Pelorus Bridge – Captain Creek Hut

Aaaaand we are back to rude 06 o’clock awakenings. I left the shower dripping with both water and dread, knowing that the next one would be around Christmas – nine days away. Toby and I + the Swiss boys split into pairs, trying our luck getting a hitch on separate ends of town. We looked so darn cute, but somehow failed to charm the locals. After hitching in the US I’d grown accustomed to getting rides at the blink of an eye, why was New Zealand being so iffy? After about 200 cars had passed us with me muttering after them “Have a nice day sir…. IN HELL!”, we slinked back to Blue Moon Backpackers and persuaded one of the hostel workers to stuff us in his tiny car. You don’t know what intimacy is before you’ve hitched with four thru-hikers and their (already) smelly gear.

Once at Pelorus Bridge (The Hobbit location!), team Swiss went to pick up their resupply box while Toby and I hit the spectacularly long road walk ahead. Soon the sun was blazing overhead as we powered through endless farmland into the hills. Thru-hiker conversations typically centre around food or gear, but soon Toby and I found ourselves unveiling our innermost thoughts to each other. He revealed shocking and devastating things about his past in a Christian cult in Edmonton. The trail was an escape for him, a chance to set out his own course and defy the pointless limits that had dictated his life. To my surprise, I felt like the worldly one, asking probing questions, deconstructing his opinions and judgements. Up until now I had always been the seeking one, grabbing answers with both hands, willing them to lead me. But for the first time ever, I felt sort of… settled, as if I’d found my place in the world.

I think the trail is a good place to vent such thoughts. We are all equally alone in traversing long miles and feeling the same pains, most of us are very far from home. At the road’s end and the official start of the Pelorus River Track, it became very clear that the big miles we’d dished out on the QCT were history. The track deteriorated with every km. The trail itself slanted downward at a calf-killing angle, and constant roots and ledges made for extremely slow going. We crawled about for a couple of hours until we reached a signpost for “The Emerald Pools”. Without a moment’s hesitation we threw down our packs and bolted for the greenstone-coloured pools in the Pelorus River. The first two seconds were absolute bliss. The water was gorgeous and cool on our boiling bodies.

However. We were now in sandfly country. This infamous beast stalks the mountains and riverlands of the South Island, sucking the life out of unsuspecting tourists. Suddenly the air was black with them, and our moment of peace turned into panic as we scrambled up the stony shores and tried to wriggle back into our clothes before the flesh was eaten off our bones. I cursed as they bit into my ankles, knowing they would be a recurring feature of the TA for a good while now. Back on the trail, I was stopped dead by a chestnut-sized spider in the middle of my path. I poked at it with my trekking pole, expecting it to flee. But the monster reared up on its hind legs and thrashed at me! I screamed and leapt around it, not slowing down until I was certain Little Shelob was safely behind me.

Reaching Captain Creek Hut felt more like a necessity than a victory. The hut was tiny, old and stifling hot. A quick once-over of the many spiderwebs sent me pitching my tent in the sandfly-infested meadow outside. The American hiker South was already there, enjoying his third cup of hot cocoa while pitching his hammock in the trees. We all spent some agonising hours inside the hut, holding bottles filled with cool river water against our faces and stomachs. The QCT suddenly seemed very civilised. Being out here in a shallow gorge in the midst of thick forest was a paradigm shift away from the lofty ridges along the coast. We retreated to our moist tents as twilight settled, to the faint sound of South humming behind the trees.

 Captain Creek Hut - Browning Hut

Today was a day of crossing over. Over swooping swing bridges, into wilder terrain and a rougher headspace. The trail was beautiful, but unforgiving on city legs. We started out together in a sunny morning, but the trail soon demanded complete zooming-in on the immediate. For hours I climbed up through the dense beech forest. Short stop at Middy Creek Hut to use the facilities. The Richmond Ranges have frequent huts, very handy at sudden onsets of bad weather. But it’s not a section you can race through, pretty much everyone takes a week or more to complete it.

My legs were killing me on the last climb up to Rocks Hut, a big airy hut on the very fringe of the treeline. Lined by fragrant manuka bushes, it remains the nicest hut we sadly didn’t stay at. I was a sweaty mess of cramps and exhaustion. I confess that post-John Muir Trail I was pretty sure I could take on anything. But in the US there are switchbacks. Kiwis don’t have time for that nonsense, and lay their trails straight up if necessary. I had to stop every few steps and shake out the lactic acid in my legs. The trail was so badly maintained, completely overgrown. Luckily we had a good long lunch. I lost the battle with my first peanut butter and Nutella tortilla, and Toby happily wolfed down the last piece. Those things must be 1000 calories. (Note: after 900+ km, the narrative went more like “gimme two of those! Three!”.

