Te Araroa: Hurunui Hut to Mt. Potts Lodge

The Rakaia River floodplain.

“If I can find peace standing beside the river I have yet to cross, hundreds of miles before me yet to walk, can I not find peace anywhere? Can I not belong, anywhere?”

A thought which occurred to me as I struggled with a bout of post-trail depression.

Day 71 (2/18/24): 22.79mi, +2706ft // 38km, +825m

Hurunui Hut to Kiwi Hut

I woke up in my happy little camp by the river, the sandflies already hungry and waiting, stacking up like a tiny army on my mesh door. I ate breakfast in my tent to avoid becoming their breakfast, and was walking by 7AM, eager to get my day started.

I felt good and strong until mile 7, when I arrived at Hurunui Hut #3. I took my shoes off at the door and left them to dry in sun, so wet were they with dew, before stepping inside to seek reprieve from the bugs. A tiredness had settled over me.

Unfortunately there was a swarm of sandflies ready and waiting for me when I sat down at the table. They flew lazily at my exposed skin and I swatted them away with as much energy as I could muster. This was going to be a mentally tough section of trail, I could already tell.

It was good that I camped where I did the night before, 1km before Hurunui Hut #1, because when I arrived to the hut first thing this morning it was surrounded by horses and I would not have been able to pitch my tent easily. I also opted to not stop at the natural hot springs just past the hut for all the sandflies!

I felt lame to miss out, but truly, it would not have been a relaxing experience with all the nasty little vipers swarming about my ears.

And so my day continued. I found one epic break spot with a breeze by a cool little creek and enjoyed lunch there not long before the climb to Harper Pass Bivvy. I mixed electrolytes into my water and ate until I was full, despite my concern about getting stuck on the wrong side of a river and running out of food before Arthur’s Pass.

Fully rested and refueled, I stood, donned my pack, scooped up my trekking poles and, feeling quite refreshed, stepped into the stream to cross when suddenly, I went down hard on my right knee, my face jammed into the current by my pack, the crushing weight of which had risen up over my shoulders to drown me.

I spluttered and gasped, shoving myself upright. I glared at the stream, righted my pack angrily on my shoulders, and hobbled the remainder of the way out of the water feeling a bit humbled.

This is why I always cross water before taking a break next to it—one less obstacle to deal with—I had been careless.

The climb the rest of the way to Harper Pass was uneventful, if not quite bushy. I could hear voices when I neared the top, two girls by the sound of it, laughing wildly.

Once on the narrow pass, I set my pack down and stared at the pair of brightly clad hikers as they sat in the dirt licking mayo off their fingers, assembling all manner of bizarre, only-hikers-would-eat-this ingredients in a pair of tortillas.

We were all hiking the same trail on the same day but our experiences in that moment couldn’t have been more different. I was still feeling a bit bruised from my tumble, while they seemed totally joyous and unburdened.

Within seconds I learned they regularly went through a liter and a half of mayonnaise between the two of them every five days.

Even as a fellow mayo lover, I. was. shook.

They were tramping northbound on Te Araroa and had crossed the Deception, Otehaki and Taramakau rivers the day before—rivers I felt incredibly worried about—so I gave voice to my concern and asked them how the crossings went.

They looked at each other and immediately burst into outrageous laughter.

“Us?” They exclaimed.

“We don’t know what the hell we are doing—we’ve never even backpacked before this—if a pair of idiots like us made it, you definitely can.”

They both shrieked as a drop of mayo fell to the dirt.

Howling laughter chased me down the mountain, and as I began to pick my way carefully down the headwaters of the Taramakau, I pictured them still sitting way up there as a rainstorm rolled in, hugging their condiments close to their chests, having the best damn time.

The descent in the Taramakau riverbed robbed me of a trekking pole, sadly enough. My carbon fiber poles were no match for the boulder-choked gully. I stashed the maimed pole in the side pocket of my pack and marched on with a little less gusto. At this point in the day, I was greatly looking forward to arriving in camp.

Initially I had hoped to make it all the way to the footbridge at the mouth of the Deception River this evening, but based on my pace and the rugged quality of the trail, the more attainable goal felt like Kiwi Hut. which was quite a bit closer.

The trail did ease up significantly over the last 5 miles to the hut, in fact, becoming a faint, snaking path through tall grass over relatively smooth terrain. Two miles out, I ran into another female hiker, we chatted briefly before I carried on, I knew I would see her at the hut that evening and I was still quite desperate to arrive and take this infernal weight off my shoulders.

