Lake Ohau - Ahuriri River East Branch

I can’t exactly give wholehearted praise of the hitchhiking culture on the South Island as we have around a 50% success rate. After nearly two hours by the roadside with enormous smiles plastered on our faces, it became clear that an organic hitch was not going to happen. We called the iSite in Twizel for advice, and one of the employees ended up calling her sister, who drove us all the way to the trailhead by Lake Ohau. The sun – ever present in the Mackenzie region – disappeared the moment we set foot on the trail.

I wasn’t feeling particularly talkative or energetic, so I plugged in the Savage Lovecast for some seriously raunchy entertainment. The well-formed trail climbed through the beech forest, up above the treeline, and into familiar tussock-coated terrain. There the sun re-emerged, and we were treated to splendid vistas of mountains, streams, and faraway hills. Lunch was the perfect hiker meal, I didn’t think I would ever cease to love peanut butter and Nutella tortillas (spoiler alert: wrong) in a great location.

We decided to hike the Ahuriri Track in two days instead of one, as we had enough food but not enough oomph. Today’s 15 km felt ridiculously short, as we pitched camp in a grassy flat spot near the river just 3 km down from the hilltop where we’d eaten lunch. Being over halfway on the Te Araroa felt so odd, I felt like it had taken no time at all to get here. We had the loveliest, laziest afternoon. Against our better judgement, we tanned in the afternoon sun (always dangerous in New Zealand where the ozone layer has a big hole over it and the radiation is several times higher than Europe). I read 100 pages of my newly resupplied book; Toby, ever the generous, massaged my feet; Patrick had a dip in the nearby river, and we munched cookies until dinnertime.

It’s always a good day when spaghetti Bolognese is on the menu – the only tolerable pack of Backcountry Cuisine freeze-dried meals. We talked of trails we wanted to do and sports we’d done. I recalled with considerable resentment, days in secondary school when I’d literally hid in the school locker rooms to escape PE gymnastics. In reference to previous blog entries, I gotta say that overcoming my aversion towards big miles, hard days, and general exhaustion, had been a big personal victory for me, a create of comfort.

Thru-hikes change our perceptions of so many preferences and challenges, they are truly the ultimate catalyst of desire to improve oneself. Some things don’t even require conscious effort, they are simply overcome over time as you adapt to this lifestyle. Also, by hiking in the way that we do; not rushing, but having long lunches and wild swims, and plenty of rest days, leaves us motivated to pursue hiking passionately even when we finish the TA. Going hard until you get injured and sick of walking is not the way to go. After having lived so many years feeling terribly out of place, it was pure heaven to live each day out here where everything felt so right. I was right out here. Hiking is the epitome of active mindfulness, you can zone out and ponder your thoughts, enjoy some Savage Love, and daydream about all the comforts you will enjoy once the hike is over.

Just living these days was all I wanted. Life out here felt so complete, and I was in no hurry to get back to the world. This land of dreams was more than enough.

Ahuriri River East Branch - Avonburn Easement

I do realise that these entries fall in between categories of “hiker stories for non-hikers” and the trail research content that prospective thru-hikers crave. But it is impossible to document these days in topographic detail when the reason for me being here was so existential and has a nine-year backstory.

I watched The Lord of the Rings for the first time when I was 13. I was mesermised by the story, and dreamt of seeing the real Middle Earth (and Narnia, as it happens) during most waking hours. At 15 I came here for the first time, and every place we visited – mostly film locations – did indeed feel like something out of a fantasy world. A lifelong obsession with New Zealand took hold. I dreamt of coming back constantly, I would see the turquoise waters of Lake Pukaki instead of the blackboard at school. At the same time, I was also terrified that my memory exaggerated New Zealand’s splendour, or that the intense feeling of wonder and belonging world be gone when I returned. Everyone who knows me knows that I am utterly hung up on memory and full-circle moments. Nothing is more satisfying to me than when an event occurs exactly the same way twice. Which is why, when I returned to New Zealand at 19, I was anxious that I wouldn’t see the locations and costumes in the same light. But I hadn’t needed to fear. I was slightly more adult and responsible for myself, and I felt the panic and longing of my teen years loosen its grip. I like to say that I landed back in my time, and knew that no matter how I much I changed, New Zealand would remain the same.