A more forgiving white trail let me stretch my legs a bit coming away from Rocks Hut. Mistake. A small but gnarly root hooked onto the front of my boot, pierced it and catapulted me forward. I managed to twist onto my side as I fell, nearly splintering my shin. Holy shit! That nasty little bugger had completely penetrated my Gore Tex mountain boots, leaving a modest but gaping hole. Well well. The wild bites back, apparently.

Not long after, I came to an area I can only describe as a bomb-site. Huge trees were uprooted and seemingly tossed in a haphazard heap I was somehow meant to navigate. It took over 20 minutes to crawl over the huge trunks, backpack and body catching on everything. Sweaty mess take two. Over 600 km later I would learn that this site is famously known as The Apocalypse. The trail had climbed high, and I could see looming green mountains ahead. A few kilometres further on, I was treated to a proper view when the trees thinned out. Toby sat waiting for me on the sunny golden hillside. We could see the mountains petering out into small hills towards the coast. There, far below lay the town of Richmond, where people drove cars and sat in air-conditioned rooms. How much they were missing out on!

“This is what I came for” Toby sighed as we sat admiring the view and had a snack. Indeed, the North Island seems rather hellish with its 800 km of road walking and limited altitude. We would trace the crest of the eastern Southern Alps until we were passed Queenstown towards the last leg of our journey. A world away from this scorched hillside…

 Browning Hut - Slaty Hut

Ever more efficient at dismantling camp, we stuffed down our moist tents and set off into the crisp morning. Toby and I kept a good pace through the forest and frequent river crossings to Hacket Hut, where he drew off and I was left alone for another heinous climb. I’d been nervous about the weather after last season’s constant rain, but it looked like we were in for a splendid summer. I’d braided my fringe off my forehead to help with the heat and felt rather gutsy staking along the green trail with Eddie Vedder’s voice in my ear. Those were the early days of my infatuation with the Into the Wild soundtrack, which is now a staple on all my outdoor adventures.

But I was at the mercy of the unkept trail as it forced me to scramble hunchbacked upwards on screaming legs. The gradient was merciless, and roots and ledges kept forcing me to take huge leaps. The 10 km stretch between Browning and Starveall Hut seemed endless. Tina Turner pushed some good strides out of me, but after four hours of battle I was done in. Leaning over my trekking poles, I roared out all the curse words I could think of. Beast of a trail! What the fuck had I done putting myself out here? The tall sun-flecked trees didn’t have much to respond, astonishingly.

Whimpering through gritted teeth, I finally crawled half-dead over the treeline to Starveall Hut. It’s an amazing location, the hut is perched on an outcrop overlooking a vast mountainscape. Toby sat waiting by the table in a spot of shade. I peeled off my t-shirt and we sat down, smashed, picking at lunch for over an hour. Toby didn’t seem to get the whole “use SPF 30 or die”-thing and acquired sunburns he’d be nursing for a week.

We could see the next stretch of trail winding up a steep alpine ridge. But somehow, 300m climbs just don’t seem as bad when you’re above the trees. For the second time, we were rewarded with the kinds of views that made us want to hike the TA in the first place. Vast green mountains stretched into the far horizon, cotton clouds rolled slowly through the blue skies, and to the south lay the snowy peaks of the Southern Alps. Toby and I were completely awestruck and stumbled through the tussock along the ridge, drinking in the views. The dreadful climb to Starveall was only a faint throbbing memory in our feet now, all our world was mountains and sky. Too soon the trail dipped back down into the trees, but I pushed hard throughout the forest until I reached the ridge above Slaty Hut.

Nestled in the high tussock just above treeline, Slaty married cosiness with a spectacular location. Our afternoon was a blissful few hours snacking on jerky, chatting and drying out our wet gear in the tall grass. I wrote my journal and looked at my now tan knees. A few scrapes here and there from various slips, but I felt amazing. Patrick and Etienne caught up in time for dinner, and we all sat munching the mushy contents of our freeze-dried bags on the hut porch in the last orange rays. I was melting with happiness and so ready for bed, but Toby pushed us all to do an extra sunset hike. My feet screamed in protest, but he coaxed us all up the steep hill into the pink sky. We climbed up to the top of the tussocked mountain and were smacked in the face by the most splendid sunset imaginable. We were in the sky; everything was blue and gold and beautiful and ours.

