Mesopotamia Station – Wild camp by Pack Horse Stream

We were three hopeful hikers in the backseat of a Methven Transport shuttle. Our poor driver hadn’t ever driven to the trailhead before, and we felt slightly guilty knowing that we paid way less than the distance qualified for. The sky was a hesitant blue after the storm, whisps of cloud floated over dewy pastures and beyond the mountains on the horizon. Mesopotamia Station and Bush Stream trailhead lay in a vast valley flat, just southeast of the now flooded Rangitata river. Wild mountains crowned the basin on all sides. I had been here before. Twice. Across the valley floor lay a lonely hill, just below the thin layer of cloud separating it from the blue sky. Edoras. Seeing Mt Sunday again filled me with an intense longing. I’d walked almost 700 km to get there, to the place I had first come to seven years earlier when I’d discovered New Zealand as a 15 year-old. The Te Araroa had given me so much, but I felt raw and robbed at missing this spectacular highlight. Edoras had become a sort of Mecca, a destination for pilgrimages. It was with a heavy heart that I turned away from the sore sight of the valley and walked alongside my two friends across the gravel carpark and into the narrow chasm leading into the mountains.

We picked our way through the loose rocks leading to Bush Stream. Everything was fine until we reached our first crossing. The river was heavily flooded, more than waist deep, rushing rapidly and completely impassable. We were trapped, but we couldn’t go back – not this time. And so we waited. An hour passed, then another. Waiting for rivers to run low is not unusual in New Zealand where the water levels change so rapidly, but after two hours of sitting by the banks, we were fed up and decided to test the waters. The powerful torrents nearly swept us away when we were just knee-deep. Fucketyfuck. We were getting desperate and tried backtracking downriver until we came to a spot where it flowed wider. Linking arms behind each other’s packs, we inched our way forward. Shuffling our feet over the shingle and rock riverbed, we used our poles as extra legs and braced against the current threatening to tear us apart and sweep us downstream. Holy hell! It was exhausting, but we finally reached the opposite bank with quivering legs. Great, only three more crossings to go!

There was no safe riverbank to stick to, the braided river twisted across rocky ground through a gorge with mountain walls on each side. We tried a flood route, climbing straight up on moist soil, pulling at branches, and crawling on all fours to escape a crossing, which left us with only two. Toby and I took almost five minutes to cross linked together, while Patrick braved the ford solo (I asked him what we would say to his mother if he failed). One more crossing left to go before the trail beckoned up through a brief patch of trees before shooting up into alpine terrain. Waterfalls cascaded down the mountainsides and splashed us as we waded like a string of pearls. The last ford being marginally less dramatic, I took a moment to appreciate how freakin rad this was. If this wasn’t braving the wilderness, I don’t know what is! This was Wild!

We collapsed in an exhausted heap on the other side and wrung up our wet socks. A peanut butter and Nutella tortilla with a hard-boiled egg on the side (I know) had never felt more deserved. But, as they say, the best is yet to come. Having crossed Bush Stream, we were officially entering the wild and desolate Two Thumb Range. And it began by going UP. As in, straight up. Our toes and trekking poles were the only points to touch the ground as we pummelled ourselves up the mountain. Through the trees and out into a pot of golden sunshine. The heat immediately became scorching, but in a familiar way that we knew (and I loved).

Reaching the top of that saddle remains one of the extreme highlights of the entire Te Araroa. The sun splashed us low from behind, and ahead were hundreds of kilometres of wild golden mountains. There wasn’t a tree or a bush in sight, only long amber grass covered the landscape. I took off my pack and gazed into the horizon beyond the mountains. We had come so far. Knowing that there was still far to go didn’t scare me the least, I had long established that this trail life was for me. I was good at this. Better than I’d been at university and relationships and… life. I was just good at loving this land, living in these moments. Beyond the scree descent from the saddle, there wasn’t really anymore trail to speak of. We could pick our way through the gold any way we wanted, crossing a bubbling brook and carefully stepping around occasional speargrass.  

