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.

Tuesday, 20 August

Paihia to Russell Forest (35 km: 14 on water; 21 on land)

We set the alarm for an appallingly early hour and blundered in the dark to the jetty. There was a light rain. High point of the day was experienced at 5.55 am as we once again passed gorgeous Paihia’s wee toilet. It is illuminated by one of those lights that changes colour every ten seconds or so. Aw bless!

The launch arrived in the fog. Micaela said she takes about 70 trampers across per month in the dry holiday season, but generally with about 12 or 24 hours between each small group. Today, the boat would go slowly due to the poor visibility and we might have to do some reversing if we took the wrong turn in the mangroves. In places, we saw darkly vegetated bluffs dimly frowning through the fog along the edges of Waikare Inlet, but mostly we could see nothing. I have no idea how Micaela found the landing in the mangroves. We took no photos on this day, due to the weather.

We strapped on our packs and headed along farm roads to the Russell Forest trail section. From this point on, the day was no fun at all. It is hugely frustrating that trail signage varies in frequency, quality, type and visibility. We knew that at some point we had to enter a river and walk upstream for four kilometres, because this is specified in the online trail notes. What they do not say is that the place where you turn parallel to the river before entering it is marked with yellow triangles, not orange ones. So of course we missed the turning and spent an uncomfortable hour wandering through private Maori homesteads and retracing our steps.

Another detail, somewhat odd in context, is that the trail notes say you can ford the river – before reaching the place where you walk upstream –  without wetting your shoes, if you cross on a strategically placed concrete pole. Why bother, when in a very short time you’ll be spending hours more in the water than out of it?

Anyway, we worked our way upstream for a very long time, wading in water ranging from ankle to thigh deep. There were some scary moments. The river section was much longer than 4 km because we had to braid our way, looking for the safest, least slippery and rocky line through the water. There were no trail markers along the river banks to reassure us that we were still in the right section. The only thing that helped was the occasional footprint in the few sandy sections we crossed. We had to believe that these were the prints of a tramper from a day or two ahead of us.

After about half an hour, it started to rain again, so we were dripping from the top down as well as marinading from  the bottom up. With rocks often turning beneath our feet, some sudden and unwanted bidet experiences were inevitable. I fell in three times. At times like these, my language becomes very very simple. Hannah fell in once, at the last minute, in the excitement at seeing the miraculous orange triangle denoting our exit point from the river. We so nearly missed it! You have to watch your feet all the time, or a sprained or broken ankle in very thick native forest, far from help and with no cell phone reception would be the scenario. Missing the trail marker, though, would have been truly grim. Some trampers walk this trail alone. Are they courageous or crazed? Without two pairs of eyes we would not have coped.

After the river exit, we saw more trail markers but doubt remained. There was one very clear Te Araroa chevron indicating we should take the left turn at a fork, heading towards a hut. Someone had used a black marker pen, crossed out the chevron and written “South” next to an arrow drawn pointing in the opposite direction. After some agonising, we decided to follow the arrow written by a fellow tramper. This was the right decision.

It was now drizzling. Not mentioned in the trail notes is a long, very steep climb, and the absence of suitable places to camp. However, our main emotion as we ploughed on was relief that we would not be doing the upstream walk the following day. Thank God! The river was pretty ADHD when we were in it; it would be impossibly and inconsiderately exuberant after the rain took full effect.

Despite being determined to get out of the forest by nightfall, after nine hours of wading and walking, we simply had to stop. Samson was deployed in a thoughtfully renewed heavenly downpour on the only piece of relatively flat, open ground we could find. However, it was not elevated and comprised mud and gravel surrounded by gorse.

Twit camper’s notes to self:

• It is almost impossible to plant a tent peg in gravelly ground.
• Do not attempt to relieve yourself anywhere near a gorse bush, especially in the dark.

We shared Hannah’s sleeping bag because mine was too wet. It is seriously uncool for a 15-year-old to share a sleeping bag with her mother. Fortunately for me, my daughter is not cool. She is a rock, capable of enduring the genetic and sartorial misfortune of her parenthood.

