Te Araroa: all we have is today

Blissful Hiker learns that worrying doesn't empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.

In this episode:

1. Blissful continues her journey of the Te Araroa, walking south in the South Island of New Zealand between the Rakaia and Rangitata Rivers, both "Hazard Zones." 
2. From the A-frame Hut, Blissful heads up this "Lord of the Rings" landscape with a trail-as-river to Clent Hills Saddle and down to the Lake Heron Basin, where mysterious clouds look like parade balloons touching the ground like fingers. 
3. After the Manuka Hut, it's road walk past the Hakatere Conservation Park and hooting birds, then the Castleridge Station where the rancher offers her a pile of food so she make it to Lake Tekapo, six days away. 
4. The landscape is glorious snow-capped mountains to the majestic braided river. 
5. She worries about food, about Tom, about going home and about her long lost flute career and finds it does no good, keeping her energy from being in the present moment. 

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

Transcript

As I leave the Hakatere Conservation Park, the track becomes a gravel road, long and quiet except for birds cruising in and out of my path. A few cars come by and stop for me. I tell them I seemed to have run low on food and might they have some I can buy. Both couples are headed out for a weekend’s tramp so have nothing to spare. 

We wish each other well and I continue on. I wonder if they’re describing me as a fool out hiking without proper supplies. Should I have ‘saved face’ and not asked? Good heavens, no. What they think of me is none of my business and it never hurts to ask.

As I come to Castleridge Station – another name for ranch – the postman waves as he drives by. Up ahead, an older man appears to be picking up that delivered mail. He’s friendly and has one of those warm smiles that make you want to keep doing things to make him smile. We share pleasantries and he tells me he owns the station, all 17,000 acres – along with his son whose house I passed.

I explain I’m a bit short on food for the coming days and of course this lovely man invites me up to his house to get me stocked up. Peter and Mary – or as the mailbox reads ‘Ma and Pa’ – Harmer fill my arms with cans of fish, fresh fruit, crackers and a bag of chips that won’t last long.

Peter tells me that his kids thought he and ma should move to town, instead they built a dream house on a hill looking out at this enchanted wonderland every day. When I tell him about finishing and not being sure what’s next for me except to rest, he tells me about mustering sheep in this high country and how exhausting it is, but it doesn’t take long before he wants to head right back out. 

He then offers his address for me to write when I’m done. Such kindness and generosity. I’m humbled by this country and its people.

The wild wind blew open the door of the hut, even after we placed a rock to hold it shut. I love the rattling sound, the gusts sending shivers through the tiny structure.

I met Tomas from the Czech Republic many weeks ago on the Te Araroa as a large group of us went up and over Waiau Pass on a gusty and sleet-filled day. Most dispersed and I traveled with Tom and Alessio, then just Tom. We met at the top of a saddle high above the braided and uncrossable Rakaia River. I’m glad he’s here because in two days there’s another “uncrossable” monster of river, slightly less so, and with a tall man like him, I think we’ll make it. 

But for now, we have nearly 40 miles ahead of us, with today a walk up a river and over a high saddle. Tom is still knocked out at the A-frame hut. He manages to sleep through anything, though I think he closed the windows sometime in the middle of the night. Our little perch feels like something out of Lord of the Rings. The landscape is enchanted, the sky pink above the mountains. Even the loo has a view.

My planning was way off and I don’t have quite enough food. I never expected to get that ride from Neil and Kate around the Rakaia River – but here I am. Tom brought far too much, so has offered to share, but for now I’ll drink more and try to keep myself full.

I leave him a note to meet at Manuka hut and then I’m off, walking along an old jeep track of some sort. It winds along tussock, bright yellow flowers and shattered land of rock and erosion.

It’s easy walking except for wild wind trying to blow me off my feet. I read an article about a woman tramper in the 1950s who blazed the way for many New Zealand girls mostly discouraged from hiking and she describes how she managed the wind of the ridges of the Tararuas by sort of floating on it. I give it a shot and find I use less muscle to stay upright.

Soon, I reach the ramshackle Comyns hut – corrugated metal wrapping a tiny box like Christmas paper and sign the intentions book. I’m surprised Tom hasn’t caught up with me yet as I cross a stream realizing this is the stream I will walk up to get over the saddle at nearly 1500 meters.

The sky is gray and the wind whips at my pack and I suddenly feel anxious heading up into this water trail. There’s no obvious path and the orange poles are often placed in such a way they confirm your path choice rather than suggest it. 

I have crossed many streams already today, my sneakers squishy, but this will be many kilometers. I look behind me, but no one is there, so I take a deep breath and begin heading up.

The water is cold but not too deep, the current rushes and pulls as the wind contributes, blowing hard in the same direction. I cross over to a rocky shore and step up to a grassy bank with a few thorn bushes scratching my ankles. Three heart-shaped stones greet me as a brown lizard with a black stripe down his back sneaks past.

