Day 8

Sunday, 25 August

R & R in Tutukaka (0 km)

We had a comfortable night, with the only noise being the harsh calls of pukekos.  “Flee!” they screamed to us beneath the black, uncaring sky. “Flee! Flee!” Of course, they might have been saying “Flea!” instead, indicating a parasitical rather than relocational concern, but we will never know…

Today we were motel blobs. The weather forecast promised it would be wet, with 110 km/h winds, so we stayed in bed, apart from dragging ourselves across the road to the restaurant for lunch. We were clean, but so tatty that I wondered if we’d be let in. I need not have wasted a thought on this. The dress code notice at the entrance said: “Shoes must be worn”.

We had some time to catch up with our writing, and I asked Hannah if she’d like to make a list of the responses she has had to her scars. This is what she wrote:

Unhelpful responses:
“Are those actual scars on your arms?”
“What are those from?”
“What happened to your hand?”
“Oi, do you cut yourself?”
“Nice scars!”
“They’re so bad…”
“I hate looking at them.”
“I did that once. Really bad. I needed stitches; cut myself so bad I had to go to hospital. There’s no scar but it was really bad.”
“Why on your tits?”
“I’m not looking at the boobs – I’m looking at what’s on the boobs.”
“I can’t understand why someone would do that to themselves.”
“There’s so many…”
(Quietly, to someone else) “I feel sorry for her.”
“Do you want to get married and have a family?”
(Praying) “Please God – take Satan out of Hannah’s soul.”
“If you cut, I’ll cut.”
“Didn’t that hurt?”
“You must’ve pressed hard.”
“Sign this contract that says that if you continue to self-harm, you will be put into care until you’re 18, and if you self-harm there, you’ll stay there until you’re 21.”
“Make a deal with me?”
“Can I pray for you?”
“Can I touch them?”
“Yeah, I did that once. It didn’t work.”
“I see you went through an ‘emo’ phase.”
“What are you gonna do with these long term?”
“I wish I could cut.”
“How did you get them so deep?”
“When this sticking plaster comes off it’ll pull a few hairs out. But maybe that could be your new pain thing? Waxing!”
“Just stop.”
“Oh, yeah, I have heaps of scars too.”
(Dirty look)
(Quietly, to someone else) “Look at her arms…”
(Pulling skirt up) “Do you want to see the ones I did last night?”
“If I do it all down my legs too, will I get out of PE?”
“You should know better.”
“Did you cut it up with a knife?”
“Can I see the others?”
“Why do you cut yourself?”
“Your cat raped you!” (Laughs)
“My cousin cuts herself. (Laughs) She’s so emo! She has her hair over one eye and everything!” (Same person, one week later) “I’m actually really close to someone that self-harms so I think I understand it better than you do.”
“OMG, I just don’t get it. Like…what is there to be depressed about anyway?”
“Depressed people and cutters are stupid.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Is it for a sexual rush?”

Helpful responses:
“If you ever need me, call me. Whenever. Even if I’m in school. You matter more than school.”
“There is nothing I’d rather do than be here for you.”
“Even your scars are beautiful.”
“We’ll do whatever is in our power to help you, whenever you’re ready.”
“Are you okay in this situation?”
“I’m proud of you for going out in short sleeves today.”
“I understand how hard it is for you.”
“You’re so much stronger than you think.”
“Would you like me to sing ‘System Of A Down’ and ‘Blink 182’ at you for 2 hours or until you feel better?”
“Brb, getting food and movies. I’ll be there soon.”
“Would you like me to come spend the day with you on the anniversary of That Hard Time In Your Life?”
“Nothing you could say or do would disappoint me.”
“I have faith in you.”
“I’m sorry if that situation caused you anxiety.”
(Hugs)

Day 9

Monday, 26 August

Matapouri to Ngunguru (13 km, plus about 3 km off the trail)

Today we did the Matapouri bush walk, passing Tane Moana then heading down to Ngunguru. First, we had to get from Tutukaka to Matapouri to reach the trail where we had left it on Saturday afternoon. We walked about 3 km in the rain before someone offered us a lift. It was really nice of him, because we were wet and our packs bulky. He recognised our accents and said he had followed the All Blacks to South Africa for their controversial tour in 1976 and spent some time driving a bus in Durban.

