It’s day three on the Whanganui River, the “thru-canoeing” section of the Te Araroa. My paddling partner, Andrew and I have hit a few riffles, I’d call them, faster moving water than what we usually follow, flat and serenely, mirroring the sky and cliffs as we slowly float to the Tasman Sea. 

But in those few cases, we sort of let the water suck us in and paddle through. Sure, there’s an adrenaline rush, but not much technique involved. At one, I make a bad call, sending us right on the rocks, really more of a beach of pushed up stones created by the bending of the water. We scrape over them then drop down into the swirling water, having a laugh at my poor navigation skills. 

But it gives us no time to catch our breath before I hear rushing water ahead and know this time, it’s the real deal. I paddle and Andrew steers, though he relies on my orienting us straight into the V of the rapids. I fail and we’re sucked in sideways, bumping and thwacking our way down the waves. Somehow Andrew rights us and we push through head first. I hold us steady mostly by paddling non-stop as we rock forward and finally spit out into one of the Whanganui’s swirling whirlpools. 

“Wow! That was really cool!” I yell, my voice a bit shaky over the sound of rushing water. “So, that was it, then, right? The biggest rapids.” Andrew just laughs at me. “That little ole thing? Hell no! The 50/50 Rapids is still coming up.”

It’s a long haul down the Whanganui, a journey by canoe and part of the official trail that’s the Te Araroa in New Zealand. It’s Day 52 of my thru-hike and I’m closing in on meeting the Tasman Sea again, a body of water I walked next to for four days right at the beginning. Specifically, this 4 ½ day paddle heading almost due south, will take me to the city of Whanganui itself, which is technically on the Cook Strait. But it’ll take me another week to walk to Wellington and then check the North Island off my list. 

But for now, I’m in a canoe and it feels like we have this river all to ourselves. We slept at a Maori camp site high up on the cliffs, a halo of the milky way above our heads in the warm air. It’s close to the solstice and we’re up with the sun. 

The routine is different on the river. Everything loads into water-tight barrels which have to be carried up – and down – around four stories from this grassy sand-fly-ridden camp area. From the muddy launch, we have to retie everything tightly in place so we don’t lose anything if we tip. 

The water is flat coffee-brown under gray skies, the banks pocked with holes and creases from higher, faster water creating perfect symmetrical reflections like a Rorschach test. Huge cliffs close in on our lone canoe as we snake along, seeing the river slowly drop into the distance as it works its way towards the Sea.

It’s quiet and calming here, though my mind is distracted by the Fifty-fifty Rapids, a monster that is said to spit out half those who try to take her on. I zip my phone into a pocket and tighten the straps on my life vest as we come to a cool campsite and a cave we’re told is worth seeing. But the rapids get louder and my heart beats faster. No use stopping for a look; let’s just get this over with. 

At first I don’t see anything but a rock beach in front of the bow. The narrow channel is far to the left against a flat wall of cliff. Andrew tells me we need to go straight into it, and ignore our instincts, the ones that scream, "Turn!" or we’ll crash into a wall.

I remember the lesson – “lean in, brace your knees against the gunwales, and paddle!” I fight the urge and face directly into the bubbling and misting cauldron ahead, though oddly we move slowly at first in a slow build-up of terror, the click-click-click as a roller coaster makes it’s first huge ascent.

And just like that, were sucked in, Andrew casually steering us directly into the V – “paddle, paddle, paddle!” I yell, directing myself not to flinch in my front row seat, everything up close and personal.

The sound rushes at us as we pour in, waves churning backwards that can’t be bumped or thwacked. They’re far too big and simply crash over me as the canoe pitches headlong into them, soaking me to the chest.

Boom-splash, boom-splash, boom-splash, thwack, thwack, thwack, fizzzzzzzz. The boat is ejected, rolling and pitching, the filled with muddy water above our ankles but somehow, miraculously, upright.

“Stay centered!” I yell, like a life coach as our tippecanoe lumbers toward flat water where Andrew can begin bailing with the one bucket tied to the seat. In the end, he removes twenty-six gallons of water, but we reach across the now dry boat to give each other high fives and laugh at the noisy boiling whitewater we just conquered.

It’s only a little further Pipiriki and we exit the national park. The land is more pastoral. But there’s a lonely feeling to it, as though abandoned. No more high cliffs, jet boats or tourists. 

But are there more rapids? 

You bet, and a wilder one that funnels us down a long C-shaped shoot, smashing us into low-hanging tree limbs, fortunately springy enough to push aside. We drop over hidden rocks and luckily choose the correct sides of two islands as rapids bounce, shudder and shake further and further down the river. 

We pass Jerusalem entirely, a convent turned backpacker accommodation with its charming church and dozens of wild goats racing up the steep hillsides. I take a picture from downstream realizing there’s no way to go back up as Andrew bails another fifteen gallons from the canoe. Ahead we see a cable stretched across the river, the one that pulls a little car that brings guests to the Flying Fox. Let’s not pass this landing or it’s a long way to camping. 

