The stretch of trail between the Ahuriri River and Queenstown marks a major shift for me—I am no longer sick, for one, and my mental state improves along with my physical health. I feel stronger and happier as I march my way to yet another big milestone along this adventure, Queenstown.

On my way to QT, I walk in two gorgeous rivers—the Timaru and Arrow Rivers—I hike the steep rollercoaster of the Motatapu Track, and take a zero day in what will become my favorite town in New Zealand, Wānanka.

A defining feature of the miles covered in this entry is how carefully I read the notes on FarOut left by other hikers. I would have entirely missed the option to walk in the Timaru River (a stunningly special adventure) instead of the trail proper (a tiring flood-route), the same went for the Arrow River, had I not taken the time to learn about what other hikers before me did. Neither river would be safe to walk in if there was a large enough weather event, but my forecast was clear and my timing spot on.

Day 85 (3/3/24): 21mi, +5603ft // 35km, +1708m

Longslip Station after the Ahuriri River to Stodys Hut

I left the “cow-pie camp” as I’d come to call it, feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the next stretch of trail. My body was finally starting to feel more energetic and I was excited to see what came next on Te Araroa. I did feel a little guilty when I reached Tin Cup Hut, about 4 miles beyond where I’d camped, though; I did not want to jeopardize the easement, but the hut wasn’t shown on the map and I didn’t know how much further I’d have had to walk to find it last night.

I spent a few moments inside the Hut, reading the log book and signing it, I left a donation as well, and I noticed that some NoBo hikers had written about an option to skip Martha Saddle and hike Melina Ridge instead, which was supposed to be gorgeous.

I waffled back and forth but ultimately I was nervous about carrying enough water for the ridge, and I still wanted to be cautious about my recovery from whatever stomach bug I’d endured, so in this case I opted to follow the true TA to Martha Saddle.

The climb to the saddle was a bit of a slog on a meandering 4X4 track. I stopped once before the tussock ended to filter some water from a small spring pouring out the side of the hill, then carried on.

When my path turned to rock I knew I must be getting close to the saddle. My pack weighed heavily on my shoulders, the belt pinching the skin above my hipbones, I shrugged the weight around awkwardly to no avail, it was just uncomfortable.

Sighing, I continued to plod upwards.

Once I crested the final hill of the pass, I paused and surveyed my surroundings.

The ascent was relatively gradual, though prolonged, and so I barely realized how high I was until I peered down the other side, which was quite steep. The views were breathtaking, and I thought maybe I could see Mt. Aspiring // Tititea in the distance, but I wasn't sure.

The descent from Martha Saddle was beautiful; I found myself fully absorbed in my surroundings and barely realized I was gaining on another hiker until I was almost on top of her.

“Oh, hi!” I said.

“Hello,” She replied.

She kept her eyes focused on the trail as she stepped ever so slightly to the side for me to pass. Since she didn't seem keen on chatting, I kept moving. I figured I would see her when I took a break at Top Timaru Hut, which was just up ahead.

When I arrived at the hut, I dropped my heavy pack and rolled my shoulders around, making circles with my neck to untangle the knots from the morning. The other hiker arrived while I was eating lunch on the grass outside the hut, but she headed quickly indoors.

After I finished my tortilla, I left my gear in the grass and went inside to sign the logbook.

“Hey,” I said to the girl as I entered.

We exchanged pleasantries and I asked her where she was from.

“France,” She said.

“Cool! I am from the US, from Colorado—”

“I know,” She said curtly. “All you Americans walk very fast and make this look like it is easy, when it isn’t at all.”

I let out a constricted laugh, “You are right, it isn’t easy. Te Araroa is the hardest trail I’ve hiked.”

“Well, it is the only trail I have hiked. It is my big adventure before I go home to work with my husband on his potato farm.” She sighed—not in a sad way, exactly, even though I found the statement to be just that, profoundly sad.

She met my eyes for the first time in our conversation, and I found myself a little bit in awe of her.

“Are you looking forward to it? To working with your husband?” I asked.

“Oh sure, yes. It was always the plan, you know.” Her expression seemed to challenge me—dared me to tell her the plan wasn’t a good one.