The rain was a prima donna today; it kept stopping and starting and we felt a bit like cheap strippers down at the Smugglers’ Inn, continually putting stuff on and then taking it off again. Eventually we just left our rain gear off, and walked ourselves wet and then dry and then wet again.

The bush section was pretty and only 7 km long, but it took us most of the day because of the steep and muddy parts and (“Surprise!” she said with a horrible fixed grin) our getting lost again. The GPS took us back to the trail and the turn-off, which was indeed marked, but where the path was faint. This time, it was our fault for not being sufficiently alert.

The track goes through one of the few areas where there are still wild kiwis to be found, although the birds’ nocturnal habits meant we had no chance of seeing or hearing them. The predator extermination programme has to be aggressive here, and we came upon a few possum gibbets, sad and stinking reminders of how stupidly and easily humans trash ecosystems and then have to labour unpleasantly to fix things.

We tried to photograph Tane Moana, one of the few ancient kauri trees left from New Zealand’s original forests. We couldn’t get a good angle on it or an adequate representation of its size, due to the surrounding vegetation and geography. For readers who are not New Zealanders, kauri wood is exquisite and richly coloured, and can often be seen in the floors and doors of the older houses here.

We entered Ngunguru. (I like that name. It arises from a language and culture half way across the world from the South African Zulus, yet it reminds me of the satisfying roundness of Zulu words). Here, we were delighted to discover another quirky postbox. This seahorse is huge – about as tall as I am, and don’t you think it has an insane gleam in its metallic eye?

We came across a time capsule. The plaque reads: “MILLENIUM CAPSULE. In the year 2000 the citizens of this area buried a time capsule under this plaque to be opened in the year 2100. Our future is your past.” There is no indication of what was planted under the concrete. I’m sure a newspaper was included, but I’d prefer to think there was some cheeky stuff too. My two cents’ worth is a David Beckham doll dressed in drag. OK folks, let’s have some guesses from you in the comments section.

Our ankles were aching from all the twisting and sliding in the bush and Hannah had blisters too, so she was walking funny. We stopped at the estate agent’s office to ask if there were camping grounds. “You two look like you need to sit down!” exclaimed a lady, before we opened our mouths. “Actually, we’d prefer it if we were tenderly carried away,” I said. “Meanwhile, is there a place to camp legally here?” There wasn’t. Someone said that former camping grounds were being turned into housing developments now. I don’t know if that is true, but certainly a lot of building was going on in this small and pretty settlement. We were advised that since this was the winter season, we should try our luck at the largely empty campervan sites. There was a small site on private property on the main road, where the owners allowed us to camp and have hot showers for next to nothing. As I have said before, there are some thoroughly nice souls in rural New Zealand.

Day 10

Tuesday, 27 August

Ngunguru to a place on the road nearer Whangarei (9 km)

We set off to walk the estuary bypass to the next trail section. The bypass is an 18 km road margin tramp and we were not feeling enthusiastic. We were amused, though, at Ngunguru’s “She’ll be right” answer to Southfork. A small, rusty sign marked the “WY WURRY RANCH”.

Then we passed a sign advertising Birman kittens. “Oh I just want to lie in a tub somewhere and have someone pour a boxful of Birman kittens all over me!” groaned Hannah. I thought I could probably live with that scenario too. We were meant to be working our way along the coast to Whangarei Heads before catching the bus home, but right now, another two or three days of hoofing it did not appeal.

Then we saw A Sign From God. There was an odd cloud formation which made an “X” in the sky. Aha! Who are we to argue against God? Shortly thereafter, a lovely lady driving in the opposite direction turned her car and offered us a lift. She was Emma, and on her front passenger seat sat Jet, her Staffie. We climbed into the back and Jet came to visit us and cuddle for a short while before returning to his place of honour and supervisory authority. Emma took us well out of her way and dropped us at the bus stop in Whangarei. We were very pleased and thankful.

The day continued to be good. While waiting for the bus, we visited the Himalayan Trading Post, where the manageress gave Hannah a box of Tibetan incense.