Across the stream is a bent orange pole, so I look for a good place to set my feet and enter again, trying to stay solid on rocks. This time, I cross to a bank of bigger rocks and simply push upstream in more placid water. 

I’m faked out by a path going up and over that turns out to take me thick into thorn, so I backtrack and decide to take advantage of any reasonably shallow water I can find.

It doesn’t always work, as large boulders with water gushing over stop my progress, but eventually I find the next orange pole and switch sides – perhaps fifty times – in a kind of river slalom.

The sun comes out in full now and lightens my mood. It’s slow going, but I have the hang of it, sensing when to cross before I look for the pole. Sky filled with Lenticular clouds billowing in waves

As I get closer to the saddle, I begin to meet NOBO’s or northbound hikers who offer good advice when I ask about the big river coming up in two days. If there’s no rain, I should be fine – to which the sky replies by going dark and spitting out rain, not heavy, but a steady drizzle all the way up the saddle in deep grass up to my elbows.

The grass hides the trail and trail markers, but it also hides a stream running underneath hummocky dirt. I use my poles to lift it back before stepping forward, but still manage to fall directly into a hole, thankfully not hurting myself.

The drizzle continues, mildly unpleasant, obscuring a view and making me move faster. At the top of Clent Hills Saddle are two chairs ostensibly for hanging out in this beautiful place. I simply press on to a confusing bit that is not well marked. Just when I want to go down off the saddle, I need to stay high and cross several massive scree slopes. It’s not difficult, but in the rain, it feels exposed and aerie.

The trail continues high as a huge valley opens beside me with a stream far below – clearly, the wrong way. Rocks give way to tussock, this time grass as high as me, and covering most of the orange-topped poles. The going is slow as I hunt around for my direction and try to smash down the grass and not fall in anymore holes. I take one wrong turn and see the pole after the fact just as Tom catches up.

He is moving slower due to a painful ankle. I hope he manages the coming days. Just as I think that thought, the sky begins to clear and the sun comes out. We both take off our raincoats at the top of the final high point, looking down on a lake and mountains with mysteriously low cloud dancing above Lake Heron Basin as if gently tapping it with a fingertip.

It’s more tussock negotiation down, plus the "land of massive jabby things" – speargrass taller than Tom. At the junction he makes me a peanut butter wrap and we sit in sunshine admiring our splendid view and drying our clothes.

That’s until the wind picks up – a lot. It comes howling down the valley we’ll need to walk to get to our hut.

I begin to shiver, so head off, passing a couple of lakes, and marveling at this odd cloud, pressed down. The wind is not gusts, but straight line taking my breath away and pushing on me as I walk my final 5 km of the day.

I’m struggling, but still snap pictures, feeling so wonderful because of all I experienced today – hot sun, cold rain, feverish wind, magical views, a stream-as-trail and sometimes only a suggestion of trail.

I feel proud of my courage moving forward even when I felt very alone and vulnerable. I should also mention that so many hikers skip this part because it’s awkward to get to and away from, but many people suggested not to and they were absolutely right. Today turned out to be one of the most special, simply because of its variety, challenge and sparkling beauty.

It’s days like today that make me remember why I decided to walk this long trail – to feel alive.

It’s cozy on my bunk as the sky begins to lighten. I’m up first heading to the longdrop on a cold, crisp, clear, and still morning. I worry that Tom will have too much pain in his swollen ankle – not an injury, rather overuse – and he’ll need time to rest, or worse, won’t rest and then have real problems.

I leave a note that says I’ll meet him at the road and to take his time, I know I will and then I’m out before the sun is up. It’s easy tramping at first and gives me the kind of breathing room and not having to look at each step room to allow me to mull over my life.

I tend to use these moments to argue with someone who’s not here, to come up with just the right rejoinder and close all arguments in my favor. For the past several days, I’ve had almost precisely an identical conversation, anticipating bad news when I return. I stop myself mainly sick of going around and around in circles, but it also occurs to me that I don’t need to choose bad news – especially before it happens. I don’t have to be the victim in the story I tell. I can instead be the champion.

Just then, the trail cuts off and heads straight up to a saddle through thorns and grass above my head. Spread below me is a tarn, which I know only because the map says it’s there. At the moment, tiny Lake Emily is shrouded in low mist, ethereal and floating just above her.

Shorebirds of all sorts – wrybill, banded dotterel, black fronted tern as well as ducks and swans – honk and hoot in the fog.

I'm invited to walk in under a kind of arch – a sun dog in reverse? In I go and the families of birds floating about on this heavenly morning are revealed.