The day was waning. We were all but swimming in gold as the sun hung low on the mountains. Fatigue set in pleasantly, it felt only rewarding after a day of action and hard work. I walked steadily but felt a hollowness in my stomach which could only be settled by a warm dinner. Patrick was growing really tired and lagged over 100 metres behind us. Toby started losing his concentration and rolled an ankle on the undulating ground. Stone Hut was still a couple of hours away, but a cramped old hut didn’t feel particularly inviting when we were already surrounded by such beautiful landscape.

We set up a wild camp next to a stream in the shadows after the sun had crept behind the mountains. This was the epitome of peace, of satisfaction, of thru-hiking. The three of us may as well have been the only people in the world. It was so quiet. We ate dinner sitting between our tents in a triangle and wriggled out our sleeping bags. For once the night felt like it might get chilly, and I snuggled deep into my puffy. Already the first stars had popped out in the still goldy-blue sky.

I woke up in the middle of the night. Putting on my glasses, I saw Toby stand outside next to his tent looking at the sky. The millions of stars shone so bright you’d think it wasn’t even night.

 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.

 Camp Stream Hut – Lake Tekapo Village

What a morning! Again! On this momentous day we would reach the halfway point of the Te Araroa. We couldn’t have been more eager to get going, but the sunrise was too beautiful to miss. The three of us sat in our puffy jackets drinking strawberry tea and eating brown sugar oatmeal. My belongings lay scattered across the flat grass outside my tent, ready to be packed up and logged this last stretch in Canterbury before we entered Otago. This day marked true progress. And this stretch had been the most beautiful of rewards, I was completely in love with the golden landscape and endless skies. Now we were ready for a blazing finish across 30 km of sky-walking, the last 10 of which were on the gravel road lining Lake Tekapo’s shores.

Once across that morning’s river and up a small hill, we were in it to win it. The call of town beckoned, and we had never been in such a fantastically easy home stretch. We pummelled ourselves over the scorched earth at record pace. The landscape was wide open, like we were walking on the roof of the world. We crossed an actual paved road and saw the snowy Southern Alps crystal clear in the crisp morning air. How could the ground be this flat in the mountains? It was like we were perched on a plateau high up above everything, as if the ground was only there to support us while we walked into the blue. The sky was everywhere. Not high up above, it began at our feet.

Coming over the last ridge, the sight of Lake Tekapo glistening hit us with almost the same force as the wind. All our trucker hats flew off our heads and were only narrowly rescued. My feet had swelled with heat and effort, and I couldn’t get down to the road fast enough. The sun roasted us as always. Nature was so wild and gorgeous and harsh all at once. With hair whipping across my face, I thundered down, Toby and Patrick trailing right behind me. Once on the road, the wind disappeared and was replaced by microwave-like heat. We hadn’t intended to hitchhike. It was pure habit that made me stick out my thumb at the large white pickup speeding by us in a cloud of dust. Its driver seemed hesitant when he saw the state of us, but I wooed him into throwing our packs in the back and cramming us all inside. He stubbornly refused to believe that we were on a 1400 walk, but drove us speedily into Tekapo Village and food heaven.

We sank down in the airconditioned town bakery. How civilised it felt, sitting on an actual chair and not just on our butts on the ground. A shocked-looking Asian family fled their table next to us and our dirty packs. Raspberry muffin: YES. Cheesecake: YES. Ice tea: YES. Never mind second breakfast, I was down for a fifth dessert! Not that I needed a celebratory cause to justify extreme sugar-consumption, but this was the halfway point after all. Stuffed and happy we loaded plastic bags full of our favourite groceries at the Four Square supermarket and walked in the baking afternoon heat over our bunk room at the campsite. My my, we were in for a bit of fancy living! Our room was pleasantly airy in a red wooden house, with a sliding door leading right to a small porch and lawn. The beach lay just down the driveway, and we sprinted down with our towels (lol, my towel and Toby’s dishcloth) flying out behind us.

-          Last person in is a sucker!

We screamed and threw ourselves in the ice blue waters. How great was this life! We surfed on the waves, I floated on my back and let the mountain view swallow me whole. Straight ahead I could see the Two Thumb Range we’d just crossed, and behind that was 750 km of mountains. Behind me, going south, we only had to reach Twizel before embarking on another equally mountainous 700 km. But the concepts of time and distance didn’t really matter in this sunshiny moment of pure joy and contentment. Of course I could walk 750 kilometres, I already had. I was high on sugar and accomplishment, and only rolled over to splash Toby and otter-wriggle back to the shore.