The trip home was enlivened by a bloke asking the driver to stop on the motorway. The passenger had to throw up. The driver complied, but admonished the bloke for smelling of alcohol. We didn’t mind. We had started this trip with requesting an Intercity driver to make an unscheduled stop, so who were we to criticise?

Leg 4 – Kerikeri to Ngunguru, days 6 and 7

Day 6

Friday, 23 August

Mimiwhangata Rd to Whananaki (16 km, plus 3km returning to the trail start)

We climbed the steep 3km road from the DOC camp to resume the trail from Kaiikanui Rd. The view was panoramic and for a short while the sun shone. Hannah was still feeling bad so I held her hand and after a while she held mine back.

We entered the Morepork track and then crossed private land. The weather guaranteed a slippery, squelchy walk. There was not much in the way of views because of the height of the vegetation, and the paths were very steep. It was endurance walking for us on this day, in single file and without much conversation.

I realised that I had not brushed my hair for three days. Gosh, my glamour quotient was sinking rapidly. But stay! Another force was pushing the needle heavenwards again: pole dancing skills. Perhaps you know nothing of trail pole dancing? Instructions: 1) Find a horrible steep and muddy path in almost impenetrable bush. 2) Either ascend or descend path (it does not matter which; the forces of physics apply in any case). 3) Pretend you’re in an arse-kicking contest, during which your legs shoot uncontrollably outwards and upwards. 4) Clasp the trunk of a sapling and use your momentum to spin around it, aided by the weight of your pack. 5) Emit a girly shriek as your nails score the bark and you achieve horizontality. 6) Use the moment of stasis to consider the philosophical aspects of centrifugal versus centripetal force, and which one you may have just demonstrated.

An energetic soul ran Te Araroa trail in 53 days, finishing in February this year. You can read about him here. On several occasions during our walk, Hannah and I have squealed to one another: “He never ran this bit. Ooooo – he couldn’t have. He must have walked/crawled like us.” On today’s section, in the steeper bits, we would have welcomed those special ice-climbing boots, the ones with fearsome spikes on the toecaps. But maybe we are simply prize numpties for starting the walk early in the wet weather.

As we neared the end of the trail, signs included a pink arrow spray-painted on a tree and an orange blob spray-painted on a fern, but we did not get lost, arriving at last with bruises, sore ankles and huge relief in Whananaki. It was late afternoon and we thought about rhymes for Whananaki. Idiotic choice of the day was “Bride of Chucky: Whananaki”. I fear our intellects lacked muscularity at this point, but Hannah had recovered equanimity.

We couldn’t wait to eat at the café. But no! The café has winter hours. This was Friday and food from the menu was available only on Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays. Why Thursdays? Why, I ask you, why? Like Fraser from Dad’s Army, we could only make our eyes bug out a bit and mourn: “We’re doomed. Doomed!”

Our luck at the motel was good. It was friendly, clean and cheap accommodation, and we could wash and dry our clothes. Cell phone reception was poor, though, and we could only get it (and be heard at the other end) if the phone was in a specific place, lying flat on the table, and a left ear was applied to the receiver while speaking was done towards the right. Conversation in this position is a literal pain in the neck, so we kept it short and snappy.

Day 7

Saturday, 24 August 

Whananaki to Matapouri (13.5 km, plus 3km on the road to Tutukaka)

We had a fabulous breakfast at the café. It opened exactly on time, the service was prompt and the food tasty and reasonably priced. Oh the bliss of potato wedges with sour cream and a cappuccino. Oh the joy. If I go on too much I’ll start to sound pathetic and a bit creepy, so I’ll stop now.

While we ate, an old man entered the café for supplies. Without being told, his terrier bitch waited at the door for him. She was dying to follow him inside, but crouched in quivering obedience, waiting with one forepaw raised. After a short while she put it down and raised the other one. When the man emerged, I said, “Your dog is so good!” He revealed that she knows she’s not allowed inside anywhere, because her reward is to rule the caravan they share. “The bed is all hers,” he said. He wore no shoes, despite the cold, and on one foot was tattooed the words “I’m tired”. On the other foot was “Me too”.

