Epilogue

On the 21st I left Picton aboard the massive Interislander car ferry to reunite with Roxane in Wellington.  The skies were grey but the sea was relatively calm as we passed through the dramatic terrain of the Sounds.  There is a rock formation here that, according to Maori legend, is the eyeball of a giant octopus killed by the hero Kupe.  When the sailing wakas passed this point, all except the navigator were required to close their eyes.  It’s easy to see how these great cliffs and bays could acquire a religious significance.

I had a happy reunion with Roxane at the pier – with perfect timing she arrived just as the ship started letting people off.  We walked back through Wellington, a city she had become quite familiar with by now, and to Rosemere Backpackers, where she had been working for a while and making lots of friends among the long-termers there.  It was nice to fit right in here, in a comfortable place among friendly people.

We spent two weeks in Wellington, me relaxing and recuperating and repairing my gear for the next leg, Roxane working reception at the hostel on alternate days.  I cooked a lot of real meals with fresh vegetables and filled and emptied salad bowls repeatedly.  To satisfy a long-held personal craving, I held a burrito night where I purchased tortillas, beans, and all the fixings for vegetarian burritos for everyone and collected $5 per burrito to cover costs.  It was a great time.  I introduced a lot of people to their first taste of a burrito, especially Brits.  My favorite line was: “So what is a burrito exactly?  Is it kind of like a kebab?”  Everyone enjoyed it quite a bit, though I wound up somewhat in the red.  While beans and tortillas are some of the cheapest items in any San Francisco grocery, it turns out in New Zealand they are “specialty foods” and cost significantly more, on the order of USD $2.50 for a can of refried beans!  And I could not, for love nor money, find refried black beans (which I consider to be “version 2,” permanently obsoleting refried pinto beans).

I was also introduced to the game Bananagrams, which could be described as real-time Scrabble, played on your own board, where there are no points counted, the first person to finish the tiles wins, and you can rearrange your entire board at will.  In other words, it’s nothing like Scrabble except that you arrange tiles with letters on them into words.  It was enormously popular at Rosemere, and was played for multiple hours nearly every night.  Surprisingly, it became quite popular amongst non-native English speakers too, once we hit upon the idea of forming teams.  It turned out to be a great way to practice spelling and learn new words.  I frequently teamed up with one of Roxane’s and my new friends, Maria, until Maria reached the point where she could win singlehandedly and I was barred from giving her further assistance.

We booked our onward flights with a travel agent – a novel experience for me.  I had thought travel agents were a vestigial limb of the pre-Internet travel infrastructure, waiting to shrivel and fall off.  But it turns out that for long-term multi-segment travel, the various offerings by different airlines and conglomerates are complex enough that it’s useful to have an expert help.  Also, getting competing travel agencies into a bidding war is both fun and profitable.

Our next destination is Indonesia, where we will learn to scuba dive and get into all sorts of other adventures.  I’ve bought a language book and started studying, I’m quite excited to put theory into practice.

My further adventures will be posted at http://jacob.hoffman-andrews.com/geeks-errant/, while Roxane’s will continue to be at http://roxanew.wordpress.com/.  See you there!

Day 74 – Endeavour Inlet to Ship Cove!

Despite my melancholia last night, I woke this morning like a child on Christmas: early and eager. By 6:30 I couldn’t stay in bed any longer, and by 6:50 I was packed and moving.  There was a low fog over everything again.

I had two small saddles to cross today, but on such easy track they went by in no time.  There was no-one about, and I was starting to worry whether there would be any of the boats would be bothering to go to Ship Cove, since it is the off season.  Atop the second saddle I scrounged up just enough cell signal to call and book a ferry, and my phone died immediately after.

I was starting to wonder if I would see anyone at all on this my last day, but shortly past the second saddle I started passing a large clump of people, all just off the first boat of the day.

Half an hour I was at the water in Ship Cove, and asked a couple of mountain bikers to take a victory photo.

