Worry added weight to already weary knees.
As I limped my way down into Siberia Valley, the short conversation bounced around my skull with my heavy footsteps.
Had I asked enough questions? Did my tone sufficiently allay my uneasiness? And could I live with myself if he ended up a statistic?
It was around 4pm when my group of six and I encountered the solo tramper. I had spied him a quarter-hour earlier from my steep perch, just a tiny Gore-Tex insect crawling along the track below. I assumed he too would be descending, reasoning that nobody would tackle Gillespie Pass this late in the day.
We had been walking since 10am, and we were spent. The pass is a real doozy; 900m up from Young Hut and then 1000m of knee-knocking root ladders and uneven scramble descent into Siberia Valley. Some of us bore knee injuries, and the going had been tough.
The weather was holding, but not for long. Smothered by an ominous embrace of cloud, Mt Awful strived to live up to its name, and gales whipped the tops.
I eventually noticed the lone tramper was climbing, and my thoughts shifted to his intentions. Could he be camping on the tops?
When we met on the track, I was busting for answers. Aside from a European accent and a pair of sandals strung to his pack, he was fairly nondescript – nothing to indicate one way or another his level of experience. I said hello, and asked if he intended to camp, as he was at least five hours from the next hut, judging by our pace.
He replied that he had no tent, and alarm bells sounded. For a solo tramper – and especially one in alpine conditions – a shelter can be the difference between life and death.
He asked if I knew how far it was to Young Hut, and again, I was nudged by a twinge of concern. With just a few hours until sundown (this being the beginning of autumn), I’d have thought he would be keeping time to a T. When I told him he had a minimum of four hours of steep, dangerous terrain ahead, and that he would be finishing in the dark, he was nonchalant. “I have a head torch,” he said, and off he went.
I waited for my group, and we shared our disbelief at the stranger’s intentions. Several of our party had spoken with him as he passed, all relaying a similar message; the track ahead was hard, dangerously steep, and he had a long evening ahead of him. But not one of us fully expressed to him how worried we were with his plans, and we wondered if we would regret it. For the next few hours, he barely left our minds. We discussed his risky plan and scraped together memories to consolidate a description of his clothing and build. Those of us who had shared more than a hello with him tried to recall what we said, and how we said it. If he got into trouble, would we have a clear conscience?