My pack was really weighing me down today.

Kiwi Hut was a new build and it was really rather lovely, and full of sandflies, of course. So I pitched my tent in the cleared center of a woodpile, amid a swarm of hungry gnats, throwing my gear in as quick as I could to avoid letting in too many of the wicked vampires (it was a futile effort, I spent the better part of an hour killing them and still got bitten overnight).

I cooked dinner in the hut with the other hikers before calling it a day, and we all chatted about the route tomorrow. One of them had a rolled ankle and was only going to walk to the footbridge and hitch out, the others were considering doing the same because they worried about the impending rain affecting the Deception River.

I did not want to bail, but I was also concerned about the storm, so I pulled another weather report from my In Reach and considered the information before me:

The rain looked to be starting in the afternoon, if I was speedy, I could make it to the upper reaches of the Deception before the water levels rose too much downstream; that was my plan, and I was sticking to it.

Day 72 (2/19/24): 19.67mi, +3474ft // 32km, +1059m

Kiwi Hut to Goat Pass Hut

I woke up in the dark to sandfly hell.

This is unusual, normally the sandflies dissipate after night falls but, given the incoming weather, they remained vicious and frenzied all night.

I boiled water for oatmeal and coffee inside my tent, careful not to tip my steaming pot over as I began packing. Once I’d eaten and stuffed everything in my bag (which still smelled cheesy, by the way) except my tent, which I was still hiding in, I launched myself out the door and broke my house down faster than ever before.

Frenetic clouds of sandflies billowed around my mouth and eyes, coating my hands, I tried to calm myself with a deep breath and promptly sucked one (or more) of the devils down my wind-pipe, leading to a brutal coughing fit and a maddening tickle in my chest which dogged me for the rest of the morning.

When day broke, the sky remained grey and foreboding. Anxiety knitted itself into my every step. I’d made it across the wide but shallow Taramakau River with no problems other than a pair of cold, wet feet, but now I needed to find a suitable spot to ford the Otehaki.

A section hiker at the shelter last night told us how she had fallen in the Otehaki as she tried to cross, and was swept downstream; she was quite rattled. I sized her up as she talked, she seemed to err on the side of drama, and she was only about as tall as my armpit, so I wagered my chances of making it across were good.

But now, in the grey light of day, I wasn’t feeling so confident. I power-hiked across a sprawl of crimson lichen, aiming vaguely for a spot upstream of the marked crossing point. There were orange marker posts, but they were spread widely apart, so I didn’t bother trying to follow them precisely.

My steady march halted when the dark torrent came into view. I’d arrived at a widening of the river, where the water fanned out and grew quite shallow before spilling into a steeper, narrower section. How lucky! I’d found the perfect ford.

I faced upstream and stepped carefully across, using my one functional trekking pole for balance. The water was never higher than my knees and I was proud of having chosen a safe spot to cross. As I walked downstream alongside the Otehaki to find the “trail” again, I noticed how narrow and deep the river became near its confluence with the Taramakau. I hoped no one from the hut tried to cross lower down.

My walk took me along an expansive gravel bar towards the Ōtira River, where I would be faced with a choice: hike the flood route or walk in the river.

Flood routes on the TA are notoriously heinous, usually faintly put-in, slanted, and hideously—neigh, obscenely—steep. But then, walking in the floodplain of a river as large as the Ōtira felt risky on a day already full of river crossings and impending storms.

I chose the flood route.

And regretted the decision immediately.

It was by far the worst high water route I’d ever hiked, slow as sin, non-existent trail; I clung to the sides of dirt cliffs, burying my hands in the loam for purchase, peering nervously at the glacial blue water undercutting the hillside 50 feet below me. I was making no progress. I was exhausted. I started to cry.

At one point, when the trail dipped low enough to the gravelly floodplain, I bailed, then regretted my choice profoundly when I found myself, moments later, waist-deep in a bog, confused and frustrated. I wailed furiously as I backtracked through the mire—only, now I couldn’t find the spot I’d sprung out of the forest from.

Everything looked the same, as I stared hopelessly up at an impenetrable wall of jungle.

Panic welled in my chest, I was wasting time! A storm was coming and I needed to be starting up the Deception River like now. How could this 4 mile stretch of trail be taking me this long? I’d been at it for almost 2hours!