We entered the shop to stock up on trail food. Hannah had her sleeves pushed up. “What are those marks on your arms from?” asked the shopkeeper. (“I nearly shat a brick,” Hannah said to me afterwards – but I thought she responded well.) “Um, it’s self-harm,” she said to the shopkeeper. “Oh, I thought you had done it for effect,” was the reply. “No,” said Hannah, “it took years of self-hatred before I could wear short sleeves and show my scars.” We explained we were walking the trail to raise awareness and funds for mental health recovery.

We crossed the Whananaki footbridge, which, at 395 metres, is the longest in the southern hemisphere, and headed for Matapouri. It was a beautiful day and the path was easy, largely following the contour. The sea views were amazing with numerous little coves in the foreground; the water was turquoise in the shallows. In this picture, you can see a shack with a bold promise spray-painted on the side: “Sex, drugs, rock & roll”. I’m not sure the shack has the fortitude to withstand any one of those activities at a time, let alone an unholy threesome. But hey, never underestimate the power of optimism. She’ll be right!

In another cove there was an extremely larney home with manicured lawns at the south end. This place was clearly for toffs. At the north end was a small corrugated iron shed, in which someone had parked an old caravan. This was a low maintenance holiday home (called a “bach” in NZ). I love such quaint juxtapositions.

The trail today was mainly marked with orange posts. I am in love with those posts! Unlike the triangles, you can see them from a long distance. If the whole trail were marked in this manner it would be awfully comforting, but probably much too expensive for the Te Araroa Trust. We did not get lost today, and at only one point were we in doubt for a few minutes about direction. Temporarily, we could not see our next orange post. Then I had a brilliant idea. “Wait!” I said to Hannah, before anxiety struck us with a soggy thump. “Can you see cattle tracks? Those cloven devils’ hooves which have churned the ground to ankle-twisting roughness?” “Yes,” she responded. “Is there a lot of manure?” I asked. “Yes,” she replied. “OK,” was my solution, “then we follow that lead. Everywhere we have been; the cows have been before us, opening their bowels liberally as they went.” And so it was! Within a few minutes, our next orange pole came into view.

The highlight of the day was in Matapouri, where a horse approached the fence to cuddle Hannah. She was thrilled and gave it a thorough kissing.

There was no camping allowed or other accommodation available in Matapouri, so we decided to walk to Tutukaka, 6 km south. Fortunately for us, a really kind bloke picked us up after about 3 km and dropped us at the holiday park, which was cheap, clean and stylish. What a pleasure today was! It would be really easy if every day tramping was this good, but then, Mind Over Miles would not be about endurance, so we wouldn’t be doing it in the first place.

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Day 4

Wednesday, 21 August

Russell Forest to Oakura turnoff (7 km) (Plus another 5 km of off-trail walking)

Desperate to leave Russell Forest and reach Oakura for a recovery night, we packed our sodden gear early and marched. We were about 4 km from the exit, and landslips in a few places blocked the path, but we got through. We knew the tarred road was near when we started passing illegal and rather sad-looking domestic dumping sites in the forest.

Turning off the trail to reach Oakura, we fantasised about hot fresh food. We had rejected our breakfast muesli bars as loathsomely inadequate after the previous day’s experience, and with the happy expectation of gastronomic fulfilment in the settlement. We walked largely in silence, occasionally shouting meal titles at one another to exhort brisker locomotion. “Barbecued chicken!…Nachos!…Tiramisu!…Cheese burgers!… Mochaccino!” (Hannah). “Macaroni cheese!…Roast beef!…Vegetable curry!…Chocolate mousse!” (me).

On our way into the village, we saw this real treat of a garden feature, a tree decorated with old beach sandals. The sign said “Jandal Paradise”.

We also encountered the first other backpackers of our walk. They were leaving the village as we entered it, and briefly greeted us with unsmiling civility. They were tall, male, blonde and German.

The Oakura sea views and beach front are exquisite; old trees and a manicured grassed park lead to the water’s edge, with islands in the distance. After admiring this, we started sniffing around for food and accommodation. Oh calamity! This was Wednesday, and the one and only café adhered to winter hours: it was open from Thursday to Sunday. Maybe the solemnity of the Teutonic trampers was not cultural but café-contextual?