Sheep dot the rolling foothills surrounding the 4x4 track I’m walking. I think of other ways I could change the story I tell and remember how it felt to play flute at the level of skill I used to possess. I didn’t always trust my instincts and would force myself to play as I was instructed, even if it felt wrong. Like when playing the opening of Debussy’s ‘Afternoon of a Faun’ in one breath. I managed it – barely – but it never felt like me. 

All these years later I wish I had ignored everyone else and taken two breaths in the middle of the solo. It makes sense musically and I would have been free to make music rather that simply show off a technique. What I would give to play like that again.

My pack is full after the visit to Ma and Pa Harmer. I eat the chips as I walk but soon meet the path off the road with no sign of Tom. I set myself up in the shade of a sign and nod off for about five minutes, then decide to leave a ‘note’ in stones and keep moving.

The trail heads up a grassy plateau where I can see Peter’s house far in the distance. Clouds make fanciful shadows on the dun-colored mountains. It’s hot, but I’m drinking more than usual – and peeing more than usual, too.

I come to a beautiful brook, banked with brilliant yellow flowers. Four Japanese trampers, fancifully dressed and covered head to toe like me, are relaxing here. We share a few words and mostly sign language. I just have to take their photo, “Say Mount Fuji!” 

When I thank them in the only Japanese I know – Arigatōgozaimashita – because I heard it said over and over on the train in Tokyo years ago, they all laugh and thank me back, saying, “Nice day!”

Just then Tom arrives and I give him half the fruit. He is delighted. Like me, he also longs for fresh food and has stuffed tomatoes and onions in his pack, plus apples he picked off a tree at the beginning of this section.

Tomaš is 24, very tall and speaks a bit like Lurch with a low monotone. Like Serge who hiked with me for six days in France, I wonder why this cross-generational relationship works. Perhaps he wants to go slower and if he helps out a middle aged lady, he has an excuse. After Tekapo, he is finished with the South Island and will head to Wellington to hike the North Island. These days we've shared have been so good for me.

We actually don’t talk much, likely because his English is excellent but not sufficient for deeper conversations. It might also be because he’s so young and we don’t have a lot to say. It suits me just fine as we are together when it matters like tomorrow crossing the Rangitata which the TA calls a ‘hazard zone.’ Crossing is doable, but will take a long time and needs to be done in perfect conditions of low flow and no rain, exactly what we have now. 

Tom’s ankle is better since he rested, sleeping in until 8. He wants to push all the way to the car park today, which makes for a long day, but is a much better place to get a jump on the river cross. He’s also interested in climbing a small peak nearby used in The Lord of the Rings. Maybe we can hitch.

Tom suggests we save the crackers and salmon to celebrate at the hut tomorrow and I’m all in. We find another stream to relax next to with a light breeze and no sandflies. Tom makes me a peanut butter wrap.

I walk on over another saddle which reveals a chain of jagged, snow-capped mountains twice – or thrice? – the size of the Grand Tetons. A deep blue lake rests below and its tiny village tucked into the vast expanse of tussocky grassland. A couple rides up the trail on mountain bikes asking me the highlights of the TA so far. So many!

The wind rushes through the red-gold grass making a whistling sound and the orange trail pole flutes as I approach. Soft, tundra plants massage my steps. I pass blue tarns with electric green grass on the edges.

The feeling of this place is awesome in the truest sense of the word. It’s huge, powerful, menacing, ageless, dumb but somehow full of story and meaning. I feel tiny in this expanse.

The trail works its way past a farm and down steep, chalky cliffs onto the Potts river terrace as it heads over rocks and boulders dragged here in flood, emptying into the mighty Rangitata, a complex system of braided waterways and more boulder-strewn islands and terraces.

There’s shade without bugs at the carpark and the alicoop is up quickly, my view into the mountains I’ll walk on tomorrow. I do stretches on the bridge while the sun plays hide-n-seek with the clouds resting on the summits. 

Corrie Ten Boom says, “Worrying is carrying tomorrow's load with today's strength- carrying two days at once. It is moving into tomorrow ahead of time. Worrying doesn't empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.” 

I eat a big dinner now having almost too much food for the remaining four days walk to Lake Tekapo. In one of the most beautiful places on earth, I worried about my fate when I get home. I worried about how I missed an opportunity to play my flute like I really wanted to rather than how I was told. I worried I’d run out of food and I worried Tom’s ankle would keep us from crossing the Rangitata stretching shimmering under the setting sun along five miles of riverbed to the mountains I’ll climb tomorrow. 

It did me now good and simply took the energy I had to be in this now and placed it elsewhere. I smile grateful for the Harmers and for Tom and for taking the chance on whatever happens when I get home to fulfill this dream in the way I want before it’s too late and I can’t. 

I suddenly realize I’ve passed the 2,300 kilometer mark. I’ve come so far. We’re in a car park, but no one comes – neither car or tramper – so I nestle in for what I know will be a great sleep on flat ground under a chilly night of stars.