As I think back on the stretch of trail between the Rangitata River and the Ahuriri River, I can still feel the fatigue in my bones and a strong desire to rest, but I also remember the piercing beauty—the sheer magnitude of the mountains, the achingly vast river valleys, and crystalline lakes in every shade of turquoise.

Three months after finishing in Bluff, I am still tired, I gave every last ounce of my energy to this trail, but I have no regrets whatsoever.

Walking Te Araroa was a once in a lifetime adventure for me, and I do not say that lightly. There are many trails I have hiked knowing in my heart I may walk them again, this is not so for the TA.

I know in my heart I will not retrace Te Araroa in its entirety, not because I didn’t love every minute of the journey—I did, so very much—but there is infinitely more to see in the wild and beautiful country of New Zealand, beyond the corridor of its longest trail.

Day 78 (2/25/24): 6.37mi, +2094ft // 10.6km, +638m

Mt. Potts Lodge to Crooked Spur Hut

I must begin by saying, I did not ford the Rangitata River.

I woke the morning of February 25th with a sinking sense of doubt weighing heavily in my gut. It had rained hard and long overnight, and even though the weather seemed to be improving now, it would take the river quite a while to clear all the excess water and debris from its system.

I crawled out of my tent and walked into the Lodge to order breakfast. While I was sipping a coffee I pulled up the Rangitata River Flow Rate and checked the cumecs—125 m³/s! More than double what they had been the night before. I swallowed the unpleasant reality that I would not be crossing this river on foot, a major bummer, given I had been able to maintain a continuous footpath up unto this point, but making smart choices was important to me, and I knew it would be dangerous for me to attempt a high-water crossing alone.

Tom and Shaun—who had been the late arrivals to Double Hut a few nights ago—both from the States—had arrived at the Lodge yesterday evening and organized a shuttle around the river. I asked if I could join them, and they agreed, especially considering adding a person would lower the cost for all of us. Jennie, our driver, would pick us up at 1PM and the cost was $150NZD a piece.

I spent the morning working on my blog and texting with Logan, unsure of where my next reliable service would be.

When Jennie picked us up, she drove us first to her home in Peel Forest—the rough halfway point of our journey around the river—to meet her husband Steve and give us tea and cookies. They were wonderful people, both retired school bus drivers who had served the rural community for upwards of 30 years.

Steve drove us the rest of the way to Bush Creek Trailhead and bid us farewell in the hot and dusty parking lot at the beginning of the Two Thumb Track.

I hiked with Shaun and Tom, and also a bit on my own. It was slow hiking in and along Bush Creek, and I lacked motivation given how late in the day we had started. The goal was Crooked Spur Hut, and between us and it was a really massive climb.

At one point, I made the mistake of following some errant trail markers up a steep embankment that most definitely was not the trail. When I realized my mistake, it took many cautious steps to lower myself down the horribly eroded slope, to get back to the river.

Rejoining Tom and Shaun, we all continued in the creek together to the true deviation from Bush Creek, and began the achilles-popping climb up and away to the hut.

The views of the valley were breathtaking, and the narrow trail and sheer drop offs made my stomach flip—in a good way? I was happy to be on the move again, and to have the tough choice of whether or not to ford the Rangitata behind me.

When we arrived to the hut, I pitched my tent in among the tussock mounds, glancing up with paranoia at the Kea flying overhead. Despite being the coolest birds ever, they’d been known to rip into tents with their sharp beaks and steal things from inside.

When I layed down for the night, I realized I was quite tired. I suspected the condensation in my tent would be terrible in the morning since I was camped in the middle of a field of tussock, but I barely had time to worry before drifting off to sleep.

Day 79 (2/26/24): 12.79mi, +4670ft // 21km, +1424m

Crooked Spur Hut to Unofficial Campsite before Stag Saddle

The morning dawned with cherry alpenglow staining the surrounding hillsides a sweet copper-red. The low hanging fog dissipated overnight and the sky was clear.

I was slow to pack up, slow to eat breakfast, and slow to leave Crooked Spur. I didn’t feel well—in what way precisely, I wasn’t sure.

My movements felt leaden, each step laborious.

The climb to the pass took ages. I focused on the views to distract myself. Swaths of deep indigo and purple blanketed the mountains not yet kissed by day, in contrast, the sun-warmed tussock shone like solid gold and the sand and scree fields were a luminous grey, like the sun-warmed hides of cows.

I sighed and leaned hard into my singular trekking pole.

I could collapse right here, I thought. And listen to the hills breathe—let the rise and fall of these giant flanks lull me to sleep. I would wake truly rested, feeling whole again.

