Rintoul Hut - Mid Wairoa Hut

Waking up to the condensation-stained windows of Rintoul Hut felt like rising from a hangover. Our joints creaked as we looked through eyes almost slit shut at the overcast skies. The hut lay in a tiny clearing on the southwestern face of Mount Rintoul, and our day would be largely under the cover of the trees. I find that days after you’ve experienced massive climactic highs like yesterday tend to be a little subdued. I felt the pull of St Arnaud already, our next resupply stop still days away. Yesterday was so mentally taxing that I took today as a transport stretch. Etienne and Patrick were always slower in the morning, so Toby and I set off into the grey day.

Yesterday’s eerie fog was replaced by high-hanging clouds, and a fierce wind snapped at our pack straps as we climbed up through the beech forest. After a short climb that took us above treeline and onto a ridge we looked back to see Rintoul Hut as a tiny white dot in the forest beneath the towering summit of Mount Rintoul. To think we missed out on those extraordinary views! We donned shell jackets and gloves on the high ridge and stood for a moment looking at our path southwards. High peaks sprinkled with snow rose beyond the thickly forested mountains of the Richmond Ranges. The narrow trail snaked along the ridge before dipping back down under the canopy of beech forest.

Dear reader, I don’t know if you’ve ever studied a beech tree up close. They are the most extraordinary things; covered in fluffy moss in all shades of emerald and silver, tiny leaves sticking out of paint-like spangled branches. I love all leaf trees, but beeches are simply magic. New Zealand is covered in red, silver and mountain beech, and the Te Araroa offers some kind of beech forest almost every day. You can really tell where the inspiration for Fangorn Forest came from, the trees we walked by were almost human in their unique characteristics, gnarly roots digging into the earth like arthritic spaghetti.

South Island edelweiss flowers poked out from stony crevasses covered in tiny water droplets from yesterday’s showers. Toby and I meandered steadily onwards, up and down the crooked path on the usual seismographic elevation profile. I worked up a good feminist rant that I delivered with gusto, assuming Toby’s complicity in his half-hearted agreement. Just because. When inspiration isn’t in the trail, you can dig it out from other parts of you – and my inner zoon politicon was underfed (already… just wait for day 50).

We had lunch at Tarn Hut – the Richmonds really do have a nice array of huts – it lay hidden away on the forested banks of a pond. The day was growing slightly lighter, but still no sunshine. Team Swiss caught up with us, and we made our way down the last bone-crunching descent to Mid-Wairoa Hut. The ligaments around my knees were wailing for mercy by the time we crossed the swingbridge over the Wairoa river and came to the small clearing housing the hut and toilet. We stepped tentatively inside, Patrick and Etienne swooped for the bottom bunks that early-comers Toby and I usually claimed. Sleeping in a hut is definitely preferable to a tent since it saves time, but no sooner than I sat down on a bunk before I saw several pairs of hairly black legs retreat into various corners. I dove for my pack as a dollar-sized spider raced towards it. No way, José! This gal ain’t sleeping in this Shelob’s lair. As much as I hate sandflies, they are vastly preferable than sharing my sleeping bag with spiders. Yuck!

Dinner was a horrendous affair of Backcountry Cuisine’s Thai Curry. It didn’t really taste like anything except fire, and I was seriously worried it would corrode right through my oesophagus. I lay in my tent for hours listening to the Savage Lovecast, occasionally running my hands along the inner walls feeling for condensation.

The rush of the river became white noise, it was humid and I suddenly felt lonely. Having the guys as hiking pals was great and provided good camaraderie, but it wasn’t the same as having someone to hug and to love. What I felt was more of a physical manifestation of a lack of cuddles more than actually feeling alone in the world, so I lay on my side staring at the hundreds of frustrated bugs clinging to my tent mesh. Suckers. I also missed having some women to talk to. Most women you meet while travelling will instantly feel like a sort of sister, you have an immediate unspoken connection. Thru-hikes aren’t exactly hubs of feminine energy, but I lay thinking of my good girlfriends until darkness settled and we all drifted off to sleep.