They’re doing some pathway construction at Ship Cove, and they’re taking it quite seriously. There was a barge parked up against the short, and two front-end loaders shuttling dirt off of it into the new pathways, between the restrooms and the historic monument to James Cook. They had a compactor running over the already laid dirt, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they paved the whole thing.  It really wasn’t much the atmosphere for quiet reflection and celebration of a personal triumph. It was cold and noisy and the fog never did fully lift, so I was plenty glad when the next boat came along in just half an hour.

It takes costs just as much and takes almost as long to get between Ship Cove and Picton, on the same island, as to make the bigger trip between Picton and Wellington, from the South to the North Island. This seems typical of travelling, and I wonder if there’s some sort of fractal theory of travel times to be worked out here.  The longer trips can be cheaper per mile on account of being more popular, and the shorter trips are more expensive per mile because fewer people share the cost.

The trip into Picton was made aboard a fast catamaran that also delivers the mail to residents of the Queen Charlotte Sound, many of whom can only be reached by boat. The service also ferries hikers’ packs from one bay to the next so they can walk with just a day pack.  I spent much of the ride chatting to the captain of the mostly-empty vessel about his career piloting ferries across the Foveaux Strait down by Bluff, doing freight runs, and the occasional fishing job. He takes his work very seriously and says when he was down south, as soon as he was made manager of the ferry fleet he ripper the autopilots out of  every ship.  In his opinion, they made the human pilots complacent.  He would often catch them in the back of the boat flirting with tourists, instead of up front watching for unexpected hazards like floating logs or small craft.

In Picton I stayed at Juggler’s Rest, a lovely small hostel I’d heard about many times before.  It has a stock of props for the guests, and is run by aspiring jugglers and fire spinners.  But these are really secondary – simply by naming the place, the owners made it a focal point and a great place to hang out with jugglers.  I wanted to pass clubs, but  soon after I arrived a thin drizzle began outside, nixing that idea.  Still I practiced my Mill’s Mess with beanbags indoors, and geeked about gear to the two or three jugglers.  It was a small crowd staying there but very friendly, as the hostel has a really pleasant common area that includes kitchen, dining room, and living room with fireplace.  It really felt like we were staying in somebody’s large home rather than a hostel.  In the single night I spent there, I made two friends with whom I hope to keep in touch.  This is in contrast to most hostels, which leave me anxious to get back into the woods and away from the tedious clonepackers who only want to know where you’ve been and where you’re going.

Most unusually for a hostel, Juggler’s Rest has a bathtub.  There was a sign indicating to ask the manager before using it, and I soon found out the reason was twofold: First, there was a NZD $3 fee to cover the water and heat costs (a steal!).  Second, only the hot water tap worked.  So the manager showed me how to pull the garden hose in through a window and use that to control the temperature.  I lit some candles, put some Bjork on my iPod, brought my current novel (The Firm) and soaked until I was lightheaded.

It was a great end to a great trip.

Day 73 – Blackrock Shelter to Endeavour Inlet

This morning the fog was even denser and hugged the lower elevations long after sunrise.  Since my campsite was a few hundred meters up, I was above it and got to enjoy the sensation of being far above the clouds despite the fact that these hills are not particularly tall.

It was another cruisey day on track that must be like a highway in peak season.  I spent a while chatting with a holidaymaker who owns a home in one of the bays here, about how DoC had recently re-cut the track to go behind his place rather than in front of it, where the mountain bikers were causing a bit of erosion and effectively washing his property into the sound.  It sounded like he was pretty happy with the process – DoC depends on the goodwill of the property owners to keep this trail open, and was careful to make sure everyone’s needs were met.

Towards the end of the day, I descended into Endeavour Inlet, the second-to-last bay before Ship Cove.  This is one of the more populated areas, with a curious mix of bull paddocks, seasonal campgrounds, high-end resorts and vacation / retirement homes.  The main “road” of the settlement here is the track itself, which sees traffic only by foot and wheelbarrow and the occasional riding lawnmower.  The residents are dependent for their supplies and mail on the ferries running from Picton, which run many times a day during the summer but slacken off significantly during the winter.  There’s mostly a happy relationship between those who live here and those who hike through.  In front of one house is a cart full of various backpacker’s necessities, from locally grown apples to trekking poles to Garfield keychains.  All of these could be purchased by putting money in an honesty box, since there was no-one attending the booth.