Luckily, there was a small grocery shop with normal hours, and so we bought a frozen meal to heat at a self-catering unit. We had to find somewhere with enough space to wash and dry all our kit. The beach motel was too far from the shop for our convenience, so we opted for a privately-run residence as the only remaining choice.

Oakura may be seething with souls during summer, but at this time of year it seems almost deserted. There are some very lovely-looking homes, but not many owners appear to be year-round residents.

On the phone, the unit’s owner assured us he was offering “Beaut accommodation”, hired out for $240 per night during the high season, but for us, it would be $130. We moved in. Major plus factor: it had a bath. Apart from that, eish! We were both stunned, and it takes rather a lot to stun a teenager – ideologically and spiritually opposed to housework – with mess. The unit was very neat; the mess comprised dirt, mould, a stale smell, shabbiness and dysfunctional appliances. The mould was everywhere, even all over the toilet (Eeeww). The oven was caked with ancient fat. There was food (and in one place, a substance that looked like blood) splashed on the walls, a front door secured by an iron bar due to the lock being smashed, and there was only one bath/basin plug that fitted. I won’t bore you with the rest of my self-righteous list. However, we got our stuff clean and dry in the end, even though I had to wash our bras in the bath. The last time I did this I was a student. I don’t mean my underwear has remained unwashed since 1984; I mean I’ve used a basin with a plug since then.

High point of the day: Hannah found a live earthworm in her sock! Deeply meaningful questions with which we wrestled: 1) How did it get in there? 2) How did Hannah not feel it wriggling around? 3) How did it retain its wormy little grasp on life when it hasn’t got any hands?

As we worked, our main topics of conversation were music, gay marriage, the Spanish Inquisition, puppies, and the 1692 Salem witch trials. We haven’t managed to bore each other on the trail so far; I think we’re doing rather well, actually!

Day 5

Thursday, 22 August

Oakura turnoff to the intersection of Kaiikanui and Mimiwhangata Rds (14.5 km, plus about 7 km getting confused and another 3km off-trail, looking for a campsite)

Thursday! This meant the café would open at 10.30 am. Goody gum drops. We would have a lavish and leisurely breakfast there, followed by easy road margin tramping to the start of the Morepork track. No. We are in New Zealand where, depending on the circumstances, the “She’ll be right” attitude is sometimes a charming alternative to hoity up-toity-tightness and at other times a poignant pain in the pooperture. Today it was one of the other times. The café opened at 11.08 and we got toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches at 11.20, which we ate as we walked.

We bought food for the next few days at the small shop: Uncle Ben’s rice, peanut bars and chocolate. Finding suitable tramping food in villages and small towns is difficult. Tinned and frozen stuff cannot be packed, so our diet is rather boring and unhealthy. Cafés generally offer fast food instead of fruit and salads, however, the diet is a small price to pay for a big adventure; missing the family and pets is a larger personal expense.

Trail conversation today centred on insane things we had done. I have rather a lot of saucy material from my university life, but I did not expect Hannah to have much with which to surprise me. But this only goes to show how little we know about the gifts of our gonads. Hannah went with a friend to the Warehouse where they hoped to buy only three items: a Barbie doll, a rope and a tube of lube. The idea was to see if this combination elicited any facial reaction from a bored-looking teller. Unfortunately their pocket money did not permit such extravagance so a beautiful insightful moment was lost to experimental social psychology.

The road through farmlands was enlivened by the sight of new calves chasing each other in a very goony way. They got as close to scampering as a 45 kg creature can.

We also saw this beautifully crafted bridge. I would have liked to get a closer look at it, but it was on property behind a fence with a sign rather inhospitably promising 24-hour surveillance.

Less appealing was a bull, wandering at large. He had mean little piggy eyes and moved with a heavy deliberation that caused his peach-coloured, distressingly intact testicles to sway gently. We walked slowly away and were relieved when he lost interest in us.

