New Zealand North to South
9 – East Coast Encounters

<– Previously

 

After a couple of days in tourist-mobbed Paihia, I packed up and caught the fast ferry over to Russell. I’d stayed a couple of days in a large backpacker’s, sharing a dorm with travellers who see the country via the Kiwi-Experience buses. My walking trip seemed mad and bizzare to them. My highlight of staying in the resort was a day out kayaking in The Bay. It was a pleasant change to propel myself using arm power instead of leg. Dan, the local who’d fixed me up with the vessel, was good company. He lived on a yacht that he’d commute to using a speeding “tinny” (a small metal-hulled motor-boat). Not a bad life.

Both the lady at the pot-office and Martin the ferry skipper were keen to learn about the walk. Once in Russell, and while buying batteries, Sheryl the shop keeper offered to put me up at hers that evening at Waikare – a small settlement that led into the Russell Forest. To get there I had a lot of road to walk, passing through hilly bush, past expensive holiday homes and alongside mangrove covered bays. The nicest part was crossing one of these swamps via a new board-walk. Tide was out and the mangrove roots stood erect in the mud.

A few hours later I approached some road-workers. The guy holding the STOP sign clearly recognised me and said hi. I was confused.

“Yeah bro, don’t you remember we picked you up hitch-hiking the other day from Paihia?”

I rattled my brain but it remained blank.

“Yeah you and the young fella who we dropped off at Haruru Falls.”

And then it came back to me – making my way back to Kerikeri after walking through Waitangi. This guy and the driver were drinking pre-mixes and provided an entertaining ride. The driver came over to say hello and I barely recognised him in his work clothes minus drink in hand. I asked about the weather as the route ahead depended on it being good, while the forecast had not been. The first section of the Russell Forest involved walking up a small river that’s prone to flash floods during rain.

“Ahh you’ll be alright, forecasts mean shit over here.” Fair enough.

“What about a lighter?” I’d lost mine earlier that day and was down to three matches. “Nah, can’t help you with that bro.”

*

The lighter problem was solved by Gary. He was the last inhabitant on the track into the forest. I found him hard at work in his garden beside the trail. After having enough with the rat-race style of life, he’d decided to “go bush”. His wife hadn’t been keen on the idea, and after lasting 3 ½ years she moved to Whangarei, visiting Gary on the weekends. I admired him for his tenacity in committing to living off such a wild bit of land. Pumpkins, potatoes, fruit trees and a dairy cow provided food, with meat coming from wild cattle and pigs. A tough, yet rewarding, life.

Heading into the Russell Forest

He had a spare lighter that I exchanged for a 13mm spanner that I’d found on the road in. Telling me I’d avoid the impending rain, I bid him farewell and followed the trail down to the river. Gary’d cleared this part of the track with his son and it criss-crossed the Waipapakauri Stream. A stunning walk it involved a fair bit of wading, some waist-deep. A few drops came on the way, but held off and I made it to the “hut” with only wet legs. Hut in speech marks as the four walls I’d expected turned out to be only two, in a T shape, with benches lining them. I made myself comfy on one of these and tried to sleep. Then the mosquitoes moved in. My left-over Thai repellent proved useless and I spent over an hour trying to fight the bloodsuckers off. I killed a load, but they came and came, harassing me from all angles. I gave up and pitched my tent.

I awoke at 3am itching. Turning the light on I realaised that I’d left an inch of the zipper open and a half dozen of the bastards had got in. Trapped in the tent they were easy to exterminate, leaving my own blood smeared over my palms. At day-break the drone of a whole squadron trapped under the fly greeted me.

*

The rest of the Russell forest was tough on me. Tired from the 30km the previous day, and lack of sleep, the ridge walking wore me out. Blisters developed, and just as I reached the road, the rain finally came. I ducked off down to the first bay and cozied up for the night in a cabin by the beach.

The morning looked better, but after re-fuelling at a shop, the rain came back. Pausing at the road junction I met a Maori couple in their early 30’s who’re hitching into town. Harry & Jill walked with me for a couple of kilometres, becoming my first real companions while tramping. They’d only been living in Oakara Bay for a couple of months after moving up from Auckland and enjoyed the quietness of the place.

They eventually caught a ride and I was left to continue along the road margin. Road walking is not the nicest of ways to advance. It requires an extra degree of vigilance. I normally keep on the right so that I can see approaching traffic without having to look over my shoulder. But on tight, blind corners I cross to the left to avoid being splattered by drivers hugging the bends. I have to restrain from listening to music (not that I’ve done much of that so far) so that I can hear approaching vehicles. With big trucks I try to step off the road when possible.

This section was made even worse by the increasing rain. When I reached Helena Bay I sought cover under a large, leaning Pohutukawa tree. Typical of the area it was a quaint little bay with a few baches (small NZ beach-side holiday homes) scattered around. While sheltering I heard a loud humming coming from the roof a nearby bach. I looked up just in time to see this electrical transformer explode into flames and burn itself out. The rain eased off and I kept moving.

*

The road ahead kept to the Te Araroa Trail and headed into the Kaiikanui Forest. Down to the left the gravel cut a slice out of the hillside, steep drop into pasture on the left, a rise into bush on the right. The drama of this route was emphasised by the lack of barrier and warning signs against caravans. It led down to the coast.

The route down to the coast

This alternative route appealed to me. The rain had let up, but I could picture a slippery, tough, wet trail through the forest. That route oozed problems. After a few minutes contemplation I left the Te Araroa Trail in pursuit of the unexpected.

I can’t really say that the torrential downpour was unexpected. I was kind of hoping that the forested hills that I’d bypassed would’ve soaked it up, but alas, no. Blankets of heavens finest lashed down in ferocity. I buttoned up, kept my head down, and forced the feet to pick up speed. Heavy rain definitely makes you walk faster.

Ready for sanctuary, the beach at Mimiwhangata disappointed in its emptiness. The road led to a DoC Rangers house and a pre-book lodge. Information panels provided temporary cover as rain eased into drizzle. But I wanted to sit down and eat lunch. I ditched all scruples and made for the only shelter available – a toilet unit. Luckily it was pretty new, spacious, and not yet grotty. I sealed myself inside, chomping on cheese and salami tortillas just as the weather picked up again.

It was hard to leave the shitter and to step back into the elements, but once I hit the deserted beaches I’d forgotten about the comfortable bog. With a full stomach perceptions change – it’s easier to handle loneliness. Two beautiful windswept beaches and a jagged headland later I finally found salvation.

*

Rang and Ama were bracing the weather by the beach to get phone reception.  I ambled over to ask for directions, conscious of the funny looks they were giving me.

“Where’d you come from?”

“Err, just from around those rocks other there.”

I could see the pity in her eyes as Ama invited me for a cup of tea. I later found out that she had a thing for taking in stray animals. Both originally from The North, they now live in Australia’s Gold Coast and were over for a holiday, staying at Rang’s family bach. The first thing that struck me were the 6 caravans lined up in various states of disrepair. Pohutukawa trees lined the mown lawn of the blue wooden building. Rang explained it as a typical bach:

“It started off as a small shack, but over the years my family kept bringing things up and adding to it.”

It was very cosy, but the beauty lay in its privacy and setting. The only neighbours were half a kilometre up the beach (Rang’s uncle), and due it being Maori land it was off the tourist map. The perfect place for a quiet getaway. But unfortunately for the guys it had rained for the few days they’d been there, forcing them to stay indoors, away from enjoying the beach. Cabin fever had set in. Apparently I was welcome company.

“Hey Rang, can Max stay in one of the caravans tonight?”

“Yeah, no worries.”

I looked down at my blisters, thought of the 8km ahead and peered up at the sky. It wasn’t hard to accept the kind offer. Tea was exchanged for a gin & tonic and Ama began cooking. The hospitality didn’t stop there – “You want a bath?”
“Errrr….. Yeah!”

Rang chopped up some wood and started a fire under a large copper container filled with water. 20 minutes later I wallowed in the cleansing heat with a couple of candles above my feet, door open to the elements. Hospitality at its finest. It’s these moments that make all the pain worthwhile.