Finally I found my way onto the floodplain proper and began marching across the smooth, round river stones at a steady clip. When the time came to locate the footbridge across the Ōtira, marking the spot I’d turn up the next valley, I found it with ease. A woman stood on the bridge talking on her phone, I was surprised she had service, but then, there was a highway just across the river.

I turned away from her and the footbridge, and began a hasty ascent up the notoriously fast-flowing and boulder-studded Deception River.

I would ford the lower Deception River 8 times, back and forth, as I hiked upstream at a blistering pace, racing the rain. The sky was all doom and gloom, but I did not let it deter me, I was making good time.

Each ford required focus, the rocks underfoot were slick, unsettled, and all different sizes, making for awkward steps. The river itself was steep, and the water pounded against my knees and upper thighs, pushing me backwards as I shuffled sideways, from one bank to another.

It felt lonely, it felt brave, to stand against the Deception on my own. This river valley makes up part of New Zealand’s Coast to Coast Adventure Race; it is a hard tramp on a sunny day, let alone a cold and wet one.

The route was marked with giant orange triangles every so often, on one side of the river or the other, denoting a crossing. If I saw no markers, I remained on the side I was walking.

Occasionally it was apparent I needed to climb steep embankments and dip into the forest for a time, but mostly I walked directly alongside—or in—the river.

I saw two figures walking towards me at one point, which reassured me that I was not the only insane person out here, hiking the Deception in less than ideal conditions. It was a father and son duo from Scotland, they seemed perfectly at ease, so I let my shoulders relax a bit as I hiked on, but I did not slow down. I wanted to make it to Upper Deception Hut, at least, before calling it a day.

As I tramped, the grade of the river grew steeper, the boulders more abundant; eventually the river seemed more a series of waterfalls and cascades, than it did a flowing stream. I clambered over wet rocks taller than me, crossed below waterfalls in frigid, waist deep pools, I teetered precariously on uneven footing and relied heavily on my hands and singular trekking pole to keep me upright.

Where was the hut? The rain was falling heavily now, the wind howling through the dense vegetation lining the river bank, and I was getting cold. My ultralight rain coat was plastered to my skin, soaked completely through.

I pulled out my battered and maimed phone with its shattered screen—which I had in ziplock bag to protect from the wet—to check my gps. One more crossing, then the hut should be somewhere in the trees on the opposite shore. I looked dubiously at the raging torrent before me, the waterfall just below it.

Well, let’s go, I thought, and in I went. The water line cut into my upper thighs with biting teeth; cold to the bone I pushed my way across. The current was mercifully dispersed in the pool where I’d chosen to ford, and I made it to the other side a little colder and wetter, but otherwise unscathed.

I bashed my way through the sopping wet forest and onto the porch of the old hut, balanced precariously on a rocky shelf in the middle of dense jungle.

It was comical, really, to arrive somewhere so completely in the middle of nowhere, in the state that I was—dripping, sodden, and shaking with cold—a random hovel, tucked into the forest, was turning out to be lifesaving.

I heard voices as I pushed open the door, a man and a woman—Jill and Steve—were sitting inside, similarly wet and dripping to myself, chatting amiably over hot drinks.

Greeting them, I peeled off my shoes and socks, and set about boiling water. I needed hot food. I hadn’t paused in the assault I’d waged on the climb to eat a snack. I rehydrated a cottage pie dehy-meal and ate happily while Jill and Steve filled me in on their hike of the South Island. They were Kiwis and stoked to be on the trail, the weather did not seem to phase them in the slightest.

Their intention to push on to Goat Pass Hut, 3km further at the headwaters of the Deception River, inspired me to do the same. When I’d finished my meal and organized my gear, I stepped back out into the rain and wind with renewed enthusiasm for the miles ahead.

The wind bit into my skin, the rain tiny razors against my face and legs. I bent my head against the gale and charged upstream.

One waterfall after another, I climbed and scrambled and slipped and slid. I plowed across the icy river from shore to shore, swinging through jungle gyms of trees, dodging vicious clumps of razor grass, tipping precariously over cliff edges, shivering with adrenaline and cold.

My progress was swift and sure, and when I saw the roof of the hut come into view an hour and forty-five minutes later, I cheered loudly to no one but myself.

Once on the porch, I flung open the door and just stood there, peering in at the two figures, bundled in their sleeping bags and completely dry, sipping hot drinks. They stared back at me in shock.