I had met a hiker who described to me a backpacker’s hostel here that allowed camping in their yard for a discounted rate.  At first I had planned on “treating” myself by staying indoors, but as hiked the idea came to seem silly.  I should celebrate my last day on the trail by doing something I would do for the rest of my off-trail vacation?  Sleeping in my hammock one last time seemed more and more appealing, especially since I not used it in a while (I slept directly on the ground at the last few campsites).  So when I reached the hostel and it turned out they did not actually allow camping, it was a quick decision to keep on and hang my hammock outside of town.

Unfortunately, “outside of town” is not actually a legitimate camping spot – I would have had to continue around to School Bay to find the next official site, and it was getting dark.  But I found a cute little beach far from anyone’s house, with a wide selection of perfectly-spaced trees.  I cooked my last trail dinners sitting on a log, burning the very last of my fuel.  My second pot of noodles never quite reached a boil, but a little patiences and they were perfect nonetheless.  Occasionally I heard an outboard motor puttering across the bay and clicked off my flashlight, the very picture of discretion.

I was more than a little sad that tomorrow would be the end of my journey and a return to “normal” life.  I didn’t have the feeling I was about to cross a finish line or accomplish some massive task, I simply felt like I was going to stop walking.  Perhaps this was because I allowed myself so many caveats, like hitching long road sections.  Perhaps not continuing to the North Island made the trip seem incomplete.  Or maybe it was just that Ship Cove is a somewhat odd place to finish, since it’s not the northernmost point of the island, nor is it the point of departure for the North Island – that’s Picton.  It is, in Geoff Chapple’s words, a “cultural touchpoint,” and a worthwhile beginning / end for the South Island half of Te Araroa.  But I definitely had a case of the second-to-last-day blues.

Day 72 – Anakiwa to Blackrock Campsite

I was on the trail early this morning and saw lots of mist on the various bays of Queen Charlotte Sound as I walked.  This track is one of the Great Walks of New Zealand, and it may actually be the easiest of them all, which is saying a lot.  It connects a number of bays, many of which have small clusters of baches, or holiday homes, and a few of which have resorts or hostels.  The track in between is frequently wide enough to pass a car, and is thoroughly graded and benched.  I had an easy walk, so relaxing as to actually be boring.

My right knee had been aching ever since I split my boot, and I figured the two were likely connected.  I repaired it with dental floss, a mainstay of emergency gear repair, and it worked surprisingly well.  My stride felt more natural afterwards and my knee stopped hurting.

I reached Portage, the first opportunity to get off the trail to someplace where money could be exchanged for food.  Because I had been expecting to resupply in Anakiwa, I had no lunches or snacks.  So I hiked the fifteen minutes off the trail in the direction signposted, with visions of peanut butter and jelly and Snickers bars and muesli dancing in my head.  The reality of this little country store was a bit of a disappointment.  It seemed primarily to serve those staying at the attached resort who had forgotten a sundry or two.  They sold sunscreen, ketchup, bug repellent, jam, and frozen bread.  I bought the frozen bread and the jam, but was disappointed to find no peanut butter.  I was also a little disappointed that the proprietor wouldn’t take a credit card for a purchase of less than $20.  I realized this morning that the other resource I was running low on was cash.  I had only $42 with which to resupply at a series of overpriced country stores, possibly treat myself to a nice dinner in Endeavour Inlet, and maybe pay for my ferry back to Picton from Ship Cove.  There certainly would be no ATM from here on, and while I could probably cover some items with a credit card, I was inclined to hoard the bills I had.

Back on the trail, at an overlook, I met an American from Wyoming who works in the Forest Service.  We talked for a while – I was surprised how much I had missed talking to Americans.  Even in this country that shares a language and almost shares a culture, meeting someone who shares so many reference points was a relief.  It was especially nice that this woman was also enthusiastic about the backcountry and was familiar with the long trails in the US, so we had a lot of common ground to talk about and compare between New Zealand and home.