What is a greater display of devotion that walking across the entire country, mile by mile? Today, right from the morning we woke up in condensation-soaked tents, I was flying on a tide of that same wild, crazed happiness. We packed up camp dutifully and set sail across the hills. There seemed to be no end to the beauty of this section, and it was as hot and sunny as anyone could expect on a midsummer day in Otago. We all walked separately through tussock and scree, crisscrossing the little river, picking our way over flats in between the low mountain walls. Aside from odd patches of green moss, the land was scorched. The trail was but a line of downtrodden sand, marker poles were few and far between, and it truly felt like we were in the middle of nowhere. At lunch we laid our tents out to dry as we feasted on tortillas, raw food energy balls, and our last boiled eggs.

The landscape opened up into a gigantic flat. The brown plains stretched ahead in every direction until it disappeared into a grey wall of enormous Gondorian mountains. The vastness of the landscape swelled within me until I felt like I was flying on the enormity of it all. This walk was my love letter to New Zealand, and this particular stretch felt like a natural anthem. It was so astonishing and magnificent that I nearly cried with happiness. For those reading these blogs for trail information, I am sorry but the spiritual cascades of this place are imperative for me to communicate.

My land’s only borders lie around my heart.

The flats came to an abrupt end on the shores of the wide Ahuriri river, which ran extremely low this dry summer. I took off everything but my panties and lay completely submerged in the cool water, which was barely deep enough to flow over my back. The opposite bank was so steep that we barely made it up and over it, but once done we perched our tents in the mid-afternoon in a lush spot where bushes and flowers competed for riverbank space. Patrick cooked himself two dinners and we lay flat out halfway inside our tents in the golden sunset. 41 days in the wild, still loving every minute.

 Avonburn Easement - Top Timaru Hut via Martha’s Saddle

A wretched start to a day. Gale force winds had pummelled our camp throughout the night. I hadn’t a wink of sleep over the violent flapping of my tent, and my trekking poles keeping the structure up were pulled right out of the ground. Even my mattress had deflated and was in need of mending. The beautiful sunrise and now still air could not outcompete the fact that I’d slept terribly two nights in a row.

I was in a foul mood as I dragged my drained body out of camp and up the long 4WD track towards Martha’s Saddle. My pelvis and lower back ached dully, and I was so tired that I felt like laying down and having a cry. Hiker readers take note: sleep deprivation can hamper your performance worse than bad food, heavy weight, or bad weather. Invest in good sleep with whatever means necessary.

After about two hours of sleepwalking and feeling utterly miserable, I caught up with the boys outside a small, closed hut. I made a cup of instant coffee in desperation (oh, those pre-Master’s degree days), and it gave me the necessary kick to keep going, but also left me quivering and slightly nauseous.

We struggled up the steep climb towards the iron-grey crag wall of Martha’s Saddle. A humongous double decker dragonfly landed on my thigh, probably thinking that my screaming pink shorts were a giant flower. For four hours we climbed up steep scree. My lower back suddenly clenched up so badly that I thought I’d broken it. I felt like throwing up and desperately gushed down two Ibuprofen. We were over 850 km in, and my body was finally starting to give in.

The views at Martha’s Saddle were splendid (as was the telephone signal), but I lay in a mangled heap ready to saw off my back and pelvis. The vast green valley down on the other side was a sight to behold. Once the painkillers took effect, we made quick business of the 7 km down the scree slopes and pristine valley to Top Timaru Hut. A lovely newbuild with a doorless toilet – not ideal – and a perfect swimming hole in the river.

We were hot as steamed vegetables and sunk our stinking bodies and all our clothes into the river. I lay down to nap topless on the stony riverbank, too tired to care about either Patrick, Toby, or the middle-aged kiwi couple sharing the hut with us. A dinner of tuna and taco spiced couscous rejuvenated my spirits enough to enjoy the waning evening light over the green mountains. We enjoyed our evening ritual of raw fruit bars and fruit tea, mentally preparing for tomorrow’s whopper day: two day stretches over Breast Hill in one go. I warned my middle-aged bunk mate that I would throw my socks on whoever snored that night, I needed sleep more than I ever had. He nodded gravely and curled up like a shrimp before the sun had even set.