I learned their names were Matt and Dale; they’d camped at the footbridge last night and made it to Goat Pass Hut before the rain started. An hour behind me, Taki rolled in, looking even colder and wetter than I had, and then behind him, Jill and Steve.

What an ordeal the day had been. I was glad to finally be warm(er) and dry(er), and indoors. I also acknowledged to myself that I wouldn’t have had it any other way, I was here for adventure and that was what I got.

Day 73 (2/20/24): 6.96mi, +626ft // 11.6km, +191m

Goat Pass Hut to the Mountain House, Arthur’s Pass Village

I woke to a loud scrabbling on the roof—little toenails clicking across the sheet metal—accompanied by a cacophony of screeching and squawking. It sounded joyous, celebratory; a cheerful announcement of the rain passing and the sun rising.

I leapt from my place on the kitchen table, where I’d slept instead of in the closed off bunk rooms as a reprieve from the snoring. I tiptoed out onto the porch as the others woke up, equally as curious as I, to see what all the fuss was about.

“Kea!” Matt exclaimed in a whisper.

We all smiled and took pictures of the winged wonders, thrilled and stunned to be witnessing such a special moment.

Kea are alpine parrots, the last of their kind in the world, and there are very few left in New Zealand. They mate for life, and live for about 30 years. Because Kea are slow to reproduce and they nest on the ground and in cavities in the earth, they are particularly vulnerable to non-native/introduced predatory species like rats, weasels, and possums.

The feathers of a Kea range from copper-brown, to emerald green, with the brightest of orange feathers being displayed beneath their wings. They are incredibly clever, and also have a taste for the lead bolts which secure the metal roofs of most DOC huts.

Seeing nearly 8 of them that mornign felt so, so special.

Taki and I were the first to depart, and we took our time on the remainder of the climb to Goat Pass, enjoying several more Kea sightings along the way.

The tidy boardwalk through the alpine stood in stark contrast to the trail-less route of the day before, but this was likely because we were drawing closer to Arthur’s Pass Village and, ultimately, civilization.

Just over the pass, we took a break and were visited by a Robin // Toutouwai, which pooped on Taki’s rain pants twice; it kind of seemed intentional, to be honest.

The descent from the pass became quite steep, the further down we went. And I found myself putting away my lone trekking pole in favor of using my hands to grasp roots and the slim trunks of the beech trees.

When we reached the village, I spoke with the woman who ran the hostel I’d booked over the phone, the Mountain House, as there was no one at the desk. She brought over a set of keys for Taki and I, we were assigned bunks in the same room, along with Dale and Matt when they arrived, and then she gave us our resupply boxes.

I had two boxes waiting, one filled with food, the other with the new phone Logan had ordered for me. It had become increasingly hard to utilize my phone as a gps, being that the screen was overtaken by black squares and pixelation.

I made the mistake of trying to set my phone up on an empty stomach and got quite cranky, Matt told me to go eat some food before dong anything more. I laughed and agreed to have a burger at the cafe across the street, then a shower, before working on my phone again.

Something about being so far from home, and having to transfer my whole life from one device to another, just felt really high stakes, but once it was done, I was ready to tackle the next leg of my hike.

Day 74 (2/21/24): 21.59mi, +3402ft // 36km, +1037m

Arthur’s Pass to Hamilton Hut

I slept until 7:45AM, mostly because falling asleep had been impossibly hard given all the snoring. I wasn’t sure which bunk it was coming from, but it was jarring despite wearing earplugs.

When I finally hiked away from town, it was on my own. Taki hitched out to avoid walking the road section, and Matt and Dale were planning to do something similar.

It had been nice to spend some time with everyone the night before. Quadzilla and his partner Marvel showed up at the hostel in the evening—Quad is thru-hiker famous! He hiked the Calendar Year Triple Crown in 2022, which is roughly 7800mi of hiking—and everyone laughed and swapped stories and generally had a great time. Taki mailed himself 12 tuna packets, which we all found hilarious; I was pretty sure he didn’t like tuna to carry roughly 4lbs of it, but then again, this was the resupply box he and JJ had a falling out over in Wellington, so who knows?

The road walk to rejoin the TA was a hot one, and surprisingly thorny.

I opted to drop down off the road and cross the Waimakariri River on foot, to avoid having to walk on the long, narrow, single-lane bridge with all the traffic. After the crossing, when I attempted to clamber back up to the road, my hands, shins, and arms were met with a million stabbing thorns.

