found myself leaning forward, nearly crawling through the grass. I encountered grass like this at least half a dozen times during my hike.

Denied
Battling past my new enemy, I once again reached more jungle. I hacked through vines and thick branches, pushed ever upwards, and finally reached a smooth, completely vertical cliff. I placed hand upon it, happy. Although this cliff blocked my path, I knew I was close to my goal, perhaps even directly below it. From my vantage point, I could not see the top. According to my map, there were multiple hundred meter cliffs lining the ridge. Obviously, I knew I needed to go around. I followed the cliff west, hoping for a place where I could ascend farther and closer to the nose. I was disappointed with what confronted me after only a few meters: A drop off, too steep and high to safely descend.

I looked at my watch. Having entered the woods at approximately 10:00am, I knew I needed to leave around 2:00 so I wouldn’t be stuck in the jungle after sunset, which was 6:15. With all the drop offs, vines, dead trees, and wild pigs, I knew it would be very dangerous to be out there in the dark, even with my headlamp. When I arrived at the cliff, it was 1:30.

I descended directly south to a point where I could once again turn north-west. It was nearly 2:00, and I decided this would have to be my final push for the summit. I climbed, hiked, and scrambled hard uphill until 2:45. There was still plenty left to go, but once again I needed to rely on common sense and judgment that comes from experience. I turned around.

Due South
Taking a breath before beginning my descent, I looked out through a gap in the trees. Although I had not reached the top of the ridge, which was about 1200 meters above sea level (the mountain’s base was only a few feet above sea level), I was given an expensive view of the Fijian landscape, as well as the ocean and surrounding islands. The rolling hills of the outer highlands looked flat from so far above, not more than square crop fields dotting the ground like a checkerboard.

I started hiking down, figuring that instead of taking the same route I had taken to my current location I would hike straight south to the road that ran nearly the length of the ridge. This was much, much easier said than done. Time after time cliffs forced me to turn back and look for other ways to descend. I knew this was taking up precious time. I found myself being pulled back again and again by vines, thin and thick. At times I needed my knife to cut through them because the machete was cumbersome in such a tight situation. I put my knife in an easily accessible pocket in order to reach it even when I was tightly bound by reaching vines.

After a while I stopped for a break and reached for my map. It was gone. I had folded it and placed it in an elastic pocket of my pack, one that nothing had yet to fall out of. I didn’t panic. Having studied it for hours, I could remember where all the streams and roads were in relation to the ridge, as well as the location of the north-south ridge I followed on my way out. I stood up and kept walking.

A Disregarded Line or Necessary Risk?
I would walk downhill only to encounter another cliff and the only way west was through the long, thick grass. I went through this routine more times than I care to count and began to get extremely frustrated. I came to the breaking point in my frustration and decided to climb down. The next cliff was about fifteen feet tall. I threw the machete down, as well as my pack, and draped my nylon webbing around a sturdy tree at the top. Why did I bring 25 feet of nylon webbing with me on a hike? Just in case I would find myself in a situation that would require me to use 30 feet of nylon webbing, such as lowering myself down a cliff.

I made sure that that webbing had equal lengths coming down from both side of the tree, then, carefully, I leaned out into empty space. Feet on the cliff, I held tightly to both sides of my lifeline and, when I had enough webbing, used my hip as additional friction (I held the line in front of me with my left hand and kept my right hand at my butt, keeping the webbing tight to my hip) to slow my descent. Went I ran out of webbing, I held tight with both hands and reached below me until my feet found purchase. I found my pack and machete and continued on.

I reached the next cliff soon after reaching the base of the first. This one was taller, about 25 or 30 feet. Halfway down there was a narrow ledge, wide enough for me to stand firmly if I kept my feet sideways. Out of this narrow ledge a tree grew. It looked sturdy. At the base of this cliff was another ledge about three or four feet wide with a few trees lining the outside edge—below it was another drop off. This ledge ran west to open ground. Once again I dropped my pack and machete over the edge, hoping they would catch in the trees. The machete landed blade first, sticking in the ground; my pack caught in the trees before rolling off the ledge. Once again I draped the webbing over a tree, held tightly to both halves, and stepped out into the open air.