 Top Timaru Hut - Pakituhi Hut via Stody’s Hut and Breast Hill

It was still dark when we stirred, never quite ready for a whopper day. Thinking back on days like this, I truly marvel at how much easier my existence would have been with the addition of coffee. Alas, no such wisdom penetrated my 22 year-old mind. The guy in the bottom bunk let rip an enormous fart. To that unceremonial starting signal, we set off before 06 AM into the dark beech forest. Straight away, the trail shot up and plunged down in a roller coaster ride of gnarly turns. The sun took hours to reach the bottom of the deep river valley where we endlessly crossed and recrossed the rocky beds of the fast-flowing Timaru River.

I had just salvaged a particularly hairy crossing with dry feet when I heard Toby laugh breathlessly behind me. He stood in a perfect split, sandwiched between two rocks, desperately stabbing around for solid ground with his poles.

“Well shit.”

I doubled over with laughter as Toby looked around wildly, as if expecting a solution to his conundrum that wouldn’t involve some gravity-defying feat of physics. He was well and truly stuck. At last he attempted a huge leap back to shore and landed square in the river with a tremendous splash. I screamed with laughter, nearly peeing my pants (again). While the river walking was rough going, nothing could have prepared us for what came next.

The climb from Timaru River up to Stody’s Hut was the most hideous ascent since the Richmond Ranges day 8 up to Starveall Hut. There was barely a trail, just an ankle-breaking jumble of roots and rocks which meant heaving myself up with each step, using my trekking poles as leverage and stopping to pant every few strides. It was another sweltering day despite the shade from the forest. I fervently listened to a Dan Savage podcast, but the juiciest relationship drama could not distract me from the strain in every muscle in my body. When at last I heaved myself out of the trees and into the clearing, I looked right into an outdoor toilet with a ginormous spider hanging down in the middle of the doorframe, and a shack that somehow had passed for a hut in the online Te Araroa trail notes.

Stody’s Hut was… an abomination. I actually cannot believe someone would spend a night in there unless there was a literal hurricane outside. Ashes spewed out across the floor from the fireplace, the wooden beams creaked desperately to hold the roof up, spiderwebs coated the corrugated iron walls. The latest hut book entry read “BEWARE OF THE GIANT RAT! IT ATE MY TOOTHBRUSH!”. Yeah, fuck that. Adios! We sat in an exhausted daze for nearly an hour, chewing through our 100th tortilla wrap with peanut butter and Nutella. Technically, we were barely over halfway. The top of Breast Hill, the final high point, was at nearly 1600m and 11 km away.

We were above treeline, but the climb ahead of us was still impossibly steep and high. It didn’t seem possible that we could still be climbing after six hours of uphill walking, and yet here we were. I gulped down electrolyte water but knew I wouldn’t be able to stay hydrated in this heat with this degree of incline.

One mechanical step in front of the other. Until suddenly, the terrain flattened out, and all my world was tussock and sky. I floated forwards, magnetically pulled by the trail itself and the silhouette of Toby far ahead. All the mountains we had crossed and would cross lay strewn around us. A little flock of sheep scattered away as we followed the massive white dirt track up towards the top of Breast Hill.

It was… Middle Earth. Stretched out ahead of us in an endless vista of the exact mountains every Lord of the Rings fan has seen on screen. Lake Hawea glistened like an enormous sapphire in the afternoon sun, flanked by patches of green and gold fields. Sky everywhere. And there, far in the distance, shooting up from a layer of cloud, lay the towering peak of Mount Aspiring. You will know it as The Lonely Mountain. The high, pointy peak, the three ridgelines forming a perfect pyramid. Unfathomably enormous, unfathomably iconic. We all sank down on the gritstone rocks, dumped our packs, and stared at the magnetic vista for an age. There was even a spot of cell reception and a white trigonometric point as on Edoras.

We had walked 900 km.  