I didn’t, of course, though I was naturally skeptical of any plan that began with tasting so much freedom and ended with hanging it up in a closet to gather dust.

“What do you do for work, then?” She asked.

“I quit my job to walk this trail,“ I began. “I worked in an office, a physical therapy office, I was the administrator. But before that I did a lot of different things.”

“It is so strange, in America you do not just do one thing for your life. In France, you learn to do a job and that is what you do.”

I nodded, at a loss for words, and I wondered if it would be nice to know I always had the same job to come home to between my wanderings. I also wondered if it would feel restrictive.

“Well,” She said, changing the subject. “I am not in a rush, I am going to stay here tonight.”

It was only 1PM.

I smiled at her while signing the logbook and wished her well. I could not stay here tonight, the day was young and I was eager to walk in the Timaru River, to deviate from the true TA and see what secrets danced beyond its corridor.

The Timaru River was naught but a creek at its start, and I splashed through it easily; the water was bitterly cold but I was on an adventure and couldn’t have cared less.

I’d looked forward to this portion of trail for some time, reading the comments on FarOut of the hikers who’d gone before me.

The gorge narrowed and steepened, and suddenly I was in a granite luge, walking beneath a ceiling of arching Beech trees; the tittering song of the Rifleman peeled delicately through the woven network of branches above.

Shade dappled the water and scattered rays of sunlight lit upon quarts veins in the rocks so that they shone pearly white.

My eyes swam with tears; the purest joy pierced my heart. I would not forget this day.

The further down stream I traveled, the steeper the river flowed. I climbed down smooth stoney faces and landed thigh deep in pools of turquoise water. My shoes were filled with pebbles and sand and water.

I down climbed through rapids, the sun warming my upper half, the water freezing my lower. I was mesmerized by this deeply carved and collapsing world as water tumbled all around me. My wonder grew alongside the quantity of water and its thunderous song.

Threading my way from one side of the river to the other, I avoided the deepest pools, occasionally climbing the walls of rock and boulders alongside the current to avoid particularly tumultuous rapids; I tiptoed like a goat along the steeps, until it was safe to venture back into the swirling water bellow.

I was along for the ride, never knowing what mayhem the canyon would devolve into around its next bend, only that other people had walked this way, and so I knew I could too.

When at last I arrived to the point where the TA crossed the river and began to climb the wall of earth and trees to my left, I abandoned my watery course. I was reluctant to part ways with what had become my favorite river on the trail, but a change in the weather was supposedly imminent, and I needed to get to camp.

Stody’s Hut was my final destination for the day, it had received mixed reviews on FarOut, mostly due to the dirt floor and chaotic mouse population, but I planned to pitch my tent outside, so neither issue would really affect me, right?

The climb away from the Timaru was by far the most brutally steep of any other on the entirety of Te Araroa. There were moments where I worried if I raised my head to look above me, I would simply peel off the side of the hill and fall straight back down into the river. I was relieved to be ascending, instead of the other way around, at least.

When I arrived to the hut I peaked my head inside and decided the ambiance was, indeed, quite grim. I pitched my tent under a copse of trees on a relatively flat spot and felt quite happy to be where I was, outside the hut. I cooked dinner, savoring my latest ramen concoction with a smile. The day had been a good one.

But when I laid down to sleep, so cozy in my sleeping bag, allowing my eyes to drift shut, I was promptly bombarded by a mouse circus. Mice everywhere, climbing the walls of my tent with their tiny, sharp toenails, trapezing from the peak, spiraling down the trekking pole nearest my head and onto the mesh of my tent door, skittering gleefully all around—they wanted in.

I wanted OUT. But of course I wouldn’t dare risk opening the zipper of my door.

I took to flicking them directly in their faces anytime they scurried too close to mine—they were undeterred—we were separated only by the thinnest, most perforated of materials.

There was no food in my tent, but the mice didn't seem to care, I may as well have issued an invitation to a rodent disco tech for all the manic scuttling occurring across all surfaces of my tent.

Eventually I gave up fending them off, put earplugs in, pulled my hat down over my eyes, and decided what would be would be.