We took the turning to Teal Bay and climbed a hill. At this point, the tribulation of the day began. The trail notes said we should continue on the road margin until reaching the junction of Kaiikanui and Mimiwhangata Roads. However, we suddenly noticed a stile and an unmistakeable orange trail sign pointing across the pasture at a farm called The High Chaparral. We were squinting at the map and the GPS when a woman stopped her car and offered help. She said this was indeed the trail, which, although she had never walked it, “kept changing”. This is to be expected as greater numbers of private landowners generously agree to allow a public path over their property. So over the stile we went and up through some very pretty pastures with sweeping views.

At the base of another incline, we came across a trail arrow that had been written on with a black marker pen: “Track end at top of hill. (Incomplete sign)! 25-11-12.” The writing looked similar to that which we saw correctly indicating south in Russell Forest. Should we continue? We dithered, but after coming so far, decided to keep going. The hill was very steep. We climbed another stile and entered a scrubby section that was equally steep, but had a few orange triangles directing us higher. Then we saw a post with two damaged triangles both pointing back the way we had come instead of one pointing the out southbound route and the other the northbound route. Again we paused, because the path appeared to have petered out too, but triangles higher up indicated that the route continued. Finally we reached the hilltop, and there we saw the makings of a stile lying on the ground and behind these a rather unfriendly notice saying “Track Not Yet Open. PRIVATE PROPERTY. Please Keep Out. WARNING: Pest control in this area includes use of firearms.” We wondered whether trail trampers were classified among the larger species of pests.

Thoroughly disheartened, we sat on the rejected stile poles. What to do now? I dumped my pack and went for a recce. The path appeared to resume in the bush, veering away from the pest control area. I followed it for about 800 metres. I could see no more trail markers in this section. There were also no other human footprints on the muddy path, just plenty of cow tracks. And it started to rain…. Returning to Hannah, I asked what she wanted to do. “Let’s stick with what we know,” she said. “We know we can reach the Morepork track if we go along the road.” So back we went, arriving at the road short of energy and two hours’ walking time.

We wondered, if that part of the trail was a blind end, why it was so well trodden in its earlier section. Potential reasons: 1) Cows also walk the paths within their paddocks and 2) It would be very well worn if all trampers walked the path twice, retracing their steps.

On the road margin, an hour later, a cheerful farmer stopped his car, climbed out and spoke to us. “You know you need not walk this road? You can take the trail path through my farm,” he said. “But we did!” we wailed, comforting ourselves with his lovely soft border collie, who was pressing against us and patting our legs with his plumy tail. Our tragic tale splashed out everywhere. “Oh, you can just ignore that sign,” said the farmer. “You should have kept going.” He then told us about New Zealand trail blazers, including a man who did the distance from south to north on a penny farthing bicycle. “But he kept mainly to the roads.” I looked up the story when I got home. Wearing Victorian clothing, this cyclist completed his quaint but epic trip early last year. You can read about him here.

We were now in brown teal territory. This bird is endangered and we saw a few of cautionary signs. Aw bless! We don’t mind living anywhere that cars have to give way to ducklings.

At the top of Mimiwhangata Rd is this large DOC sign advertising camping. It mentions closing at night but says nothing about seasonal variations. Camping is not permitted on the Morepork trail, so we decided to make the steep, 3 km descent to the beach park. Oh calamity! When we arrived, shortly before dusk, worn out and in pelting rain, we discovered that camping is not allowed at this time of year. Gro-o-a-a-n. Fortunately, a really nice person allowed us to have a hot shower and sleep under cover.

The day’s setbacks gave Hannah a knock. Anxiety is exacerbated when you follow conflicting instructions and unclear rules as best you can, but still end up doing the wrong thing. She began a 24-hour period of feeling dreadful, and we were out of cell phone range for the crisis numbers we had been given for emergencies. That was a bad night, despite our being warm and dry. She lay with her face in the crook of her elbow. I fed her blocks of chocolate under her armpit until she managed a chuckle. After that, there was no other resource than Adrian Mole, so I read aloud to her. “My sanity hangs by a fragile thread,” says Adrian in The Wilderness Years. This got me thinking about my own sanity. It does not hang so much as swing past on a liana, shrieking “Yeeeeeaaaah!” as it passes me. Oh no! It is penduluming back now! I feel so much better when it’s gone.