It was a huge comfort to eat our reconstituted freeze-dried trifle with hot custard. It is amazing how, when all other physical comforts are gone, a pudding becomes strangely healing. It is almost sacramental. After this, there was only one other thing that would soothe our ruffled souls: more Adrian Mole. It was Hannah’s turn to read aloud. She rifled through her pack, searching for her headlamp. She thought she’d found it but when trying to switch it on discovered she had a small plastic bottle instead. “I’ve retrieved ‘The Thing’!” she howled. “That *@#+!* useless bottle of *@#+!* seawater!”. An unintentional but accurate metaphor: the grimness we carry with us is not at all helpful with the everyday practical realities of life, but sometimes, that’s what we end up holding in the dark. On the edge of hysteria, we both laughed inordinately.

During the night, two things obtruded: lovely morepork calls and unlovely bladder urges. At home, in my comfy bed, I hate getting up and going to the bathroom. I lie for ages in discomfort, wishing my old weebag would detach itself, plop onto the floor, heave itself like a walrus into the loo, elevate itself with abseiling equipment onto the seat and simply do the decent thing before returning to its original lower abdominal location. Suffice to say that in a tent in Russell Forest, afloat in a cold mud puddle surrounded by gorse, the nocturnal tribulations of an Auckland suburban boudoir seem somewhat trivial.

Monday, 19 August

Waitangi Forest to Paihia (15 km)

With some groaning and whining, we washed down muesli bars with boring cold water and broke camp. Working our way through the Waitangi Forest, we passed Covenant 4 semi-infertile freshwater wetland. (At this point I pause for a smattering of applause.) Actually, I have no political or ecological grunt; I simply read this on a forest sign and used the term to impress y’all. I wonder why the land is labelled “semi-infertile” as opposed to “semi-fertile”?

A pair of paradise ducks circled overhead, with rusty cries of “Help! Heelp! Heeelp!” I think it would be a tad difficult for us to do anything stealthy in these parts. I don’t know if it was the same pair who dogged us for a few kilometres or whether other pairs participated in a neighbourhood watch relay, but there were rather a lot of bugled security alerts.

The low point of the day was the frequent odour of dead possums. We also saw their unlovely skinned carcasses flung at the roadside. We paused on Mount Bledisloe before descending to Waitangi.

A sign on the golf course warned us to beware of golf balls. Errrr. Apparently, the world record for golf ball speed is 328 km/h. (I looked that up.) Now even if local players fall far short of unleashing such virile velocity, I wonder how pedestrians would manage to see, let alone timeously skip out of the way of a ball? Or should we leopard-crawl our way past the fairways? Maybe it is the players who should beware of the trampers? Unless golfers don’t like trampers, in which case, an informal change to the game rules could catch on. “Tramper in one”, for example.

As we crossed the bridge at Waitangi, the view was silvery and serene, with small boats moored in still water beneath a low cloud cover.

Starving, we stopped in Paihia for a burger and awarded the restaurant manageress full marks for super-duper lovely wonderfulness. At the door we confessed to being muddy and damp, but she said it didn’t matter and let us in. Not all places welcome backpackers. In some shops, too, you “take up too much space in the aisles”. I had a funny turn during lunch and thought I was going to be sick or pass out. She advised me to lie lengthways on the banquette until I felt better. This, in a rather smart emporium with an award for its food.

Another good moment ambushed us on the beachfront, when we discovered we were inadvertently doing the Paihia community flag trail. Even considering the time of year, there were quite a few international visitors around. Clearly, they feel welcome.

Highlight of the day was the public toilet. Yes: I’m serious. But this is not as pitiful as it sounds.  As you can see in the photo, the sign: “Paihia’s wee toilet” 1) has a correctly placed apostrophe, 2) is thoroughly artistic and 3) gives lavatorial humour a new turn. Silver toilet bowls are used as planters and urinals as light fittings. How can you not be entranced?

We were about to head the short distance to Opua, when we realised that it was high tide, so we couldn’t take the beach route, and it started to rain in earnest. Opua is the place from which one catches a motor launch to Waikare for the next trail section. We decided to spend the night at a backpackers’ lodge. A sign advertising “The Pickled Parrot” drew us in. We thought it was an odd name. “Why ‘parrot’?” I asked. “Why not ‘The Preserved Pukeko’? Make it local. Or ‘The Conserved Kiwi’?” On booking in, we understood, as shall you when seeing the less innocent painted sign. I had brought my underage daughter to a hotbed of intemperance and carousel. Hannah laughed. “‘The Pickled Pukeko’ applies!” she said. “Or ‘The Motherless Morepork.’” Our creativity soared. “The Soused Saddlebird’,” I added”. When my family starts, we are unstoppable. Blotto Bellbird, Tanked Takahe and Legless Lark followed.