Day 86 (3/4/24): 14.4mi, +3336ft // 24km, +1017m

Stodys Hut to Frankie’s house in Lake Hawea Village

When I woke at 5AM to vicious wind and rain, I was pleased to see that I had not been devoured by mice over the course of the night. I emerged from my tent in the semi-dark to pee, and then quickly crawled back inside.

The weather was already weathering, so I decided staying cozy and dry a few extra hours couldn’t hurt. I wound up beginning my day at 8AM when the rain had abated slightly.

Clouds hung low around me and rain spattered against my outer layer of goretex as I began the climb up Breast Hill; the wind howled in my ears and sunk its frigid teeth into my exposed cheeks and nose.

I found myself both exhilarated by the general mood of the liquid sky and disappointed that all I could see was the misty corridor of tussock and Spanish grass before me. I was sure the views were spectacular on a clear day. This stretch of trail was one hikers raved about. The views were supposed to be some of the best on the entire TA.

Turns out I wouldn’t miss them entirely, because when I arrived to the summit of Breast Hill at the end of my exposed, blustery climb, the clouds magically lifted and the sun shone down, illuminating the glittering, wind chopped, sapphire expanse of Lake Hāwea.

My jaw dropped, never had I seen such a shade of blue. And to have gotten a break in the weather at just the right moment? It felt staged, almost too perfect.

I cheered into the wind and my voice was ripped instantly away in its icy hands.

Already I could see another storm barreling down on the horizon; my time was up. The trail works in mysterious ways, or perhaps not at all. Every occurrence on this snaking path (or any other) could very well boil down to happenstance. I happened to arrive to the summit of Breast Hill between storms and caught a view, but just as easily there could have been clouds and rain and hail—which I would have thought was exciting and memorable, too, no doubt.

On the descent from Breast Hill to the town of Lake Hawea, I ran into Alice—who I hadn’t seen since Kiwi Hut, before Arthur's Pass Village. She was doing well, and we passed the next few miles talking about life after the trail. I mostly listened because I didn’t know exactly what I would be doing after the trail, besides returning to Logan in Crested Butte.

Alice planned to stay in New Zealand; being that she was from the UK and under the age of 30, she could obtain a 3 year Visa to live and work in the country. I was so impressed with her decision to stay.

I remembered the last time we’d met, she seemed a little unsure of herself and a little lost, not so anymore. I think that is such a beautiful aspect of hiking a long trail, suddenly you have all these hours to wonder what it is you want and how to go about getting it.

I left Alice behind by the beach before the walk into town, she’d run into some other hikers she knew from the trail and wanted to catch up with them.

The wind howled viciously against my raincoat, making it impossible to keep my hood up. I did my best to out hike the impending storm, trying to make it to the home of a friend of a friend, Frankie, who'd volunteered to take me in for the night and let me have a shower.

Frankie was another amazing connection of Leigh’s, my friend from Crested Butte (who is originally from NZ). I was eternally grateful to Leigh for asking her friends to put me up, it made me feel so much less alone regardless of how far I was away from home.

Frankie and Emily had the most beautiful home, both were climbing guides and Emily was currently in the field with clients, so I didn’t get to meet her this time.

Their garden was full to the bursting with tomatoes and zucchini; vines laden with juicy grapes hung from the eves and through every window you could see something growing, lush and green. We talked about the trail and different climbing trips Frankie had been on in New Zealand. She’d done quite a few adventure races and I was stunned by just how rugged and impossible some of them sounded.

“So what about your fiancé?” Frankie asked me. “Is this really hard for you two, being apart for so long? Does he enjoy backpacking, too? Couldn’t he have come with you?”

This was a hard question for me to answer, generally. Yes, I missed Logan, deeply and profoundly, and I was so focused on the task at hand, on completing my goal and covering the miles and soaking up this adventure, I really didn’t have much time to dwell on feelings of homesickness very often. Additionally, Logan and I were very independent people with varied interests and pursuits, some of which we shared, others we didn't. He enjoyed doing overnights with me in the backcountry, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to hike a long-trail; I enjoyed nordic skiing and was learning how to downhill ski, but I wasn’t sure I wanted spend a month(s) in Europe over the winter skiing like he did. We each had our own passions and this was totally okay.

