I’m inching along over slick black mud, on a trail only as wide as my two feet. To my right is a thick wall of undergrowth including tree ferns like elegant filigreed umbrellas, papery-barked totara, and a kind of white pine called kahikatea. To my left is a drop of about 20 feet or so to the river below, shallow but burbling, its sound reaching me even at this height.

I’m in the Mangaokewa Reserve near Te Kuiti.

in the North Island of New Zealand. It’s a stunning, pest-free zone where native birds have returned and green grassy cliffs rise high above the crystal clear water,  studded with overhanging limestone cliffs, ideal for climbing. Though my aim today is to keep hiking and get myself to what’s been called a “cool campsite,” one that’s deep in the reserve and far off the tourist trails. I’m pretty sure I can physically handle the distance, but just not sure if my daylight will last.

It is hard walking – slippery, overgrown, thorns-in-the-face, advanced tramping, and it’s here that I learn a new bit of terminology – to sidle. Now I know what the word means, to walk in a furtive or unobtrusive manner, sideways or obliquely, to creep, slink, skulk, prowl. But in the Kiwi context, it refers to the act of walking literally on the side of steep hill, to contour it in such a way, bit by bit, so as not to slide off, all the way to the bottom. 

I’ve been working my way down the North Island for a little over a month. The trail notes tell me it’s mostly an easy day from Waitomo to Te Kuiti, walking on farmland with just a few slippery patches. I cross over a sturdily built stile – two boards with feet, one taller than the other and set in a cross. I grab the well-used pole, orange paint flaking off, and hoist myself over the fence directly into ankle deep mud. I’m told an intimidating bull is waiting for me in this field. I hear some grunting but don’t see him as I shuffle across the wet grass to another triangle on the far fence. 

It's a slippery banana peal of descent into bush just as the thunder begins it’s long drawn out rumbling. I cross a bouncy suspension bridge only wide enough for my feet and enter the Pehitawa peh-hee-tah-wah

Kahikatea forest, white pines that are some of the tallest in New Zealand. A primevil, eerie green lights up the ferns and epiphytes.

The forest is pitch dark at 8 am, rain hitting the canopy like a volley of bullets. At the next ascent, my feet slip back and I hit the mud face first. Why am I doing this again?

Only by wedging my feet against the fence posts can I get past that vertical nightmare. And just like that, the track changes to long strides. Wet to the hip, caked with mud, I walk towards a vista of enormous farms in a large bowl surrounded by the bright green hills.

It’s beautiful, but totally confounding – there’s no trail per se, and the orange triangle markers are so widely spaced I am pretty much lost. But, wait, here’s a marker nailed to a tree! I sit down under it just as it begins pouring, only slightly protected from the rain. I have a bit of lunch just as a guy comes out of the mist heading in the opposite direction.

Wait, where are you going? He keeps moving away and is swallowed up again in the cloud. Did I miss something? Is he headed my way?? I follow my marker up a slick slope of sheep poo that takes me nowhere. Then risk going in completely the opposite direction, as the other hiker had, just to see where it takes me. 

Of course he was right, and I soon meet a farm road, just as the sky clears. Being damp does nothing to help my mood, but a stiff breeze dries me out and the views get better.

At the next triangle, some saint writes which way to turn next.

Hundreds of sheep are bleating loudly, the lambs being separated from their mamas. I wash off the mud in a tank before heading straight up hill to Pehitawa Mast. Pirongia is completely shrouded in cloud far in the distance. Te Kuiti tay-coo-eet-ee sprawls out below. 

It’s yet one more straight down mudslide before town, but now that I’ve washed off, I’m determined not to fall. In town, I buy enough food for the coming six days and waddle like a drunk turtle, checking out the exhibit on the town stars Sir Colin and his brother Stanley, both lantern-jawed rugby stars of the All Blacks as well as a massive sculpture of a shearer and his sheep. 

The trail squeezes past an industrial section, massive vehicles behind chain link fences. These people must be used to our getting lost and have posted signs everywhere ensuring the TA walker finds her way to the Mangaokewa Reserve without too many wrong turns. 

Things start well on a well worn path, sweeping views of stalagtite filled caverns on brooding cliffs, the bush a hobbit home in a sun shower. A herd of goats, long beards and stinky, rise as one and bound up the hillside.

It’s late in the day when I decide to keep moving, foregoing a car campsite to find the ‘cool campsite.’ Almost immediately after crossing a swing bridge I leave the easy walking behind for greasy sidling that barely offers me purchase. 

At one point the trail zigs, but I zag, heading straight up a nasty herd trail that leads to a pasture. Those poor cows get to hear multiple expletives as I unwind my gaffe.

Finally on the right path, I head into a small bit of kahikatea, tall and slender providing easy walking and a flat spot for a tent. It’s the cool campsite, a tiny bench in the river bend, lavished by someone with a table, chairs, a fire pit, a fully inflated inner tube and a shovel labeled ‘toilet, so far, dig deep.’

Except for the man coming out of the mist at just the right moment, showing me – without even knowing – the right path, I was alone all day. And now, having arrived an hour before sunset, I’m pretty sure I’ll be alone tonight. 

Actress Ellen Burstyn said, “What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlonely being alone can be.”   

In the first days of solo hiking, I remember being so afraid when it got dark, I couldn’t close my eyes at night. Naturally I ensure I’m as safe as I can be by carrying a two-way GPS with locator beacon and SOS capability. But it’s not about disappearing, it’s about making my own decisions and trusting myself, enjoying this magical place on my own terms and my own schedule. 