As it turned out, the place was scrupulously clean, very friendly, cheap, comfortable  and convenient, although the blokes in the adjoining room did have a long droning conversation in an eastern European language late into the night. But we read Adrian Mole aloud back through the wall to them. I trust they were edified, or at the very least, bewildered.

The motor launch to Waikare costs $100 and can only take trampers across to the landing in the mangrove swamp during the height of high tide. We were worried we would not manage this, because we would not be able to walk the beach route to Opua before 6.15 am due to the rising tide, and with our record for getting lost, could not confidently walk the alternative road route in the dark. We didn’t want to land in the mangroves in the dusk of the following evening’s high tide either, or to waste 24 hours waiting for the tide in Opua. But another lovely person did us a favour. Micaela, the boatie, offered to pick us up at 6.15 the next morning at the Paihia jetty. Obstacle overcome. Fears finished. Solution sorted. Oh dear, I’d better shut up now. I’m starting to annoy myself.

Sunday, 18 August

Kerikeri track  to Waitangi Forest (13 km)

The day started inauspiciously with our only juuust missing the Intercity bus from Orewa to Kerikeri. It was pulling away from the stop as we drew in behind. Marius raced to get ahead of it at Waiwera. Fortunately, the driver was kind enough to pull over in response to our anguished roadside gesticulations and lollopings.

Close to Warkworth is Sheep World, where sheep dyed pink graze in the roadside pasture and lure the traveller to read a billboard advertising “Sheep Shows”. These creatures are not known for much beyond crude Australian legends and belonging to Mary. I asked Hannah what she thought the sheep did. “Jump through a flaming hoop?” she suggested. My thought was that there was a transcription error on the board, which should have read “Peep Shows”. Hannah did a charming impression of a coy ewe, bleating seductively while unzipping a woolly top.

On the back of the seat in front of us was a sign originally saying “Please keep feet off”. Someone had scratched away most of the letters, leaving behind “ease p ee”. The same had been done to the sign across the aisle, where two kids bickered and wrestled good-naturedly for most of the trip. I heard the boy daring his sister to lick the sign. Oh the hideous pressure of being a sibling! My sadly infrequent meetings with my 52-year-old brother are enlivened by a similar rewarding silliness. For those siblings who actually grow up and become dignified, I pity you, I really do! May the madness continue…

On the streets of Kerikeri, it is not immediately evident where to go to join the trail. We asked a shopkeeper, who stared at us in the same way he would have if we’d asked if he stocked mauve, scrodgehewn frighteners. This is the response from most people you ask about Te Araroa. Why have so few heard of the trail?

Kerikeri is exceedingly pretty. If it wasn’t for the mangroves and sea views that keep emerging, I could imagine myself back in KZN’s Hilton and Winterskloof. We found the last section of the Kerikeri track, which took us through forest with some amazingly gnarled trunks. Hannah said this one has a face of an old man with a spade-shaped beard and a rather distressing skin condition. I can see him too, so she’s not hallucinating, and neither are you. We also passed a derelict Victorian water powerhouse, before ending at the historic stone store.

The next trail section starts near this building, but we struggled to find the path, returning with increasing annoyance more than once to where we started. However, the visual highlight of the day was the mini sheep show afforded by a little black lamb on the jetty with its human flock. They had taken it fishing with them! That family scores 10/10 in my book.

The auditory highlight of the day was a harassed mother threatening her toddler, who had wandered too close to the water. “Do you want to go to the naughty corner?” she cried. One could see the child’s logic popping up, “Ga-ching!” behind her eyes. There she was, in the glorious outdoors, with never a corner in sight. The legal opportunities were endless.