A Welcome Treat

We sat up late into the night, with Ama encouraging me to reel off story after story of life in Cambodia. In return they explained the bounty of the coast and how easy it is to live off the abundant sea food. We’d had mussels for dinner along with home-kill pork – a feast compared to the packet stuff I’d been tramping with. A degree of self-sufficiency is easy to attain in these sort of locations. The cat and dog had no problem surviving when left alone. Mangu the dog had been there for years. But unfortunately his stomach had deteriorated to the point where after any meal an evil stench would escape from his rear end. Rang would ban him from the vicinity to prevent Ama from retching.

I went to bed in a caravan happy I’d taken the alternative route. The detour led me to some unexpected new friends – ones I’d be meeting again in the near future…

 *

I love the style

Rang & Ama walked with me to the road in the morning, leaving me to continue alone at the microwave post box. Civilization returned with million dollar properties nestling into cosy little coves. The sun was back and I shared the road with early morning joggers. Up, down, left, right, the way snaked south. My spirits were up and confidence flowed through me. I looked forward to some big days and making up for lost time.

The arch under my left foot tightened up suddenly. I paused and stretched the foot upwards, hoping to ease the cramp-like feeling. Instead of relief, the tendons running up from my foot to the shin exploding in pain. Bugger to Hell!!!

Hobbling on I reached a campsite by a beach. I paused for a break and spotted a vacant toilet/shower block. My shirt was giving off a pong so I washed it under a tap, hoping that the camp owners wouldn’t spot my sneaky intrusion. They didn’t, and after a half hour I hit the road again. The tendons pounded away and once I reached Whananaki I slumped onto the first bench. I peeled the sock off and was greeted by a swelling. I rubbed tendonitis cream into it and pondered my next course of action.

A wolf whistle made me turn. Rosey leaned out of the window of her 4×4 with a smile on her face – “What’s up dude?”….


Hike route 1432794 – powered by Wandermap
Written on March 15th, 2012 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , , , , , , , , ,
7 – Entering the Bay of Islands

<– Previously

Hundreds of tons of steaming, sweaty, hairy, fly infested flesh closed in around me. They all wanted a front row view of the strange man walking through their turf. They all wanted a piece of the action. Moans escaped from the pressed-in beasts, froth spat from their mouths – snot hung from their noses.

I’d stop – they’d stop. I’d walk – they’d follow closely. They even jumped when I did.

“Get Back!!” I hollered “I shall not be frightened!”

I held The Stick out and felt like Gandalf fending off masses of goblins with his glowing staff. They seemed to understand and hung just out of reach. The ones in front of me hopped out of the way with heavy hooves. Steadily, with a false air of confidence, I advanced. I could see the exit stile less than a hundred metres away and was tempted to run. But then the thought of a bovine stampede on my heels put me off that idea.

A large black shape lurched up behind me, making me turn and raise The Stick up – “BACK!” It backed down and gave me a solemn sideways glance, red eyes menacingly in contrast to its dark hide. “Especially you there – now fuck off!” I barked while pointing.

I suddenly felt ashamed at my loss of control in swearing at a cow. How could I be so rude and stupid? I continued on through the curious herd feeling foolish. Were they really being that menacing and threatening, or had I overreacted?

*

First views of the other side

Safely in the next (empty) paddock I gazed upon the Bay of Islands and Pacific Ocean. I’d passed through the area a couple of times previously but never lingered. Kerikeri, the upmarket service town of the area, lay first, then came Waitangi, the birthplace of the nation, and just a little further south, the beach resort of Paihia.

A couple of hours later I was passing under State Highway 10, hugging the banks of Kerikeri River, gingerly hopping over electric fencing. Luxury properties backed onto the banks. The only inhabitants seen were astride ride-on mowers perfecting their lawns. Orange markers showed that I was on an official trail, yet I still felt like a trespassing tramp.

A few kilometres on I came to the top of Rainbow Falls, where I met dripping wet Maori guy with his white dog.

“Hey bro – what you up to?” I explain my trip and get a common reaction: “Your mad bro, but you’re going to see more of the country than me.” I comment on the simplicity of walking and the freedom of it.

“Yeah that’s all good, but round here you get restricted. Many big sea-front properties have been bought by foreigners and they close off access to beaches, making them private.” I ask about accommodation in town – “Well it’s all expensive round here. If you want to camp for free I can show you a quiet, out-of-the-way spot not far from here. You want electricity? Then your best bet is to head to the Aranga Backpackers Holiday Park opposite the BP.”

I thank him and march into town. I’m in a rush to make it to the post office before it shuts. Heading into Kerikeri I see signs for “Stone Store”, the oldest building to be made of rock in the whole country – 1832 being the year that the missionaries began construction. Samuel Marsden, the famous missionary from early settler days, who’s credited with introducing Christianity to the country, acquired land for the church in 1819.

The land was exchanged for weapons and tools with the legendary war-chief of the Ngāpuhi tribe – Hongi Hika. Linguist, traveller, trader, leader, he plays a huge role in that period of history. Known for introducing musket warfare to the Maoris (and using it to deadly effect), he also protected and encouraged Pakeha settlement.

Kerikeri grew from these origins into the town it is now. Motels, a McDonald’s and a big-box New World supermarket greet you on the road in. Fancy cafes, real estate agents, lawyers, hairdressers and bookshops line the main street.  A classier big brother to Kaitaia, it is also a an area famous for it’s crafts and orchards.

I feel extremely self-conscious to the fact that I stink like a pig and look like dirty vagrant. Standing in line to pick up my parcel, I notice other post office customers eye up The Stick. The unwelcome feeling doesn’t last long when a friendly gent points me towards the holiday park.

*

And what a nice, spontaneous find that turned out to be. I turn up, completely worn away by the tramping, and get led here. $30 for a single room – I can’t complain. Covered in sweat, humming like a hobo, legs aching, beard needing a trim – a cold drink, bed and shower is what I crave. I find number 43 and put the key in the lock. It doesn’t turn.

For five minutes my frustration builds until I have to stop myself kicking in the door. Two large guys sit a few doors down. They look half way between Maoris and Indians, have flat noses and frizzy hair, and speak a tongue unfamiliar. I ask them to watch after my bags while I run back up the hill. They nod and smile.

I quickly realise that I’m sharing this half of the holiday park with over 100 Tongans. They’re in NZ on a 6 month fruit picking trip, saving money to take back to their families. But one doesn’t seem to think that it’s so worth it – “I work as a truck driver back in Tonga and can get up to $500 a week. Here, after tax, accommodation and other costs, I only clear $200.”

The guys are all huge but generally laid back. The terrace-style of the rooms gives this half of the holiday park a ghetto-like feel. All the travellers and campers are on the other side with nicer, newer lodgings. I liked it and ended up staying about a week.

The Tongans had taken over a common room full of sofas. The first time I heard the music it drew me in. They sat me down and passed over a coconut shell of grey liquid straight from a huge container. Kava – I’d wanted to try this famous Polynesian stupefier for some time. It tasted rather bland and you could tell it was made with powdered root. I smiled and handed the shell back. Lazy grins were returned by red-eyed hosts who lounged around the room.

Three guitars gently started strumming and putting out melodies. On cue the whole gathering, excluding myself, start to gracefully sing in deep hymn-like tones. There’s a beautiful unity in their voices as if they’re all longing for the same thing.

Albert was definitely the most enduring character of the wing. Three years he’s been living here, down in his tidy little room. He worked in a local pack-house which dealt in lemons, mandarins, avocados and other produce of the north. I’ve known some drinkers, but he’s one who likes to get it down quick. Each beer averages about three gulps. At 51 years old he looks trim; muscled arms and shoulders, straight posture, His visage is not far from a boxer’s. High cheekbones, flat nose, sturdy eyebrows – all topped off by a close cropped Mohican. He’s a twitcher and rolls his laughs – haaa-raaaa-raaa-haaaa. He likes to swipe his hand through the air and say c*nt when describing something.