Just writing about it now – years later - gives me goosebumps. How wild it was, how crazy hard and glorious to rise up into this remotest outcrop of the world, electric with power and joy.

 Slaty Hut - Rintoul Hut via Little Rintoul & Mount Rintoul

We were models of effectiveness since we had no tents to pack up, and by 07 Toby and I were already climbing the ridge behind Slaty Hut. It was the most gorgeous morning you could possibly imagine: a high sun, majestic mountains 360, and fluffy blankets of cloud spilled over the mountaintops like waves on a beach. We were above the clouds, on top of the world. It was so beautiful that we almost cried. Today was going to be a whopper, we were summiting two mountains  - Little Rintoul and Mount Rintoul - and the treacherous Emyn Muil-like scree between them.

We knew that those clouds were all but beautiful from the inside. The Richmond Ranges are famous for their whiteouts, and this day was the worst of all to have bad weather. *For any future TA hikers: do NOT attempt this stretch in bad conditions. You will see nothing, and it is dangerous. If you are alone, please join up with others. Toby and I walked the ridges toward the wall of white coming towards us, savouring the last rays of sunshine.

It felt like walking into a different world. From one moment to the next we were engulfed in icy cold, and the splendid sunny day turned into thick fog. I could hardly see Toby only a few metres behind me. Everything was dead quiet. We picked our slow way ahead through the tussock and down into the cover of beech forest. Wisps of mist drifted through the trees, emptying the world of all sound but our muted footsteps.

Hours dragged by until we reached a clearing opposite Little Rintoul. The summit was covered in clouds, and there was rain in the air. We knew we had the option of diverging off trail towards Old Man Hut and wait out the weather there, but the thought of making this stretch even longer than it was wasn’t exactly tempting…

And so we continued past the junction towards Little Rintoul summit. A quick tortilla with peanut butter & Nutella (Toby poured some chips on his for extra morale) was all the lunch we had time for before beginning the long, steep climb up the rocky path. Rain started drizzling down. Through the trees, up, up, up. Once above treeline, I had the feeling we were perched on a precarious outcrop, but I had no way of knowing in the fog. I felt dizzy with thirst and vertigo from the steep climb, there were no water sources. No summit view either, since we could hardly tell up from down.

The descent from Little Rintoul reminded me of the moment on a roller roast ride when the car reaches the top and you are suspended in a moment of nauseating arrest before the fall. Rocks and scree formed a loose clifface so steep I could not believe this was the actual trail. We inched our way down. Every so often we’d step on a loose rock and almost fall. We couldn’t see anything but mist. It was sickening. My thigs were burning from bracing myself when suddenly the ground gave away beneath my feet.

“TOOOOOBYYYYYY!” I screamed in terror as the tiny ledge we stood on broke off with a giant crack. We careened down the mountainside, loose rocks pummelling down around us. Toby’s muffled shouts echoed back at me through the mist, and I went stiff with primal fear knowing that we were going to die. Until, miraculously we came to a halt in a cloud of debris still standing. Not a scrape. My legs quivered beneath me. I’d peed my pants a little. This was beyond my kind of adventure, this was fucking dangerous.

Nor was it going to end anytime soon. I leaned into Toby, who was also shaking like a leaf. WHY had we done this? Our day was far from over, we now had to face the winding paths up the higher Mount Rintoul. The mist showed no signs of yielding, and we had no choice but to plaster ourselves against the rock, sliding our feet forward on what looked like narrow ledges – we couldn’t know if we were about to fall off the mountain or not. Toby – possessing a man’s crap survival instinct – was cracking off jokes and grabbing the challenge with both hands. I willed for the day to be over – I was spent down to the last nerve.