I tried to explain all of this to Frankie but she looked almost sad for me.

“I just can’t picture doing a big adventure without Emily,” She said, eyes full of love for her partner. “I mean, I could climb with other partners, but at the end of the day, I just want to share these experiences with her.”

I nodded sympathetically. I thought what she said was beautiful. And I still felt what Logan and I had was beautiful too, he was the first and only partner to ever encourage me to pursue hiking long trails and dream as big as the sky was wide. A gift in the truest sense.

Because of my relationship history (dating a slew of emotionally immature and very insecure men), I was sensitive to having my wings clipped in anyway. I wanted to retain the right to have my own adventures for the rest of my life, and Logan respected that sentiment, fully.

Frankie had to leave early in the morning for school, and I was utterly exhausted, so we both called it a day early. I was so grateful for the delicious food, a roof over my head, and the good conversation.

I slept long and hard that night.

Day 87 (3/5/24): 16.5mi, +621ft // 27.5km, +189m

Lake Hawea to Wanaka Holiday Park

I took a leisurely morning, eating breakfast #1 at the house—leftovers from the night before—and then I stopped at the local Takeaway spot for Breakfast#2 on my way out of town.

The walking was casual and easy on the bike path, it was about 8 miles to Albertown, the township just before Wānaka. There was a bakery, the Pembroke Pâtisserie, in Albertown and I was particularly excited to visit it, several hikers had mentioned the spot on FarOut with regards to having the best donuts ever.

When I arrived to the shop, it was packed with nicely dressed patrons; I ordered several pastries to go and took them back to the trail, enjoying them at a picnic table along the Culatha River. I would go on to follow this deeply turquoise river for another 7 miles to Lake Wānaka, and then make camp at the holiday park that same afternoon.

I was excited to see Wānaka, but I wanted to take my time getting there. I was in a contemplative mood and pondered how I’d like the rest of my year to go, once home from New Zealand—not in a tangible sense, more like emotionally.

2023 had been really stressful; I let my job in the office get the best of me, I was easily frustrated and often cranky, I panicked over things that didn’t merit much of an emotional reaction. I wanted this year to be different. I just wasn’t quite sure how to make that happen yet. I suspected it would involve simplifying my life, saying “no” to things sometimes, and generally preserving some amount of free time to recharge and reflect.

After leaving the Patisserie, I found a picnic table and sat down to enjoy my treats.

The chocolate cream-filled donut was spectacular, as was the Pain au Chocolat, I decided I could take or leave the hot cross bun and probably wouldn’t order another in the future. I was curious about them because they were one of the bakes on the Great British Baking Show (a personal favorite) and I wanted to know what they actually tasted like—but yeah, just clove, an awful lot of clove.

I called Logan on my walk, since I seemed to have good cell coverage and was really just walking on a bike path all day. I told him I was excited to marry him, because I really was. My conversation with Frankie the night before really made me extra grateful for our relationship.

I didn’t want to wish the time away between now and our wedding, but I was just so grateful I had him to come home to, I needed him to know that.

When I arrived in Wānaka, I was hungry again and was somewhat overwhelmed by how spread out everything was.

The Holiday Park was on the other end of town, but I headed there first regardless, pitched my tent in the assigned site, showered and did some laundry before heading out in search of food. Fried chicken sandwich acquired, I then marched back across town, returned to my campsite and saw Leo walking towards me.

Leo was my canoe partner from the Whanganui River on the North Island! I hadn’t seen him in a while, he was sick, unfortunately, with what sounded like the same illness I had had, but it was still good to catch up with him. The next day I planned to take a zero day, and it sounded like a lot of other hikers at the Holiday Park planned to do the same.

I had requested a private tent site—it was the same price as camping in the group tent site with all the other hikers—but I just wanted some space and to avoid having to be social, if I am being honest. The attendant at the desk gave me a hard time about my reservation, I held my ground, though, I’d reserved online and she had to honor the booking.