Don my Swedish neighbour, who speaks with a hint of an Irish accent, complains at his antics. “At five tirty laast nite he woke me up yelling.” I’d not noticed it. What bothered me was bass vibrating the wall next to my head at 7am. 90% of the Tongans had left for Hastings, my music-loving co-inhabitant happened to be one of those who stayed.

*Recently cleared patch of pine in Waitangi Forest

After a few days or organising and catching up on some stories, I embarked on the next leg of the walk. As I’d paid enough in the first 4 days to earn a week’s rent, I left most of baggage behind and headed off to the Waitangi State Forest. The Te Araroa Trail runs a long a gravel road through the pine plantation. With little native forest around I enjoyed the ever-enlarging view of The Bay and Waitangi.

Bluff doesn't seem that far away

In that direction I must go...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over 1000 acres of Waitangi land were purchased by Governor-General Lord Bledisloe in 1932 and gifted it to the nation. They are a site of vast historical importance, where the British Crown and a collection of Maori chiefs officially turned New Zealand into a colony. The Treaty of Waitangi was signed on the 6th of February, 1840. The Waitangi National Trust now leases part of this land to a golf club, who on their website state “As many visiting golfers claim, particularly those from overseas, Waitangi is truly millionaire’s country for all to enjoy.”The recent Waitangi Day celebrations, like many previous years, were marred by Maori protests. These seem to be motivated by a mix of past grievances and modern issues, such as deep sea oil drilling and asset sales to foreign interests.

Waitangi, and beyond, The Bay of Islands

The treaty grounds are free to Kiwis to enter. Foreign visitors though have to pay $25. As I was only passing through, I continued onwards following a track past the Treaty House into a tiny patch of native forest. Boardwalks guided me into the souvenir shop and café.

The Maori War Canoes were impressive. One was at least 30 metres long, sleek, beautiful and deadly – not hard to picture a deadly payload of warriors on-board.

Beyond this lay an expensive looking hotel wrapping it’s way around the point. A bunch of 60-70 tourists were lined up in lifejackets, receiving instructions from their Maori instructor in traditional dress on how to operate the canoes they’re about to take on to the water.

I crossed the bridge and walked into Paihia just as the skies opened up. I had to rush the last few hundred metres into the closest pub.

Written on February 18th, 2012 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,
6 – Thirsty in the Puketi

<– Previously

Have I pushed myself too far this time?

I felt weak, woozy and thirsty – I craved rest and water. The tin of tomato tuna didn’t seem to be sitting well on my stomach. Keep Going!I shouldered the pack, grabbed The Stick and strode on. Step by step I moved from the ridge trail to the gravel road.

Not far to go now

Two hours later I enter the Puketi Recreation Area. Aching and exhausted I slumber over to three young blondes sitting by a people carrier. I ask a couple of innocent questions, receive yes/no answers. They look away, I shrug and bee-line it for the tap, fill my empty bottle and instantly down the rejuvenating water.

The young German backpackers are by the designated fireplace. I drop my pack nearby, grab a couple of sticks and ask them if I can create some flames. After a mumbled agreement, the three girls quickly pack up there stuff and lock themselves in their vehicle.

I pondered in surprise. I tried to come across as the well-meaning tramper, but that reaction made me feel like a dishevelled rogue. Did I really appear to embody the modern meaning of vagabond?

As the flames burst into life a rental campervan covered in colourful logos pulls up. The driver approaches smiling, asking me the same questions I’d put to the triplet of timid Germans about camping.

“Park up anywhere buddy and come join me at this growing fire.” He agrees and I can detect Dutch in his accent and looks. Marean is in fact a 36 year old Dutch mechanic who’s on a two week trip of the North Island. His wife had recently left him and he needed an understandable holiday.

“So do you want a cold beer?” he asks. In joy I almost fall off the stump I’m perched on. A real Trail-Angel! He didn’t just stop at that one beer, but later produced two more and also shared one of his steaks! I begin to recount the last couple of days and why these treats were so appreciated…

*

After completing the Raetea and sorting my stuff out in Kaitaia, I hitched back to Mangamuka Bridge. Heading off the highway I followed a gravel road eastwards and into the Omahuta Forest. Young kauris grew alongside as I gradually headed into the hills. A few hours later I was surrounded by larger specimens when strolling around the Kauri Sanctuary. The mightiest there was named “Hokianga” and is the 8thlargest known in the country.

The Stick once again gets outshone

I camped nearby at a cosy spot known as “apple dam”, just off the road that leads to the sanctuary. I pitched my tent on the small patch of grass in the shallow valley, topping up my water from the nearby stream.

Descending into the the valley

I faced a big day in the morning and began by heading back up to a turn-off and continuing along the gravel road into a larger valley. Bee hives clusters lined the way and a concrete river ford allowed me to stock up on some crystal clear H2O. The descent into the canyon wound through gorse and razor grass then plopped me besides the Mangapukahukahu Stream (a fun name to pronounce.)

 

Getting my feet wet

 

 

 

 

What followed was first one of the most enjoyable parts, then the hardest of the trip so far. For about 3km I waded and walked alongside the clear stream. During and after heavy rain this route is “closed” due to the threat of flash floods.

Rocks and pebbles lined the way, with the occasional interlude of gritty sand breaking it up. Shallow cascades split the plunging pools. Along the steep banks a riot of greenery climbed the gorge. I stopped on a bank of stones, ate lunch, spread out the tent to dry the morning’s dew off, stripped off my clothes and jumped in. Fresh!

Eventually the stream joined up with the wider Waipapa River. The pools here were a deeper blue and very inviting. Along the far bank was a nice little clear patch to camp on. Very tempting, but I found a trail and followed it upstream.

The Waipapa River

I could hardly call it a trail though. Orange triangles marked the way, sometimes the only clue to the route. It traversed the sheer eastern slope, rising and falling as I slowly progressed. It was overgrown and much had fallen on to it. Footholds were rare and I had to throw The Stick from hand to hand to free them for grabbing. Vines tripped and dry earth slipped underfoot. Some angles were so steep that I had to lean in to avoid sliding down to the water below.

I should have been down there, not following those orange triangles

The water is where I should have been though. What I didn’t realise at the time was that this trail was the wet weather route. I should’ve been wading the Waipapa, not fighting through the bush. Instead I poured sweat and wore myself out.

I was happy to see the signs indicating the imminent Pukatea Ridge Track. With relief I left the Waipapa River and climbed into mature kauri stand, all while not thinking to top my water up. Idiot! I’d had 5 hours where I could’ve re-filled, or even drank, at any time, right at the source.

I regretted this mistake a few hours later when I only had a sip left. The ridge climb was exhausting. The only things to keep my mind busy were all the traps.

Possum killer

A couple of months previously I’d come across a Puketi Forest Trust stand at a local A&P show. They were raising funds and awareness for pest control and selling possum traps.  The Trust works alongside the Department of Conservation (DoC) in managing the forest. Since 2003 they’ve ran a successful pest control program that has helped a lot of native bush regrow. Just last year they caught 3569 rats, 1321 possums, 460 mice, 200 stoats, 39 feral cats, 10 weasels and no ferrets (source). We’d talked about a possible volunteering position, but the long recovery from my foot injury meant that I was now too pressed for time.

Now instead of helping this program I was rushing through the forest with a major thirst on.

*

… Ahhh that beer tasted good.

Tbc..

Next –>

Written on February 17th, 2012 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , , , , , , ,
5 – Raetea Birthday

<– Previously

Heading up from Takahue Saddle into the Raetea I knew that I’d enjoy my birthday. It had that real rainforest feeling – a wetness where growth blooms. Being the highest area around, the peaks were nestled in cloud. The track was the muddiest I’d encountered so far and my trousers quickly became coated in the slimy stuff.

Heading up to the Takahue Saddle

I took it easy on the way up, taking regular breaks and stocking up on water before I hit the ridgeline. It took me about five hours to reach the summit. Drizzle came down most of way, seeping into my clothes as I moved.

