People show up right when the Blissful Hiker needs them in Northland, New Zealand on the Te Araroa trail, making her believe trail angels do indeed exist.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Introduccion y Allegro by Carlos Guastavino as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
available on iTunes
People show up right when the Blissful Hiker needs them in Northland, New Zealand on the Te Araroa trail, making her believe trail angels do indeed exist.
In this episode:
MUSIC: Introduccion y Allegro by Carlos Guastavino as played by Alison Young, flute and Vicki Seldon, piano
available on iTunes
It’s overcast, just as like it, but not raining and the birds are singly loudly in the fields as I walk towards the bush. Today a stream is the trail and I hear is a mystical place.
I make it an early start to avoid having to face the kayak boys. They sped off and left me alone in bumpy waves yesterday as we paddled rented kayaks into the Waikare inlet. I was cold, annoyed, well, actually, depressed, when we got to Sheryl’s place, unable to speak my mind. When they claimed the only picnic table in her yard for themselves, I kinda snapped and suggested they share.
Lots of tears, then lots of stars finally put me to sleep and here I am starting a new day. Funny how thru-hiking does that – simply erases things like an Etch-a-Sketch and you get a do over. I really know of nothing more cleansing than walking for a chance to redeem oneself.
My Lekis are like limb extensions as I walk, mostly ultra-light, though food, my rain gear and the audio tools I use to capture the sound you’re hearing add some weight. It’s easy walking through farmland with horses and cows. Someone’s got his weed whacker set on high this morning. I wonder if he’s the same guy who played his music to all hours?
I come to the Papakauti Stream. An extra large bull watches me through a screen of trees and leaves loud patties as he chews, his jaw circling sideways. I’m already a bit lost. Nothing is marked and it’s a weedy, wet, barbed wire nightmare. Is it too much to put up just a few signs?
This area is pretty much off the grid. Bashed in cars parked at odd angles have all their windows shot out. Rusting farm implements are left where they died. A swingbridge, three boards across and no hand rails spans the stream in a lazy curve to someone’s freshly mowed back yard. Their house is repaired with corrugated metal of various colors.
Someone tells me trail angels live here, but maybe I’m too early. I follow the stream and finally see a sign that tells me I’ve entered the Russell Forest. At that exact moment, Ondi lopes by in her ankle-high boots that appear too large for her feet and a man’s long sleeved dress shirt. Her backpack looks bigger than mine, but she moves along fast and I follow, knowing she didn’t get lost.
We pass a very old caravan, the knocked out window boarded over and a crooked chimney blowing out tiny plumes of smoke. “Someone lives in there?” I ask, rather stupidly. Ondi tells me that most Kiwis have a caravan next to their main house for guests or relatives. I like the idea of allowing guests their own space.
Sheryl told us this forest had collapsed last night, and then amended that to ask that if we do hear any birds, to let her know. It’s loud and alive with song, which is no mean feat. New Zealand has a nearly insurmountable problem with invasive species that are destroying the habitat. Bush possums, a marsupial introduced in the late 19th century might be the worst culprit. Brought in for the fur trade, these cute little mammals have large Disney-esque eyes and a button nose with whiskers. But don’t let that fool you. They are a menace and eat everything in the bush – leaves, buds, flowers, fruit, insects, snails and yup, eggs and birds, too.
The birds have no defense since they’ve evolved without predators. And of course, that means possums have no predators either, except man, who spend a good deal of time trapping, poisoning and shooting them, Still, it’s estimated there are 30 million possums on New Zealand, about six times the number of human inhabitants.
But someone’s worked very hard in here to clear out the invasives and the birds are back, at least as far as I can tell. I go up and down through curtains of giant ferns growing into the trail. I pass a downed tree with bright orange toadstools in a neat row.
Soon, I’m in the water walking on soft, reddish-brown stone. The water is cool and clean, every last vestige of mud and sand comes off my La Sportivas. I splash through like a kid, kicking up the freshness above my shins. It’s a fairyland of dappled light, massive fronds that trace their lineage to the Carboniferous period stroking the banks and gurgling music. Each step I take, heals whatever darkness took over yesterday with an audible plunk and kaspoosh.
We spy a swimming hole, moss curling over the edge of ground, ferns reflected in it’s mysteriously lapis surface. Of course, we strip bare and dive in. Well, Ondi dives in and I gradually work my way into the soul restoring coolness.
Ondi gives me a gift. She lets me talk. I need to. Badly. I need reassurance, validation, to just unload. I didn’t know it at the time, but this moment of trail angel kindness would be fleeting. I never really see Ondi again on my entire five-month walk. Thinking back to that perfect metaphor of a kind of baptism in the Papakauti stream, one that removed my sorrow and confusion from the previous day, I wonder if I acknowledged how much it mattered to me, how powerful her small act of kindness was in that enchanted setting.