Eventually on track, and referring to the trail notes, we read: “Walk SE up Pa Rd and turn NE into Kerikeri Inlet Rd”. I can see the purpose of compass points for direction in the bush, but in an urban area, what is wrong with “turn right”? Another problem is that not all roads are signposted. We met an elderly couple who were romantically holding hands and asked them if we were going in the direction of the Waitangi Forest. “Yes,” the old lady reassured us, “but you have to keep a sharp eye open; the trail is not well marked.” No kidding!!

In the late afternoon, we erected Samson on pine needles, which made a dry and comfortable floor. During the night there was a strange bird call which I have difficulty in transcribing. It comprised three hoots, preceded by an occasional chattering sound, as the bird appeared to egg itself on for more. Maybe someone reading this blog can tell us what it was. Or invent something idiotic that sounds zoologically convincing, folks. Go on, be daring and make a comment!

Tuesday 13 August

Old Kaipara Rd to Puhoi (17 km)

Very early in the morning, Marius drove us to Warkworth. On the back seat, the kids were in thrall to their ipods. Hannah was hermetically sealed off from the world with her earphones booming death metal in her head. Etienne was tapping away on his screen. Oh what a beautiful morning it was: golden, slanting light, fiercely green fields and placid sheep. And wobbly little lambs! Lambs do terrible things to my sanity; I am a martyr to my impulses. “Look at that adorable wittle wamb!” I oozed in a high-pitched baby voice. “Isn’t it wuvable? And it’s got such baggy legs and a sweet wittle tail!” Without lifting his eyes from his ipod, Etienne, mimicking my voice, said: “And it’s going to eat lots and grow big and then it’ll get gobbled aaaall up!”

We were dropped at the humiliating place where we lost the plot on July 30. In this photo, Hannah is standing at the farm road we were meant to take on the left. The tragically unobtrusive trail sign is on the right, at about 3 o’clock.

We followed the track through farms and native bush, heading up Moir’s Hill and then down through Dunn’s Bush to Saleyards Rd in Puhoi. I had a song beating in my head all day. Usually, getting a song on the brain is a bit like trying to flush half a mouldy sandwich down the loo. It just keeps bobbing back to the surface. Last time the mouldy sandwich was “Shaddap you face”. Ewww. But today the song was a goodie: Mindy Gledhill’s gentle and beautiful “All about your heart”. “I don’t mind your odd behavior / It’s the very thing I savor / If you were an ice cream flavor / You would be my favorite one .… Oh, I´ve loved you from the start / In every single way …. Believe me when I say / It’s not about your scars / It’s all about your heart.“ Listeners bring their own frame of reference to song interpretation; for me this song is what a mother wants to say to a treasured child overcoming self-harm.

I love Kiwi sculptures. Artists do wonderful things with corrugated iron and repurposed scrap. Today we saw this quirky bird in a farm garden. We also encountered this postbox, which looks like it might be Big Ears’ upgraded retirement home in a desirable lifestyle block.

As we descended Moir’s Hill, we had our first feral wildlife encounter. For some time we had seen cloven hoof prints in the mud and speculated as to whether these were from goats or pigs. Since I have never seen feral NZ pigs, I was curious to know if they resemble the wild boars Asterix and Obelix prefer for num-nums. There was rather a lot of freshly turned earth near the track, and that indicated pigs’ rooting. Suddenly, from behind a gorse bush, came a loud noise: something like the vulgar love child of a snore and a groan, with a light belching overlay. “Goats!” exclaimed Hannah. “That’s not a goat, it’s a pig!” I quavered. “No. Goats over there,” she said. “No. A pig over here,” I insisted. We were both right. Ahead, a herd of black goats bounded soundlessly away but there was clearly something hidden and petulantly piggy immediately on our left. “Aren’t we going to try to see it?” I asked Hannah’s back as she marched away. I followed her very smartly. If either of us were injured we couldn’t continue the walk and raise funds for mental health recovery. Well, that’s our noble story, and we’re sticking to it, OK?

In Dunn’s Bush, the path followed a fence line, which had some superbly lichened old posts. Hannah said this one reminded her of Uncle’s wonderful hair.

In Puhoi, the trail stops. One may kayak downriver to resume walking in the Wenderholm section. Marius is determined we shall do the kayaking option. Hmmm. We are not gifted in any way with boating. When the weather is warmer, however, I might consider drifting the distance while clinging elegantly to a pink pool noodle. Watch this space.