I shared the peak with a radio mast powered by an array of solar panels. I pitched the tent slightly on the south side of the patch of grass, just out of the wind that whipped in from the north. A scorched patch of earth showed where someone had recently had a fire. Chicken & port pate, triple cream, garlic & chilli cheese and a flask of spiced rum were birthday luxuries I’d allowed myself.

It was the first time I’d spent my birthday alone. I’d not brought anything to read or listen to, but after events of the previous couple of months, I needed time to think things over.

Having my mother and sister call from Europe were a nice treat. “Hey mum, I’m camping on top of a mountain in the middle of a rainforest!” Why not!

*

I felt good in the morning – revitalised and refreshed – and my legs felt strong. I moved quickly along the flax covered ridge, pushing my through the long leaves. A viewpoint stopped me in my tracks. The cloud temporarily lifted, revealing aspects of the Hokianga harbour 20km to the south. The Hokianga is steeped in early Maori and settler history, being one of the first places that the respective races settled. I’d been meaning to visit it for weeks, but had never got around to it. I guess this stunning view would have to do for now.

Peeking into the Hokianga harbour

As I once again became swallowed by trees, I had pay attention to the trail. Recently fallen trees blocked some sections. After taking the right turn at a fork in the trail things became easier. Someone had recently cleared that section. Green fronds and branches lay across the mud, neatly cut down by a big blade.

Friendly orange markers

The ridgeline continued for some time, then dropped onto a 4×4 track.  Tea Tree, pig tracks and orange markers led the way

Dropping out of the forest I encountered a section of pasture and my first real navigation problem. After spooking some cows I had duck under another big tree that’d fallen across the path. The orange triangles disappeared and I ended up on a bit of a bluff that dropped down to where two streams met. It got steep and overgrown with no obvious path leading ahead. Checking the topo map I saw the trail bypassed the streams to the south. After much back-tracking and plunging my feet into a couple of bogs, I eventually found the path and the guiding orange triangles.

At least a dozen tied up dogs barked at me when I passed a local farmer’s house. From there it was all road-walking. 2km of Markene Road led me to State Highway 1. I’d been dreading these connections, but surprisingly actually enjoyed the change it offered. The traffic was light as I tramped along the right-hand verge. An hour later I reached the shop at Mangamuka Bridge, bought a soft drink and burger, then hitched back to Kaitaia.

The stick doesn't like the hard road surface so much

*

A utility town that services the Far north, Kaitaia has not much to offer in the way of entertainment. All the fun to be had is in the outlying area. 40 beaches with an hour’s drive – Surfing, fishing galore, forests.

Mainstreet Lodge is a good place to hole up. Recently take over by a northern Englishman, Mike, it is an oasis from the often barren streets. With a quiet room to myself I organised my affairs, ready to leave my base of the last few months. It was time to hit the Te Araroa Trail properly.

Next: Thirsty in the Puketi –>


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Written on February 15th, 2012 , Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,
4 – Herekino – The First Forest

<– Previous

Dark, dank, dense, – forests can be places of foreboding mystery. Your vision is limited and the ears pick up strange sounds. It’s easy to get lost and panic – the hostile foliage swallows you up into a state of disorientation – will I ever get out?!?

It’s easy to panic when lost in these environments. Staying calm is key. Retrace your steps, take a compass bearing, or if you’ve a GPS – then finding your way shouldn’t be too much of a chore. As long as you’ve got spare batteries!

Forests/jungles hold a special place in my heart. Harbingers of life, their complexities are fascinating. New Zealand, like much of world, was not-so-long ago covered in trees. Humans brought an end to that. Both the Maoris and Pakeha played their roles, burning vast swathes to make room for agriculture and livestock. Valuable timber such as kauri was stripped in a short space of time. The pieces left are now well protected yet still face threats – namely from invasive pests.

Resting at the Herekino Saddle, I felt joy at being about to pass into this shrouded realm. Te Arai is the Maori name for this spot (The Door). Spirits of the departing take a breather here, before their voyage up Ninety Mile Beach to Cape Reinga. From there they continue under the sea to their final resting place – Hawaiiki, the ancestral homeland. The spot is marked by an eerie carving by my host of the last couple of months – Peter Griffiths.

*

I suppose I’d better backtrack here for a minute. After finally finishing The Beach, I spent a night in Ahipara and set off the following morning. The fractured metatarsal felt good, but I’d developed a strain alongside my toe of the same foot. On the edge of town I had a coffee and breakfast, contemplating whether I should be pushing myself. It began to rain.

I took that as a sign and hitched back to Pete’s in Takahue. Over a couple of days the toe improved quickly, but a niggle developed in the right foot. Damn feet!! Not wanting to delay any longer I hitched back to Ahipara. The 7km road connection from town to Te Arai passed quickly. Flats led me to a V cut into the hillside – the Herekino Gorge – where my starting point for the forest lay.

*

With a smile I left the sunlight behind and plunged inwards. First task was to scale up to the ridgeline. Due to this being a day-trip, I only had a tiny bag with a couple of kilos in it. Wow – the difference was huge. Taking a quick break on the climb, I looked up to spot a tiny plane flying northwards over the Herekino. I was in the mood to do the same.

I felt like a caged animal that’s just been released. Having the weight lifted off my back also freed my mind. After spending months navigating the jungles of Cambodia, I knew how to move quickly in this terrain.

 

The first part of the ridge was thin with scrub, affording me views of Ninety Mile Beach curving to the north-west. Hopefully the last I’d see of that for a while. As the trail angled downwards my feet began to trot beneath. Momentum pulled me into the thicker sections.

An hour in and Kauris surrounded the path. I leant The Stick onto a larger specimen, which completely dwarfed my walking aide. Kauris have been in resurgence the last few decades, but are now plagued by kauri dieback disease. To help prevent the spread of this, trampers are advised to not tread on their roots and to walk in clean footwear.

Leaving the mighty trees behind I sped into a gulley, stopping only to drink straight out of the clear stream. I slowed down on the hills, not wanting to burn up my energy too quickly. The trail was gnarly in parts, with twisted roots and gloopy mud forcing me to pick my steps. Vegetation grew thick around me, reducing visibility to a couple of metres.

On and on, up and down, I kept the pace going, pausing only to sip water or nibble dried dates. After suffering to complete that bloody beach, the liberation allowed me to vent all the pent up frustration that had built. I pushed myself as if possessed, almost jogging some parts. The kilometres flew past.

The trail abruptly popped out onto an old logging track. Bare, red mud now led the way, reminding me of the logging tracks in Cambodia. This is when I started to notice the growing pain in my right foot. Argghh – not again!!! I’d just fixed my left foot and now its partner decides to fail me! My fault for pushing it too hard after months of inactivity. I clenched my teeth and kept going, stubbornly not wanting to let this new problem slow me down.

*

After turning right at a junction, the straight logging track once again became a crooked trail. Pig tracks littered the area and many parts of the path had been turned over by the rooting swine. Evidently hunters rarely visited these parts. Two run-down logger’s huts pointed to the area’s past.

Varieties of ferns, including ones that grow the height of trees, jostled with other flora for space. Something snared me, stopping me in my tracks. I carefully took a step back and twisted free. Like rattan in Asia, this plant had barbed hooks on the underside of its leaves and stems. Known as Bush Lawyer by the settlers (due to it grabbing you and not wanting to let go), the Maori name is tātarāmoa. Similar to a rose plant, the fruit resemble blackberries and tea can be made from the leaves.

The final descent into Takahue valley was steep and treacherous. The Stick helped with balance and nearby trees provided hand-holds. Half-way down I noticed that I was no longer on the trail. Peering from side to side I couldn’t make out any of the orange triangles that mark the way. Back-tracking solved that problem. A few hundred metres later I popped out of the bush and was rewarded with views of Takahue. Rolling pasture opened spread far with fences criss-crossing the fields. Patches of pine forest mixed things up.

The trail now ran alongside a fence that traversed the slope, dividing forest from private grazing land. I spotted Tutu growing and cut a branch off to take home. Boiled until the water goes black, I’d make a foot-bath from it to help heal my tendons. It’d have to be handled with extreme caution though, because if ingested the powerful poisons within can kill. In New Zealand this shrub is responsible for many sheep and cows rolling over dead.