We dress and walk on and soon leave this heavenly forest of sunlight glistening on the thick vegetation.
Ondi stops at a small campsite in the forest, the stream behind us now and I head on up and up over a ridge that will take me down to Helena Bay. Signs on this forest track warn no trespassing, poison is being used and that all dogs will be shot, no excuses. I am not entirely sure why dogs should be shot, but my guess is it has something to do with the poison.
Soon I leave the forest altogether come to a road and stop at a Maori marae to have a snack in the wind, the hot sun moving in and out of cloud. As if to honor this primeval forest I’ve just walked through, I eat some gummy dinosaurs and remember that Bram gave me the rest of his gummies last night when I felt so bad. I hope I remembered to thank him.
Ondi lumbers past and I see her at the main road putting her thumb out for a ride. The moment of truth, do I walk the next nine kilometers of road – or do I skip it? It’s not like anyone will care what I do. Funny trail, this one. You go from ‘Conjuctivitis Coast’ of blowing sand beach to epic mud to kayaking to a stream walk to tarmac.
I took a leave of absence from my job for this? I think to myself. Well, not really that much. The air is cool and the day is clear. I’m here and I’m just going to walk it. It actually reminds me of this weird bike route I rode one summer – Bike Route 41 from Saint Paul to Canada. It is not a trail per se, though it uses trails. It’s a route, so sometimes you’re in traffic and ride into the less attractive parts of towns and sometimes you’re on a two lane highway with barely any shoulder with cars whizzing past at 55+. So, no, walking on road doesn’t bother me that much and besides, I see how people live.
Along here are interesting homesteads of cobbled together bits and pieces; always a few comfy chairs out front, a rain barrel, lovingly placed plants and a caravan permanently parked, I know now, for unexpected guests. Flowering tee trees work all the way up the hillside. Three tough guys talk animatedly at the mailbox. A tiny girl stands close by and returns my wave.
I come across a field of pigs rooting. They take one look at me with their intelligent gaze and scamper off in a burst of snorts.
Finally, I come down a hill and I see the ocean open up in front of me. A trail angel named Ross lives in a converted container and invites TA walkers to camp on his lawn. There’s already a small group set up, all people new to me.
The walk on road is long and I soon discover I’m the only one of the group who walked it. Ross’s green lawn is so inviting, soft on my feet as I change into my camp shirt and set up the alicoop.
I make a quick dinner of tuna and couscous plus cheese then head to the beach, a horseshoe of sand hemmed in by steep, bush-covered hills jutting straight up from the ocean. The sand is also soft, the bay’s waves gently caressing my bare feet. A dog comes to play with her stick, which she fetches for me over and over in the surf. It’s only 6:30, but I’m exhausted.
I put my feet up at a picnic table and think about how I felt guilty getting upset yesterday, but now think what good does that do, as though I punish myself for having feelings. The truth is, I’m insecure about what I’m doing here, and the slightest dismissiveness rattles me.
But right now is so nice and I make a deal with myself to take things as they come and – at least try – to let go of the things that don’t work.
I turn to leave saying goodnight to this lovely place and head back onto the grass where all the little houses sit in rows as though sharing a giant lawn.
A woman about my age crosses my path and I smile and say hello. She is surprised by my accent and smiles back. I ask here the standard question if she might have a beer I could buy.
Her smile turns to a frown and a furrowed brow, “You need one?”
Yes, in fact I do after all those hot kilometers on road.
She tells me no beer at her house and I thank her, thinking she might be a teetotaler, and continue walking back to the tent.
“Wait!” she says. “What I meant was I don’t like beer. I prefer champagne!”
And that, my friends, was the beginning – of the end – of a beautiful day.
And here I had just promised myself that I’d take things as they come and Tracy walks into my path. She’s a midwife and her husband Ben is a carpenter. Their dad and cousin all have places here in the bay and they were just getting ready for cocktails. I’m invited right into the center of this family, Tracy holding court in the corner surrounded by picture windows looking out to the beach. I begin to learn Maori pronunciation – such as wh is a ‘f’ sound, as in he city they are from, Whangerei. Also that their little beach home is called a “bach” spelled like Bach.
Of course, I’m invited for a second dinner of lamb chop from their farm and vegetables from their garden. They then offer me a bed, pronounced “beed,” but I decide to thank them and stumble back to the alicoop, full of nutrition and good feelings.
I’m snuggled in for only a few moments when suddenly the heavens let loose with torrential rain, just pounding on the taffeta-like dynamee tarp of the alicoop. No flooding, nothing leaks, but what a sound it makes.
I pack up wet in the morning, but well rested in the lullaby of white noise, the bay covered in low fog as I head straight up a steep ridge with a chance to look down at all the little baches. Thanks Ross, for a cozy night on your lawn and fresh water for my bottles. Thanks Tracy and Ben for welcoming me to dinner and sharing your evening with me.