I gritted my teeth and plowed my way through the spiky vegetation, back up to the pavement.

After several more miles walking along the hot, verge-less highway, I reached my deliverance in the form of a gravel road into the forest. Bealey Hut was a short walk beyond the trailhead, and I picked up the pace, I was dying to use a pit toilet.

I took a short break inside the hut to make lunch, then pushed on into the warm afternoon, dodging the occasional wasp as I hiked. Luckily, there seemed to be fewer sandflies on this side of Goat Pass, at least.

The trail climbed to Lagoon Saddle, and then descended along, and in, the Harper River all the way to Hamilton Hut. It felt like a long day—the days which combine all manner of terrain always seemed to feel longest—and my feet were heavy as I trudged slowly down the side trail to the hut.

I found a sweet little campsite in the edge of the trees and pitched my tent before heading inside to make dinner. Taki was already cooking, along with David—a Kiwi—and a couple, Ellie and Jim, from Arizona. We chatted and ate and then I called it a night, already half asleep as I crawled into my sleeping bag and closed my eyes.

Day 75 (2/22/24): 27mi, +1090ft // 45km, +332m

Hamilton Hut to Unofficial Campsite before Turtons Saddle

I slept until 7AM, packed up, and then walked into the hut to make breakfast away from the small number of sandflies drifting dumbly around me. David was still there.

“Goodmorning,” I nodded to him.

“Kia Ora,” He smiled.

After a few moments of silence, I decided to ask him the dreaded question, the one weighing on me, the one that would make or break my plans to walk a continuous trail on this day, or force me to hitch into Methven to circumvent a giant river the TA Association deemed uncrossable.

“So… Are you going to ford the Rakaia?” I winced internally, prepared to be given a lecture about how only giant idiots would dare attempt such a thing—it was the general opinion of most hikers on the trail—there was quite a culture of shame around crossing this river.

“I would like to,” David said calmly.

“Oh, me too!” I exclaimed, awash in relief. “Do you have a plan?”

“Not exactly, I was just going to get there and go for it.”

“I did a lot of research ahead of time, about fording the Wilberforce first, above its confluence with the Rakaia? And then fording the Rakaia on the other side of the peninsula?” I offered.

“Sounds like a good plan, shall we do it together?”

I. Was. Stoked.

It’s funny how situations unfold, how you truly cannot see what is waiting around the next bend. I am not sure there is a master plan in the works for any one of us; I think we are presented with opportunities and it is up to each of us as individuals, to decide how we will respond in any given situation.

In this case, I chose to do the thing that scared me most, which was also the thing I’d dreamt of doing since I started learning about the TA; I was going to ford the Rakaia River, one of New Zealand’s largest rivers, with someone I’d only just met the night before.

It proved to be quite the undertaking.

Before David and I could begin our journey across the great, expansive floodplains of the Wilberforce and the Rakaia Rivers, we needed to follow the Harper River down stream for 10 miles, which involved many crossings of said river.

Our feet wound up being cold and wet all day.

When we reached the Oakden Canal, and instead of veering left to continue on the TA, we crossed bridge over the achingly turquoise water. My plan for our route would take us around Mount Oakden in the Wilberforce riverbed, until we reached the low point of the Peninsula, just before Woolshed Hill.

I’d read a blog post detailing the route, and felt confident in navigating the floodplains. Prior to deviating from the TA, I messaged Logan on my InReach and asked him to pull the current flow rate for the Rakaia; it was flowing at a rate of 145Cumecs (m³/s) at Fighting Hill, which was under the presumed “safe” upper limit of 160m³/s—a matter of speculation and individual comfort, after crossing at a flow rate of 145m³/s, I would not attempt to ford if the numbers were any higher.

I hadn’t expected to be challenged by the Wilberforce, but after crossing a particularly wide and pushy braid which, at it’s deepest, came to just below my hips, both David and I agreed that was our upper limit of comfort. I needed to stand behind his 6+ ft frame, in the eddy he created, to keep my feet under me.

The walk in the Wilberforce was long, we crossed upwards of 10 braids and several of them multiple times when we got shut down by some gnarly looking ones.

When we finally made it to the place along the peninsula where we would climb up and over, I was eager to be done with our first river, we’d walked in it for nearly 8 miles.