It got overwhelming, being surrounded by hikers on the same journey as me all the time, even though we were all doing it completely differently. I didn’t want to have to talk miles or get caught in the comparison game of who was “doing it better”, hiking the trail, that is. The TA was a very social trail and there was no one right way to walk it.

The wind blew quite hard all night, and my site felt rather exposed, but eventually I slept, grateful to have a day off tomorrow.

Day 88 (3/6/24): zero day

Wanaka Holiday Park

On my day off I took care of a lot of personal chores. I got the screen on my old phone repaired so that I could sell it when I returned home and I bought a screen protector for my new phone incase I dropped it on a rock again, I did my resupply, went to brunch, replaced the liner of my backpack—chores, you know the deal.

Wānaka was a really cool town, and a great spot to take a zero day. Logan and I would return here when he visited after my hike, and use it as a jumping off point to explore in Mt. Aspiring National Park.

Day 89 (3/7/24): 20.24mi, +5398ft // 33.7km, +1646m

Wanaka to Highland Creek Hut (the start of the Motatapu Track)

I set my alarm for 6AM and was up in the dark getting ready. The sunrise did not disappoint and the walk to Glendu Bay was really pretty along the coast of Lake Wānaka.

I passed “that tree”, the one every photographer in the world who has visited New Zealand has taken a picture of, and snapped my own photo, its branches perched full of Shags. I thought it was funny to see so many people staring at it from the shore this early in the morning.

I suppose it was rather special, a Willow growing separate from the rest, in the lake of all places. Unfortunately, though, because this tree is so different and so alone, it has been vandalized on multiple occasions.

I will never understand what drives human beings to destroy—ignorance, emotional immaturity, unresolved anger, feeling unheard?

I want to hate the people who would purposefully hurt a tree, but is this tree really any different than those I saw flattened by ATVs on the 42 Traverse? Did I feel anger towards the drivers, yes, to a degree, but perhaps not as much anger as I felt on behalf of this tree.

No, #thatwānakatree is only special because people said so, because it has become a symbol, a hashtag, a destination. It only feels worse that this tree should be vandalized because human beings have marked it as special.

The branches which were sawed off in one instance of vandalism may never grow back, due to how cold the lake water is.

The sky cleared and brightened by the time I reached Glendu Bay Campground. The view from shore was breathtaking; white caps dotted the bay and the surrounding hills were all shades of blue and green and gold.

I pushed on, wanting to knock out the gravel road walk before the start of the Motatapu Track, then stop for lunch.

A cloud of sandflies hung about me like a shadow, biding their time on my leeward side. I dared not stop for a lunch break until I reached the single track and found a spot with a good breeze.

I sat on a style and made my new favorite lunch, a carrot, hummus and feta wrap in a spinach tortilla; for desert, a plain wrap with Nutella.

I’d chosen a great spot for lunch, because the trail immediately got hard after I left it.

I’d heard rumors about the Motatapu Track being steep, about some hikers choosing to skip it and do a different, longer, more scenic alternate route instead. Another hiker told me the trail was near impossible to follow for all the tussock, but something about this track called to me and I wanted to experience it for myself.

I’m so glad I did.

The track climbed steeply through the forest—and then more steeply still! I could barely believe the wonky, root-filled trail I was climbing. I ran into two other couples headed my same direction and they looked to be struggling massively. I greeted each person, but their responses were quiet and strained.

Clearing tree-line was a breath of fresh air, literally. I could feel a breeze again and almost allowed myself to think the sweaty work was over, but no. I was on a rollercoaster in the truest sense and it was still climbing.

When I reached Fernburn hut after much toil and scrabbling, I dropped my pack on the deck and sat down, running a hand through my hair and itching my scalp. I was exhausted, but not entirely defeated.

Gwen was inside the hut and came out just as I was resealing a bag of dried mango and getting my pack put back together.

“Hey!” I said excitedly. I loved Gwen, she was a ray of light on this trail.

We hiked off together, climbing yet another brutally steep hill, somehow still managing to chat semi-coherently. When we reached the top of Jack’s Hall Saddle, we were no longer able to form sentences, and dropped our packs in silent agreement to take a break.