Walking that last stretch I suddenly felt naked. The Stick! I ran back up the trail and found it lying next to the Tutu shrub. That was the second time I’d slipped away that day. I’d also left it just further on the previous week, when exiting from another nearby walk. It seems that The Stick liked that forest and wanted to stay behind. Well tough! I’m going to keep carrying the bastard for another few months still.

The trail ended at Diggers Valley Road, and a sign put up by Sabrina told of the next road section being closed due to a logging operation. A rumbling truck kicked up a load of dust as it passed, emphasising the message. I’d have to leave that part of the walk for another time.

I started walking the gravel road towards Pete’s. Luckily a guy on a dirt-bike picked me up, saving me another 7-8km. My feet ached by now, no surprise considering I’d halved the allotted 8 hours walking time down to under 4. It made me even more determined to cut further weight from my pack.

Next up – The Raetea Forest – an even bigger and wilder, rainforest resembling expanse.

*

There’s little chance of New Zealand’s forests being wiped off the map in the foreseeable future. But many others face that very problem. De-forestation in Borneo is happening at an alarming rate, threatening the unique species and tribal people that call those rainforests home. Cambodia’s remaining jungles are plagued by illegal logging and poaching. If action isn’t taken now then future generations will only be able to experience these vital habitats through history books. To help preserve these threatened forests, please visit my donations page.


Hike route 1407212 – powered by Wandermap 
Written on February 6th, 2012 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,
Return to The Beach

Waves crashed down in front of me as I sat on the sand, gazing out to sea. The morning air still had a scent of dew – crisp is how I’d describe it. A blue sky and lack of wind heralded a fine day for walking.

I slipped off my sandals, shed the thick socks, rolled up my trousers and strolled into the shallows. The cold sea water felt good on the feet. To my north the beach curved up towards the unseen Cape – ground already covered. Looking south I could make out the hills that frame the seaside town of Ahipara – my destination 15km away.

Two and half months had passed since the beach had kicked my arse. A long, frustrating wait while the bone in my foot slowly bound back together.

I finally felt ready. This time my pack was half the weight – down to 15kg, from close to 30kg at the start. I felt confident, but now knew not to underestimate the “Ninety Mile Bitch” (that awesome nick-name another Te Araroa tramper applied to The Beach).

I wanted to swim, but buried the urge and concentrated on the task ahead. Feet dry, sand brushed, socks on, foot-wear attached, head protection wrapped, bag hauled, The Stick held – deep breathe – and off I went.

*

Step after step I felt weight drop from my shoulders. Walking can do wonders for the mind. Meditation without having to cross your legs and close your eyes. Now that I didn’t have to distract myself from a heavy load, the scenery became appealing. Barren monotony transformed into grand stability. Instead of trudging I now sauntered.

The Stick once again proved itself to be a valuable asset to the expedition. Its shoe I had bought was by now completely worn through, but the cord-wrapped head presented a use. For my video camera I have one of those wonky adjustable-leg tripods. I wrapped its limbs around The Stick, then bound it into place with the cord. The result- Stick-Cam! With this new contraption I can now, with true narcissistic flair, cover myself from all angles.

This entertained me for a while as I paced along. Along with The Stick, Eagle-Eye Eddy the Video Camera is a companion when walking. I get to chat to him and he listens faithfully, recording everything I say for future use. He doesn’t talk back, question the shit I spout, correct me or even pull faces. I can just mumble along without having to repeat myself. His only requirement is that I occasionally plug him into a wall socket so that he can have a drink.

Compared to my first few days on the beach it wasn’t hard to keep my mind busy. I could after all see the end of it. The forested hills slowly put on weight, Ahipara gained buildings. People offered me rides, I refused. What looked like drift-wood turned out to be a dead shark. Belly-up it lay in the sand, with a half-chewed squid hanging out of its jaws. Not much further I came across two heads of the same species. Two tails followed. These I could understand – cutting down on size and weight before hauling the meat home. But the whole corpse was a blatant waste.

A dead seagull was also worth the inspection. The twisted, broken shape of its body showed that it’d miss-judged the speed of an oncoming vehicle. Quite a day for finding dead animals. When walking down the road to towards the beach I’d come across two plastered possums. The first had been a very recent kill – the blood that’d sprayed from its head had barely the time to congeal. His mate had clearly snuffed it some days earlier. As I approached a whole swarm of flies flew thick into the air around me, forcing me to hold my breath and run. Not an uncommon sight here – drivers actively swerve into these invasive Australian pests.

*

What struck me at Ahipara was the noise of engines. The place is a machine playground. I seemed to be the one of the only people enjoying The Beach without having to use fossil fuels. The campsite was beautiful yet spoilt by the constant racket of revving engines. I find it bizarre that all these people go on a camping/beach holiday, and spend all their time tearing around on vehicles. The dog walker epitomised this for me. On my approach to Ahipara I saw her coming a mile off in her huge SUV. I had to wait a little longer to spot the dog running along beside. She was pretty, so I smiled and waved as she flew past. Twenty minutes later, while taking a break, the bounding mutt and its lazy owner came by again. I thought that “taking your dog for a walk” meant that the owner also got to stretch their legs and breathe some fresh air.

Two tractors with trailers marked the end of The Beach. Finally! Here the sand was at its widest – 100 metres from water to the exit. The last section was soft and churned up by all the traffic. Motorbikes fish-tailed past at speed. I sat under the only tree nearby, deeply satisfied with the sense of “job done!” Apart from a few niggles and a couple of minor blisters, my injured foot felt recovered.

Walking through the town was a welcome change. Only the growling cars spoiled the moment. It was early afternoon as I sat outside a store drinking Powerade. The hills of the Herekino Forest were tantalisingly close and I played with the idea of continuing. But sense prevailed, reminding me not to push myself too hard. I backtracked to the holiday grounds in search of accommodation.

I quickly set up camp, not hanging around. There was, after all, something that needed doing.

The Beach was busier now, with quad bikes tearing up the sand and 4x4s parked with their open boots facing the water. I headed for the widest gap between frolickers and dropped my krama, hat and shades. After vanquishing my nemesis it was time for my first swim in the Tasman Sea.

I may have finally completed The Beach, I just only wish I’d done it with a clean getaway…


Hike route 1401736 – powered by Wandermap
Written on January 31st, 2012 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , , , , , ,
Down Time Snippets

What follows is a mere unstructured sample of events from the last couple of months…

*

White-hot shards of high-carbon steel fly past my hands and face. They’re tiny and shower out in a pretty plume, but occasionally they’ll drop onto my bare feet, down my top or onto my head. Irritating, but part of the creative process. My hands are protected by thick, miss-matched gloves while they move back and forth, carefully grinding the metal into shape. If I work too long on a particular section then it becomes too hot to handle. I dip it into the water bucket, withdrawing it to watch the steam escape and mingle into the smoky air. Holding it up, I close an eye and peer down its length. Main curve – fine, tip – pointed, back edge – straight. But hang on… I flip it and look again from another angle. The edge reveals a slight bump, so I flip it back and press it onto the speeding belt.

*

The Far North has been good to me. Breaking my foot was a nuisance, and has put my trip back a couple of months. During that time people have asked if I’m going to continue with the walk. A sure way of making me even more determined. When I realised that I was facing at least 6 weeks of recovery, I decided to make the most of that “down-time”.  It was good to be able to slow down, calm the pace a little. I was too eager and confident before the trip and maybe a little naïve and stubborn. 30kg was way too much to carry – nearly half my own body weight! The professionals had told me to “keep it below 15kg”.

I ignored the advice and set out overloaded. The result was a stress fracture of the 4th metatarsal on my left foot. 3-4 weeks of painful limping, sitting around, helping the family, playing with the dogs –

*

“Where’s the rat?”

Pippy’s head twitches back and forth, her body trembles. Instinct takes over as she launches into the bushes. I’m on a mission. There’s something out here and I’m going to find it!

