Wee Bee's Tiny Hooves: February 2015

I lost my camera.
On the one hand, I wasn't mugged for it or anything. I lost it while hitchhiking back to the Te Araroa trail after resupplying in Hamner Springs. It wasn't in my hip belt pocket, where it normally lives, and was either on the side of the road somewhere or in some stranger's car. No bodily harm done, no biggie.
On the other hand, you never want to lose your camera while in the middle of a big trip. Especially overseas. Especially when you're walking 3,000 kilometers and have no intentions of retracing your steps to get a few photos. *sigh*
On the one foot, I'd switched out memory cards from my camera between the North Island and the South Island, so at least I had the first 1,700 km saved for posterity. Yay!
On the other foot, the South Island has been the wilderness-loving, mountain-adoring, remote passes-seeking, high alpine-walking adventure that I'd been dreaming of since I decided to hike this trail. The South Island has snapped me out of a zombie-like state that I wasn't even aware I was in on the populated North Island. And now I only have a few snapshots that I took with my camera-phone. *sigh*
To be perfectly honest, I would not recommend to anyone to hike the Te Araroa route through the North Island of New Zealand. It's not that there are not beautiful places to explore up there, but the TA links up some relatively small pieces of bush with miles and miles, days and days even, of road-walking that are the thru-hiker's equivalent of being a couch potato: it's boring. Even if you're walking through a stretch of native bush or a bucolic farm setting, the motion of walking on a flat surface is repetitive, not challenging (hills or no), and in it's own banal way very taxing on the body; like when you are exhausted from laying on the couch all day binge-watching [your favorite TV series here] and you can't quite figure out why. There is a reason that, seemingly, a majority of hikers ended up hitching large sections of the Te Araroa to skip the road walks. A hardy few of us, I think of myself as "stubborn" more than "determined," have walked all the steps, road and trail, in a bullheaded attempt to actually have walked the entire length of New Zealand. I wouldn't do it again. I would recommend picking some awesome, wild tramps in the North (on the TA or no), doing those and then thru-hiking the South Island. That's just one girl's opinion.
Here's what I can say about the North Island: those Kiwis are some of the nicest, most hospitable, down-to-Earth people I've ever met in all my days. I had human, cultural contacts and interactions that not one of the thousands of tourists that come here, rent camper vans, and tour around in their isolated cubicle could ever have. Lots of people stopped along their drive to offer me a ride somewhere and I doggedly declined. Here are a few of my favorite memories of the North Island:
Walking down the very long, very hot, very dusty Whanganui River road shortly before Christmas a car slowed down, passed me, and then backed up to where I was on the road. Inside the tiny, pink sedan were three shirtless men. My vision was filled with bright, burnt pink flesh, tidy white pot-bellies, and a nipple ring. Having not spoken to anyone in a day or so I welcomed the unusual distraction but wondered what they could possibly want. As it turns out they wanted nothing more than to say Hello, ask what I was doing, offer me some water and have a chat. Two of them lived together in Whanganui and were entertaining a guest they'd met from couchsurfing.com. They were a merry bunch and had spent the day sightseeing and swimming in the river. The driver, Rob, was the chatty one and he insisted I stay with them in Whanganui when I got there. George wrote down their phone number and address for me. I warned them that I'd probably be walking in to town on Christmas day and Rob said he'd be working after two o'clock in the afternoon and George would be visiting family after three. I thanked them and they tooled away, leaving me grinning. I shuffled down the bright road for a few more minutes before the pink car came zooming back toward me. What now? Rob came to a halt next to me and clarified, "You are MOST welcome to arrive on Christmas Day! You can visit the relly's with George...they'd love to have you! We'll see you then!" They turned around and zoomed off down the road once more. They came back just to tell me that: that I'm really welcome. Wow. I did end up staying with Rob and George in their absolutely gorgeous home, enjoyed their beautiful gardens, simple meals, and cold Tui beers that they bought especially for me. It was difficult to leave when they assured me I could stay as long as I wish, but I know where they hide the house key....just in case.
