blissful hiker ❤︎ inspiring you to hike your own hike

Te Araroa: hitting the wall

May 06, 2021 alison young Season 1 Episode 50
blissful hiker ❤︎ inspiring you to hike your own hike
Te Araroa: hitting the wall
Show Notes Transcript

Blissful Hiker discovers hope because repair happens simultaneously with her trailside breakdown.

In this episode:

  1. Blissful continues her journey of the Te Araroa, crossing the gigantic braided Rangitata River in New Zealand's Southern Alps
  2. Before crossing, she joins her young Czech friend Tom on a side-trip to Mount Sunday known as Elorus in The Lord of the Rings, a magnificent bump surrounded by snow-capped mountains. 
  3. The river bed is six miles wide of rocks, fast-moving rivers, thorns and quicksand
  4. Then it's up the Two Thumb Track into a wonderland  of pointy mountains in tussock, and rushing streams. 
  5. At Crooked Spur Hut, two Kiwis act resentful that Te  Araroa hikers share their space and seem to delight in disturbing sleep and talking about bad weather coming. 
  6. Blissful breaks down in tears but a beautiful waterfall covered in yellow flowers lifts her spirits as well as another hiker offering treats and laughs. 

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

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Day 99 of my first thru-hike, New Zealand’s Te Araroa. 3,000 kilometers from Cape Reinga to Bluff. Oddly it was a gorgeous day without a single cloud in the sky. But I was hot, tired, the trail was not really a trail – just orange-tipped poles suggesting a route in too tall grass that obscured them anyway. The rocks, the constantly wet feet and the relentlessness left me exhausted. It didn’t help that a couple of Kiwi trampers were rude and unwelcoming. But at least I laugh at myself in that breakdown – and it only takes a little candy to change my mood. 

But first, Tom and I need to cross the Rangitata River and climb a few thousand feet, descend it then climb it all over again to get to Crooked Spur Hut. 

The wind dies down at night and the possums come out, climbing the tree above the alicoop chattering to each other. Neil told me it was a furrier in the 1930s who randomly freed captives, causing an intractable nightmare on New Zealand’s birds. I pull everything inside the alicoop.

It’s cool and the stars are bright. The sun pinkens the mountains on a clear morning. Fog gathers on the river we’ll soon cross. Tom is up early wanting to hitch down the road to a small mountain used in The Lord of the Rings. I eat quickly and pack up before we head down an absolutely dead quiet road.

Our sneakers crunch gravel toward Mount Sunday – or Elorus – its hulk in sight, but many kilometers away. Our ears hope for the sound of a car, but none come. Black cows look on curious, steam exiting their nostrils.

Jagged peaks with huge glaciers appear as we close in. It’s still another 1 1/2 kilometer walk from the edge of the road. We cross a fast moving, sparkly clear stream with signs describing the miracle of salmon returning thousands of miles to this very stream from the deep ocean to spawn.

The trail hits a swing bridge then straight up a small mountain named for a local herdsman sharing a weekly meeting-with-a-view.

I breathe hard, but head up fast to a stunning views of snaking rivers, mountains and high country, cows mooing all around us in stereo. It’s magical in the morning air and, even though Lord of the Rings is not quite my thing, I’m glad I made the time to come – and share something with Tom who has been looking after me these past days.

We snap pictures and enjoy the solitude, then study a way across the huge expanse of the Rangitata, realizing the only way is to return up the road, fingers crossed for a hitch.

The way out feels longer, as now many cars fly down towards the mountain, likely from a nearby resort. Our timing was perfect, insofar as we had it all to ourselves.

A truck comes the other way and I stick out my thumb. He speeds past coating me with dust. Ah well, some people are generous and others not. He has to live with himself, I think.

Another truck comes and slows to a stop. The lovely Kiwi, with the sweetest dog, says he’s only going 100 meters, but he gives us some beta on the cross and we feel reassured it should be no big deal as we begin our journey at his fence-line.

The river disappears from site as we walk for many k on a huge flat expanse of rock and low bushes, high enough that I need to take giant steps to bushwhack forward. I can see where we need to go far in the distance just as we come to the truck that passed us and two fisherman.

I don’t like when I get this way, but I can’t stop myself from engaging them.

“Are you Americans?”
 “From the UK originally!”
 “And you passed us?”
 “Yes.”
 “Thanks a lot.”

I then step into the first of many swift moving streams, water to mid thigh. I should have just let it go, but they ought to know it’s not polite to pass a woman hiker with her thumb out, even if they are all fancied up in their fly fishing gear. The trouble is my irritation doesn’t stop there and it festers. Their not stopping is nothing personal, but I take it personally and allow it to color my day.

