seven days of plowing through mud and muck, over massive paths consisting only of roots and moss-covered stones, fording rivers and swaying on cable crossings, then three days of utter and pure relaxation on the tasman sea. i honestly can’t recall a ten days better spent for some time.
the respect i have for the average new zealand tramper (read: hiker) has increased tenfold. i spent a week following several river valleys on the leslie-karmea track, covering fifty miles, and i have learned one very important thing: kiwi’s are masters of understatement.
for example: if the guidebook says that the trail is “medium-hard” you had best be in great shape and not mind severe risk to your ankles and knees at all times. if you are warned to, “watch out not to trip on the roots, there are a few in this section,” you should take care as you walk for a kilometer on nothing but roots, piled three feet deep (the soil being to far below the tangle to touch) and covered in slick green moss. if the guidebook says, “the trail narrows at this point,” you can fully expect to be clinging to a rockface, twenty feet above a raging river, with about three inches (maybe) on which to arrange your feet. “fording a few creeks,” is a reference best rephrased as, “you’ll be over waste-deep in rapid moving, frigid water at least twice each day.” and, if you receive a caution that the trail may be “a bit wet,” plan on trudging through muck that varies between ankle and knee deep or hiking through streams that qualify as the trail.
hikers in new zealand are nuts - a hardcore group of people if any - no wonder sir edmund hillary felt a need to climb everest. most non-new zealanders i met on trail had been helicoptered in so that they could go fishing…
and still, for all of the hardships and sore legs, i don’t know that i’ve seen a trail as wonderful. i would walk it again in a heartbeat.
new zealand is insanely beautiful. the forests drip in moss and moisture, carrying an air of a northern minnesota spring (if a mn happened to have tropical plants). there are bird calls that echo through the dense foilage, mushrooms and flowers that radiate in shades of red, blue, and purple, and waterfalls in every direction that you look. when you break through the forest and look up, mountains climb the valley walls, reaching into the distance to carry snow upon their peaks. then, as you near the end of the track, climbing over the last saddle into the next valley, you catch a glimpse of the pacific, calm and dignified at a distance, calling you to rest upon the shore.
and that, nothing but rest, is what i’ve been doing for the last three days. several friends recommended a small backpackers south of the trail end. i hitched the fifty miles and ran smack into paradise.
‘the old slaughterhouse’ is a pet project of a david, a retired sheap-shearer. he and his wife ena built a house and a couple of bunk rooms buried high on a hillside overlooking the tasman sea - the stretch of the pacific ocean between new zealand and australia. it’s a beautiful home, of bare wood and art-filled walls that requires a ten-minute hike to get too. upon arrival you’re greeted by david (friendliest bloke this hemispere, i think) and his two black labs. the tour consists of a few hand gestures and then you’re off - racing toward relaxation.
the average day consisted of a strenuous few hours in a hammock reading and writing, followed by an evening of cooking, conversation, and wine with the other trampers who’re staying on. the kitchen is communal and grabs the focus and friendship of many. in the middle of the hustle (and hustle is a severe overstatement) are breaks to watch the sunset over the pacific and to catch glimpses of dolphins dancing in the distant waves.
it was hard to leave…