Along that same road the next day, Christmas Eve, I saw a man sitting in a vehicle that looked like a 4-wheeler and a golf cart had had a torrid love affair. A sweet 4WD rig with a tiny flatbed and an awning. He was staring up a steep hill and whistling intricate whistles that made me think that the von Trapp children were scrambling into line somewhere nearby. "That'll do, Rose!," he called. I looked up the hillside to where 6 dogs were collecting and herding about 400 sheep across the slope. Cool. Still looking up, I walked over and said hello. I explained that I was super interested in his working dogs and did my best to explain Alaskan working dogs who pull heavy sleds and compete in races. We chatted for a bit and he asked if I wanted to go with him to make sure the sheep got into the right paddock....uh, YES!! So I threw my pack in the little flatbed next to an excited dog who was pacing back and forth, anxious to be a part of the action. We headed up a sheer "track" that only the landowner would know was there and I simply trusted that he, Donald, had a sense of self-preservation and would not tip us off the hill. The pack of pooches came and went, zig and zagged up and down and across the hill, gathering stray sheep and heeding the whistle of their master (somewhere Friedrich von Trapp was running down the stairs). I became the official gate opener and closer. After the sheep were all in their rightful place Donald took me on a tour of his seemingly enormous farmland: sheep, cows, timber, bees, maize....we rallied up, down, and around steep hills that looked impossible to navigate, me white-knuckled and holding on tightly, while getting to know each other, me learning the history of his farm and how he'd grown up in this history-rich river valley and knew everybody up and down the vale. It was fascinating and a piece of local lore I would have never known, particularly from a personal perspective. The dogs kept up with us the whole time, herded some cows (surely nearby Louisa announced her name as Brigitta when Donald whistled loudly), and were waiting for their next chore as we bounced along the bumpy hills. As we made our way back down to the river road I realized it was about 6 o'clock and time to think about where I was going to sleep that night. I asked Donald if I could pitch my tent in one of his paddocks..."Ah nah, you come on home and sleep in our garden." We tooled down the road a minute and turned in to a beautiful home with an immaculate, landscaped yard. As Donald turned off the 4-wheeler alongside a row of dog pens, a tiny bird of a woman came out the back door of the house to talk to him. Donald explained to his wife, Petrine, that he'd met me on the road, that I was walking the length of the country, and that I'd be staying the night with them. She acted as if this were the most natural thing in the world. And on Christmas Eve of all days. I set up my tent in their yard, took a shower, drank a cold cider, and they cooked beautiful lamb chops that Donald had gone and cut off of the sheep hanging in the walk-in refrigerator in the back yard. We ate well and stayed up late chatting. Petrine insisted I call my parents for Christmas. I shared breakfast with them in the morning and Donald took me out back and showed me how he trains his dogs. As I packed up and took off down the road, Petrine ran out with a handful of fruit for me to take along...freshings.
In the Tararua Range I met Tina in a backcountry hut who shared her chocolate, sent me away up into the mountains with an extra meal she was carrying, and invited me to stay with her in Waikanae when I got there. When I got there she cooked me a steak, deep fried some fries and we dorked out over maps and hikes all evening.
I was eating a burger in Paekakariki on the Kapiti Coast at a cafe/bar/cinema. An elderly woman made the trip all the way from Wellington to see a documentary film about a Kiwi woman named Jean Watson who spent many years and much time in southern India opening boarding schools for children in need and trying to get them out of some dire situations. (It's called Aunty and the Star People, for anyone interested). Jean Watson had coincidentally died the week before and this teeny cinema was the last place showing the documentary. This place seated about 20 people, no kidding. Anyway, I asked the owner/barkeep about the movie and it sounded intriguing. I followed up with the question of how much the movie, at two in the afternoon, cost...the lady was the only one there to see it so far. After paying for lunch, the $16 movie seemed a bit steep and apparently the woman, eating a scone nearby, heard the hesitation in my voice. As she collected her tea and scone to move into the theater she stopped at my table and said, "Will you go see the movie if I share the cost of the ticket?" I gaped at her, said yes, and she laid $8 on my table. The movie was good, the company was priceless.