The air in this canyon is beginning to chill and it’s time to cuddle in the alicoop. It was a rough day, frustrating and long, but here, dirty and damp, I’m rewarded with the final rays of the sun on virgin forest across the river, its susurrant whisper a kind of bush berceuse. 

It was an awesome night, even if my clothes never quite dried out. I linger for breakfast and use the poop shovel before heading back on the messy nightmare of trail, climbing over fallen trees on steep black clay, maybe bit less slippery since there was no rain last night. 

My shoes are starting to shred and I have a hole in one of my socks, but I’m saving the dry pair for camp and sand fly protection 

I feel like the star of a reality show carefully progressing on a crumbling balance-beam of a walking trail when added to the mix are thorns; big, juicy, grabby, shred-the-shirt-and-draw-blood thorns.

And just like that, I’m kicked out on a pasture, where kind souls offer an alternative to the briar path in mincing steps on a downed tree over the river. Back in the forest this time of pine and eucalyptus interspersed with dreadlocked palm, the rain a curtain outside of tall slender trunks. 

I crawl through the understory in a tunnel of gorse, another well-intentioned transplant from the Old World that found no competition and steadily spread in an ugly, tangle of sharp edges.

I come upon a superb campsite – with shelter, water, even a clothesline. I sit at a picnic table with lunch and wonder if it’s too early to stop at 10 am. Now the trail is a country road and I feel like a little wind-up walking machine, the breeze drying my pants and my dampened spirits.

I stop a farmer in a huge truck loaded with sheep. “Your dog!” I yell seeing a wee head pop out from under the wheels. It turns out his animal is snug in his little house under there, right where he belongs. The farmer smiles, thanking me anyway, then offers me a ride, but I am happy to keep walking as the rain lets up and it should be easy now to a small turnout in the road ten miles or so ahead. 

As I continue, I feel drips of water on the back of legs. Oh, man, I must have sprung a leak in my water bag. It seems everything is breaking down – shoes, socks, my phone which I dropped on a rock causing a spider web of cracks, my pot cozy hanging on with just one thin shred of tape, and now my water bag – am I next? 

The trail notes warn that this road sees very few cars, a hiker underscoring the fact writing “zilch traffic.” I probably should have accepted that ride offered by the farmer with the sheep and dog. Just then, a truck appears and I wave him down. I tell him about my predicament with my water bag and ask if maybe he has some duct tape with him.

Allan says he does not have any in the car, but he lives just up the road and will head home and grab some and meet me back on the road. I follow him slowly as he drives ahead and wonder if maybe it might be nicer to camp here than in the bend in the road, with no water or really anything. 

At the mailbox, Allan returns bringing tape but also an empty two-liter coke bottle that might make a more reliable water carrier. I thank him and then make the ask. Might I camp on your lawn tonight? 

Maybe it’s because I’m alone or maybe I don’t seem aggressive, who knows, but Alan says c’mon up and I pile into his car with my sticks and pack as he drives to a neat farmhouse where two lambs press up next to a fence, unlike the ones in the field running out of my way any time I approached. Marianne meets us at the door not entirely sure about my being there and asking, “Do you know anything about farm work?” 

I assure her I don’t, but I’d love to learn. She takes my dirty clothes and stuffs them in the wash, giving me something else to wear along with a pair of Wellingtons, a warm coat and work gloves. Allan and I head out on the Polaris, picking up two dogs from their kennel, lovingly called the hotel. 

Finn is a huntaway, a muscular dog with a loud bark and fast running speed. Karen is a heading or eye dog, shorter and more at eye-level with the sheep, moving them with a bit less bombast and bit more finesse. These two absolutely live for farm work, running alongside us as we navigate up and down the huge spread of green hills. With one signal, Finn is off, corralling the sheep to a new pasture. He works so hard without letting up, he finally needs a little cooling off in a nearby trough. 

My job today on the farm is simply to open gates, then close them after Allan drives the Polaris through. 

Allan assures me I’m helping and “earning” my stay. I really like him. He’s gentle and answers all my questions, telling me that merino sheep live on the south island only and that these kind of sheep are raised to eat, not for their wool. But, they still need to be sheared and it’s just a break even with hiring shearers and selling the coarse wool.

I learn that paddocks are a more recent idea in New Zealand, to rotate the grasses being chewed. I learn most New Zealand beef – they raise cattle too – are grass fed. And I learn yearlings need molasses in big tubs.

Back at the house, Marianne hands me my clean clothes and tells me to get a shower and plan to stay in their caravan. She then asks if I eat meat and to plan to eat dinner with them. Allan tells me they’ve lived here sixteen years and are very involved volunteering in their community. 

Marianne and I connect deeply in a kind of unspoken way. She’s my age, but using a walker and I know she must be suffering from arthritis like me. She pulls out a photo album. On one page are pictures showing a helicopter delivering building materials. Another is from their animal cam showing two possums deciding who will go first into the trap. I tell her how difficult and frustrating I find the trail and she shares that no one is really in charge, so parts like the reserve are not maintained. 

I also tell her I came to see what would happen to my mind, body and spirit on a thru-hike and that I feel like cheating a little asking to stay the night when I really ought to just camp outside. She brushes that concern aside and tells me I’m still walking every step, and I did spend last night all alone in the bush.

I head into the caravan just as the rain returns, pounding hard on the metal roof. I meditate on being alone, how I love it and need it and take pride in it. But also how much I love being brought into this farm family’s life, to bask in their kindness and generosity for just a snapshot in time. 

I know we all feel something – a connectedness for sure, but one with a shelf life and not meant to be more than it is. But when I leave the next morning to walk toward Pureora and the Timber Trail, we both have tears in our eyes.