Fortunately, the river sucks up all my attention as I steady my footing and move like a crab through the relentless press of millions of gallons of water.

Each braid of river, stream and streamlet is just one chapter of this humongous crossing. There’s rocks, as I’ve mentioned, pushed down by flooding, all very hard on the feet. There’s thorny plant material, sand and also quicksand, mushy like a jello mold that will suck you right in. There are also feral rabbits leaving holes everywhere as well as droppings everywhere.

My feet are soaked from multiple crossings, but I have yet to reach a real piece of the Rangitata. That would be a light chalky blue and fast moving section. Here, I can’t see the bottom and my heart begins to beat fast. Neil told me the lighter color means it’s deep. There is something terrifying being all the way out on this vastness with just one band of blue blocking my passage.

Tom and I move up river to look for a suitable crossing and find one braided with rocks on long v-shaped peninsulas. He steps in, moving like Frankenstein, water to his knees. At the rocky stopping point, he stabs the water and his pole goes down almost to the handle. He finds a small bridge of stones going upstream and changes course moving slowly but reaching the other side easily.

I step in and immediately feel a tug that wants to pull me under. I press forward and aim myself in the direction he finishes. He wades in to give me a hand, but I press on and complete the cross on my own, laughing from an adrenaline rush, thrilled to have mastered the moves I needed.

I ask Tom how he knows where to go and he shrugs, telling me, “It’s just water.” Later explaining he was raised on water and knows when it’s truly dangerous.

Three more silty-blue crossings and we’re through with the river, but by no means the river bed which causes me no end of awkward stepping and exhausted walking. Did I mention it’s scorching hot and surprisingly the water is not cold.

It takes ages to get to the other bank, then work our way south to the trailhead. I am exhausted as we arrive at Bush stream and I can filter water. Tom finds a pool – likely for fish – and dives in. This water is freezing, so I wade in before heating up noodles in the shade.

I walk a jeep track but notice an orange pole right in the middle of the riverbed. I head to it and plunge myself back in rocky purgatory. Tom is ahead and tells me he avoided that ridiculous trail marker. I stay close after that and it’s a river walk of boulders and crossings, this time in a fast moving stream at a much greater incline.

The gal with shaved head, random braids and multiple tattoos catches us. Her name is Tina, a German living in New Zealand with an easy-going nature and big smile. Fortunately she’s on her own without the posse of nine hikers.

We chat as we come to a point where the trail shoots straight up since the river hits an impassable canyon. There’s barely enough ground to make contact. I am focused, head down, while she takes a better trail and I’m left on a ledge, a nightmare descent on greased ball bearing stones.

The stream is gushing, powerful and musical, but the truth is, it’s low, so we might have skipped that uphill bit and simply walked in the river, though warned the canyon 

Which I attempt in the next section, only to come to boulders and multiple mini-waterfalls. Tom goes right in and lends a hand through it. I’m wet to my navel, but loving it.

More rock hopping and route finding before the trail shoots up for 1200 steps – yes, I counted to keep focused and not stop. But truthfully, up is my forte. The view to the Rangitata and the snaky Bush in its gorge is spectacular, as are the spiky mountains ahead.

But this trail is a just a bypass and heads straight back down to the stream, crosses it in rapids then heads straight back up, – and up and up, about the distance and steepness of Huana Picchu in Peru, to a saddle, then a meadow and the hut awaiting my tired self.

Peter and Mary give me crackers and salmon which I saved for a little celebration for today’s achievement. American-New Zealander Ryan is here as are two Kiwis, one a runner wearing a Medtronic device and invited to participate in the Twin Cities marathon.

We all sit in the sun at our spectacular perch until he sets, turning the sky pink. Tomorrow promises altitude and views and perhaps a more forgiving heart as well as one filled with pride for all I accomplished today. What an adventure to cross the ‘hazard zone’ and to push through when tired. And also to have the flexibility to say ‘yes’ to checking out something on Tom’s to-do list.

The hut is all tucked in with only soft snoring. It’s time for me to join the chorus.

The morning begins with the Kiwi couple talking, rustling in their plastic food bags and letting the door bang shut – over and over. Is it just an oversight, as the sun is not yet up and the four of us TA hikers are still sound asleep.

Alan and Carol from Dunedin – the gal even coming to Saint Paul to run the Twin Cities Marathon – it seems, resent us.

Alan gives himself away asking how many more of us are coming and that he’d never seen so many hiking the trail. He takes extra delight in warning us of rain tomorrow just as we’ll cross Stag Saddle, the TA’s highest point with views for miles of New Zealand’s highest peaks.