I stayed at another nice DoC campground, positioned on top of a hill where it overlooked the sound and had a view of Picton’s lights at night.  I shared it with a nice Kiwi couple, and we watched the huge Inter-island ferries roll into Picton Harbor and back out again, trying to estimate their loading times.

Day 71 – Havelock to Anakiwa

Leaving Havelock, the trail continues on road, but today it left the highway for a wonderfully scenic road curving around the hills above Pelorus Sound and the Mahakiwa Arm. I really enjoyed the walking and the weather was great. I munched apples as I walked and for lunch had some cheese and bread from the bakery in Havelock. I was deliberately low on supplies, figuring to save on weight and stock up in Anakiwa. As I approached Anakiwa towards the end of the day, a beautiful new walkway appeared alongside the road, cut deeply and recently into the bank so that walkers need not even see the road. Following this trail along the south end of Queen Charlotte Sound, I kept waiting for a town center to appear. I passed a group of kids doing trust falls and swim practice – there’s a big Outward Bound Center here – but I reached the trailhead for the Queen Charlotte Walkway and still there was no store of any kind, or any town center to speak of.

I hesitated. To embark on the three-day Queen Charlotte Track with no food left but a hunk of bread and a candy bar seemed ridiculous. However, this is not your typical backcountry trek. All up the Queen Charlotte Sound are small settlements and resorts, and according to what I had read there would be opporunities to walk a few minutes off the trail to a cafe or shop. So I crossed my fingers and stepped onto the track, hoping that I really would be able to resupply along the way.

I only had to walk about an hour until I came to the first campground, which was a nicely maintained DoC site. I suspect it was located so close to town specifically to prevent illegitimate camping on Anakiwa’s beach by those who finished the walkway going south but did not to pay for accomodation.

Despite my food issues, there was no lack of dinner. Dinner is always the last thing I run out of, since I can only eat at night when I fire up my stove. I cooked the last of my beans and rice, a favorite meal brought over from the States by my friend Suzanne last month. While I ate, a possum repeatedly tried to sneak into the cooking shelter with me. I scared him away with a shout or by stomping on the deck, but he had clearly been emboldened by a run of successful food snatching missions, and he refused to stay away for very long. I made sure to pack my food away carefully, and even so I was awakened by scurrying up a couple times in the night and shouted a couple times until it stopped.

Day 70 – Pelorus River to Havelock

I was lazy last night, and I paid for it.  In my exhaustion I convinced myself that the rain promised by the clouds would not come.  But as they say, hope is not a strategy, and when the rain did come, I was in no mood to raise my hammock.  So I pulled the rainfly atop my sleeping bag, inadequately.  I then spent the remainder of the night fitfully sleeping and adjusting the fly as various parts of my body were exposed each time I rolled over.  Unfortunately this wasn’t apparent until after the rain had fully soaked through my sleeping bag.

I woke when a van from Outward Bound rolled up outside my little pine grove and disgorged a load of twelve youngsters.  So much for my supposedly “stealth” campsite – by now I had seen more people than I did in the entire Richmond Range.  It was first light, and I figured this was as good a time as any to pack up my soggy mess of a sleeping bag.  Once again I was extremely thankful to have bought a synthetic bag, since I was warm all night despite the wet.

By now the rain had reduced itself to intermittent showers, and I made quick work of the nine remaining kilometers to Pelorus Bridge.  Pelorus Bridge, the town, seems mostly to be a symptom of the cartographer’s mandate to fill the map with dots.  The reality on the ground is a bridge, a campsite and, praise heaven, that rumored cafe.  The food was surprisingly good (though surprisingly expensive too), and they let me charge my phone for a dollar.  The proprietress somehow managed to seem harried despite having two adult staff and her two young daughters working, to serve a morning crowd that never exceeded five people.

From Havelock to Anakiwa is forty miles of road walking, which I originally planned to hitch.  But I’m so close to the end now that I felt reluctant to shortchange myself.  The first bit of highway could actually be bypassed on an unmetalled farm road, so I cut across a short nature trail to get there.