What was going on with me?

Over the pass was more sun-soaked tussock, and not a tree in sight. The earth was dizzyingly bare. I’d begun to miss the Beech forests a bit, especially today, when all I wanted was to curl up in a patch of shade and close my eyes.

I felt a stabbing pain in my gut, and it occurred to me that I might be getting sick.

It seemed I was wandering through a surrealist painting full of stark shadows, brilliant golds, dusty blues, and fantastically geometric mountains and canyons, but something was “off”; beyond the perfection the air rung with an unearthly silence, there were no birds in the sky, no wind in the grasses. Stillness prevailed, as if the hills were holding their breath, waiting.

I walked slowly into the afternoon through the abandoned movie set, my steps echoing off the surrounding rocks.

I took a lunch break too early in the day mileage-wise, and watched a helicopter land outside of Stone Hut. The DOC workers who jumped out told me they were there to replace the lead bolts on the roof because the Kea liked to chew on them. I can’t imagine the lead was good for them… but apparently it tasted sweet.

When I began my slow march up-valley anew, I decided I would camp early tonight—it was clear I needed rest. Upon reaching Royal Hut, I stumbled into the shade of its metal siding and collapsed in a heap.

I stared vacantly out at the dry world around me, listening to the heat run its fingers through the grass. There was no breeze, but the tussock seemed to sing beneath the sun. I watched as a pair of sandpiper-esque birds darted about in the edge of the vegetation. They’d run a few steps, then stop suddenly and bob up and down.

I smiled despite my fatigue and managed to eat a few slices of dried mango.

I would not go much farther that day, I decided. I made camp in the basin below Stag Saddle, the highpoint on the TA, beneath a prismatic sundog, perfectly round and veiled in delicate threads of white clouds, a portent for changing weather.

My stomach ached. I hoped I could make it to Tekapo tomorrow.

Eventually Gwen caught me and camped just slightly further up valley. Both she and I planned to get up early and hike to the saddle for sunrise. I laid down in my tent before it was dark, closed my eyes, and drifted off.

Day 80 (2/27/24): 19.77mi, 2145ft // 33km, +654m

Stag Saddle to an Unofficial Campsite before Boundary Stream

I woke to my alarm at 5:15AM, ate quickly and packed up. I hoped the trail to the saddle was clear, because even with my headlamp I couldn’t see a damn thing in the dark. All the tussock looked the same.

I felt slightly better, rested at least, and eager to beat the sun to the pass. I hiked past Gwen’s tent and shielded the light of my headlamp from the thin material.

As the climb began to steepen, I saw one trail marker and then nothing. Sighing, I forged ahead, straight up, for lack of a better direction to go. The tussock grew shorter and shorter until there was none to speak of, I crossed a boggy area, then a rock garden, and then, nearing the saddle, the ground beneath my feet turned to hard packed sand and gravel, with a few rock piles here and there.

In the dim pre-dawn light, I barely noticed there was a tent right in front of me—”Hello?” A quiet voice came from inside.

“David?!” I exclaimed. “Oh my gosh, I wasn’t sure I would see you again!”

There was a rustling beneath the rainfly and then he crawled awkwardly out of his tent holding a cup of watery oatmeal and looking quite sleepy.

“Hey!” He whispered back like we were in church, and when I looked around me, I realized this was a sacred place indeed.

We chatted a bit and I learned he had forded the Rangitata despite is cloudy, flooded waters, with Scottish hiker Ron, because he was running out of food and wanted to get to Tekapo ASAP. I was impressed, and felt a small pang of regret that I hadn’t at least tried, but David confirmed the crossing was sketchy, and wasn't something he would re-do.

I finally let myself off the hook.

We caught up for a bit longer and then I waved good-bye, I wanted to climb Buezenberg Peak, just off the saddle, and then descend via the ridge, instead of hiking the trail down the center of the valley which was supposedly little traveled and quite terrible walking.

The peak in question was lit up a soft peach and looked like a feature on the moon. I took off up the scree and gleefully dropped to my hands, crawling up its steep slope as I neared the top.

The valley clouds between me and Aoraki // Mt. Cook were absolutely breathtaking. They lay like a plush, white blanket, so thick I wondered if I might be able to step right across and bridge the distance between me and the glaciated peaks in the distance.

After sitting on the summit for a few moments in silence, just appreciating where I was, I pulled out my phone and saw I had a few bars of service. I opened WhatsApp and messaged Logan a few photos of where I was.

I wished he were hear to see Aoraki with me, and wondered if there was some way for us to explore this area more when he visited at the end of my hike.