As soon as I saw Pakituhi Hut, new and pristine in its fresh coat of eggshell paint, lying completely on its own in the golden tussock, I was consumed by the primal need to sit the fuck down. This second. I staggered down the hill with the only aim of ditching my pack – which suddenly felt like it weighed 100 kgs – and consuming something consisting entirely of sodium. The hut lay like a mirage that didn’t seem to get closer until I was upon it. I threw my pack down on the porch, tore it open, grabbed a pack of hot beef instant noodles, threw a cup of water into my pot, struck a match against the gas of my stove until a roaring blue flame sparked, and sat suffering for the minute it took for the water to boil. Toby and Patrick hadn’t even reached the hut as I drank the last of the red, divinely salty noodle broth. Actual heaven. My brain cells slowly started shuffling around enough for me to wash my face in the water tank (which had a dead bird in it – but who even cared at this point), throw my sleeping bag on a bottom bunk, and start cooking my real dinner.

What an insane day. The longest day of any hike I’d ever done, 13 hours including probably the toughest climb on the whole 1400 km trail. I was absolutely smashed, beyond physical reserves but also floored by the sheer beauty of New Zealand. My love for this place coated every strand of tussock as night fell.

Pakituhi Hut - Lake Hawea Village

Never had I known such exhaustion. It penetrated every cell of my body. It wasn’t even my own alarm that woke me, but the alarm of the Spanish couple sleeping in the top bunks. I forced open a slit of my right eye and peered out the window. Grey. The faint sound of drizzle. Hell no. I closed my eyes again. Heard Toby stir on my right. Patrick lay still like a corpse on my left, his head barely poking out of his sleeping bag. Lord in heaven. For all our rest days, big miles still had the power to wipe me out completely. I felt so heavy. Body like lead, stiff as a post, head full of cotton. All we had to do today was get off this mountain and trudge a short stretch of road into Lake Hawea campground. I guess more sporty people could have made it all the way to Wanaka in one day. But just getting out of bed was more effort than I could currently muster. I needed a good old weekend. Thank goodness we weren’t in a rush. We sat huddled in our sleeping bags, massive rings under our eyes, waiting for the rain to abate before pulling on our socks, tying our shoelaces for the 8000th time and left Pakituhi Hut behind.

The descent from Breast Hill was excruciating. Lake Hawea and the village in the bay down below were hidden behind a veil of thick mist that obscured everything but the immediate trail from view. It twisted hideously steeply down between outcrops of jagged rock, somehow managing to climb again through wet grass and heavy sand. I hadn’t seen the likes of this eerie weather since our crazy day on Mount Rintoul in the Richmond Ranges. This time we weren’t in any grave danger, as it was only a few sloppy kilometres down to the road and salvation. I had a vague perception that the fog would make for some cool pictures, and half-heartedly asked Toby for a couple of shots to put on my blog I would eventually create (YEY, here we are!). But in reality it was a real trudge. I shook my head in disbelief at the guy we met who was going up, it must have been the most heinous climb ever. The humidity inside my raincoat was stifling. I was steamed like a vegetable until I finally gave up and strapped the jacket to my pack and opted to get wet instead. Gradually the tussock gave way to green ferns, the wriggly path became sweeping switchbacks, and we abruptly came to the road.

Again, no hitchhike intended. I hadn’t even stuck out my thumb. But we must have looked so ragged and forlorn that the massive campervan driving by braked violently all the same and came reversing back to us.

“Y’all want a ride!” hollered the dreadlocked woman inside.

Patrick looked so sceptical that for a moment I wondered if he would refuse of out puritan principle, but the woman and her boyfriend had already opened the back door. They were from Virginia, they shouted back as we squeezed through the narrow kitchen and sat down on the side couches, no seatbelts. I was normally the one to make eager conversation, but I felt half a sleep as we tumbled about on the bumpy gravel road for the 10-ish minutes it took for our freethinking drivers to cruise into Lake Hawea. Patrick still seemed a little buffed that we were getting lazy about the road stretches. Looking back, I also wished we had taken fewer rides on these transport stretches of gravel road between the trailheads, but there and then it just seemed like unnecessary work. It wasn’t like we weren’t getting in enough walking. Walking was all we did, aside from eating like crap and sleeping like crap. I really admire purist thru-hikers who don’t miss a single inch of trail. I guess I am too inherently lazy (or shall we say flexible) to adopt such a rigid mindset.