Tilly comes charging in and slams into the smaller mutt, knocking her clean off her feet and onto her back. Teeth flash and bestial sounds tumble out of their throats. Pippy latches onto Tilly’s cheek, but quickly gets thrown off. Paws are raised in defence, but get swiped aside by the larger dog. Snap, snap, snap – quick bites are exchanged.

Pippy sprints off, little legs pumping beneath, chain jingling. Long limbs and powerful strides quickly catch up. A nimble change of direction has Tilly sprawling onto her side. The chase is on.

*

Sometimes sitting still is the best way to soak up your surroundings and to feel the pulse of a place. I can’t whizz around on a 6 month trip and only spend the maximum of 1 week in any one location. If you like a place, then hang around and enjoy it.

*

Piano notes flow from Pepita’s fingers, filling the cavernous home. Wind gusts down the valley, swaying the fruit trees and blowing the curtains through the doors. Rain is hoped for. The water tanks are low, while pumping from the river is a hassle and requires fuel.  The garlic crop is in its final stages and needs a drink. The ducks make their daily tramp of the hill to quack for food. I’d go for a ninja-gardening session (slaying banana trees with a katana), but regret it the next day when the foot grumbled.

*

Long Flat Bottom is a hard place to become bored – even if you happen to be the type disposed towards boredom. A high turnover of interesting characters pass through the place, whether they be trampers, wwoofers or colourful locals. Dinner is always a lively event.

“Free-Bird” was a pleasure to have at Long Flat Bottom. Ultra-Light-Weight Tramper is what he was. 6kg is all he carried.  He’d fly across the hills and soar the beach, charming the locals along the way.  A natural story-teller, he entertained us with wild and incredible tales of his past. An ex-pro-windsurfer from Hawaii, he’s happily retired and keeping busy walking the trails of the world.

We had fun with the girls and the dogs in the swollen, rushing river that marks one boundary of the land. Rain draining from the hills had filled it almost to bursting point. A beige torrent to be played with. We found a sheltered, passive section to bathe in and tempted the current to take us. It ended up taking Tilly. At 9 months old she has the big, thick head of a Boxer-Staffie and not much of a developed brain. Strong swimmer, but not a good listener or thinker.

The flow would catch her, pulling rapidly down river. We’d have to dive into pursuit, grab her collar, and then yank the paddling mutt back to the bank. Over and over again.

*

The morning had been oppressingly hot. There was nothing to do but hold up a piece of cardboard with “AUCKLAND – will pay for gas!” scrawled across it. The effort of that itself was hard enough. I felt like a piece of dried fruit.

So when the two Argentinian girls offered to take us as far Tauranga, we jumped at the offer and bundled into the back. Daniel switched the charm on as I switched off, relieved to be on the move. 1st January is not a good day to be stranded.

Relief turned to despair as we ground to halt behind a long row of vehicles. The guy having a fag by his car was not a good sign. Nor was the police car blocking the road. Then the bonnet started to smoke.

As I helped Daniel push our ride off the road, a fluorescent figure of authority kindly informed us that bad weather had washed out a bridge to the north. Being New Zealand, that translated into a detour that’d add a few hours onto the journey.  Our driver had lost her phone and had no way of contacting her boss whose car she’d borrowed.

Another two hours were lost getting the radiator fiddled with back in Gisborne. The sun got bored and buggered off behind some clouds. Ominous – I like that word…

As we headed inland and into the pine clad hills rain began to lash down onto our pod of Argentinian ska. Doubts about the skill of driver turned to conviction. The road would have been ideal for a motorcyclist on a sunny day, for our depleted driver it was far from. Even Daniel’s conversation trickled off into worried silence.

She held the steering wheel at awkwardly, jerking us from side to side, veering dangerously across the single-lane highway. She’d accelerate before corners and jab the brakes when going straight. Glowing yellow road signs added confusion.

The concept of fog lights was new to her – flicking them off for oncoming drivers had to be taught by Daniel and I. We took many breaks. I welcomed them as oasis of relaxation among the swamp of anxiety.

Hours later the orange glow of Taupo welcomed us. Our gas stop didn’t go too badly until we pulled out onto the wrong side of the road – in sight of two cop cars. LEFT, LEFT, LEFT we screamed.

 Hazard lights blinked for our last leg onto Rotorua. Somehow we made it into a hostel that night.

*

It was relieving to embark on a little trip over the festive period.  Not that I was not enjoying my stay at Long Flat Bottom in any way, but being injured had bought on a creeping sense of restlessness. It was also good to test the foot out walking around cities and jumping around in the mud at a festival. A lot had happened in the last few weeks and I needed to get away to think about some big decisions. The change of environment helped and I returned with a fresh dose of motivation. Life had become very busy and interesting. Big plans were set in motion.

But regardless of the new path open before me, the Te Araroa trail is awaiting my resumption.  The journey must go on…

Written on January 18th, 2012 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , ,
2 – Hukatere to Waipapakauri – Hopping Along

Previous Entry

I collapsed at the feet of the wizened Maori guy. Wild, electric, white hair and beard surrounded his wrinkled features. Skinny legs sprang from his shorts and disappeared into boots. He looked down at me as I lay flat on my back. “Are you alright fella?” He asked. “Kind of” I replied “but my feet are buggered.”

“Walking down the beach have you? Well pitch your tent by those fellas over there. One of them is also doing a long tramp. I’ll go put the kettle on.” I asked his name. “Hari, but everyone calls me Uncle hehe.” He grinned and made off for the nearby cabin.

Relief swept over me as I made my bed. I’d just beaten the storm, but at what cost?

*

I ended up spending four days at the Hukatere Lodge and Camp-site. Morning after morning I’d limp up to the cabin. I didn’t care about the blisters, but the internal pain in my left foot was a concern. Situated on the top, behind the toes, it felt like the tendons. The only other possible diagnosis was a shock fracture to the metatarsal. Not pleasing. I rubbed cream and took anti-inflammatories.

The Hukatere was owned and run by a German lady by the name of Gabriel. She emigrated to New Zealand 17 years ago after falling in love with Northland. The land covered a large block behind the beach among the dunes. The power was sourced from solar and wind, and the water came directly from underground. Vegetables grew and horses roamed. Spacious and tranquil, it was a perfect place to rest up.

The company was relieving too. Mark was a German thru-hiker who’d been part of the group that’d set out a day ahead of me from the Cape. In his late 20’s, trim beard, wide brimmed hat, he oozed Teutonic efficiency. He only stayed for the one night, heading off in the morning to catch the group up.

Gabriel had two young German girls wwoofing for her – Lisa and Annabel. In return for helping with daily chores they’d receive food & board. Straight out of high school, they were giggly fun, joking around with Uncle all too often. Also staying for a few nights were three young German lads – Johannis, Niklas & Florian. Yes you may have noticed that I’ve been encountering a heck of a lot of Germans. That last day, walking down the beach, three girls had stopped for a chat from the camper they’re driving. Yet more passed by Hukatere to inquire about camping. The place was flooded with young Germans.

It’s not that they all have some unaccountable urge that pulls them to this part of the world, but a change in their school system that is the answer. 2011 saw two school years finish simultaneously, meaning double the normal competition for university places. Coupled with a recent stop to the compulsory military service, this has freed up a huge amount of young Germans to go wandering the world.

On their last evening the three lads turned up a box of cask wine. Upon finishing it one of the guys proposed a night drive on the beach in their 4×4. “But I don’t think we have enough seats for everyone.”

“No worries, a couple can ride on the roof.” I meant it as a joke but Lysa jumped onto the idea.

Next thing I know Lysa and I are holding onto the roof bars as the Pajero whizzed along the sand. All fun until our driver attempts to donut. The stars spun above as gravity yanked from the side. Wo-o-o-o-o-ohh…

*

From the moment that I spotted him from afar I knew Uncle was a character. A bee keeper and honey maker by trade, he was currently living out of his car while waiting for the new season to come in. A long-time friend of Gaby, he helped out around the site. His throaty laugh was always a joy to hear, but not the heaving cough in between. “I enjoy relaxing here, but I should really get off my butt now, and get back to the bees,” he’d tell me from the boot of his 4×4.