The farmer had recently moved his cows – the evidence of it was thick on the ground.  The rain had combined with this evidence to form an even-textured mud that completely covered the road.  There was no safe place to walk, only shallower and deeper ruts.  Normally this would not be a big deal.  Subsequent walking would soon transfer any excess mud from my boots onto the undergrowth.  Today, though, I planned to get invited into a stranger’s car as soon as this road met the highway, and I wanted to make sure that such a stranger would not regret the invitation. So I reduced my pace to a slow high step, careful not to splash or kick anything, and proceded so for a few hundred meters before the road cleared up and I could see gravel again.

Back at the highway after seven kilometers, I started walking with my thumb out. Perhaps the drivers detected my ambivalence about accepting a ride, because I walked most of the way to Canvastown without anyone stopping. It was probably a good thing. Today for the first time since Colac Bay I would be reaching the ocean, and to arrive in a car would feel cheap.

I stopped in at the Canvastown Pub, where I enjoyed a pint next to a roaring fire alongside a handful of locals. I got to witness some colorful dishing about a local character, seventy years old, and his fifty-year-old wife. “They have those huge dogs, Leonburgers, and they just have no control over them.” “I know, one tried to have a go at me through the fence so I smacked him with a chainsaw.” “And they have all those stags on their property that just roam from paddock to paddock, no effort to keep them in one place.” “I think they’re both nudists, that’s why he’s always wearing those blue overalls when he comes to the door, they’re easier to put on in a rush.” “I figure we’ll just stop hearing from him one day, and when they go up looking for him, all they’ll find are a few bones – his dogs will have eaten him.” “Naw, I think one of those big stags will run him through.”

After I drained my beer, the next 10 kilometers to Havelock were a bit wobbly, but mostly uneventful. I enjoyed another “wow, I’m really finishing the South Island” moment as the Pelorus River opened onto Pelorus Sound. I had reached salt water, and by some measure I could be said to have finished an island traverse. But the Te Araroa trail continues on to Ship Cove, and I planned to complete that last section of track.

Havelock is a cute, pleasant town. I stayed at the very friendly and nice Blue Moon Backpackers.

Day 69 – Roebuck Hut to Pelorus River

I woke naturally well before dawn, and was plenty alert, but my body just did not want to get out of bed.  I think I pushed it harder than I realized yesterday.  I got up slowly and savored my last hut morning, being especially careful about tidying and sweeping before I left, feeling this would help to put a proper finish on everything.

I expected to get out to Pelorus Bridge today, but the first seven kilometers were much slower than I expected – steep sidling on slippery terrain often forced me to go slowly.  I passed Middy Hut and Captain’s Creek Hut, pausing only briefly to skim their hut books, OCD style.

Past Captain’s Creek it was easy cruising, though I caught my boot on a stick and where there were three holes previously, there are now two again.  No, this was not a magical stick of +1 boot repair.  It just pulled the topological trick of ripping a path from one hole to the other, along the way taking out an important structural piece of leather, and undoing half the stitches I had had professionally replaced in Wellington.  Now my sock can easily be  seen through a three-inch gash in the boot.  At least there is still a sole under my foot.

I reached the metalled part of Maungatapu Rd. and was able to really start trucking.  Sunset was soon, but I figured I could follow the road in the dark with no problem.  I was determined to make it to civilization and have a proper meal at the Pelorus Bridge Cafe, about which all I knew was that someone had mentioned it in a hut book.

Then I saw a nice patch of pine trees, my favorite type of campsite.  They were well-spaced and looked like they’d have a nice bed of pine needles to lie down on.  So I reconsidered.  The cafe would probably be closed by the time I reached it, if I know small-town New Zealand at all.

So my legs thanked me deeply as I sat down to make dinner in my little stealth campsite.  The pines belonged to a timber company, but I figured nobody would mind as long as I didn’t try to take any of them home with me.  Besides, tucked away off a quiet country road no one would ever know I was here.

While there was still light, I noticed some ominous clouds in the sky, but I was so exhausted I didn’t want to hang my hammock, so I figured I’d just lie on the ground and if I felt rain I’d pull my rain fly over me and go back to sleep.