Mount Rintoul summit was a flat, viewless ordeal. It was like walking on a non-red Mars, just grey air and more rock. One last plummet down the pebbly scree down into the forest. Reaching the battered Rintoul Hut was like finding an oasis in the middle of the desert. It rained steadily as we dragged our shattered bodies into the small hut and sank down on the bunk beds. Amazingly we’d done the estimated 9 hours from Slaty in just over 5. It felt like a lifetime. We hung up our clothes, made tea, lit the fire, massaged each other’s feet, and I curled up in my sleeping bag to nap. Both body and mind were exhausted. We had no idea where Patrick and Etienne were, and I lamented losing our group. But lo and behold, at almost 18 they stomped like wet puppies into the hut! We were so happy to be reunited, and spent hours psyching each other out over today’s gut-wrenching trail. Now that it was over and I was snuggled up with spaghetti bolognese, I remembered that morning’s beauty and thought well, at least my life scores high on the extraordinary factor!

 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.

 Mid Wairoa Hut - Hunters Hut

What an absolute motivation low point this morning was. My tent was soaked in rain and condensation from the nearby river, sleeping bag was soggy, we all moved around like sluggish zombies. Even Toby, usually the most pumped of us, was exhausted and quiet. It was unforgivingly cold as we started up the steep track right behind Mid Wairoa Hut. Starting the day on an uphill is the worst, my legs always cramp up when I haven’t warmed up properly.

The section of track along the Wairoa river towards Top Wairoa Hut is notorious for its bad conditions: poisonous plants, constantly wading the shallow rockbed of the river, and sidling for hours. We scrambled and crawled over roots and ledges at a hairy angle on the sides of the gorge above the river. The trail looked as if it had never been maintained. We knew today would be massive (it turned out to be one of the longest and hardest days on the whole TA). I was whiny and tired after a bad night’s sleep, and Toby shouted and cursed from being stung by a bee. Long parts of the TA are swarming with wasps, so beware if you’re allergic. They mostly left us alone, but today of all days they had to meddle.

And then, after a knee-crunching climb and our umpteenth river crossing, Toby spotted a calm greenstone-coloured pool in the river underneath a drooping beech tree. The river cascaded down in the morning sunlight, and we didn’t even need to speak out loud – time to make this day memorable. We peeled off our clothes – I was now in continental mode and ditched my sports bra too – and dove in. The water was freakishly cold, but felt wonderful the way only wild swims can, and we squealed as we splashed around. Patrick and Etienne followed close behind and screamed as they threw themselves in. What a morning!

We spread out on the warm white rocks and soaked in the sun. For two hours we just lay there, feeling that the world was ours. It’s amazing how such simple things can turn your day around. I thought about the signature song from Annie and knew what today’s blog title would be. Leaving our little wilderness resort to continue on toward Top Wairoa Hut, Toby and I promised one another that we would always stop to swim in the rivers. This is universal advice to all hikers: always stop. Always take the extra moment to make the day worth remembering.

On the steep climb towards the bright orange Top Wairoa Hut, the landscape changed completely. Lush beech forest was replaced by arid red desert. Prickly plants grew out of cracks in the black, volcanic-looking rock that tore at our boots. New Zealand sure knows how to stun at every turn! This was the kind of landscape I’d expect to see in Arizona. We stomped up a massive hill through the tussock and into alpine terrain. There’s no way my calf muscles will ever get used to this strain. Once dainty, they were now like logs to both touch and sight. Reaching the summit felt like a victory as always, and we stood in awe at the vast expanse spreading out before us. We could see the end of the Richmonds at last! Green mountains faded into hills before they popped up again into the Southern Alps. Snack tiiiiime!

It was almost 15.00 already. The hot afternoon sun scorched high above, and our Guthook map app told us Hunter’s Hut was still 8 km away. Dang! We’d spent so long on the first section of today, and we were by no means in for an easy stroll. Team Swiss were somewhere behind us, so Toby and I marched across a huge scree field and down into a riverbed valley. The trail was finally better graded, it undulated up and down amongst bone-dry trees endlessly. I was spent. And hungry. We were nearing the end of the stretch, and my food supply was growing thin. I spent hours torturing myself with thoughts of the New World superstore in Wellington. What would I grab if I had ten minutes in there? …or even just five? Fuck, I could grab a bunch in just one minute! Desperate longing for apples, avocados, pizza, zesty lemon meringue pie filled my head toward insanity. The walk was beautiful, but I felt only insatiable hunger. I needed Hunters Hut, now!