Thursday 8 August

Govan Smith Rd, Matakana, to Dome Forest (12.5 km)

We started this day feeling particularly prepared. We were both wearing new pants! Trail tramping pants. Special ones designed by geniuses, crafted in China and bought at the Bivouac emporium.  Surely, wearing such apparel, we cannot misread a map or put a foot wrong? The only problem is that Hannah’s new trousers rejoice in the label “Voodoo pants”. I hope my child finds God one day and I don’t want anything to interrupt her.

We were delighted to find a farm fence decorated with old wellington boots. Are these all retired from the feet of the same fella? Or do all old wellies come to this wellie graveyard to die? (Oh for goodness’ sake! I have just had to go back and correct the auto-correct. In its wisdom it had changed “wellies” to “willies”. A rural fence decorated according to auto-correct vocabulary would certainly be something out of the ordinary.)

Twenty minutes past the wellies, we encountered a parked truck. Three men with willies and a gun climbed out and released three hunting dogs from a cage in the back. The third dog rushed to greet us, but cringed away as we tried to stroke it. The men were probably after wild pigs. We’ve not seen a wild pig yet, but since they can reach more than twice my body weight, we’re not mustard keen to be introduced to an annoyed one. Dog three doesn’t strike me as too eager either.

The highlight of the day was one of our intellectual conversations.
Hannah: I know sea cucumbers with more glamour than you.
Me: No you don’t.
Hannah: I do. And a sea cucumber uses the same opening for its mouth and its anus.
Me: So…you’re saying I talk shit?
Hannah: Yes.
Me: If I’m a sea cucumber, then I won’t be able to operate my Eftpos card at the restaurant. Cucumbers simply don’t have the digital skills. You’ll soon decide that I am a lovely, lovely Mommy.
Hannah: No I won’t. I’ll just hold the cucumber and stab away with it at the keys on the transaction machine.
Me: Snort.

We covered steep terrain through forestry and thick native bush. Our expectation was to hear plenty of bird calls, but in fact we heard only three in the six hours we walked. We wondered if this silence was due to the time of year or some other factor.

A rewarding variety of lichens, ferns and mosses abound in the native bush. What wonderful textures and shades of green! I kept stopping to stroke them and tell them how beautiful they are. The words of a song from Paint your wagon (and satirised by some bright spark) ga-chinged up in my mind like the total on an old cash register: “I talk to da trees, das why dey put me away”.

The weather was sublime and the trail well marked. We even found two large signs with “You are here” arrows. By the time we reached the last and most popular section of the trail, close to the SH1, we knew today was not going to involve a directional disaster. “If we got lost on the trail section with proper stairs and a walkway, how would we live it down?” asked Hannah. But all was well. The new trail trousers had triumphed.

Sitting comfortably in the restaurant at the end of the trail, waiting for our order to arrive, Hannah texted her friends at high speed without watching her thumbs. Her phone does not have qwerty keys; it has a number pad where you have to click three times on the same spot to get “C”. Impressed, I asked her if she could really write texts without looking. “Of course!” she replied. “Go on then! Send me a coherent text while you stare out the window,” I challenged her. My phone twitched. I consulted its screen. The message was “My mother is a sea cucbumr”.

We are doing this leg in fits and starts and not in geographically chronological order.

Tuesday 30 July

Dome Forest to Woodcocks Rd (11 km) plus another 7 km getting lost in Kaipara instead of finding cheese

I had a brilliant idea. Since this leg is within easy driving distance of home, it made sense to sleep in our own beds and do the sections as day walks, carrying the bare minimum, especially as camping is not allowed in most of the sections. So before work, Marius dropped us at Kraack Rd, Dome Forest. He reassured us that he would pick us up at the Puhoi Valley Cheese Factory in the late afternoon. We reassured him we would keep the sacred restaurant in business until he arrived. It would not have done to let him go to work crushed with anxiety concerning this issue.

There was mist as we set off, climbing steadily through farmland and forestry before descending and turning onto a track through the Smyth Reserve. In places, the bush was very thick, so we were constantly scanning for the orange trail triangles.