“Sitting on my butt” was getting to me too. I liked the vibe at Hukatere but was keen to get moving again. I’d been staying on a night-by-night basis, gauging the foot daily. It felt stronger by the third, so I wrapped it up and sauntered off on the fourth morning. When walking straight, and with a slight degree of care, it felt fine. I crossed the dunes, slipped down an embankment and found myself back on my favourite stretch of sand. With 18km of beach until the next campsite, off I went.

Again monotony struck and the mind hopped around subjects trying to find something to settle on. The tide was down and while stepping across the moist ground I noticed tiny bubbles popping from underneath. I jammed my stick into the ground and flicked a out clump of sand. It shook out to reveal two grey, enclosed shells. Tua-tuas are an abundant native shellfish. I’d heard about these from many, but up until now had never looked for them. I prized open the creature’s home with my knife and looked at the muscle within. Not unlike a mussel, I observed. After cutting it from the shell I popped it into my mouth. Squish, chew, swallow. Apart from the grit it wasn’t bad for free food. In fact, once realising it was free, the second tasted even better. I collected about 20 more and popped them into a plastic bag for later.

As continued south I began to encounter people.  Three generations of Maori males scooped at the sand, unearthing a harvest of tua-tuas. They threw them into big containers filled with water so that the clamped shellfish spat out any sand. Shell fish have been prized by the Maori for centuries and they remain a delicacy.

Further on I spotted a dark shape at the water’s edge with a gull standing guard. Keen to investigate any anomaly on the otherwise barren beach, I strode over. It turned out to be the remains of a Leatherback Turtle. The greatest of all turtles, it’d migrated all over the Pacific, before dying and having its shell wash up on this very beach. All that remained in the up-turned shell was the spinal column.

*

I spotted a van parked up on the shoulder of the beach. The figures waved me over.

“Hey dude, you want a rum & coke?”

Oh no actually, that doesn’t sound sensible. I’ve been walking all day, still have over an hour to go, and don’t want to get distracted. I’m not in the mood for company and warm water suits me fine.

Yeah right! Who sent these booze-wielding angels to wait at that exact spot for me? Well no-one really. They were just three young surfer dudes out for some fun. A mish-mash of nationalities, they successfully blended New Zealand, Canada, Switzerland and I think Germany. One jumped up and offered his seat as another thrust the cool, dark, slightly fizzy, sweet, alcoholic drink into my hand. At last I was beginning to like the beach.

After some gentle chit-chat, one grabbed a surf-board, another a kayak, and together they strode out into the rough surf. I was left with the one with strawberry-blonde hair. Having only recently started their road-trip of the country, they were on one of their first stops.

How nice it was to sit and observe the two cyclists struggle in the sand and to beckon them over. It gave me a better idea of how I must look to all those that spotted me plodding along. After an exchange of information I asked where they were from – “Canada.”

“Oh yeah, where from?” asked my new friend.

“Yukon. Hey, are you Connor?” they asked back. He was and it turned out that he’d once taken them on a kayak tour. Yes it can be a small world.

As much as I was enjoying this little break, the sun began to drop and I had to keep moving. Boots, socks, shirt, sun scarf and pack went on and so did I. The foot had been fine for the first half of the walk, but now it ached again. It was with relief that I spotted many figures marking the access to Waipapakauri. Ninety Mile Beach Holiday Park lay behind a small cluster of houses. Arthur took my 16 bucks and pointed me to a patch beyond the cabins and self-contained camper vehicles. He had a little shop in the office and I asked about cold beer. No luck there but a German behind me piped up that I was welcome to share a couple with him later. Arthurs wife, Heather, prepared me a batter mix for the tua-tuas I’d collected. Dinner filled me to the highest of satisfaction. I joined Klaus, the beer-offering German, to take up that offer, and we sat under the stars quenching thirst. Klaus, in his early 40’s, was travelling in a rental car with his 16 year old daughter, who was on a study year in the country. Having fallen out with a new boss at Phillips, where he had worked, Klaus was now on a 14 week holiday. I eventually made it to bed, sorting out a couple of new blisters before sleeping.

*

I woke and yelped in pain as I put weight onto my left foot. I knew there and then that I wouldn’t be walking that day. Or the next and the others that followed. I’d kept Pete from Takahue updated with my progress and gave him a call.

“OK, get yourself to the doctor in Kaitaia, then come done to mine.” And by hitch-hiking, that’s exactly what I did.

Next Entry


Hike route 1341034 – powered by Wandermap
Written on November 23rd, 2011 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,
1 – Cape Reinga to Hukatere – A Painful start

The weather at Cape Reinga was truly foul. Wind laced with rain swept in from the oceans through the blanketing mist. I could see no lighthouse, so found north on the compass and followed the needle. A thin trail led down from the car park towards the cliffs. The ridge swung down to the west and brought me below the mist-line. Stoat traps sprinkled the area. The coast ended in a knoll jutting out to sea. A good enough place to begin.

Although I was beyond where the Te Araroa trail starts, this was not the most northern point of the country. That honour belongs to the Surville Cliffs which juts three kilometres further north. I’d toyed with the idea of started from that location, but getting there proved to be too tricky.

After watching the Tasman Seas and Pacific Ocean blend down below, I fired up the GPS to recording mode, checked the time (2pm), hoisted the pack and head back up the way I’d came.

So this is it – the start of an epic journey. 3000km on foot. What the hell have I got myself into?

After climbing for 200 metres I slumped into a panting heap. The lashing rain recommenced, making me button up and move on. I eventually found the lighthouse through the mist, but couldn’t identify any of the landmarks that the information placards were referring to. The Cape is a very sacred place to the Maori. Believed to be the location where the first Maori arrived from Hawaiiki, it’s also where the spirits of the dead depart on their voyage to the afterlife. Abel Tasman was the first European to sight this coast, Captain James Cook the first to land.

One of those signposts telling direction and distance stood tall.

London – 18029km. Sydney – 1975km. Bluff – 1452km, as the crow flies anyway. I only fly in my dreams unfortunately, so walking to Bluff, along a crooked route, doubles the distance.

The first section ran along the cliff tops, and unlike the paved the walkway to the lighthouse, I had it to myself. I kept stopping to play with my video camera within the breaks of rain. I realised the slow pace, and the afternoon hour, got my head down and stormed to the first beach. After getting tangled in the last bit of headland I finally popped down onto the sand of Te Werahi Beach. Rain swiped me from behind and I hurried along. Luckily at the other end I found a wee alcove in the cliff and took cover.

I struggled up the next set of hills and slipped onto my knees when crossing a section of red volcanic mud. The area was bleak and showed no signs of human activity apart from some quad tracks. Cape Maria van Diemen stretched out as the New Zealand’s most western point. I was half tempted to walk out to it but the ”1 ½ hour return” sign put me off. Twilight beach came next and at the end of it, on a slight rise, my first camp site. Recently installed it had a water tank, two long-drop toilets, and most importantly, a sheltered pavilion. Keeping my gear dry I erected my tent, ate, then tucked in for my first night.

I was shattered and my body ached all over. Sleep came quickly.

*

Day 2

The coffin-like greenhouse I lay in warmed up with the morning’s first rays. The grey roof opened up, heralding what I hoped would be a fine day. My back felt stronger and I was at last in the position to appreciate my surroundings.  Twilight Beach, a stone’s throw below me, arced to the north. Gnarly, tough trees poked up from bank that divided me from the sand. My clothes had dried overnight and I cooked rice for breakfast. Peace from civilization.

*

This time the path across the headland was clearly marked and easy to follow. From a height I paused to take site of what would become my nemesis – Ninety Mile Beach! It ran away before me and melted away into the mists kicked up by the waves at The Bluff, my destination for the night. A near endless stretch of sand that many had cautioned me about. “Watch your feet on that one,” Peter had warned

.