We noted that weather was rolling in, but there was no way to know how extreme it would be.

I’d gotten used to remaining calm in the face of New Zealand weather. All I cared about was not being at the bottom of a canyon or walking in a river when it struck. Up here, the worst that could happen is that I’d get cold and wet and grumpy (hypothermia is, of course, always a risk but less so if you manage your layers properly and head for shelter, ie the next hut).

We both agreed we were headed to Highland Creek Hut, the next shelter along the trail, and go to hiking in earnest. Gwen dropped a little behind me as we went, and then I lost her altogether. But it was only another couple of miles and the weather wasn’t actually as vicious as we thought it might be.

When the hut came into view I was a wet and a little chilled, but mainly I was distracted by the views.

The mist cast itself like an ethereal shroud across the hills, each droplet a prism of multicolored light. I gazed at the pyramidal rock faces of the valley wall opposite me, and really felt that I’d wandered into a fantasy novel, that a dragon my swoop me up in its talons and carry me far away before I could have any say about it.

New Zealand was a world unto itself, so unique from anywhere I’d ever been.

There were two girls already in the hut, and Gwen came in close behind me. There would be six of us that night, and due to the continued rain and wind, I opted to sleep inside—shocking, I know. This was probably one of 6 huts I actually utilized fully on the TA, rather than just pitching my tent next to it.

Day 90 (3/8/24): 22.74mi, +7030ft // 38km, +2144m

Highland Creek Hut to Arrowtown Holiday Park

For as much climbing as this day involved, I finished it feeling pretty good. My knees were a bit sore, as were my shoulders and neck (my very old GG Mariposa backpack was no longer doing the load I carried any favors), but overall my spirits were high—even at the end of the day, as I marched my way down hill into Arrowtown.

The rest of the Motatapu Track proved to be just as steep and energetically taxing as the first climb, and also very beautiful. I was so glad I didn’t skip this section, I think because I know I would come back to do the Rees-Dart Track—the alternate some hikers choose to take—but I am not sure I would have known to come back and do this particular walk on a future visit.

But let's start at the beginning…

I left the hut first thing in the morning and no one ever caught me, though I would later discover that one of the hikers who stayed there, Keenan, from Colorado, would spend most of his day trying to—for the athletic challenge, he told me, two days later when I saw him again in Queenstown.

The two climbs before Rose’s Hut were brutal, it was hard to know where the trail was headed for all the buttresses winging out from the mountainside ahead of me. I contoured the side of a steep slope for what seemed an age, then gained a ridge and continued to climb.

The light did not touch me until just before Rose’s Hut, but once it did, for the rest of the day the shade would be chillingly cold, and the sun, scalding hot, I was either shivering beneath a layer of cold sweat or cooked alive and dripping, there was no middle ground.

The views were breathtaking and, as I was constantly out of breath, I paused to soak them in frequently. Just like on the Two Thumb Track, my surroundings didn't feel quite real, like if I reached my hand out, it might tear through the backdrop of the movie set and ruin the illusion.

At one point a helicopter flew overhead, which that gave me some confirmation that everything was real; I was, in fact, walking across the most beautiful country in the world.

⤞ I’ll let the next few images speak for themselves:

The climb to Rose’s Saddle beyond the hut was incredibly long and quite different than the preceding climbs—gradual in comparison—it seemed to take ages, like I was getting no where. But once I reached the pass, I gave myself permission to finally take a sit-down lunch break.

I ate another hummus, carrot, feta wrap, this time adding some olives, and allowed myself to be lulled into a trance-like state by all the waving, golden tussock.

The next portion of my day would involve getting my feet wet and cold, so for the moment I enjoyed having dry shoes.

A walk in the Arrow River was in order. I’d been warned by several locals I met on trail that the river could be treacherous, that fording it was part of the annual mountain bike race and often times people got swept away if there had been a lot of rain.

I’d crossed and walked in so many rivers at this point, I couldn’t bring myself to worry much, but I treated the 3 mile walk in the river with respect all the same. My weather was beautiful and dry, and the walk down stream wound up being lovely, if not a little chilly.

