Aoraki is the highest mountain in New Zealand, 3,724 metres of rock and ice at the head of a valley in the Southern Alps, and nobody stands on its very top. For Ngāi Tahu, the people of the South Island, it is an ancestor turned to stone. In their telling the island is Te Waka o Aoraki, the canoe Aoraki and his brothers came down from the sky in. It struck a reef, and the crew who climbed onto the upturned hull froze there into the range. Standing on the summit would be treading on his head, so guided parties stop a few metres short. The top is not even fixed. Just after midnight on 14 December 1991 the summit ridge collapsed onto the glacier below, and the mountain lost about ten metres in a night.
The road in runs the length of Lake Pukaki, milky turquoise from rock the glaciers have ground to powder, with Aoraki growing larger ahead of you the whole way. On a still morning the mountain lies out flat on the water. The Hooker Valley track is flat almost the entire way, so what tires you is the wind and the distance, not any climbing. It crosses a braided river three times on bridges that swing under your feet, over moraine the glacier stood on a century ago. There is no shelter on it, and the weather turns inside an hour. It ends at an iceberg-dotted lake under the south face. Further in, the Tasman, the country's longest glacier, has melted back into a young lake where boats weave between slabs of blue-white ice close enough to put your hand on. Then the light goes: the high snowfields flare pink and orange for a few minutes while the valley floor is already in cold shadow, and then the mountain goes dark and the sky above it does not. There is almost no light for hundreds of kilometres, and both Magellanic Clouds — our neighbouring galaxies — stand out plainly over a peak that, in the telling, came down out of that same sky in a canoe.