Inland the scrub dived and climbed towards a section of what appeared bright pasture. Yet no signs of agriculture were to be seen, be it buildings, fences, livestock or people. The sunscreen came out to lather my face and hands. Being the first time I’d used the stuff in a year, the smell triggered memories and feelings I’d long forgotten. The same had happened the previous evening, when using citronella based insect repellent. The scent drew out images of Asia and jungle.

The trail led to the beach and ended there. No need for markers now. Layers of surf to my right, dunes to my left, navigation was straight forward. I focused on a green 4×4, a dot in the distance, and plodded onwards. Otherwise the only landmark was a large rock jutting up from the sea’s surface with a clean hole punched through its centre. The fisherman climbed back into his vehicle and cruised passed to the beach’s northern head. He raised a hand while passing, I replied with my own.

On and on I marched through the monotonous scenery. My only companions were the occasional gulls, frolicking in the shallows, bobbing their heads to each other. I spent a lot of time looking downwards. Different densities of debris kept my eyes busy; collections of gaping pippy shells, scattering of black volcanic stones, clumps of tangled seaweed, occasional knobbled starfish and gooey jellyfish. My ears closed to the relentless pounding of the surf but picked out birdsong from the dune embankment. My feet protested from within the heavy boots, not happy with the constant slapping on the hard, flat sand.

The mind was the hardest to occupy. The messages provided by eyes, ears and feet quickly bored it. Often the temptation of clock and kilometre watching caught it out – and always let it down. Focusing on the present depressed it, so the past and future were summoned as distractions. Old stories and new plans worked for a while yet never long enough.

Physical and mental fatigue resulted in more breaks being taken. Smoking and doing nothing freed me from the task at hand but also prolonged it. Restarting became a chore. I began to associate myself with characters from survival movies and post-apocalyptic books. The lone figure struggling on, with the oppressive sun above and a harsh, sand-filled wind behind, water running low. Escaping from or running to?

Every so often a dot would appear on the horizon, barely visible in the haze. After a minute the edges of the vehicle became clear and corners crystallised – forming a box. That box would then become defined as a campervan, 4×4 or tour bus. They’d come hurtling towards me, and just before passing I’d raise a free hand and receive one back. Recognition!

Those small moments were important for morale. I’d briefly feel reconnected to the world. The passengers would probably point me out: “Oooo look at him walking along,” “Hey look, there’s a man on the beach,” or “What the fuck is that nutter doing out there?” Yes, I sometimes wandered that myself. It would be so much easier to just hop behind the steering wheel, power up the engine, and watch those kilometres fly by. But I chose differently – I chose to walk. So one pace after the next, I kept going.

*

The Bluff eventually became a reality by late afternoon. My feet were in agony as the tent went up on a small patch of grass by a trickling stream. Two large blisters were already well formed with more on their way. I took care of pressing issues at hand – food and water – before getting the medical kit out. Drain the liquid, disinfect, cover. The day had sapped any enthusiasm that I may have had. A normal me would otherwise have been off exploring the rocky island nearby – reachable by a spit of sand. Beaten-up me didn’t care. After 28km all I wanted was rest.

Day 3

When morning came I was faced with the choice of to go or not to go.  Earlier in the year, when faced with a similar decision on Krakatoa, I made the right one and turned back. It probably saved my life. That morning I was not so wise.

It’d occurred that a day off would do me some good. I was on the only part of Ninety Mile Beach that was different. Fresh water flowed right by. I had food. I was set up. There were rocks to explore, fish to chase, shellfish to find. It was quiet.

The problem was overconfidence. I also wanted to get the bloody beach done. And there was the fact that I was in hot on the trail of some thru-hikers. Geoff had told me back in Auckland that they’re starting a day ahead of me. I’d come across their tracks after dropping down from the Cape. At that first campsite I’d noticed “Canada Rocks” written in the dust of the long-drop toilet cover.

Should I stay, or… go?

I ate a large breakfast and packed my bag up to 25kg – way too much. The map told me 31km. The beach said nothing.

*

The beach may have kept quiet but the seal didn’t. I jumped clean off the ground when he roared. My god I nearly walked into a beast. A New Zealand fur seal, otherwise known as Kekeno. Without noticing I’d passed between it and the sea as he rested in the morning shade. 100kg of fat stared at me with black eyes. The video camera was out in a flash.

He dropped its head back, and then lethargically rolled it to the side. One eye remained on me. Sidestepping I gave it space. Long white, whiskers sprouted from its cheeks, tiny ears protruded from the dense brown fur that covered its entire body. Clumsily he began to waddle away. Its front flippers struggled under the weight. He was clearly in a worse state than I was. One limb at the rear seemed to be of no use at all. A wound was visible nearby.

A white van pulled up. Two tourists in the back snapped pictures as I chatted with their guide.

“Don’t get between it and the sea mate. He’s come onshore to rest up. If he feels threatened and goes back into the sea, he’ll probably die. Look at him limping – shark attack I’ll say.”

I backed off and watched the brute slowly make his way to the rocks. That creature was one of the first attractions this country had for Europeans. By the early 1800’s the sealing trade thrived. Gangs jostled over prime locations and skins were reaped by the thousands. Within a couple of decades seal numbers plummeted to dangerous levels. Now protected, their population is on the rise again, yet human activity (harassment, fishing etc.) remains a threat.

*

Again the day dragged on. A couple of fishermen provided me a break from the humdrum. They didn’t have much to say but it was enough to watch them cast from the beach. While walking I’d sometimes have the shadow of a gull float nearby. Again my vision was directed to the ground in front of me. The wind kicked up sections of dry sand, making it flow ahead of me. It had a creepy look – as if possessed, driven by spirits, crawling to the south.

The tide was down and fresh tracks appeared ahead – at least three sets. My fellow walkers were only hours ahead. I kicked into top gear. I found that music helped me walk – Gogol Bordello and drum & bass worked well. To protect myself from the sun I wrapped a karma (traditional Cambodian scarf) around my head. New Zealand has the strongest UV rays in the world, hence the highest rate of skin cancer. A passing 4×4 driver stopped for a chat, noting that I looked suited to be in the Sahara. “Another 6km to Hakatere campsite,” he told me.

A north-westerly brought in some ominous weather. A grey shadow began too chase me. With 3km to go I began to hurry. Blisters across my feet forced a hobble. I leant heavily on my five foot long stick. Two figures materialised in the distance. They must be from the campsite. A group of horses presented themselves above the dunes – then a couple of flags. At last –sanctuary – salvation!

I turned off the beach and onto a gravel road that ran 300 metres parallel to the shore. More walking. Another flag at the end of this straight – still no camp – so I continued to follow it to the left. It was when the first few drops rained down that I noticed a new pain in my left foot. I didn’t like that particular feeling. Stumbling up a rise, passing a fourth flag, the dunes gave way to grass. Vehicles, buildings, people – camp!  A figure with a mane of white hair guiding me in like a lighthouse.

Hike route 1334950 – powered by Wandermap

Written on November 16th, 2011 , Journey So Far, Northland Tags: , , , , , , , , ,
Route Planning

9 days left in London, 4 weeks until I arrive in Auckland and a month and a half before  I start the walk.  The date I have in mind is 1/11/11.

I’m doing as much research as I can, yet apart from heading north to south, and visiting a few “must sees”, I have no set route laid out. Most people who walk the length of NZ follow the Te Araroa Trail. It’s an awesome trail, and I’ll certainly use it as a guideline, but I won’t confine myself to it. When I walk I like to wander and explore, to go off on my own crooked tangent. I get bored of  well worn trails.

On the North Island there are also many forests and volcanoes that the trail misses. I’ll also hear about many sights, places and people to visit while on the walk and I want the freedom to veer off. For me too much planning = less freedom once on the trip.

Thinking about this had me come up with a cool idea: interactive route planning! There will be times when I’ll be torn between two options.  Instead of worrying about it myself, I’ll hand it over to you, the audience, to vote on. I’m also very open to being steered in certain directions by recommendations made by yourselves. Maybe we could make the route map interactive…… Oh the possiblities.

I think it’s time for some feedback….

Written on September 15th, 2011 , Pre-Trip Tags: , , , , ,
New Zealand North To South