The peninsula was home to a sheep farm; we did our best to stay on the dirt roads and respect the pastures and fence lines, inevitably, though, we had to climb a couple of fences. I will admit, I felt guilty for trespassing. In the meantime, David regaled me with tales about his days fighting the good fight on behalf of the environment. He’d been arrested twice for taking part in environmental activism—specifically for trespassing—but the cause was a noble one, and I was more impressed with his commitment than anything else.

Finally we stood at the top of the hill, and I got my first view into the Rakaia River, I was thrilled. I gasped in amazement, in awe, and was flooded with happiness. This was it! The moment I’d been waiting for!

Now came the doing, the actual crossing of what looked like many many braids, some appeared quite large.

We descended Woolshed Hill through brambles, and stumbled our way across a mile or more of gravel to reach our first braid. It was shin deep and flowing rather slow, as were the next few channels. We were feeling quite confident, quite proud of ourselves, until we hit the big one.

Turquoise water boiled before us, so deep the bottom simply did not exist; staring into the channel as it ripped by me made my eyes spin in their sockets, nausea bloomed in my gut. I felt dizzy just looking at the water race by. We could not cross here.

David and I discussed and decided to head upstream, above the place where many braids came together to form this one, in the hopes we could cross each one separately.

The sun fell a low angle in the sky and the cloud cover turned the surface of the water to molten silver, making it almost impossible to judge depth until you were standing directly in the river. We tested several braids, puzzling our way across the maze of rushing torrents, some shallow, some knee deep, until we reached the final braid.

I was eager to be done with it, but David wanted a chocolate break. He stayed on the shore to munch, while I stepped out into the channel. The rocks were slick and rolled beneath my feet as I neared the middle of the torrent. I leaned hard into the giant stick I’d been using for all the crossings that day, and side-stepped with as much strength and intention as I could muster.

I was so tired.

We’d been at this for 5 hours, not including the hours spent in the Harper River earlier in the day. My body sagged against the staff and a part of me wanted to just quit, to just give in to water and let it take me away. Waves curled into my lap, pressing and pushing against me, my thighs shook.

But I took the next step, and then it was over; I cleared the deepest part of the channel and moments later, stepped onto dry gravel on the opposite shore.

David and I were stoked to have crossed our final major braid. But the adventure was not over yet, we each fell into separate bogs on our way off of the floodplain, and then cut across one more large farm to reach the gravel road, and the TA proper, on the other side.

The TA Association 100% does NOT advocate for anyone to try to cross the Rakaia River (and I imagine not the Wilberforce either!). These rivers are way more gigantic, powerful, and deadly than any other river the TA includes in its path; they are prone to flood with little warning. It could be a beautiful day on the flood plane, but storms might be raging up at the headwaters; you’d never be the wiser until it was entirely too late.

Why did I choose to cross? Because I knew the risks; I accepted that despite my solid preparation and research, something could still go wrong, and I was willing to take that chance. I didn’t come to New Zealand for a carefully curated adventure, I came to be challenged and to push beyond the edges of my comfort zone. I had crossed glacial rivers before in Canada, and I felt as prepared as I could be for the effort.

I would not have crossed this river alone. Meeting David enabled me to give the crossings a try, and I am so grateful to him for the experience.

The Confluence of the Wilberforce and Rakaia Rivers:

The sträva track is my own, and the photo of the Rakaia and Wilberforce Confluence is sourced from: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Confluence_of_Rakaia_River_and_Wilberforce_River,_Canterbury,_New_Zealand.jpg

Day 76 (2/23/24): 20.5mi, +5551ft // 34km, +1693m

Turtons Saddle to Double Hut

This would be a very hot day on trail. I write in my journal,

“I rolled into camp this evening zombified, irritable, and not myself at all”.

I slept intermittently the night before, still wound up from the exciting day of river crossings with David. I didn’t see any movement from his tent this AM while I was packing up and eating breakfast in the predawn light. I imagined he might sleep in.

We camped in a farmer’s field alongside the TA—definitely not PC—but we were both so exhausted and it was so late by the time we made camp, we didn’t think it would be too much of a problem to do so. My goal now was to get moving and clear the boundary of the easement before I had to dig a cat-hole.

Turns out the easement was very extensive and I did not make it to the boundary. I practiced good LNT, though; I dug a deep hole and did not bury any TP.

The climb to Turstons Saddle was a long one; I paused occasionally, doubling over my trekking poles, feeling exhaustion settling into my limbs the further I climbed.

When I looked behind me, I could see other hikers, small as ants, moving along the trail. I knew they’d been dropped off on the school bus shuttle from Methven, one of the many options for getting to and from this section of trail.