Just as I was nodding off, I thought I saw the flash of lightning.  Opening my eyes a little I saw it was only a truck’s headlights flashing between the trees.  Just a farmer driving home late at night, I figured.  Until the light slowed and then stopped, pointing directly at me.  Caught in the headlights, I played possum, figuring maybe whoever it was just wouldn’t bother me.  Sure enough, after a minute the truck pulled away.  As it drove off I saw a beam of light roving up and down the hillsides.  Of course!  These were hunters spotlighting deer, they must have seen me and been curious.

I relaxed and tried to calm my heart rate.  The timber police wouldn’t be carting me off tonight.  My sleeping bag was suddenly too hot and I had to remove layers of clothing to get comfortable.  Lately it’s gotten cold enough most nights that I wear clothes inside my bag for extra warmth.

Right when I was starting to doze again, the truck returned.  “Shine the light over there,” a voice commands, and I hear a door slam.  I hear footsteps heading towards me and resign myself to the fact that I will have to talk to someone, so I sit up and say hello.

“Oh, hi!” says a surprised Kiwi voice.  “You okay?”  I explain that I’m fine, just camping the night and gone in the morning.  Turns out he saw my pile of gear and didn’t realize there was a person here!  He assumed it was accidentally left out by his mate, who owns the land, and figured he’d do a good deed and get it out of the impending rain.  He apologized for waking me and drove off.

Day 68 – Slaty Hut to Roebuck Hut

Shortcut time! I read on nzunderfoot.com about a nice ridge-bashing shortcut through this section.  When I re-read their notes, however, I realized they walked along the next ridge south of the one I thought they did, and I would have to backtrack to take their route.  No matter, according to my topo map this one looked good too.  I first rounded the east side of Slaty on a poled route, then cut down the ridge to Lowther’s Saddle and up to Hackett Peaks.

The stunted beech made things hard at first, since the branches were at head level and constantly in my way.  But seeking the easiest path, I was surprised to find a piece of dirty cloth tied around a branch.  A few minutes later, I found another, also on what I had decided was the easiest path of travel.  I had found an unofficial or defacto route.  I should have guessed others had come this way often, since ridgelines are as useful for backcountry travel as rivers are.  It was nice to have the occasional strips of cloth reassuring me that I was still taking the easiest path through the brush, and that I hadn’t wandered off the ridge – difficult but not impossible to do by mistake, especially where the ridge is broad.  Closer to Lowther’s Saddle I was even able to distinguish a hint of a track beaten into the ground – a straight line where moss stopped growing, or a spot where the small rocks lay a little flatter than might be expected.

Lunch atop Hackett Peaks was fabulous.  There is a trio of pint-size peaks sitting atop a larger peak, in the center of a wide alpine meadow with views in all directions.  I could see Tasman Bay to the north, Rintoul and Old Man to the southeast, more of the Richmond Range to the east, and far in the south, some of the higher mountains of Nelson Lakes National Park, still covered in last week’s snow.

Past Hackett Peaks I never spotted any more cloth markers, but in a clearing I did find someone’s old campfire.  I also found a lot of pig sign, giving a hint to what brought those campers here.  When Captain James Cook landed at Ship Cove in 1769, he released a number of pigs to breed wild as a food source for when he returned.  In a story that’s now too familiar, the pigs went hog wild and bred out of all control in this new ecosystem.  They dig in the ground for food, damaging tree roots.  It was such mud pits dug by pigs that I saw as I bushwhacked.  These sign are looked for by the many pig hunters in the area, and the hut books are full of entries like “no sign today,” or “lots of sign up on such-and-such ridge.”  This range seems to have an especial pig problem, perhaps due to its proximity to Ship Cove.  Since dogs are used in pig hunting, this also explains why there are kennels at the huts here, something I haven’t seen anywhere else.

Past Mt Stewart, the last peak of the day, the going got rougher, with dense ferns and many fallen trees.  I dropped off the ridge to the main track, which by now had left the river valley and wasn’t too far away.

