Arriving at our campsite late last night presented us with our host, the most pessimistic German woman I have ever met. After explaining to her that we had booked and paid for a shuttle bus to and from the crossing's start and finishing points she went on to barrage us with rules. We HAD to wear trousers and take 1.5 litres of water each. We HAD to take a water proof jacket and suitable trainers. Mostly common sense stuff but I was wearing shorts regardless of what she said. When I said as much to her she said that I wouldn't be able to do the Crossing and that the bus driver inspected everyone before they could venture into the mountain. Inspected? Bus driver? My dear lady, I thought, if I were so inclined I could drive myself to the car park - as many people do - and complete the walk in a swim suit if I wanted to! It would appear to be a ruse anyway as a frightened American family behind us rented waterproof coats from them in order to pass the bus driver's fearful wrath.

As it happens, the next day the driver was a genial, young ginger gentleman who's only attempt at inspection was to vaguely ask, 'Do you have water?' I smugly used the centre lane of the coach like a catwalk as I chassed to my seat in my skimpy shorts.

We were dropped of at Mangatepopo where a formidable assent stood before us. In the car park everyone seemed to be dressed in Lycra with two walking poles tucked under their arms whilst performing various stretches. For myself I simply looked around in my shorts whilst eating a peanut butter and jam sandwich and wondered what all the fuss was about.

About twenty minutes into the climb Chelsea nipped into the porto-cabin loos (as they were the last ones for the next 18km) and came back out faint and dizzy - apparently they don't get cleaned to much (when we looked back at the toilets from half way up the mountain we could just make out a young German couple being stretchered back down, overcome by the stench).

The initial part of the walk was incredibly steep with a vast number of steps that seemed to go on forever. Chelsea powered on like an apache warrior with me keeping close to her slip stream.

Eventually the worst seemed to be behind us and we were greeted by a desolate, open plain that was once a volcanic crater. The wind really picked up here and my bobble hat and coat quickly made an appearance.

Over another lose-stoned mountain top we crossed over to the red crater (Mt Doom to Lord of the Rings fans) and looked out at the baron land that had been scorched my lava and ash as far as the eyes could see, up above the clouds. The place also had steaming sulphur vents that had stained the ground an ashen-grey as their steam billowed out into the air, it was easy to see why Peter Jackson had used it to portray Mordor.

Nestled in the shadows of My Doom (Mount Ruapehu) were the Emerald Lakes which looked like glowing jewels against the drastically contrasting black rock that surrounded it. There were three lakes in total, each a different shade of brilliant greens and blues due to the dissolved minerals that had filtered down from the Red Crater above them.

The Emerald Lakes had another celebrated quality, it marked the point of decline from the summit. Whacking a chicken sandwich into us we started our roll down the hill. It was much more enjoyable and eventually Chelsea started to speak again. With the smells of sulphur and lose gravel behind us, we bounded for the finish line.

I had quietly set a target of completing the crossing in six hours as the recommended allowance time is 7-8 hours. Realising that I was way of target I ran the last few kilometres with a French man (I just couldn't take him running past me). Hot and sweaty I finished the crossing just under six hours and felt a great sense of achievement. High fiving Chelsea when she crossed the finish line we waited a while for the bus and clambered aboard with smiles all around.

Now I am settling down to an early night I just know that tomorrow my legs are going to be in agony. I'm dreading the sun rise!