I suppose I should at least mention the Matagouri/tūmatakuru tunnels (New Zealand’s only native plant that has thorns)…

As I wove my way from riverbank to riverbank, sometimes splashing along in the river for a while in between crossings, I encountered many an impenetrable wall of Matagouri—bushes comprised entirely of thorns—I did my best to avoid the abrasive shrubbery altogether, but sometimes, due to a rapid or deep pool, stepping out of the river was unavoidable.

When I say these bushes are all thorns, I literally mean they have no leaves, their limbs are just coated in angry, stab-y needles.

Things got a little weird after I passed through historic Macetown, though, as they tend to on the TA. The previous bit of trail had been well traveled and pretty easy to follow all things considered, but the next stretch got pretty bushy and tough to keep track of.

I had one more pass to climb, then I would be home free—well, sort of home free, it would be downhill to Arrowtown, at least.

It was a battle of wills between me, the tussock, a knee deep marsh and sharp Spanish grass that did NOT belong in New Zealand, but ultimately I won and topped out on Big Hill above Arrowtown. It felt like a victory, the Motatapu’s while magnificently beautiful, were behind me and I could look forward to the next chapter of my adventure.

I dropped my pack on the saddle, digging a snack out of my pack. I called the Holiday Park while I chewed on a piece of dried mango and made a campsite reservation, once done, I hit the trail in earnest, looking very much forward to a shower.

The descent from Big Hill was, well, big and long. It took ages to drop below treelike, then ages more in the forest to reach the trailhead and parking lot, but I tried to enjoy the easy walking and I smiled at the day-hikers I passed along the way.

It was always a little overwhelming to reenter society after so long in the mountains, pretty much all alone, but I quelled that anxiety with thoughts of food.

Day 91 (3/9/24): 19mi, +1181ft // 31.6km, +360m

Arrowtown to Adventure Q2 Hostel, Queenstown

Arrowtown was definitely a tourist destination, and the Holiday Park was hopping with activity, but the amenities were nice and I was able to do laundry, charge my devices and take a hot shower.

I slept okay too, once the house party directly behind my tent site wrapped up—listening to some girl’s drunkologue was not on my to do list for the evening, but she finally quit talking nonsense around 11:30PM—it could have been worse.

I got moving as dawn broke, while the rest of the Holiday Park continued to sleep peacefully. I swung by the local bakery on my way out of town, right when it opened, and bought a cinnamon roll croissant in the shape of a muffin (I did not even know such a thing existed—it was otherworldly) and a ham, egg, and cheese pie for the road.

Te Araroa was mercifully easy walking on this, my 91st day on trail. It was all bike paths and sidewalks. It wound through a golf course, around Hayes Lake, along the Kawarau River and through the town of Frankton.

I could feel exhaustion settling into my limbs as I walked, I could not have hiked a harder trail today, I was pretty sure.

From Frankton I quickly reached the shore of Lake Wakatipu. I smiled broadly when I caught sight of the shimmering blue surface. It felt like a victory to have made it this far, truly.

Queenstown was a major travel destination, and I learned it was mainly appealing to young people from all over the world for its wild bars and super “fun” nightlife, for skydiving, bungie-jumping, downhill mountain biking—basically, for having an instantly gratifying time.

As I wandered into Queenstown, though, all I could think of wanting to do was eat a giant pizza, talk to Logan, and then fall asleep.

So that is what I did.

I checked into my hostel, the Adventure Q2, and made a bee-line for a pizza shop.

There wound up being multiple people in my bunk room who were sick with coughs, and I was absolutely terrified about getting an upper respiratory illness at this stage in my hike, so close to the end—also I did not want to be stuck in Queenstown for any longer than just this one night—luckily I stayed healthy.

The next morning I would rise in the dark and walk over to the bus station to catch a ride to the start of the Routeburn, a must-see add-on to my hike, or so I was told.

It absolutely did not disappoint. ♡

Next up: Queenstown to Telford Campsite & the final chapter of my journey on Te Araroa: Telford to Bluff

We are almost there!