These things are ours for God creates within our soul a mystic sense of wonder that we may hear allegro tunes among tall swaying cattails.
Before we get to birds, a small bit of business.
So many of you have asked me how to pronounce New Zealand’s “Te Araroa.” This is my hiking-partner-for-the-first-eight-days Irene’s dad’s longtime girlfriend, Vern with her gorgeous Kiwi accent setting us straight on this Maori word.
Things begin a bit lazy on another unusually sunny, warm day in Wellington with waffles and delicious yogurt, golden kiwis and blueberries before we all head to the market and buy a cart load of groceries for the three separate packages of resupply I have to send to manage the first month of hiking on the South Island.
We cram tuna packets, ramen noodles, muesli bars, dehydrated soup, salami, lollies, and more into boxex, our fingers crossed they arrive when and where I need them. All this while trying to ignore my annoyance with the TA association for failing to make vital information like addresses and protocol for resupply easily available, while at the same time the TA facebook page administrator scolds when we don’t get it right. <sigh>
I’m now dreaming constantly of walking, this time pushing through scree, trapped and not getting very far. I’m either a full-time pedestrian even while sleeping or I need a psychological break – or maybe more accurately, a revamping of my psychological approach.
All was fine yesterday until I did what I’ve often done – believe the hardest part was completed only to discover the trail wasn’t quite finished with me. After Kuakua, I nearly bonked needing to climb higher in the hot sunshine. I’m going to have to find a way to ensure I’m pacing myself or I’ll bonk while supine in bed.
Perhaps it’s because something momentous is happening in finishing the first island, but the magnitude of what I’ve completed coupled with the magnitude of what’s ahead is hard to comprehend and there’s a part of me that’s skeptical of my success, certain I was just lucky in making it all come together.
Maybe I need to remind myself that trail is walked one step at a time – and starting Monday, it will be in brand new La Sportivas and fresh pairs of socks.
I get up early to catch the cool air. It’s steep stairs up and up through bush finally into open sky. I pass four overweight Maori, but glad they’re out puffing like me, as this is better than any stair-master.
Colonial Knob is in mist, but I’m happy to not be in the hot sun. At 459 meters, it’s no small hill rising high above the ocean. The traffic is still loud as sheep go about their business. I meet a TA walker named Rubin camping at the top and I fly down with him on switchbacks in the forest sharing mud stories before he and his girlfriend peal off. A little fluffy dog follows me down the road.
I dreamed last night that I was walking, but would wake up and see the stained glass window in my bedroom at George and Rob’s, and realize I hadn’t moved. Stress, anyone? A bit.
And my pack is weighed down with food I’m too cheap to chunk. It’s funny how just a day away from walking coupled with the unknown, makes me wonder if I even remember how to walk.
But Rob has me giggling in no time as we squish in for a selfie, the camera set on ‘beauty face.’ We drive on the long stretch of highway I hiked, stopping at a Pa site and a gate they named for their first TA guest, Sandro. I see NOBO Chris from Mt. Crawford, head down, walking the narrow shoulder and I’m glad it’s in my past.
We come to tiny Sanson – or Sandon, depending on who you talk to – with its historic church, plus two others from that time of chasing souls which are cafes now.
I suppose it’s a bit odd to snag a zero day when I’m just two days from finishing the North Island, but when Julian and I drove back from Taranaki on New Year’s day – passing through lovely Whanganui – I found I was still absolutely shattered from our spontaneous sunrise climb. So I just had to give my friends George and Rob a call to ask if I might crash at their place for the night.
They welcome me back and insist I sleep in late and feed me highly nutritious meals accompanied by a summery sparkling wine. They are absolutely lovely people, talking and laughing with me, watching more awesome Maori TV together, and even offering me the Veet left here by a male French Te Araroa walker to melt the hair on my legs – obviously one of the subjects of so much laughter. I am restored in so many ways and tomorrow they’ll drop me right back at the very spot I left off in Paekakariki.
I hate to become repetitive, but this morning began with rain on the alicoop. I think I’m going to need to refine my relationship with precipitation by ditching my bad attitude for one of acceptance, maybe even embracing the rain as part of what makes this trail unique.
Nah, I’ll keep complaining, knowing that it does make the best days even better.
The morning opens with rain and wind. Floris and Marjolain leave early, but I am beyond exhausted. Brent makes me tea and it’s only a matter of time before I break down completely, simply overwhelmed by the mud on everything I own, a sopping wet tent and now, a steady drizzle.
This lovely trail angel helps grab all my stuff and place it in their ‘conservatory’ – a beautiful glass mud room – gets a pile of old towels to dry my tent, chucks my nasty, mud-soaked clothes in the wash and makes me a grilled cheese sandwich, actually two. He even scrubs the mud from my trail runners.