The sun peaks out of its shroud and my pants are soaked up to my waist from the thick undergrowth, a car wash thwacking me as I walk past with last night’s downpour still on their leaves. I follow the ridge before ducking into forest on a narrow track of just my two feet in width, then notice a tiny spur going up.
I always make many demands for where I stop – out of the wind, shade, a view, something to lean on, no mud, and I find it amidst Kauri, though I am careful not to step too close, leaning on a Rimu instead and watching the branches swaying in the breeze. I’m almost two weeks in on this adventure and being alone in this out of the way spot for my brunch is absolute bliss.
I continue on, walking along a trail with very little mud, no river, no blowing sand, but some of the hardest up and down steep terrain I’ve ever encountered in my life. Just then, a fit Austrian I met last night named Leonhardt – or Leo – catches up to me and I walk with him for a few k.
He talks non-stop and about as fast as he walks, nearly running in here. But he pauses long enough for me to tell him about the kayak debacle and how upset I was. He stops for a moment, as if to drive the point home, and exclaims in his thick accented English, “Oh my gawd, that’s totally a guy thing!” which instantly cracks me up and causes me to forget feeling sorry for myself.
We push on up and down and over roots, slipping a little as we move and Leo gives me the quick story of his life. He quit his job to travel, and will do so until the money runs out. He refuses to walk any roads whatsoever, and actually hitched her from Pahia, two days ago for me. I realize I’ll likely not see him again once he moves on. Too bad, because I like him already.
Leo talk and talks and finally I have to slow down. I watch him disappear behind ferns as the trail dives down into the forest. I wonder when he’ll notice I’m not behind him anymore?
Out of the forest now and about to cross open fields under clear skies with views far back to the mountains and bays, I come to a Kauri die-back cleaning station. It’s empty. I try as hard as I can to scrape off the mud, but it’s a fool’s errand and I’m sure to be carrying bad stuff everywhere I walk.
The first days of the Te Araroa feel so long ago and I remember feeling like I couldn’t connect to anyone. But now, these last days, as I figure it out and find my pace, I love my solitude, especially high on this open ridge where sheep safely graze next to million dollar views.
But that doesn’t last long as I take a turn right back into deep bush on the Morepork Track towards Whananaki. Mud confronts me immediately and it’s the Raetea Forest déjà vu all over again.
Another cleaning station is tended and I disinfect my shoes, scraping them on the plastic brushes. I follow a stream that cresendoes as it hits rocks feeding into a deep green pool partially hidden by ferns.
The name of the track changes to Onekainga and the real “advanced tramping track” begins. It’s up and down, seemingly for no reason, and a direct line since why build switchbacks when you can just hurl yourself forward?
At this point in the walk, I’m starved all the time. I haven’t seemed to have lost weight yet, and happily not lost my appetite either, which tends to happen when I backpack. All I can think about in this extremely tough section is if I get down this track before 5:30, take-away awaits.
Just before a killer, heart attack of up, I come upon a magic camp spot in ferns and kauri at a bend of a babbling brook. I look at it longingly, wondering if I should stay here in this idyllic place. It’s really too early to stop somehow and I take a mental photograph and hoof up the hill, spitting out of the forest onto a field and happy buzzing Manuka honey bees.
The trail winds through farmland. I have to negotiate one really squishy fen and a few electric fences before arriving at an estuary, mangroves and their knees pushing through the muck. Birds flute in the trees as the path widens to a vast sandy expanse, houses tucked in looking down from a small rise towards the longest footbridge in the Southern Hemisphere – one I’ll walk tomorrow.
At the cafe, I order the biggest burger on the menu, bacon and egg, cheese, veggies and a side of squid rings. While I stock up on camp food and chill under the canopy Cathy charges my battery and directs me to some free camping up the road.
And what do you know, Bram shows up right after me. After three attempts, we get our tents snuggled next to a building out of the wind on soft grass. A live band plays Reggae across the street and we sit looking out as the sun pinkens the estuary.
I present Bram with a bag of gummies to settle up after the other night and he pulls out of his bag a 750 ml bottle of Steinlager – to share.
The Raggae doesn’t stop until the wee hours, but I brought ear plugs and soon I’m asleep, thinking of all the magic in these last two days, the trail angels who showed up just when I needed them like Leo and Ondi, Ross and Tracy and now Bram. I don’t see any of them again, and there’s never another moment, even with Bram who’s walking the entire trail too. I don’t know that at in the moment and it teaches me that we never know for sure when it will be the last time we have with someone, when a special moment of generosity and shared experience will be all there is. That of course, goes for bad stuff too. All of it passes eventually.
Nothing illustrates that more clearly than a long distance thru-hike, this idea that we will never pass this way again. So the best thing to do is to stay alert, stay present, stay fully alive in where we are.