I caught Gwen on the ridge and we both exclaimed over how dramatic and beautiful the hike down into the clouds was. They rolled like waves over the tussock, crashing gently before us until we were entirely enveloped in white.

I was beginning to feel a bit sluggish again, and had decided I’d like to near-o into Lake Tekapo tomorrow. This meant I would camp somewhere before town tonight, and walk just 9 or so miles into town tomorrow morning, giving myself time to do laundry, eat some food, resupply, and pick up my package from Further Faster, containing my third pair of shoes for the trip and a fresh water filter.

Luckily Gwen’s and my pace for the day was pretty evenly matched, and we chatted easily to pass the miles.

The sky was fairly moody all day, and we both were surprised when we didn’t get any rain. The clouds actually began to clear as we neared the massive Lake Tekapo, the town’s namesake, so much so that we contemplated a swim.

The water was perfectly turquoise; it glittered like a precious stone. When the single track ended near a bridge over Boundary Stream, we peeled away from the “trail” and made a beeline for the shore of the lake.

Gwen stripped immediately and completely, wading into the water; I admired her boldness.

After being scolded on the North Island for swimming nude with a Danish girl by a random lady who shouting, “Ladies, that’s not polite!” with about as much anger as one can pack into a primly worded phrase like that, I was very anxious about a repeat shaming. I kept my bra and shorts on.

The water was unsurprisingly frigid, you could literally see the glaciers on the mountains towering above the lakes surface on the far shore. I felt wholly refreshed.

That night we camped in the dirt expanse near the lake, far enough away from Lilybank Rd that we were out of sight. We each tucked our tents into the thorny bushes, teaming with cherry red rose hips, in an effort to shield ourselves from the wind.

Another storm appeared to be brewing; I hoped our tents survived the night.

Day 81 (2/28/24) NEAR-O: 9.7mi, +337ft // 16km, +102m

Boundary Stream to Lake Tekapo Holiday Park

I woke up in the dark with an urgent need to dig a cathole. Panic coursed through me as I scrambled to find my headlamp and then unzip my tent door. I flung myself out, jammed my feet into my Teva’s and marched into the night.

Whatever sickness had been dogging me and draining me was finally coming to a head, I was both terrified and relieved.

I ripped a massive rock out of the ground, dug a little deeper, and then squatted quickly. The uncomfortable reality of living constantly on the move and in the outdoors is that you have to sh*t in a lot of dirt holes—pardon my language, but it’s the damn truth.

The best thing any hiker can do for the environment is learn how to do it properly.

The 10 or so mile walk along the gravel road into town the next morning was uneventful. I listened to more of the Mistborn series and found myself ever impressed by Brandon Sanderson’s thorough and artful writing.

When I neared the edge of town, my stomach was growling, which I took to be a good sign.

I passed by the small stone church that several tourist busses were parked in front of; passengers poured out to take photos of the tiny structure. I also passed by a statue of a dog which seemed to garner a similar amount of attention, and made my way over to a nearby public bathroom.

The metal structure had a sign explaining you had to pay several dollars to operate the toilet, I shook my head in dismay and kept walking. Eventually I found a free toilet, pressed the illuminated button to open the sliding door, and listened to the voice tell me I had 10 minutes before the doors would automatically open.

Any time I used a toilet like this I tried not to think about the power going out and getting trapped inside. There was no way to open the door manually, a button had to be pressed to open them electronically.

The rest of the day unfolded deliciously, with breakfast at The Greedy Cow (arguably the best French toastever), a quick stop at the post center, a resupply at the Four Square, the long walk to the Holiday Park and an even longer walk to my campsite at the far end of the park.

By the time I had pitched my tent, done my laundry, and made myself lunch, I was exhausted.

There were a series of very powerful localized wind gusts that day at the Holiday Park, and a bike packer’s tent quite literally took flight with all of her gear inside it; it blew about 100 feet away, landing on some spiky bushes. Another camper and I retrieved it and hammered the stakes back into the ground as best we could.

When the bike packer returned, she was totally confused by the new placement of her tent, and I had to explain what had happened in her absence. She was grateful we retrieved it, but also totally bummed over the state of her gear; her tent was ripped and her sleeping pad had popped during the arial voyage.

New Zealand wind, man. Crazy.

I cooked myself ravioli for lunch and bacon, eggs and toast for dinner. I relished in eating “real” food I’d prepared in a kitchen. I wasn’t sure the fatigue I was feeling could be cured with more calories or better food, and I was still quite sure I was sick with something, but I slept untroubled that night either way, relieved to be off my feet.