The vast majority of hikers I’d met were planning to shuttle or hitch around the river (some even planned to skip the entire section between the Rakaia and Rangitata)—it is about a 60km road detour to get to a bridge.

I hadn’t met anyone who walked the detour, or planned to, but I knew there were hikers who would do so in order to maintain a continuous footpath.

The sun touched me on top of the pass and the world glittered brightly. A sea of tussock grass swayed and churned around me, each stalk shone like a solid gold filament, finer than hair.

I passed the famous A-Frame Hut, then Comyns Hut, taking breaks at each. Just as I was departing the latter, I met Gwen, a hiker from Whales, who told me the next stretch of trail was supposed to be slow and hard. I rolled my eyes internally, nothing could be as hard as what I’d done yesterday.

But the hike up the Hakatere River did prove to be slow and there was no trail to speak of, just the odd orange marker on one side of the river or the other. None of the crossings were challenging, but walking on big, loose river stones, wading through rapids, pushing through thorny gorse, and climbing over boulders definitely hindered my pace.

I took a break at one point and plunged into a particularly beautiful, emerald pool. Feeling refreshed, I continued up stream until I left the Hakatere River, and began hiking up Round Hill Creek.

Eventually the trail left all the creeks behind all together and made a bee-line for Clent Hills Saddle, straight through a bog.

The tussock was tall and obscuring; I couldn’t see my feet let alone where I was stepping, when suddenly the earth dropped out from under me and I plunged into a pit of water and mud.

Clambering back up onto the main level of the “track”—there was no track, just a series of markers spaced 50m apart—my feet were inevitably grabbed by errant strands of the strong grass, causing me to fall face first into a tussock mound.

This short stretch of heinous tussock was an omen for tussock walks to come as I hiked further south towards Bluff.

The journey to the saddle was frustrating to say the least, and when I reached the top I dropped my pack, sunk to the ground and sighed, feeling relatively defeated.

I’d read in the comments on FarOut that hikers struggled with losing their way on portions of this descent. Allegedly, the trail was poorly marked and there were many social trails which peeled off in different directions.

I ate a snack, readied myself and took off down the initially easy to follow track.

The view into the Swin River Valley on the descent was beautiful, and while the track was a bit thorny and faint, I didn’t struggle too much on the journey down hill. Whenever I lost the main track, I checked my gps, and hiked either uphill or downhill to find it again.

I took a break at one of the tributary streams which fed the Swin River North Branch, lying down on the sunwarm rocks.

I decided I would stop at Double Hut for the day. A bit sooner than I’d initially planned, but I was exhausted and it was a million degrees. I splashed some water on my face and soaked my feet for a bit before continuing on.

When I reached the junction for Double Hut, the 1km side trail, though flat, seemed endless.

I poked my head in the door on arrival and saw that there were 2 women inside. I felt nauseous and grumpy. Was I dehydrated? I definitely did not feel like myself. I greeted them and sat down at the table in a daze, sipping some water with electrolytes.

Gwen and Cassie, from Canada, arrived shortly after and we were stoked to have an all-female group at the hut!

There was an epic “spa pool”—naturally occurring of course—not far from the hut. Each of us took turns hiking to it to bathe in privacy. The rocks were worn smooth by the water, and a waterfall poured off a wide flat stone, into a hole deep enough to sit in, just beneath. Heaven!

I was glad I’d stopped at Double Hut.

Day 77 (2/24/24): 27mi, +2280ft // 45km, +695m

Double Hut to Mt. Potts Lodge

I woke in my tent, in the dark. Having hung my food in the hut over night to avoid a possum encounter, I tiptoed inside to retrieve it with my headlamp’s red light on, trying not to disturb anyone.

I will admit, I am one of those people who likes to be first up, first out, but this morning Gwen and Cassie were also awake, also packing up. Two men had arrived at the shelter late last night and they appeared to still be sleeping, as were the two Northbound women I’d met on arrival yesterday.

Gwen and Cassie were headed to the Rangitata River today, same as me, except they planned to hitch hike into a town and then around the major body of water. The trip around the Rangitata was a long detour, being that the nearest bridge was about 80km downstream, the full drive would be ~160km.

I hoped to cross the 9km wide floodplain on foot, but rain was in the forecast for this afternoon and I was running out of food. My tentative goal for the day was to reach Mt. Potts lodge, where I could get some food to go, sleep for the night, then cross the river in the morning.