Visibility was poor until the mist burned away, but we saw some black snails and interesting spider webs. We could hear a repeating hoot that sounded like a train in the distance, but as we emerged into a logging area, we realised this sound was an alert from timber-moving equipment. Chained bundles of logs were lifted and sent whooshing across the valley by cable. Now that would make a brilliant flying fox. (We used to call them foofie slides back in RSA in the 1970s).

The view was green and serene and the gardens already showed the optimistic bristlings of spring. I indulged my obsession with farm fences. The old, handmade ones are appealingly crooked and there’s often some happy moss or lichen to admire on the posts. But this is NZ, so we saw quite a few grisly remains of possums and other vermin hung on fences too.

I’d like to play with the colour on a fence photo and turn it into a CD cover. It would have to be my type of music, though; these pictures are too jolly for Hannah’s death metal preference.

It was shortly after taking this picture that we got lost. We had the trail map and the GPS but you might as well put an Encyclopaedia Britannica and a Geiger counter into the control of Christmas beetles. That night, at home, I consulted the trail notes: “Turn right into Old Kaipara Rd and walk 900m to a stile on the boundary of Drinnan’s farm”. Well, if I had also had the trail notes on me, we would have realised after a while that 900m had been and gone. This would have alerted us to turn back and look for the trail sign we’d missed. As it was, we proceeded for 7 km in the wrong direction.

After 5 km, concerned that we hadn’t seen another trail marker, and unable to work out where the hell we were on the map, we hailed two young farm workers. They were in love. They had dark, curling hair, sparkly eyes, were wearing wellingtons and holding hands. They stared solemnly at the map and said they had no idea where to put a “You are here” X.

Twenty minutes later we passed this quaint and tiny building, the highlight of our day. It bears the sign: “Kaipara Flats Library, Est 1878”. OK, so about 135 years ago, some builder knew where the hell he was. Then we stopped a man who also could not put an X on the map, but told us that if we continued in the direction we were going, we’d find ourselves in Warkworth! I moaned to Hannah about local people not being able to find their own location in their own home area. “The education of today is shocking,” I hissed self-righteously.

The GPS indicated that we were in Tauhoa Rd, so we phoned Marius and sat on the verge to wait for him. It was windy and we were cold and cross. I sang a wordless song of cluelessness, regret and despair in a squeaky little voice. I did this deliberately to annoy Hannah.

That night, at my computer, I consulted Google maps again and discovered that when we’d asked the locals for help, we’d already walked off the map. There is nothing quite like setting people an impossible task and then blaming them for failing! Let me hang my head in shame and eat my words. They’ve got to taste better than muesli bars. I am sick of muesli bars. But I’m not sure about the fibre quotient of the alphabet. I cannot risk constipation.

40 km

Wednesday 1 August

Mangawhai Surf Club to a farmer’s verge in Black Swamp Road (11 km)

We started in the car park, and to keep the wind off, wore our rain jackets for the first time. They are viciously orange. We are walking for awareness, but this level of visibility is a little startling. Hannah prefers wearing unrelieved black, so the jacket has a purgatorial element for her.

Determined not to get lost again, we had a trail map with additional details filled in, a GPS and the printed trail notes. I had practised eye-rolling, so as not to miss any of the trail markers. These preparations were not enough. Either that, or we are peculiarly stupid. We reached what we thought was the Findlay Street walkway from the beach, through which we would access Molesworth Drive, but we did not arrive in Findlay Street. We also didn’t know what street we were in, because the GPS wouldn’t load properly and we couldn’t find the street sign. Then I had a brilliant idea. “If we open someone’s postbox and look at the address on the mail, we’ll know what street we’re in,” I said. “That’s a plan,” Hannah conceded. We both started looking furtive. Neither of us wanted to be caught rifling through a postbox, but if push came to shove, Hannah might just be ASBO enough.

Then we saw an estate agent’s office. Salvation. Here, we were informed that we were now in Wood Street, with Molesworth Drive immediately ahead. The lady agent kindly gave us two identical maps of Mangawhai. She perceived that we were folk for whom one map could not suffice. With gloomy triumph, we noted that the trail marker was at the intersection of Molesworth and Wood Street, instead of at Molesworth and Findlay.