Walking down the beach earlier that day, I'd met a man walking his dog. He stopped to chat, was super interested in my walk, and gave me his address and phone number for a place to stay in Wellington...the next day I was showered, eating lamb, drinking red wine, and sleeping in a bed in Wellington. Terry and Maura "adopted" me for several nights in the big city and shared in my celebration of finishing the North Island. Me: a total stranger on the beach.
I actually had to say no to strangers who offered me dinner at campsites, breakfast cooked over a fire at the beach, a cup of tea...just not the right timing after I'd already been treated by strangers and needed to walk some kilometers. Turns out this trail doesn't just hike itself. I have a dozen more stories like this and some others just simple interactions of people interested in my hike, introducing them to the concept of walking the length of New Zealand (many, many Kiwis do not know about the Te Araroa), and that a girl from Alaska would want to do such a thing in their country. People smile at me. People congratulate me. Small, genuine, positive interactions that bring me lots of happiness.
So, North Islanders, please don't be offended when I say I'd never hike that route again. Please understand it's not personal. If it were personal I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat just to see who else I'd meet.
The South Island is where I've come alive again in a "Oh yeah, that's why I'm doing this!" kind of way. Let's face it, I live in the "middle of nowhere" in Alaska: I love wilderness. Mountains make me whole. Being away from people and hubbub and the busyness that most people don't even notice is where I prefer to be. The South Island has provided me with jaw-dropping alpine vistas, challenging ridge walking, crystal clear rivers to drink from, and days of solitude. My climbing muscles have awoken and are a force to be reckoned with while the road walking monotony has been forgotten. Or at least forgiven.
It was disappointing to realize that my camera, with all these photos from the wilderness I love, was gone, but no harm came to me and it didn't change the fact that I experienced stunning hiking and vistas; places photos really don't do any justice anyway, but do serve as nice reminders of the exposure to the beauteous backcountry I'd enjoyed. I did my due duty and as soon as I realized that the camera was missing I hitched back to Hamner Springs, stopped at all the spots where I'd stood and stuck my thumb out, to the lawn in front of the library where I'd been using their free wifi but to no avail: no camera. I hitched back to the trail and headed south, lighter in pack, and resolved to make do with only memories and a camera phone photo here and there for the must-have moments.
But..... But. It turns out the North Island does not have a monopoly on nice people. The woman who picked me up and gave me a ride the 25 minutes to my trail was an enthusiastic chatter and we shared a lot about our lives in that time. Her partner is a commercial fisherman here in New Zealand out of Christchurch and we talked a lot about Alaska, commercial fishing, farmer's markets, and travel. She invited me to come and stay with her, her partner, and her son in Sumner (near Christchurch) and jotted down her number when I got out of her car. I gave her a call asking about the camera though I knew she was out of cell phone range. 4 days later when I arrived in Arthur's Pass there was no message from her so I wrote off my last hope of being reunited with my camera.
Heavy rains prompted me to make a pretty conservative decision to get off the trail 2 days before I'd intended to get to Arthur's Pass and I have come down to sunny, broiling hot Christchurch to stay with a couple of friends whom I met while we were living in India for 6 weeks attending a yoga teacher training course in 2010. They now have two wee boys. As I turned on my cell phone to let Ali know I'd be coming down from the mountains for a visit to wait out some stormy weather, it made a blingy noise and alerted me of a voice message. Sure enough, Liz from Sumner has my camera...it was in her car. She's picking me up tomorrow and I'm going to stay a night with her and her partner and her son and to talk about fishing and Alaska and show them photos from my hike on the beautiful South Island.
New Zealand: where anything can happen if you let it. There may not be wizards and hobbits, but there is magic.