During all this bushwhacking I incurred some new damage to my gear.  Each of my boots previously had two holes.  My right boot now has a third, larger hole in the mesh of the toebox.  Also, I stepped on the fastener of my pack’s waistbelt, breaking off a prong.  Luckily it is cleverly designed so that it continues to be useful with the one remaining prong.  Lastly, my shirt, which was wearing thin in back, now has a hole the size of a silver dollar, probably caused by the many abrasive beech leaves caught between me and my pack as I squeezed under dry branches.  I feel a little like Johnny Depp in the intro to Pirates of the Caribbean, my gear gradually distintegrating as I get closer to my destination.  With luck I’ll reach Ship Cove with a couple of rubber strips tied to my feet with dental floss, and a candy bar wrapped in a bandana.

Roebuck Hut is to be the last DoC hut on my trip – after Pelorus Bridge there is only camping and hostels.  so I wrote a bit of a goodbye and thanks in the hut book.  It felt good, and the whole gang was in there, most of the Te Araroa trampers I’ve been seeing in hut books.

On long trails in the US, there is a very strong sense of community amongst thru hikers, much of it mediated through shelter registers.  Those registers are free-form, rambling affairs that people use as creative outlets, for communication to friends behind them, and general commiseration.  The DoC books, by contrast, are spreadsheet-like affairs, with a “comment” field the size of my pinky.  Sometimes people will claim multiple lines for a longer note, but most entries are terse: “Cute wee hut,” or “Shot 3 pigs,” or “Cold.”

Still, I’ve found that I read these frigid registries obsessively, searching for a scrap of that communal feeling I had on the Appalachian Trail.  And even though I haven’t met another thru-hiker out here, seeing the recurrence of certain names from years past is a comfort.  There’s Julien from France, Luke Bill from Cincinatti, OH, Skittles from Alaska, Pepper & Trauma from PA & NY, the nzunderfoot couple, Martin & Einar from Norway.  I barely know anything about these people (though I see from this book that Martin & Einar took their “ARMED TRAMPING” tagline from a Nelson local who wrote it for his weekend hunting trip a few weeks before they came through), but it’s nice to recognize the names.  It gives me a sense that I’m not quite as alone out here as it sometimes feels.  Speaking of which, this is my sixth day in the Richmond Range, and I haven’t seen another living soul the entire time.

Day 67 – Mt Rintoul Hut to Slaty Hut

From Rintoul Hut the track goes straight up a steep gut onto Mt. Rintoul.  Climbing, it felt like the mountain was eroding under my feet, because this gut was filled with fine red gravel lying right at its angle of repose.  With every step I set loose a small cascade of rocks and lost almost as much ground as I gained.  Finally I wised up and got off the main path and onto the rocks nearby, and things got much easier.

As I skirted the top of the mountain, thick clouds charged in under a heavy wind.  At times I couldn’t see the next marker, so I waited until a gust cleared the path enough to take another bearing.  At one point I sheltered under a rock on the lee side of the mountain and considered whether to go back, since it looked like a storm was percolating.  Under my rock it was nice and calm and relatively warm, and I had a splendid view between two ridges where a banner of cloud would stream in, and down, and around into a spiral before completely filling the gap and then dissipating.  It was extremely hypnotic, and I nearly convinced myself to stay where I was.  But realistically the best place for me in a storm would be a hut, not a tiny rock overhang.  So I pressed on towards Old Man Hut.

By the turnoff for Old Man Hut I was out of the clouds.  There was still a dark scud on the western horizon but it looked like I could make it the rest of the way to Slaty Hut, maybe even before the rain hit.

Up on Old Man Mountain itself, the rocky tops were replaced by a thriving alpine meadow.  Here were the typical lamb’s ear, gentian, and occasional speargrass.  There was also a thick blanket of a thick green grass I was unfamiliar with.  It looked as soft and green as a golf course, but on further investigation I noticed that each strand pointed *into* the prevailing wind.  Reaching down I found the grass was quite stiff and unmoving.  Conclusion: facing into the wind must be an adaptation of this alpine species to better harvest moisture from the wind rushing across the tops.