All I wanted was to sit down. Sitting down seemed like the most civilised thing in the world. I just didn’t want to goddamn walk anymore. The three of us sank down at the local café amidst postcard stands and shelves of candy bars and cup noodles. We mechanically chewed through burgers and fries in complete paralysis before dragging our feet to the local campground. One shower, a call with my mother and a fresh t-shirt later, the sun had burned through all the clouds, and the day seemed much brighter. We were spending money like wildfire, but I just couldn’t bring myself to care. I walked down to the lakeshore to enjoy the view while a lazy bumblebee buzzed around me. Breast Hill and other windswept mountains crowned the lake in perfect splendour, and I could only marvel at this country where every place was more beautiful than the next.

I’d gotten used to not having anything to do for long hours in town. The campground was a ten-minute walk from the cluster of houses that constituted Lake Hawea village. Toby was beginning to feel the wallet burn and stuck to his noodles & tuna packets. Patrick and I on the other hand, craved pizza like a pack of hyenas, and trotted in our flip flops back to the store. We talked about Etienne – we still missed him and his hilarious misfortunes – and how the trail had come to be for the two of them. The golden sunset bathed us and our warm pizza boxes as we dreamily ate a couple of slices and walked back along the breezy shoreline. Patrick was such a quiet guy, but I admired his resolve – which I felt was stronger than mine at times even though the Te Araroa was a more existential quest for me. Patrick didn’t cheat at stuff. He worked hard, head down, and never complained. He was the kind of guy who would come into the office with a cold instead of staying at home with Netflix. Two years my junior, he had the mindset of someone more diligent and responsible than me, and I felt a pang of both respect and envy. The three of us were such an unlikely grouping. But that’s what the trail does in the end: bringing together people from all walks of life on the walk of a lifetime.

Tomorrow we were bound for Wanaka. I was incredibly excited to revisit the gorgeous lakeside town. I’d popped by both in 2010 and 2015, and every time it was buzzing with activity, a tourist hub on the gateway between Otago and the West Coast. Arriving in Wanaka would be arriving somewhere, not just dropping by an outcrop of civilisation. There would be proper shops, restaurants, other people. We gobbled down our carbs and settled in for the night as the sunset crept down over the Breast Hill crest and turned the world orange.

 Lake Hawea Village – Wanaka.

This entry is dedicated to Kasey Altman. We stayed in the same hostel in Wanaka and instantly hit it off. A young, vivacious girl with whom I would have been friends had our paths crossed for longer. Kasey died of Alveolar Rhabdomyosarcoma in 2022 at the age of 25.

Today was one of the days I’d been most excited about. Not for the trail itself, which was an odd combo of suburbia, road connections, lakeside walk, and native forest, but for our destination. Our first big town of the whole hike so far.

I squinted against the sun and felt the cold morning dew coat my boots as we strode across a golf course nestled between fancy-looking country estates. So these were the postcard properties people bought and never lived in. Golf course became tarmac, tarmac became hard-packed dirt track next to a shallow canal. The pleasant morning air would soon give way to another hot day. We felt like veterans striding along the walkway, shaded from the sun by thick pines.  This stretch felt a tad random in the way that thru-hikes so often do. No spectacular mountain wilderness, today we roamed a land where people lived. We passed houses that housed permanent residents, not just packs of stinky nomads like us.

Today was a taste of the connective tissue of thru-hikes, which - to its credit – the Te Araroa South Island does not have much of. This trail is so wild, so remote, that the gaps between the wonders served as a timely reminder that we were borrowing this land from the people who actually live here. On a thru-hike you are in the ultimate dreamland far beyond the reach of the everyday. Things like taxes, emails, traffic lights, bringing in the mail, stocking the fridge, washing the windows, feel non-existent. The boring side of the country you’re hiking in is mostly forgotten. You’re largely shielded from exposure to poverty, inequality, crime-affected neighbourhoods. It is a balmy escape that most hikers cite as a main perk of the experience. But I say it’s good to touch ground every once in a while. The hike to Wanaka was golden, beautiful, with families having picnics by the glittery river, no part of it was ever gritty or unpleasant. Yet it was a reminder of our borrowed time, that we are in the latter half of this journey – that there will be a time after this roaming life.