The day dawned in a swirl of pinks and pale blues; the sky looked deliciously like cotton candy and made me immediately glad I wasn’t skipping this section of the trail. A whole world existed between these two rivers, though it was complicated to get across or around them to see it, it was definitely worth the trip.

I could hear the melodic chortle of magpies from a nearby hill, ringing tin-like across the golden valley, and several geese startled and took flight, honking through the air, as I hiked quickly down the 4X4 track. The walking would be cruisy today and for that I was very grateful.

The unpleasant reality of possums dogged me as the morning wore on, and came to a head when I ran into a rather gruesome, sprung trap alongside the trail. I’d seen one like this before, and while the non-native bush tail possums plague New Zealand’s native wildlife (and hikers), it did not get easier to see them dead.

The bush tail possum is from Australia and, ironically enough, it is a threatened species there. But here in NZ, this fluffy, nocturnal traumatizer has no predators and does quite well for itself.

Logan and I scheduled a FaceTime date for this afternoon and, glancing at my watch, I quickened my pace; I looked forward to getting on the Lodge’s wifi and seeing his face. It was a long walk, but there was little climbing and the path was very clear.

The closer I got to the Rangitata River, the more foreboding the sky became. I was nervous about my chances of crossing the next day, and I did not yet have a plan B. I was also nervous about running out of food, and the few times I took a break on my journey to Mt. Pott’s, I obsessively read the comments on FarOut detailing other hikers’ experiences at this Lodge—was their restaurant open? Could I buy food to go? Would their wifi be working?

It was silly, really, to allow these mundane worries entry into my brain, but there wasn’t much else to think about that day. Eventually I put an audiobook on to drown out my worries, and became engrossed in the Mistborn Series by Brandon Sanderson instead.

When the confluence of the Potts River and the Rangitata came into view, the storm roiling over the Rangitata’s headwaters looked ominous. I walked in the riverbed of the Potts for a time, then clambered, wet and soggy, up onto the highway. It was dead, no traffic, so hitching to town and around didn’t seem a likely option.

It was only 2:30PM; I walked the gravel road to Mt. Potts Lodge, leaving the trail, covering the 3km distance in no time flat. It was starting to rain on me and my feet were hurting quite badly after pounding out 27 miles in just under 9 hours.

When I turned up the drive and the lodge came into view, I let out the breath I’d been holding, it was real, and it was open! There’s always that niggling doubt, you know? When you are traveling on foot, relying solely on word of mouth and comments written on an app which only updates when you have cell service—which I haven’t had in days. Part of me really doubted whether the lodge existed until I saw it with my own eyes.

The Potts River flowing into the Rangitata Flood-plane.

I walked into the foyer and was greeted by two men, one appeared to be the manager/host/server, the other was the chef—a jolly man with a kindly demeanor, though he did seem a bit flustered. They were working on the menu, a new menu, and needed help posting it on the chalk boards.

The manager asked if I had good handwriting, “We will give you a free meal and drink if you’ll help us!”

“I’d love to,” I smiled, even though I was exhausted and the last thing I wanted to do was scribble complex dishes and their descriptions on chalk boards.

“Sit down, eat some food, rest, and then we’ll put you to work,” The chef smiled. “What’ll you have?”

I felt much better after a cold ginger beer, a delicious burger, and getting to connect with Logan. I’d missed him terribly and I wanted to hear about his latest adventures on skis and also fill him in on my journey across the Rakaia River. I smiled at my phone, falling silent towards the end of our conversation, and just stared at his face.

I was so lucky to have him, lucky he was supportive of my walking, and lucky that he was going to meet me in Christchurch, at the end of my adventure, and explore some of this amazing country with me.

Once I felt a bit recharged, I got to work on the chalk boards and quite enjoyed myself. Everyone at Mt. Potts was incredibly nice, and the chef hooked me up with several to-go items so that I could make it all the way to Lake Tekapo without running out of food.

I slept well despite the absolutely insane windstorm which nearly blew my tent away before I went to crawl into it for the night. I’ve never experienced gusts like the ones on the South Island of New Zealand, and I am pleased to report that the TarpTent ProTrail held up very well.

The driving rain did not bode well for my fording of the Rangitata the next day, however; I was beginning to doubt choice to cross.

Visit my Te Araroa North Island Gallery and have a gander at my photos of the entire 1,000+ miles of trail between Cape Reinga and Wellington!