Day 82 (2/29/24) BIKE RIDE: 34.61mi, +521ft // 57km, +159m

Lake Tekapo to Twizel Holiday Park

My stomach still felt questionable the next morning as I packed up my gear in the semi-dark. I pushed the nagging queasiness from my mind and focused on the day ahead—I was going to bike 35 miles from Tekapo to Twizel.

I was looking forward to seeing the town of Twizel, it was supposed to be pretty low-key compared to Lake Tekapo, which was absolutely a resort-esque town, a destination in and of itself.

My pack was heavy with enough food to get me all the way to Arrowtown, or maybe even Queenstown, since I tended to over-shop; I was relieved I wouldn’t have to carry it today, the bike company, BeSpoke Bike Tours, would shuttle it to Twizel for me.

Bespoke was next to the Four Square, and as I approached I saw Taki headed my way.

“Are you biking too?!” I cheered excitedly.

“Yes!” Taki nodded vigorously.

We both headed over and greeted the woman who ran the company. She had three bikes set out, two for us and one for a German woman named Sigrid, who was section hiking the TA. We loaded our packs into her car and chatted a little with her about her adventure as we signed waivers and made our payments—$95NZD each.

Then we were off!

The ride to Twizel was net downhill, we didn’t even gain 1,000ft; our route followed the turquoise Tekapo Canal for the first 15 miles. The land around us was bone-dry, a tinderbox of arid grassland and brittle vegetation; there was a ban against using camp stoves for this whole stretch of trail.

One portion of gravel along the canal was incredibly washboard, my butt almost didn’t survive. My teeth rattled in my skull and I tried to remember to keep my arms loose and relaxed so that I didn’t jar my neck.

Just before reaching Lake Pukaki, the canal gave way to a large salmon farm. Birds flocked all around the pungent, man-made lakes, waiting for their shot at a delicious fish. The farm seemed to go on forever, one body of water filled with buoys butted up against the next.

Eventually we reached the sparkling, sapphire blue of Lake Pukaki and took a break for lunch. Sigrid asked Taki and I loads of questions about the trail and expressed worry over gauging how long each section would take to complete, how much food to carry, if she would make any friends.

I reminded her she’d already met Taki and I, that everyone gets to hike whatever pace they like, and that she could carry more food than she thought she might need so she never felt rushed getting to the next town.

We were all getting tired as we neared Twizel. The day was brutally hot and Sigrid’s knee had started to bother her.

I stopped at a giant boulder to get a photo of Mt. Cook and enjoy the view of lake. I was already ready to hike on my own again, to be alone and go at my own pace; regardless, though, I enjoyed the company and the bike ride.

We wrapped up the portion of the Alps2Ocean Track along the highway, and joined a swoopy single track gravel path through a stand of pine trees. I thoroughly enjoyed my ride through the trees and pedaled faster and faster, leaning into the turns.

Maybe I could enjoy mountain biking after all? (I’m strictly a gravel and road biker back home).

We reached the Musterers Hut Cafe, where we would drop our bikes and collect our packs, and we each got a treat. Sigrid wanted to keep talking trail, but I was starting to feel ill. I needed a bathroom. As soon as I’d returned my bike and gotten my pack, I excused myself and headed to the Twizel Holiday Park, where I’d pre-booked a tent site.

The rest of my day was spent doing selfcare, which involved a lot of time in the bathroom. I was profoundly self-conscious over my frequent trips, and I determinedly used the same stall each time so as to minimize spreading whatever it was I was sick with. By the time night rolled around, I was depleted, exhausted, and dehydrated.

I took an Imodium, which I never carried but happened to have on hand from my stay with Leigh in Cambridge on the North Island. She’d given me six pills in case of emergency. It was an emergency.

I closed my eyes and hoped I could make it through the night without any accidents.

Day 83 (3/1/24): 24.5mi, +846ft // 40.8km, +258m

Twizel to Lake Ohau Lodge

I woke in the morning to a stomach that hadn’t exploded over night, and proceeded to walk nearly a marathon in pursuit of nachos I didn’t need but desperately wanted.

The TA was comprised of mainly 4X4 tracks on this day and due to relative boredom, I was dogged by anxiety. I worried over how I’d handled the past year, the meltdowns I’d had over my office job, the way I’d spoken impatiently to telephone representatives from insurance companies who were probably just doing their best; I worried that my backpacking company really was just a hobby and not a business, like my CPA had suggested the IRS might think because of how little money I made last year, and I agonized over what I would do when I returned to Crested Butte—would I find work I didn’t hate?

My biggest anxiety was always over whether or not there was something about me that would prevent me from ever assimilating to “normal adult life”, or what I imagined was normal, anyways. Would I always quit jobs to go for long walks and then have to remake myself, over and over again?