I traversed down to Ada Flat on a skinny little spine of rock, and crossed some more of that lovely meadow.  I crossed one more peak just as the sun peeked below the clouds for its final hurrah before setting.  At the same time, the wind picked up, going from “biting” to “bludgeoning,” and frequently pushed me off the track for a couple steps before I regained control.  It was around then that I realized – the Richmond Range, with its endless ridge walks, has been the hardest segment of my trip, but it’s also been the most beautiful, and the most rewarding.  In general, I would say these mountains are easily the most superlative part of Te Araroa in every respect.

I was in a good mood generally but the wind kept growing stronger and colder.  After an hour crossing sideways to the wind, I was just starting to get chilled when the trail turned off the ridge to sidle in the lee of Mt Slaty.  Immediately the wind stopped.  Just to see if I was crazy I walked back a couple steps onto the ridge.  Sure enough, the wind was still howling away.  Having a little shelter made my last two kilometers much more pleasant, as I regained some warmth before reaching the hut for a hot dinner and a cozy bed.

Day 66 – Mid Wairoa Hut to Mt. Rintoul Hut

I began today with a steep climb through beech forest to reach the ridgeline leading to Mt Rintoul. I felt strong and happy, a one-eighty degree change from yesterday’s dejection. I’m not sure whether the difficulty had been in me or in the trail, but whatever it was, it was gone. Possibly I was excited because I had more ridge-walking ahead, and I was not disappointed. Once I reached the top of the ridge, the stunted beech allowed me intermittent views of the landscape, and their low branches brought many a bellbird perching low within my sight. Stopping at a clearing, I was investigated by a bold weka. When I sat still long enough, the cheeky bird stole up behind me and tried to snatch a strap that was attached to my backpack.

Tarn Hut, where I stopped for lunch, was amazing. The generous clearing provided great views to the south, and sitting to the north was a cute little tarn. I sat by it as I ate lunch and read the hut book, another old one. I think this region may not have its hut books collected as often as some others, because many of the hut books go back years and years. There was an odd comment in the book about a big storm that knocked over the kennels, so I looked around and sure enough, there were a number of little shelters around the hut, too small to be woodsheds, but just the right size for a dog.

I was reluctant to leave such an adorable hut, but I had plenty more miles to reach Mt. Rintoul Hut. I made easy, pleasant miles across the ridge and arrived with a good solid hour before dark. The hut had an adorable little Oregon pot belly stove, and I spent my time chopping wood into the short pieces required to fit inside it. The stove was a clever thing, lots of fun to play with, and once I figured out the damper, flue, and several other knobs and widgets, it roared to life. DoC has installed stoves in a number of huts because by limiting air intake they can provide more efficient heat output than a fireplace. They are also much easier to cook on, and tonight I used my little fire instead of my alcohol stove, because I was getting low on fuel. I had plenty of food though, so I took advantage of the “free” heat to cook a second meal.

The windows of the hut faced north across a clearing, and I could see the lights of Motueka and Nelson twinkling on the shores of Tasman Bay. My ambivalence on first seeing the water has faded, and now it was a pleasant, reassuring sight. Novel, too, as I’d never been able to see a town at night from the trail.

I was reading the hut book when something caught my eye.  Almost exactly two months ago, a tramper named Edward Reynolds from Hanover, PA had signed the book.  This is the same American that search-and-rescue teams were searching for along the St. James trail, the one who was planning to cross the Waiau Pass, had a beard and glasses like me, and had been missing for a month.  I figured “Interesting.  I’ll take a picture of the page in case DoC wants to know he checked in here.”  Then I looked again at what he had written under “Principal Activity on This Trip,” and I felt as if somebody had walked over my grave.  Already this man had so much in common with me that I had been mistaken for him on the trail.  When I saw he had written “Te Araroa” as his primary activity a shiver ran down my spine.  He had been trying to do exactly what I am doing.  I kept thinking how easily it could have been me.  I half-joked to myself that he was probably a twenty-eight year old computer programmer, too.  I resolved to be especially careful during these last few days of remote tramping in the Richmond Range.