We crossed a huge swing bridge over the Clutha River on the outskirts of Albert Town and got ice cream at a gas station, the perks of civilisation. The trail was now a beautiful white track alongside the glittering river, which we followed all the way to its outlet from Lake Wanaka. Oh glory.

The water was milky blue, almost purple. The shallows stretched over 50 metres from the sandy shore (mildly inconvenient when you’re swimming continental style without a bikini top and trying to get away from the two other couples eyeing you). I gave up trying to cover myself and sank down on my knees in the pearly ripples. Surrounded by mountains and a cloudless blue sky, utter magic in itself that I was almost taking for granted at this point. I reckoned the next time I would be back in New Zealand would be a road trip gig, and I made a mental note to spend more time in the Wanaka area. This was pure South Island leisure, a beach and adventure holiday combined. Floating onto my back, sunlight burning through my eyelids, I laughed and wrote a mental note of love to this moment. This was the good life.

The trail traced the entire bay before it finally hit the bustling shores of Wanaka. For the first time ever, I’d chosen to carry my trekking poles folded up instead of using them. It had felt too odd to stake out a determined course in this civilised terrain, and the act of carrying them was about as novel a change as the thru-hiker life could afford. But yikes, it made me appreciate them in a whole new way! Without the poles, my arms hung down low. By noon, my fingers were so swollen I could hardly close my fist. I’ve never had spindly piano fingers, but now they felt like sausages – my skin so taught it actually felt quite uncomfortable. More power to poles! They really don’t get enough credit. If it were up to me, I would see them advertised on public transport: “Numerous health benefits! – David Beckham”, “My day doesn’t start until I’ve staked out some miles – Heidi Klum”.

The boys and I split ways to our respective hostels. Mine was one of those modern sleeping pod places complete with a funky-vibes backyard brimming with tan 20-something backpackers. I sat down at a table and instantly became engulfed in conversation with the crowds, mostly guys and a girl one year younger than me. Everyone asked about the trail. Kasey from the US was the first truly stimulating conversation I’d had in what felt like forever. It occurred to me how much I missed the company of women. Liberal feminists with enlightened worldviews and quick humour. The trail was my home for now, but that evening in Wanaka I felt at home in a community of people who smelled better - but were actually much more like me.

 Zero day in Wanaka

Blissful rest day! It always feels odd writing out a zero day blog, they feel a bit like fillers since you’re not actually hiking. But Wanaka had plenty of sights to see. Specifically, the borderline emotional view of an extra-large burrito, the queues at New World food store, the sight of my TWO resupply boxes including the one which hadn’t been delivered to St Arnaud. I was now overloaded with food I had long tired of. One Square Meal bars, little chocolates I’d eaten a thousand times, honeycomb-flavoured coffee. All I craved was hot food and vegetables.

We walked from place to place, eating until we could barely move. Wellness bowls, ice cream, ingested on the glittering white beach sands among the willows. I joined the boys in their hostel and said goodbye to my backpacker crowd. A map of New Zealand hung across the dark wood panels in our 1960s room. I walked my index and middle fingers down all the way from Ship Cove to where we currently were in Wanaka. Dang. It was so far. On the map, the distance was unimaginable. In my head, it was coded into a hundred thousand separate memories from the past 46 days. A month and a half. Somehow containing 100x more life than the everyday. We are hardwired to store experiences of novelty and awe in different ways than the potato-peeling activities that fill our regular days. It’s life in HD, brighter and shaper and shimmering with specialness.

The evening brought a moderate panic. I’d treated myself to a sports massage, during which a kind older woman shoved her elbow into my butt muscles until Breast Hill, Mount Rintoul, Travers Saddle, and Waiau Pass fell out. I thought I’d feel all loosey goosey, but instead the massage unleashed a flood wave of lymph that had been contained in my muscles for 900 km. My legs swelled up until I thought the skin would burst. Not the dream start to a stretch that would challenge us in ways we couldn’t yet imagine.