The retreat is a funky collection of huts, glamping tents, a well-stocked campsite shelter, and long drop amidst fig, lemon, and avocado trees. The owners don’t seem particularly glad to see us, but allow us to set our tents for $15 reminding us not to steal the toilet paper as they can sell us a roll for 50-cents. I take a hot outdoor shower in the bush then organize dinner at a table protected by a sheet-metal roof. 

Comfortably leaning against the tiny shelter and stretching my legs out on the bench, I think about the metaphor in today’s stretch of river. There’s something to be said for aiming your canoe – and life – into the churning V of rapids. You may not be able to control things, but at least you can reinterpret the story you tell yourself as you go forward. Moving through the crashing waves that soak you head to toe like a baptism, has the ability to release you upright, even if a little wobbly, to a renewed sense of power.

And just like that, it starts to pour. 

The rain lets up and a huge moon lights up our sanctuary accompanied by wild night sounds. A few stray splats of raindrops hit the alicoop shaking off the trees and I feel lucky we had the place all to ourselves. At dawn, a loud bird ever so slightly varying its song, positions itself in the tree above my head. Funny how once I’m packed, he decides to quiet down. But that just cues the weird mini-roosters, crowing away like rusty wind-up toys. They have all the equipment of their big rooster brethren but with minuscule bodies and the voice – and temperament – of a first tenor.

The routine is getting, well, routine. And it seems each place we’ve stayed is just that much higher than the river. We pack the barrels and have to hoist them through a fence, over a stile and down zigzags of the last flood’s sandy bench where we balance on huge, half buried drift logs over ankle deep mud to load. Not sure why the owners make it so tough to stay here – but we can’t compare to those who arrive by cable car and pay the big bucks. 

I have one hand on the tie-line, one hand for balance and one hand passing Andrew a barrel at a time which he expertly ties down before bailing the canoe of rainwater All hands – and a few extra – on deck, one might say. 

There are no more rapids, and the river widens and flattens. But the day becomes a misery almost from the start. Hard rain splashes our faces and leaks down our cuffs. My shoes and socks are soaked through, my rain gear taking on the challenge like a champ.

I’m not cold as I paddle, and actually enjoy the views, which are softer, less Sideshow Bob and more Dr. Seuss. We still pass some massive walls of exposed stone, etched into quirky shapes by the ever-present water. Ferns, flowers, and creepers work their way into crevices as though a skillful designer placed them in position. 

Farms appear and disappear, cows and sheep lazily look on as we pass; wild goats momentarily panic. The rain doesn’t bother me much though I worry we’ll get cold. Andrew did not bring rain pants and he’s canoeing barefoot.

At one point, when the rain appears to never let up, Andrew stops paddling and says, “How about some sour patch kids?” Sour Patch Kids – the progeny of sour patch, sour patch’s spawn, the beautiful little gummy candies made in New Zealand, a thru-hiker’s guilty pleasure. 

I killed all my candy even before the Tongariro crossing and Andrew has been carefully doling out his available sugar rush to last all the way to Whanganui City. If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this thru-hike, I’m terrible at rationing.

I take a small handful and suck out the sour, chew up the sweet and paddle some more until the rain stops, revealing beautiful reflections on the muddy water.

We come to a section that bends back on itself in a spastic squiggle. At first, the obvious access to our planned camping is a set of slippery clay stairs, but upon closer inspection it’s just a short float down to an old jetty that looks almost to be stadium seating in miniature, roughened up by a monster flood. We unload in stages and again hoist our barrels uphill, even further than yesterday up a winding trail through bush. 

It makes sense why this high, flat area was once a pa or fort. Hipango Park was used as a summer getaway from the city and now the Rotary Club maintains a beautiful shelter, scattered no-smell long drops and a soft, grassy camping field.

People are jerks when it comes to removing their garbage, but one group left behind two decent bottles of Shiraz with just enough to accompany my lunch.

Our tents dry in the cool air, our rain gear and socks hanging on the line. A bit tipsy, I think back on this unusual part of the Te Araroa, where the only walking is a strenuous up and down with gear packed in heavy barrels. Locomotion is in a river, one that is precious and spiritual to the people of this part of the world, a wild place, a ‘great walk,’ and nearly a week of my thru-hike that completely changes the mood of my journey.

For one thing, it can’t be done alone, it’s simply not allowed. Had Andrew not shown up, I would have kayaked but stayed with the group of men who rushed this section. 

So it was my very good fortune to end up with a skilled paddler and easy going person in Andrew. I’m also surprised by the campsites, their history and quirkiness, their beauty and interest and at this one, we’ll be all alone again which is just fine for this solo hiker. 

Andrew and I head back down to the river, arriving in time to retie the canoe before the incoming tide crunches it under the jetty. The clouds turn pink and I think of what’s ahead. Still a few weeks to Wellington with a hard and dangerous mountain range in between. Andrew will take a bus back north to meet his girlfriend and then restart the trail where he left off in a few weeks. It’s likely I’ll never see him again.

But I have to laugh. We’re not saying goodbye right now, there’s still another twenty miles to town and we’ll have to pack up and carry this lot back down the steep and slippery trail again. But still, the wild parts are behind us now.

But it occurs to me, if I can meet someone as cool as Andrew who just seemed to manifest our of thin air right when I needed him, perhaps there’ll be others along the way at the right moments.