I used my hip for friction and held tight, aware of the potential for serious injury should I slip. I made it to the small ledge without any incidents. Pressing my body against the cold rock, I pulled the webbing down from the tree above and draped it over the one that sprouted from the cliff itself. This small tree, about 4 inches in diameter, turned out to be sturdy and I made it to the big ledge safely. I recoiled the webbing, tucked it into the belt of my pack, and continued on, machete in hand.

Headed Downstream and More Empty Pockets
Soon I made it to a stream and refilled my water bottles, using iodine tablets to purify the water. Out of habit I reached for my pocket that always held my cell phone only to touch my leg. It had fallen from my pocket somewhere in the jungle. Once again, it had never fallen from this pocket. It was still a rookie mistake. I knew better, especially since I was alone. It should have been safely tucked into my pack inside a zipped pocket. This could have been a problem for two reasons: If I were to get hurt, I had no way to notify anyone; secondly, if I did not call or arrive back to the base by 9:00pm that day, Hillary (another staff member) would notify the proper authorities that something had happened to me. I needed to get to a phone by nine.

Remembering the map, I knew that all the streams coming down from the mountains led due south. I checked my compass and verified this. Changing into my Tevas, I decided to follow the creek. It was difficult at times, but follow the creek I did, even when I hit the waterfall.

I came upon it suddenly and there were no safe ways to get around it. The way down was not completely vertical, nor did it seem to be too slick. The pool at the bottom looked shallow enough to step into. I decided to climb down. Slowly, I descended toward the pool below. I went down facing out with my rear end on the rock. I decided having went pants was worth not falling off a waterfall. It was slicker than it seemed at first, so I had to be extra careful. Occasionally my foot would slip and I had to find another place for it quickly. It got close, but I didn’t fall. I reached a point where the falls simply dropped off the rock into the pool below. Luckily, the drop was only about two or so feet and the water beneath it only looked to be about a foot and a half deep. I decided to jump. I left the rock and landed below in water that was nearly three feet deep. I fell. I wasn’t hurt, just wet, so I kept going.

I followed the stream for about hundred meters more, then left it, deciding to search for a track in the hills above. After bushwacking for another half an hour, I took a break. During this break, I found something that no outdoorsman ever, ever wants to find: an empty pocket where your knife once was. This was bad, but not as bad as it could have been. I still had the machete, but I still hoped I would not find myself in a situation that would require a knife and cell phone.

Time Never Slows Down
My break ended and I resumed my search. Soon after, I found it: a track. It was well used and ran east-west. I decided that my best chance for find a southbound track was in walking west, towards there track I took on my way in. I hurried along this track, knowing perfectly well that I burned a lot of daylight traveling through long grass and streams. The track made me optimistic—I knew that it had to lead somewhere. And it did lead somewhere. It ended at a shack I saw perched on the side of the ridge on my way in.

I knocked on the door, shouted for someone, and looked in the windows. No one was home. This wasn’t good. I scoured the surrounding area for a track, walking in a semi circle aiming west and south. The semi circle grew larger and larger until I found what I was looking for: a track heading due south. It was 5:00.

I was nearly running down the mountain, passing streams as I went. I was out of water, but decided that I would rather risk dehydration than get caught in the jungle after dark. I had to go through the gates of two barbed wire fences and climb over another. The trail was created for locals and their livestock: horses and cows. At one point I heard a noise ahead. I called out, but there was no answer. Walking a bit farther, I came to within three or four meters of a grown bull. I carefully skirted around him and the rest I saw along the trail. I clapped my hands to scare a horse that was standing in the trail. He ran ahead to a clearing. It was from this clearing I saw a house.

It was well below me, but it let me know I was close. The time was just past 5:30. I continued on. I reached places that were wide open where the track ended, but continued south until I found another. Eventually, I found an old road, obviously not used for a very long time. I followed it downhill to a stream. I crossed the stream, climbed the bank, and found myself on a farming road that ran the length of a sugarcane field. The time was 6:00. Fifteen minutes to spare.