Tekapo Village was so lovely and vibrant. I felt more like a tourist than ever, having been here twice before. I picked up my box containing all my future resupplies at the tourist office. Inside were my Tekapo resupplies – just contact lenses and a new book – and two small boxes with miscellaneous items and snacks meant for Wanaka and Queenstown. Beyond that there was nothing. I had reached the end of my own plans here. Everything I’d meticulously prepped in my hostel room at the Wellington YHA was between my fingers to send one last time. It felt oddly nostalgic. The Te Araroa had always been my end goal. There weren’t a dozen other thru-hikes lined up for me when I returned to Norway. It didn’t strike me as hard in that post office in Tekapo as it does now that I’m writing this exactly three years later, but I hadn’t really made any life plans beyond the trail. A Master’s degree had always been in the cards, preferably at some prestigious university in the UK. And after that, who knew? But these thoughts must have only drifted across my mind at the time, as I paid for postage and an oreo brownie from the till.

Tomorrow would be an exceptional day on the trail, as we wouldn’t be walking to get to Twizel. Patrick had booked bikes for us from Alps2Ocean, so we could tick off 60 km of waterless gravel road in one day. Walking that stretch seemed hellish, and the bike option seemed to be the standard way to go. Dirty secret: I learned to bike really late (we’re talking 10 years old), and I’d never been a particularly confident biker on uneven terrain, in traffic etc. So when a guy named Wayne dropped off three bikes for us, I opted for the one with saddle bags instead of a mini tow-trailer. Testing out my silver and blue companion felt so strange, I hadn’t biked for probably seven years at that point. But hell to the yes - I would ace it tomorrow! Act confident and no one will question you, as they say.

 Lake Tekapo - Twizel

We pedaled sleepily out of Tekapo Village in the morning sun. What a welcome change to swap our mode of transport from feet to wheels after over a month of walking! An emergency pit stop at the Tekapo bakery left me 3$ poorer and one salted caramel brownie richer. I’d snagged the bike with the plushest lady seat, meanwhile Toby was looking a little strained trying to find a comfortable spot on his tiny racing seat. We left civilisation behind after a couple of intersections, and were faced with a monstrous downhill where I really got to test my fears of skidding brakes. Once out of the woods though – literally and figuratively speaking – a grand vista opened up: an enormous flat basin scorched brown in the heat. Distant mountains, ever the blue skies, and a flat-as-a-pancake paved road with no car traffic. The ethereally blue Tekapo/Pukaki canal flowed merrily to our right, and all we had to do was push the pedal to the metal and surge ahead.

Biking felt like the ultimate freedom after over a month of travelling exclusively at walking speed. Miles and miles of paved road gave away to gravel road. It was decently hard going, but I still felt so free among the familiar sights of the McKenzie basin. The sun baked down, but my legs would never get more tan than they already were. I passed a hiker walking the stretch and felt so sorry for her – this was the ultimate way to enjoy the fantastic scenery speeding by without sacrificing feet and knees. I dutifully wore a helmet, but still relished the feeling of wind in my hair and miles flying by.

Patrick had some trouble with his trailer wheels and lagged behind for a bit. I stopped and waited for the boys. Standing above my bike, perched on a high hill just beyond a salmon farm on the narrow turquoise canal, I bit into my salted caramel brownie slab. Goodness melting inside and out. There was no denying that I was more chunky than slim at this point. But so worth it! No one could claim I wasn’t fit! We breezed down to the shores of Lake Pukaki – one of my favourite places in the world. The air was too still and the season was too late for the great lake to shine its illuminated ultra-turquoise as you’ll see on satellite images. We left the paved road to join the narrower lakeside trail, where you could only bike slowly while weaving through the tall weeds. We picked out a secluded pebble beach to enjoy our fresh hummus, peppers, and sandwich lunch.

