Te Araroa: letting the day unfold

Blissful Hiker is astonished  when she lets the day take care of itself, miracles occur.

In this episode:

1. Blissful continues her journey of the Te Araroa, walking south in the South Island of New Zealand. 
2. After Hamilton "Hilton" Hut it's rocky and tussock-covered terraces as well as numerous crossings in the knee-high rapids of the Harper River on a hot day.
3. At the campsite  she breaks down in tears not able to set her tent, the Alicoop in the hard ground.
4. The next day is all on road to a "Hazard Zone:" the impassable Rakaia River, where she meets two Kiwis who offer to drive her the 30 miles around it. 
5. It's uphill through cicada-filled meadows and at the saddle, she meets Tomaš and they plan to tackle the next "Hazard Zone" of the Rangitata River together. 

MUSIC: Poema del Pastor Coya by Angel Lasala  as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano

Transcript

I have the morning all to myself on this last leg of the Harper River Track. It’s road now gravel that’s stirred up whenever a car passes, which isn’t often. I was the first to leave from the campsite, mostly because I love the morning light, the cool air and having the path ahead to myself. 

It was hot yesterday walking along the river in rocky riverbed that hurts my feet followed by multiple crossings in cold rapid up to my knees. I broke down in tears at the site when I found it impossible to set my tent, the alicoop, in hard-as-rock soil. Not until we turned over the lone picnic table to cerate shade did I relax. I’m embarrassed that I wear my heart on my sleeve and vow today to not panic about what’s ahead. 

Not particularly easy considering ahead is what the Te Araroa trail notes label a “hazard zone.” A huge braided river that’s impassable on foot. This means a 30 mile detour. Most everyone has arranged a ride into town, but I’m not certain I need another town stop. Hitching a ride in this lonely outpost could prove tricky, but I just keep walking and repeating my mantra that the trail will provide. 

I see two people along the side of the road. Trampers up earlier than me? Hmmm, no packs. Oh and there’s a car. It’s a man and woman about my age, Neil and Kate – pronounced “Kat” in shorts, loose tops, trainers, and floppy hats. I say hello and ask my standard question if they have a beer to sell even if it’s 7:00 in the morning. No, but we have an apple. Ah, even better. We chit chat and I tell them what I’m doing hiking the length of their country om the Te Araroa. They show me the St. John’s Wort they’ve collected on the side of the road. Happy yellow flowers with five petals and one’s I’ve seen all along the trail. 

I take their picture and thank them for the apple when I suddenly have the presence of mind to explain my predicament with the hazard zone ahead. Neil doesn’t miss a beat and offers me a ride. But won’t I mess up your plans? “’S’all right. Get in!” 

It’s day 94 of my Te Araroa thru-hike and I’m about half-way down the South Island. I’m up late for me, but it’s a short day to the campground and after that, the trail ends at an impassable river requiring a pre-arranged – and expensive – ride, or risking a hitch. The sun turns the clouds mauve, the top of the gravelly mountains, orange.

A quartet of Kiwis, a German, and Englishman plus my two Dutch friends I met way back at the beginning of this epic adventure are here at Hamilton Hut. We work on finishing a jigsaw puzzle and play a game called word of  ‘word of the day.’ Somehow I pick ‘the.’

The trail is along – and through – the Harper river, with multiple crossings in knee-high rapids as well as multiple searchings for some indication of the track on rocky, tussocky terraces between thorn bushes and brooding mountains. 

Floris, Marjolein and Jess – pronounced ‘Jiss’ – catch me and we navigate together flat, but surprisingly hard to walk on terrain. It’s not just grass, but bushes filled with ghostly webbed chrysali, and tiny, bright orange butterflies fluttering from flower to flower.

We get lost in a thorny nightmare, with sticky plants casually grabbing at our clothes, one drawing a spot of blood. Once we’re in, there’s no backtracking and we are finally ejected on a 4x4 track. A waterfall in three parts feeds the river. I see fish and tiny creatures in their watery home. Mountains ahead still have snow pack.

We stop on a grassy bank shockingly free of sandflies, but blazing hot in the sun, the wind offering only minimal relief. Food is shared – cashews, pretzels, chocolate – as we long for a proper salad.

Next it’s a complex and massive river delta, stream upon stream rushing to find the shortest and fastest route to the river. I step into the deliciously refreshing cold rush, then onto banks of wild rose, faded pink and abundant. The mountains look on as I search for my own route through the jumble of rock and thick growth, the orange poles showing up exactly when not needed, after the messy bits and once the trail is obvious.

An aggressive, new, do-not-mess-with-me electric fence enclosing absolutely nothing at the moment hems us into a narrow strip. It’s windy and getting hotter. I feel totally enervated wanting to lay myself completely in the stream.

I reach a quarry with a large garage and vehicles, a few houses scattered about and the ‘campsite’ – likely set up by the locals to keep us from camping in their fields replete with a water faucet, a long drop and large piece of grass for our tents in the blazing sun. The ground is so hard, it’s nearly impossible to set the alicoop. I burst out crying in frustration. 

The others come to the rescue, piling rocks and holding her in place while I get organized and laughing at me. Marjolein tells me to relax and wait until later to set. I guess it’s just habit to want it up right away – and it does offer a refuge from sandflies. But she’s right, what’s my hurry? 

I take a mini shower at the faucet before a couple drives by in a camper, a kayak strapped on top for Lake Coleridge, impossibly turquoise and off the trail. I ask if they might have a beer to sell. They go one better and give us a bottle of cabernet to celebrate 2200 kilometers walked.

The picnic table has been tipped to create maximum shade and we wait for the sun to go down before we dare enter our hot, airless tents. Food is made and consumed, the wine shared a few sips each. There are at least twenty TA hikers at this site. Loads of room, but it feels like far too many. Naomi did not look happy when I told her there’s a total fire ban in place. She has bragged that her monstrous posse loves making their monstrous bonfires.