Mean Dogs, Nice People, and The Last Bus of the Night
I followed the road in a semi daze. My adrenalin was fading and dehydration was setting in. There was a house ahead. I decided to ask them for water. Walking up to the house, a man inside the gate saw me and I waved. He stood up from his seat and began walking towards me. Before he reached the gate, three dogs rounded the house from outside it, barking and growling. Teeth bared, they encircled me. My mind cleared with the new shot of adrenalin and I gripped the machete tighter. He opened the gate and another dog ran out to join the others. I was keenly away of how cumbersome my pack was. Before they could advance the man yelled at them and they ran off to another part of the property. I thanked him and asked if I could fill my waterbottles. He brought me inside his home and offered me a seat.

Gratefully, I sat down and a woman brought me a cup and two bottles of cold water. I was pretty sure that the water was from the nearby stream, but I didn’t care whether it would affect my stomach or not, I needed to drink. I drank three cupfuls and filled my waterbottles. The family politely offered me tea, but I tactfully declined, ready to continue. I asked them if there were any buses back to Nadi that night. They told me there was not, but I could take the 6:45 Latoka bus to the highway and catch a ride there. I thanked them many times for their kindness and left through the back to avoid further canine confrontations.

I reached the end of their driveway and followed another dirt road headed south to where the main dirt road was. Here I hitched a ride on the back of a flatbed truck. The driver brought me to the main road and also told me I could take the 6:45 bus toward Latoka, that it was the only bus left. I sat on the corner and waited. At 6:35, a bus approached headed east. It said Latoka on it. I figured it would drive up the road a short while and turn around. I boarded the bus and, within five minutes passed a bus headed the opposite direction that had a sign in the windshield that read “Nadi.”

Wonderful, I thought. It was another 45 minutes before I reached the highway. It turned out that this was the bus I was told by the taxi drivers didn’t exist. It ran to the end of Sabeto Road, to the point I would begin my trek if I had stuck to my original plan. And on top of that, there was a man sitting near the driver who had a voice that was whiney and split my brain in half. It chose to speak loudly and nonstop to the driver. Oh Well.

The Adventurer Returns
It turned out that hitching a ride at night on the highway was a lot more difficult. No one stopped. I began to lose hope when a bus pulled up and I climbed on. The bus was headed to Nadi. It wasn’t long before I reached the empty bus station in Nadi town.
Minibuses, however, were still running. I bargained my way onto a minibus, talking the boss down from fifty to twenty-five dollars to drop me off at Ratu Nemani primary school, three kilometers from the base house. I also borrowed his phone and called Hillary with time to spare. I arranged a ride from Ratu Nemani back to the base. When Hayley and Hillary picked me up at the school, the first thing they said to me was “You stink!” They were in the front seat and I was in the back.

An hour and a half later, I was walking up the driveway to the base house. I threw my pack in its normal throwing place next to one of the chairs in the main room, and went straight for the shower. Washing the dirt and blood off me from a thousand little cuts on my legs and arms, I reflected on my day.

Looking Back
It was a hell of an adventure. I left early, ate at one of my favorite shops, and hitchhiked out to the middle of nowhere, machete in hand the whole way. That’s just fun. I climbed The Sleeping Giant, but didn’t reach the nose, my goal. The mountain turned me back and denied me of my prize. I lost, but I did not feel defeated. There was a certain amount of disappointment, sure, but it was outweighed by the knowledge that I pushed myself hard, as hard as I could and had nothing left. I knew that day a mountain tested my limits and abilities and I didn’t fail—I made it as high as I could with my time constraints and made the responsible decision to turn back once I had passed my set cutoff time. Had I pushed upward, I’m sure I could have made it, but probably would have had to spend the night on the mountain. I had responsibilities in the morning, so that was not an option. I didn’t fall off any cliffs, didn’t get stuck in the long grass, and did not panic when I discovered my map, phone, and knife were gone. I was never lost. I had a new respect for my compass, a tool that stayed deep within my side pocket and led me safely from the jungle. And I never, ever gave up. If I ever get back to Fiji, you can bet the first thing I do is tackle that giant head on. Next time, he won’t stand a chance.