Wild camp – Camp Stream Hut via Stag Saddle (TA High point)

Giddy with excitement we set out towards Stone Hut. Yesterday had been a whopper, and today would be even bigger. Stag Saddle, the high point of the TA, was on the menu. But we could do anything. We would turn around and beam at each other because we were living the thru-hiking dream. We crossed Bush Stream, now a harmless little river hosting little pools we would have delighted to swim in if we’d had time. Stone Hut was a neat but old little place, nestled in a shadowy nook across a swingbridge.

Tussock and sky still stretched endlessly in front of us as we trotted through the heat to reach Royal Hut for lunch. No more than an iron shack, it was still one of the solitary places I had dreamed of for months when the trail was only a plan and not yet reality. There was still no well-worn trail to be found, and the long grass wasn’t so soft the 70 000th time it brushed against my calves. But the real enemy hidden in the gold was speargrass. It looks like a small green palm bush. But in reality, it is a bridal bouquet of daggers. The blade-like leaves don’t bend even a centimetre, leaving you with outright stab wounds if you so much as grazed it. We could always tell when someone had walked into a speargrass bush by the screams.

I named this entry from a chapter in one of my favourite books, His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. The main characters find one another at last, and in their union the whole universe is aligned, and all is put right. My partner in love just so happened to be a country and not a man, but it felt just as fitting. Our expensive hopscotch ride from Boyle to here finally met its end. The trail dished out both challenges and rewards in tremendous splendour, and it felt so good to wallow in this dessert stretch. Lunch at Royal Hut after a swim in the crystal-clear river was heaven. Munched a PB&Nutella tortilla while I dried in the sun in my undies. The soles of my feet were starting to look pretty battered, but I was proud of how well they’d held up this far – not a single blister save that one day into Hanmer!

The climb up to Stag Saddle from Royal Hat seemed endless, like I’d done nothing but walk upwards since my birth. Every step an automatic response to the heat beating down. Compared to the crazy altitudes on the John Muir Trail, Stag Saddle wasn’t challenging in oxygenated terms, it was just so darn hot and steep. Every time we came to a small stream we would stop and wade in to cool our feet and legs. At one point even Toby had to sit down, head in his hands to pant like a dog. “PUSH!” we screamed at each other, responding with any version of “AAAARGH!”. Tussock + scree + sky = Stag Saddle! YATZY! A lonesome green sign marked our long journey’s high point, and we sank down to enjoy a passionate hour of phone reception. You could see everything from up here. Lake Tekapo – another old friend of mine – glistening ultra-turquoise, the snowy Southern Alps crowned by the massive Mt Cook to our right. I scooped Nutella out of the jar with the frames of my sunglasses, not bothering to fish out my spoon from my pack. Hiker trash heaven on top of the world.

At long last we made our way down the endless ridgeline, tracing parallel to Mt Cook towards Lake Tekapo. Now we were speedwalking, relishing the blessed downhill. Today was mid-January, the height of summer, and there still wasn’t a single tree to provide any shade. No matter how much sunscreen I applied, there was nothing to stop the sun from burning me to a crisp right through my Icebreaker longsleeve. Hours trickled by as we flowed on and on. Shadows grew longer, there was always another tussocked hill awaiting. But something had changed. Even on the 10th hour of walking, the exhaustion felt so familiar, so right. I had been afraid of it before – afraid of aching feet, tired legs, the seeming inability to go on, arriving “late” to a hut as if to an appointment in the city. But as we descended towards Camp Stream Hut, logging our second 11-hour day in a row, I embraced the exhaustion as a friend, knowing that it couldn’t hurt me. Overcoming the mental barrier of extreme distance was the last hurdle which allowed me to hike seemingly forever.

I had longed for this so bad during my undergraduate days, when I lay in bed alone feeling as if there wasn’t a speck of meaning or adventure in my life. As increasing distances of the Te Araroa transitioned from imagination into the realm of memory, it filled me with ever more resolve, stamina, and toughness. A long-distance hike of 1400 sounds hard, and of course it is. But it wasn’t a task of impossibly torturous physical arduousness which I imagine marathons to be. It is a lifestyle. My arrival at the squat brown Camp Stream hut was a result of accumulated steps – some exhilarating and some excruciating. But the choice to spend a season living outside, carrying my life on my back, was the best one I’d ever made. I lived extremely simply, eating carb-stuffed food, walking from A to B day in and day out for almost 40 days. My legs looked absolutely butchered from constantly brushing against the tall grass. I’d acquired an odd-looking tan line across my hands from my trekking pole straps. And I felt wonderful. My clothes were stiff with dirt and sweat, I stank to high heaven – but I still felt like I had walked into being the best version of myself I could possibly be.