We were absolutely shattered by the time we crawled onto the porch. Hunters Hut lay perched on a small outcrop overlooking the valley. To our delight Anja and a spunky girl named El from Oregon were already there, and we had a lovely evening spread out in the spacious hut. We munched Team Swiss’ surplus energy bars, fantasised about emptying the store in St Arnaud, and stretched in the sunset light by the picnic table outside. Despite this day being hellishly long, it stood out as a highlight of the trail so far. To top it off, when Etienne reached the hut, he handed me my red La Sportiva trail runner, which had fallen out of my pack on the scree slope. “Did you lose a shoe?” he asked with a smile. I almost sank to the floor with relief. Not sure if I could take any more excitement now!

 Hunters Hut - Red Hills Hut

I felt like I’d woken up from the dead. I’d slept so deep that when I woke up once in the middle of the night, I actually didn’t know where I was for a minute. This was our last full day in the Richmonds. It had been an intense journey. St Arnaud shone like a beacon ahead, and my squad and I logged out of Hunters Hut steadfastly at sunrise.

What a gorgeous day! Not a cloud in the sky, and the pretty trail cruised between fragrant manuka bushes, up rocky slopes before swooping back down again into dusty riverbed floors. I plugged in my favourite Christmas CD by Norway’s female student choir. The music was arranged by a distant relative of mine, and it felt so calming and homey to briskly walk the hillsides towards Porter’s Creek Hut. Today was hot and dry, but a breeze after the harsh terrain we’d put behind us. We snacked as we walked, only too keen to get to our destination. I swooned at the thought of the food I’d devour in St Arnaud. Cakes, Ice tea, pizzapizzapizza, omnomnom..!

Toby and I had developed into a solid twosome by now. He was exceedingly generous, always brewing tea for us in the evenings, handing me my trekking poles after a sunscreen-application break, waiting on top of hills if I fell behind. He even shared his Snickers. Snickers, as my fellow hikers will know, are a non-convertible currency. He was quiet and unassuming, expressed himself in simple terms and generally had a more stable mood than me. I’d gently push him away when he got too close, but I liked hiking with him. Patrick and Etienne were an equally dynamic duo. Etienne would glide along on worldliness and luck, Patrick was the technician, always administrating logistics behind the scenes. We made a for a quirky bunch.

El – whom I would never see again after this stretch – was another character altogether. Absorbed in the immediacy of her surroundings, she cared nothing for destinations. When our 4-pack reached Red Hills Hut after a straightforward day of stomping along briskly, she would waltz in at sundown telling us about the three waterfalls she’d swum in and all the rocks (!) she’d gathered. Talking to her, I realised how much better she was approaching this thru-hike than me. 1400 km of walking can feel like a lot of work. But El taught me to saunter, to go gentle. However satisfying it was to fly past trail time estimates, the real beauty lay in being fully absorbed in the moment.

Red Hills Hut was my favourite hut of the whole trail, just because it was small and clean and perfect for a temperate afternoon nap. Eating a last freeze-dried dinner on the porch in the twilight, I savoured the sweet success of just being here. Sitting out here next to El in a pool of zen-like peace and liberation was a gift. I later learned she got off the trail not long after. But wherever she went, I’m sure she was happy.

 Red Hills Hut - St Arnaud

Let us briefly forget yesterday’s life philosophy. Because it simply can’t be applied to the last day of a section when town food awaits, and you’ve walked 120 km in the most ridiculous terrain. Bring. Me. That. Town!

The morning was overcast with low-hanging clouds, and we decided to follow the 4WD track down from Red Hills down to the road. All four of us walked together, chatting happily even as rain started to drizzle down. Never mind the weather, we had pack covers and growling stomachs! I have zero memory of anything but the lumpy tracks leading down into the forest. Bye bye, mountains. Bye bye, Richmonds. One-two-three-four, repeat. Gone was the last OSM apricot bar. My pack was officially empty. Onto forest trail under a dark canopy of trees. Forest becomes field. Field becomes end of field. TARMAC underfoot!

Our zero day was spent in Utter Bliss. Minor detail: the postman had lost my resupply box. I spent ages on the phone shouting at various people until I found out it had been sent to Auckland. Right. Because when you see a South Island address on a post box, you ship it off to the northernmost north! Makes all the sense in the world! It caused me major headaches because I now had to get all my resupplies from the tiny and super expensive alpine store. I would have to do without contact lenses, book and various other items. My fellow hikers were incredibly generous and gifted me all the leftover food they had – Toby’s endless supply of instant noodles finally came in handy. We strolled to the nearby Lake Rotoiti and enjoyed our lazy holiday.