The rest of the day was uneventful as we walked through Mangawhai, resisting entering The Smashed Pipi Gallery (my favourite shop), passing mangroves at high tide and turning into Black Swamp Road. Farmland with cattle predominated. Cattle are naturally curious. A herd of bullocks followed us for about 100 metres, capering heavily along their roadside fence. I blamed Hannah. Her udder is clearly an attraction.

With the weather deteriorating, we looked for a place to camp and decided on slightly raised but flat ground on the verge near some post boxes. We erected Samson (the tent now has a name). He is amazingly strong and we are clearly Philistines. When I was in primary school in the early 1970s, the little brother of a friend had a hamster called Samson. The hamster was renamed Samantha after defiantly giving birth. Nowadays he would not have to be renamed; transsexuals are accepted in civilised societies. But I digress…

The problem with camping on a verge is that people stop their cars and talk to you until you unzip the tent flap and talk back. You have to unzip or you appear rude, but you don’t always want to unzip because you’re either partly dressed or in your pyjamas. However, you can do an Alice in Wonderland Cheshire Cat impression, and stick your head out of a mere slit. This solves the modesty problem, but you still look really silly. Also, your unseen tramping partner behind you in the tent has the opportunity to pinch your bottom while you try to talk normally to the friendly passer-by and reveal that you’re walking to promote mental health recovery awareness. An apparently out-of-context shriek introduced into such a conversation with a stranger is not felicitous.

On the Black Swamp verge, a lady told us that in 25 years of living there, she’d never had someone camping outside her property. She kindly offered us food. Ten minutes later, a gentleman said he would make us tea in the morning if we cared to drop in. There are some very nice people in rural New Zealand.

Thursday 2 August

Black Swamp Rd to a dune near Pakiri River Estuary (15 km)

We awoke to a thrashing wind, so discovered how even inanimate objects can yearn for a career change. Yes, Samson wants to be a hang glider and we almost achieved an unplanned dual lift-off. “Sit inside the tent while I take it down,” shouted Hannah. Luckily, no cars passed while we completed this clumsy but effective manoeuvre. It was impossible to roll the tent up neatly, but we managed to crush it into its bag.

We turned into Pacific Road (a logging track) and tramped through the forestry block to the beach, where we turned south. At this point, the weather deteriorated and continued to be spiteful for the rest of the leg. An aggressive headwind blasted us with sand and horizontal rain. It was very heavy going and we had to lean into the wind and press on regardless. We were relieved to reach the Te Arai Point campsite, where we rested for about 20 minutes.

“Are we nearly there yet?” asked Hannah. (Does anyone know when children stop asking this question? Apparently, 15 years is not old enough.) I unrolled the map. “Oh Shitty MacShitty-pants!” was her anguished cry, when she saw that the Pakiri Beach campsite was still 12 km of beach tramp away. I laughed a lot, so she punished me by recording my tramper glamour in this photo. Then her mood changed. “I can hear bells”, she said. What can one do to help and reassure someone who has hallucinations? I don’t know. But this time things worked out OK, because I could hear a muted tinkling too. Then we saw the source of the sound; it really cheered us up. Someone had made a lovely wind chime out of shells, and had hung it on a tree. That was the highlight of our day. Whoever you are: thank you for this work of art and for leaving it there for us to find.

We noticed a Te Araroa sign at the top of the beach steps, but no direction markers. We set off. Returning to the beach steps 10 minutes later, we then went uphill and on reaching the cliff top discovered the path split into three, again without an orange direction marker. After descending a very steep and muddy path, which brought us only to a dead-end lookout point, we were both seriously annoyed. Retracing our steps, we found a track that turned out to be the right one and eventually worked our way back to the beach. Here we had a smiley moment: seeing four wet and joyful dogs on an outing with a besotted owner. No other soul in a right state of mind would choose to be on the beach on a day like this. Is there a category in the Diagnostics and Statistical Manual for people who are insane about their canines? If so, we could probably tick that block for ourselves, too.

The rain and poor visibility prevented us from taking any more photographs on this leg. We battled down the beach, occasionally taking turns to sleepwalk. One of us would close eyes and slip into zombie mode while the other held her hand and kept her moving straight.