I sank down on my towel, replacing my remarkably dry longsleeve and shorts with the bathing suit I was still (ridiculously) carrying from Hanmer Springs. I sat cross-legged, feeling the warmth of the grey stones seep through my thin trekking towel. The majestic Mt Cook loomed straight ahead, half engulfed in early afternoon clouds. I’d sat on the shores of this lake as both a 15-and 19-year-old, thinking there was no better place in the world. I still remember laughing in delight the first time I’d waded into Lake Pukaki, seeing my hands disappear only 15 cm down into the dense, radiant water. The icy coolness was offset by its soul-crushing beauty, little white-capped waves rippling across what looked like an alpine ocean. Sometimes I wondered if the red Southern Alps logo on my white Icebreaker longsleeve currently draped over my sunburned shoulder was in fact the mountainous view straight ahead of me. I’d come back as a 19-year old, needing the place to be as unchanged as I was changed – to confirm that New Zealand was indeed the place I’d carried in my dreams for years. And it was. In that moment, my long trek appeared more than anything to be a tribute to this wonderful land, a token of thanks for all the memories made which had carried me through my teenage years into adult life. This place feels more like home than my actual home ever had. I belong here more than anywhere. Had I even known happiness until I discovered New Zealand?

Today the waves were lipping gently at the shore while we baked and enjoyed some phone reception. Too soon we got dressed again and set off at an easy paddle back up towards the main road. Our last stretch of the day was 10 km of undulating gravel road between Lake Pukaki and Twizel across a wide open basin dotted by a handful of trees. Now, I’ve never experienced a runner’s high. On the contrary, I’ve scoffed at fitness maniacs who did high intensity workouts that made me nauseous just to watch from the other end of the gym. But man oh man. I felt myself soar into the most fabulous… biking high?! I’d never felt anything like it. I should have been worn out after over 50 km of biking in the summer sun. But with each kilometre blazing by I felt more and more ecstatic. Both Toby and Patrick were way behind me as I pedaled for dear life. My lung capacity felt like it had expanded 300%. I was invincible, unable to feel exhaustion or cramps. I was FLYING! So this was what all the ultrarunners talked about! How exhilarating it was to be so strong that even the wind couldn’t catch you.

I screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust at the Twizel town sign, feeling the air go out of me like a balloon. What a riot today had been. My two companions shakily demounted their bikes, Toby swore he’d never so much as look at a bicycle seat for the next two years. We walked bow-legged into the closest supermarket. I paid for three cold drinks in a daze and drank them all straight up with barely a breath in between. Dehydration is a sneaky fiend, and I felt slushy as I dug into my favourite kiwi ice cream treat. Oh, glorious day. We didn’t really need a rest day tomorrow, but we’d take one anyway just to wait out a day of rain and enjoy ourselves before diving into the mountains of Otago. Falling into the “double bed” that night next to Toby (Patrick dove for the single bed as soon as we opened the door to our room), I felt more pleasantly smashed than I had in a long time. It felt good to be home.

Zero day in Twizel

Neither more nor less than our regular food marathon and me agonising over my ever-expanding corpus in the half-length hostel room mirror. Didn’t stop me from eating a whole brownie though. Also, Toby discovered Tom & Luke’s raw balls, which will probably make up the entirety of his food weight for this next stretch. At this stage I was starting to tire of trail food, and opted for couscous, tuna packets and taco spice for every dinner. There were two packets of hot chocolate and coffee respectively in our hotel room, and I threw those in my food bag for good measure. I wasn’t a coffee addict back then (unlike now, post-MA), and figured I probably wouldn’t end up drinking them. Hah.

Twizel was pretty sleepy, not much to do other than rummage through the small local bookstore and enjoy Facebook while there was still WiFi to be had. I thought about the trail ahead. Unlike these past few days which had felt like coming home to a longed-for collection of memories, this next stretch would be a true adventure – I’d never been to that part of New Zealand before. I vaguely remembered Wanaka, the next town we would hit in a few days, as a small but lively town. But the wild mountains between here and there were utterly unknown to me. There would be some big days and big skies, and the biggest non-hazard zone river crossing – the Ahuriri river. The town stays and resupply prep had become routine now, but it was still exciting to begin something sort of new. I was marginally tired of the act of walking, and so downloaded some episodes of my favourite podcast: the Savage Lovecast. If that won’t entertain you through a thousand miles, nothing will.