The good news is I’m in the alicoop in the shade now, flies buzzing outside longingly, but unable to get at my flesh. I haven’t been in my cozy space since the Pelorus River, over two weeks – and a lifetime – ago and I love it.

A low murmur of voices wakes me up and I’m up and out fast. I still feel pretty alone on this hike, but I know I can join in their energy if I want to by going into town. Except for the heat and the flies, I’d like to keep walking since I’m carrying so much food still left over from packing extra days for the hard sections these past weeks. 

It was such a lovely night with brilliant stars and later a crescent moon on her side. People arrive late and release their dogs next to the no dogs allowed sign. At least they moved further down the way and got quiet fast. Again, I need to remind myself to put my trust in the trail and believe that things will work out as I get closer to the road. 

The sun burns gold on the mountaintops that hem me in against purple shadow. In front of me is the only road sign of all 3,000 kilometers that warns traffic of Te Araroa hikers. Cars that pass me leave a wide berth, but stir up heaps of dust. It’s going to be a long morning for this TA hiker.

I pass Lake Selfe, mistaking the name for selfie and immediately taking one for good measure. The sunlight hits me straight on, creating a sparkly glow around fantails flirting and twerking nearby. The grass shines like oiled plastic.

The German named Cheese Man catches me and passes, regaling me with stats on his phenomenal speed. I immediately slow down to take photos.

I take many stops for water on this unusually hot day, passing a sign toward Mount Olympus. I pass Cheese Man resting by the river with breakfast and again and he repeats his itinerary for the day adding he’s really going far too fast. Perhaps it’s because I find this litany of his prowess so annoying, I move on – and that’s when I run into Neil and Kate.

They offer me a ride but Cheese Man is no where to be seen, perhaps he’s swimming or maybe he really wants to go to town and would decline a ride. But here I am falling into the embrace of the trail providing. Two people out on a brilliant Saturday morning and just happen to be directly in my path right when I need them

It’s these sorts of things I don’t question – I just accept with gratitude. Neil is a professional photographer and Kate, a primary school teacher, both from Christchurch and super cool. We chat the entire way about why the Rakaia is considered impassable on foot – “People get hurt in the mountains but they die in rivers,” – the controversy surrounding the use of 1080 to get rid of all the introduced predators on New Zealand, how Kiwis say ‘in the South Island, not on,’ my work and their familiarity with Garrison Keillor, that it’s really cold in Minnesota now, and how St. John’s Wort is good for all that ails you. I should have asked for some for my sandfly bites.

Most important we speak of tramping and how hard it is, how often ‘un-fun’ – they both laugh at my name Blissful Hiker. But Neil says that level of fun which is a hard struggle and is only fun later upon reflection. I feel this every day at the hut or in my tent, looking back with satisfaction, pride and yes, a bit of bliss at what is oftentimes a slog.

At first they offer to get me to the main road, but once we get to talking, they decide to drive me all the way around the Rakaia, on bumpy, dusty backroads, past aptly named Terrible Gully and finally to a green and yellow DOC sign marking the Te Araroa. 

I am so grateful they were willing to take me around the river, about 50 kilometers. This trail leaves the hiker with many awkward – and oftentimes expensive – details to work out. I really didn’t want another town break, rather preferring to continue hiking. 

We arrive at the trailhead – a term Neil says is pretty un-Kiwi – they fill my water bottle, let me take a picture of Neil’s business card for when I’m in Christchurch in two months to meet Richard, and off. The next section is elegantly named, Rakaia River to Rangitata River, a three-day section in between two hazard zone. It’s uphill amongst grazing cows, needing to crawl under an electric fence into soft grassy mountains intersected by rushing streams where I fill my hat and dump it over my head. One all black cow eyes me, her huge also-black udder swinging as she warily passes then moos a bit distressed. A huge zigzag ahead takes me over a saddle with a last look back at the enormous spread of the Rakaia before entering higher and drier country.

A man sits in the wild flowers ahead. It’s Tomaš! “I have been waiting here two days for you.” And we both burst out laughing. Kačka, Kuba, Amelia and Jean-Christophe race ahead but he has some ankle pain and is taking it a bit easier, though he flies ahead of me as I work towards the first hut in this beautiful countryside, cicadas leaping into my face buzzy against my skin.

It is the cutest – and tidiest – little three-bunk A- frame set next to a stream. He says he’ll stay here, and I do too. I wash up, put on my $7 Nelson charity shop dress and make an early dinner in the shade as loads of bugs land on me buzzing, hopping and twitching their legs, but not a single one biting. 

The Rangitata I slightly less impassable than the Rakaia – and with Tom, I think we can do it together. But that means six days to the next town and resupply. Tom says he’ll share food with me as I realize even carrying so much, I don’t have quite enough. I tell him if he gets us out of here, I’ll take him to the restaurant of his choice – and get him whatever he wants in Tekapo. 

Mindfulness coach Tamara Levitt said, “Step back. Allow things to unfold. There’s a beauty to be found in letting things be.” The sun is behind the mountains, the air delicious and cool blowing in my hair. It’s only our quiet selves in this idyllic location. Tim’s English is excellent, but we hardly speak both enjoying the easy silence between us. I sit for a long time at the stream, wild flowers in pinks, yellows, purples and white a spray of life along its banks. 

There was no way of knowing I’d end up here, the ride, Tom’s presence and willingness to share the upcoming days. Sometimes all you can do is smile and accept good fortune when it comes, promising – when it’s possible – to put out your own gifts and kindness out into the world and always trust that things have a weird of working out, especially if you keep moving forward .