By 1.30 pm we were exhausted. We had no idea how far we were from the Pakiri River estuary, but the tide was getting uncomfortably high. There was intermittent cell phone reception, but the GPS told us we were one kilometre inland. To be thus electronically informed while the tide laps at our feet is not reassuring. Too bad.

We found a spot behind a dune where it was OK to camp. It was reasonably sheltered from the wind and there was some grass to provide traction for tent pegs. We erected Samson; I cooked a meal of Uncle Ben’s rice and Hannah read 40 pages of Adrian Mole aloud. Lying in our sleeping bags, hearing the rain crackling on the tent, I longed for Rimsky Korsakov, Etienne’s fat and evil cat. I wanted his suffocating weight on my chest; his pricking, kneading forepaws and cheerful purr. By 3.00 pm we were asleep.

Friday 3 August

A dune near Pakiri River Estuary to Omaha Valley Rd, Matakana (14 km)

How does one take down a tent in the rain without getting the inner capsule so wet that it can’t be used again with comfort? We’ll have to find out, because pestering rain is inescapable in New Zealand.

Back on the beach, we tried stopping for breakfast, but gave up. The airborne sand skims in a punishing knee-high mist, so sitting down to eat is impossible. The sand hits you in the face and pours over your food.  We held hands as we walked. It felt friendlier that way.

We saw a seagull that kept flying upwards and dropping something long and thin onto the sand, then picking it up and repeating the process. Years ago in Africa, I saw a Lammergeier drop bones from a height onto rocks to access bone marrow, but wondered what this gull was achieving. If the weather had been kinder, we would have stayed to find out.

We saw a dead tern and two interesting-looking dead fish, which were too big to be puffers, but had backwards-pointing spines all over their bodies. We also counted 10 (yes, ten!) tennis balls along the tide line. There must be a doggie, living somewhere along this coast, that is a serious underachiever with playing “fetch”, but has an owner who suffers from eternal hope. Aw, bless!

The first two kilometres of the day closed the gap between our camp and what was meant to be our destination the afternoon before. When we reached the estuary, we were glad that we had not attempted this section the previous afternoon, because we could see how difficult and even dangerous it might be to cross at high tide while carrying heavy backpacks. Even now, at low tide, the river was knee deep where it joined the sea and its current had considerable tug. Seagulls flew in a screaming halo above us. I told Hannah that they were waiting for us to die. If we started crawling, they would land next to us and start picking out our eyes. It is amazing what dregs of comfort one can find to share with a tramping partner.

This was the hardest day yet on the trail. We walked for six and-a-half hours but covered only about 14 km. The trail notes speak of a path “through steep farm pasture for 2.5 km” and mention an “occasionally slippery track” in native bush. No kidding. It is steep and slippery; the cow manure is bountiful and near the summit the gorse flourishes. It is also not a trail section for a soul with bovinophobia. This time there was no fence between us and the bullocks. At one point, though, there was tape. Suddenly a burning tremor jolted my arm upwards. Duh! The tape was electrified. Of course it was! The tape was a little too high for us to step over without being certain of avoiding an unwanted and semi-pornographic jolt in the pants. So we leopard-crawled under it. Face down in the sopping grass, Hannah indicated in four-letter words that her enjoyment level was hovering on empty. Then I had a brilliant idea. “You could do some DIY electro-convulsive shock therapy with this,” I told Hannah. “Yip, Mom. That’d fix me,” was the response.

The primary difficulty was the weather. The rain did not cease and we had never experienced such a wind before. It thrust from the side as we climbed through the pastures and repeatedly sent us staggering. Half way up, we turned to look at the view. It would have been truly fabulous on a clear day, but already the valley was faint beyond a veil of rain. Within a short time, visibility was reduced to about 50 metres.

In the native bush section, the path itself was often obscured, when it wasn’t an impromptu watercourse, but the orange trail markers were very helpfully frequent. On the descent, our legs were trembling and I found my fingers too thick to retie my shoelaces. “Rather than do this section again,” I said to Hannah, “I would prefer to give birth to an elephant. With tusks.”

There are moments of laughter and beauty on the Te Araroa trail, but we’re not doing it for the jollies or the pretties; we’re doing it for the sake of physical endurance, to show solidarity with the psychological endurance of others. It’s all about “the thing”. So from that perspective, this was our best day so far.