My thoughts were the heaviest thing I carried, despite my beautiful surroundings. I took deep breaths and listened to my audiobook, doing my best to quell the rising panic in my chest.

Look at where I am, though! I thought, when I reached Lake Ohau and the joined the single track which looped around its edge. The water was so still it reflected the grey clouds perfectly.

The hardest part about thru-hiking for me has always been dealing with my brain. When I feel good mentally, the miles hardly register, but when my spirits dip low, every inch feels like a battle.

Mentally, I was on a roller coaster, the ups and downs were huge; physically I was also on a roller coaster, the climbs on the South Island were really no joke.

I ran into Taki one final time before I stopped to take a dip in the lake. I explained as best I could that I wasn’t feeling well, physically or mentally, but I wasn’t sure he understood. It would be the last time I saw Taki for the duration of my hike.

A plunge into the crystalline water woke me up and snapped me out of my funk. I only had about 3 miles left until nachos and camp at the Lake Ohau Lodge and I was stoked to cover the distance. The Lodge was well off the trail, but the detour felt worth it incase my stomach acted up again tonight; I wanted to be near a toilet.

After pitching my tent and taking a shower, I walked into the bar and ordered food. The nachos did not disappoint, nor did the view from the deck.

Once again I felt lucky to be on this adventure, seeing this beautiful country on foot.

Day 84 (3/2/24): 22.4mi, +3826ft // 37km, +1166m

Lake Ohau to Unofficial Campsite on Longslip Station after the Ahuriri River Crossing

I slept from 7:30PM until 6:45AM. I’m not even exaggerating. The Lodge had a hot tub but, shockingly, I didn't even sit in it the night before because I was so tired.

The 11 hours of sleep did me good, though, as I packed up I could tell I was feeling more like myself. I made my breakfast of oatmeal on the viewing deck, chatted with a lodge guest about my camp stove, and then hit the trail.

On the climb up to the saddle from Lake Ohau I found myself in a forest, which made me really happy. I enjoyed the shade for the steep climb, and when I cleared the bush line I was blown away by the views.

Jagged peaks erupted from the golden tussock like the warty antler tines of an aged stag, the sharp, black rocks crowning the landscape, contrasting dramatically with the whispy clouds behind them.

I passed Sigrid, Sean, Tom, Cassie, another American named Keenan, and a section hiker named Zara I hadn’t met before, prior to reaching the saddle.

Initially the descent from the saddle was quite slow through tall, knotted tussock, but then the landscape opened up and the vegetation thinned. At that point, I cruised.

I noticed a couple of hikers behind me at a distance, gaining, and I immediately felt competitive. I did not want to be over taken, mostly because if they passed me, they might slow down and then we’d be stuck playing leap-frog. Silly, but I just didn’t want to have to manage a social interaction at the moment.

When I reached the precipice over the Ahuriri River crossing—a large river positioned at the bottom of a gorge which many hikers dread because of its potential to flood quickly (like all rivers in NZ)—I examined the torrent of water carefully.

It seemed I should cross it where it was widest, regardless of the conflicting recounts on FarOut, so that is what I opted to do. Facing upstream, I navigated the slimy stones and large, unevenly spaced boulders beneath the murky current as nimbly as I could. I side stepped for what felt like an age; when I reached the other shore and looked over my shoulder, the fast couple was already halfway across the river.

I let the couple pass me finally, as they did not seem to want to stop and talk, but I passed them again on the climb out of the gorge, which was nearly vertical, much to their chagrin.

Trucking on into the waning day, I knew I needed to make camp soon. My renewed energy from my ages long sleep was starting to dissipate, and I was getting hungry for dinner.

I hiked a few more miles, past several fields of captive Elk, and later watched a herd stampede along a steep hillside, away from the echo of gunfire. It seemed an unfair game, to hunt a fenced in animal, but then, what did I know? I was a meat-eater after all; still, I found myself rooting for the elk.

I wound up camping in a cow field, and had to kick about 5 desiccated cow pies out of the way to pitch my tent somewhere flat. I was technically on part of the Longslip Station easement—camping illegally—I make no excuse other than I was tired and didn’t plan to stay for long enough to make any sort of an impact.

The next morning I would wake before the sun and continue hiking towards Lake Hawea, Wanaka and, eventually, Queenstown, but for the moment, I was enjoying my usual evening concoction of ramen noodles, instant potatoes, dried peas, and cheese, while I watched the sunset turn the hills around me the color of orange peels.

I can’t really think of a better way to end the day.