What makes people become so ugly they’d disturb our desperately needed sleep to prove a point – that the hut belongs to them? I was friendly and polite last night and engaged them in conversation. It makes no sense.

After they leave, Ryan shows me an entry in the intentions book that singles out TA hikers for rubbish left in the fireplace. Not this hiker and I doubt many others as most backpackers are steeped in ‘leave no trace.’ It’s just poor form to use this important book, one designed for statistical purposes and to trace lost hikers, to lodge an accusation at a class of trampers with no proof whatsoever. Alan and Carol of Dunedin may not have written it, but their bad manners this morning are totally out of line.

I am as quiet a church mouse making tea while the rest still sleep. When I pack, I can’t find my tent. I fear having left it at the car park and begin to cry in frustration.

It simply fell behind the bunk and all is well. I say I’m strong physically, not so much emotionally and Tina wakes up and laughs. Ryan has lived here a long time and says it’s only old, cranky people who tramp anymore. But the two Kiwis are my age and I certainly hope I don’t behave like that. If they don’t like us TA hikers, then please tramp on other ‘trails.’

Tom and I set off straight up from the hut first on a good track of stubby grass and then up scree, 500 meters in only two kilometers as I lead up, controlling my breathing and dislodging my hurt and frustration with each step. I’m thrilled with my strength and that my body allows me to do this one thing that I do so well – go up.

At the saddle, we grab a drink and survey what’s beyond which is more of these desolate mountains rolling out before us in two-tones of dusty, dry yellow and chalky, exfoliating gray.

What goes up must come down and in New Zealand, it’s usually the shortest distance between two points. But this time, it’s on awesome scree – only for a few hundred meters, mind you, but absolute heaven jumping in piles of rock as I descend. This leads to a firm track on grass and I get my hopes up I can carry on this way to the saddle.

But those hopes are soon dashed as I come upon tussock as high as me. Any trail disappears, as do most poles. I thrash through it using my sticks to determine if there’s a hole under the fronds – I fall in one on a steep ascent – I slip on one and smash into a rock – I stub the left big toe on one and my mood refuses to lift. It’s agonizingly slow progress up and over small saddles and right back down again to a stream, then rinse and repeat.

The sun is relentless, cooking me and my sucking at my energy. I finally come over a last hump before I see Stone hut ahead over a little bridge. It’s such a perfect little spot in a bend in the river. I purify water in the babbling stream and sit in the soft, dry grass with a light breeze at my back, not one sandfly in the vicinity. Absolute bliss.

I start to walk up the stream and immediately lose the orange poles, crossing the river multiple times, up and down steep banks. That’s when I hit my wall. I tell Tom I can’t go any further – at least no further than the next hut. He is actually pleased, knowing we can go for the saddle if we wanted to, but just not really wanting to. It’s hot – blue sky with not a single cloud nor a single tree for shade – and my body is screaming to rest.

But honestly, it’s my heart and will that needs a rest. Everything I’ve accomplished so far is like a giant blur. I can’t remember anymore why I’m doing this thing called the Te Araroa. My bliss just empties out, like the air in my thermarest when I open the valve.

The trail eases up, even within the tussocky maze, and I slow way down, stopping at a stream to eat the rest of my salami and a few dried apricots – and have a good cry. I miss Richard and my home, my family and my music. I want a proper meal and my big bed. I want to enjoy my steps, not just press forward to ‘get there.’ I feel, frankly, done in and hopeless.

As I cry alone in that lonely spot, I notice a waterfall on the dry mountainside. I can’t see the water as much as hear it, but what I do see is what I might call a flower fall, bright yellow against gray. 

Director and screen writer Kathryn Bigelow said, “I believe there's hope, because
 the breakdown and the repair are happening simultaneously.”

Yellow is such a joyous color, I suddenly feeling better and knowing I am a very fortunate middle aged woman – fortunate to have the money, the time and the opportunity to take on this challenge, fortunate to be married to a guy who supports my crazy ideas completely and with love and care, fortunate to still be walking strongly after so many days and so many k’s, and fortunate my young friend Tom also wants to stop early and risk the weather not being as stellar, but willing to do so to feel better tomorrow.

It’s only half hour before I reach the hut set in a wide valley with forbidding mountains looking on. I grab a first floor bunk and head to the stream to submerge myself in its icy contents then hang in the shade with Tina, who offers me gummy candies, cookies, a hunk of chocolate and a bit of fresh avocado. I start to feel fully revived, laughing with this funky tattooed woman who takes herself far less seriously than I take myself. A desperately needed nap seals the deal – my mouth wide open, Tina points out later, like a vampire.