The wonders of Waikaremoana
It took two hours to drive 90 kilometres from where the gravel began at Murupara. Lack of signage didn’t help. We couldn’t see where we’d been because the rear window was covered in a blanket of dust. But through the grime on the front, glimpses of deep blue water surrounded by dense greenery showed Lake Waikaremoana was worth it. We should’ve explored one of the numerous short walks around, listed on a leaflet from the nearby Te Urewera Visitor Centre, but four days of hiking lay ahead. We lazed instead in our Fisherman’s Cabin at Lake Waikaremoana Holiday Park overlooking Opourau Bay, where wooden launches sat anchored in still waters.
I read the Ma¯ ori legend of the lake’s creation. It tells of a chief, Ma¯ hu who, angry with his daughter, Haumapuhia for refusing to fetch water for him, thrust her head under spring waters.
Crying to the gods for help, she was transformed into a taniwha and, twisting out of Ma¯ hu’s grasp, she attempted to break away, pushing mountains to the sides and forming Whanganui Inlet.
Failing, Haumapuhia turned south, near present-day Onepoto, trying to reach the sea. The springs gushing behind her created Waikaremoana.
Morning brought another 9km of gravel before we reach Onepoto Landing for our 8.45am water taxi. Bouncing over rough water in the Powercat catamaran heading to Whanganui Inlet, we saw stark Panekire Bluff.
In three days we would be on top of it. The lake flattened and 20 minutes after boarding, near the inlet’s end and just south of Whanganui Hut, we beached. About 42km of Lake Waikaremoana’s Great Walk lay ahead.
Water lapped the shoreline, which we followed, serenaded by cicadas, for an hour. Stopping to chat to groups of hikers walking from the opposite direction, we were advised not to stay at our proposed DOC hut, Marauiti. ‘‘It’s rustic,’’ is the most favourable comment.
We arrived at noon, after climbing and descending Pukehou Ridge, at the alternative, deserted Waiharuru Hut. I read, in the kitchen, that the lake was formed by a landslip more than 2000 years ago. It created, beneath the depths, an underwater forest believed to be beech with some rimu.
The hut is newish, but the 40-bed bunkroom had me happy to keep going for perhaps a quieter night’s sleep in the 25-bed Marauiti Hut. Besides, it was too early to stop.
A speckled carpet of brown, tan and golden leaves covered the trail and valley floors where ponga draped. Red, rotten tree trunks looked like redwood, and moss covered rocks and the sawn ends of trunks that had fallen across the path. Among black buttressed trunks, I felt insignificant.
Short, wooden bridges cross rocky, flowing streams and suspension bridges – with a maximum load of five people – traverse rivers. Buzzing bees and flies, and the infrequent whoosh of kereru¯ beating wings, were the only sounds. Reaching the shoreline again, I noticed bare trunks jutting from the clear water. Head submerged, a swan’s rear end resembled frilly black bloomers.
We reached Marauiti Hut at 2.30pm. Kitchen tables, benches and walls are a pastel green reminding me of a 1960s bach. We couldn’t smell anything dead, like someone said they could.
Claiming bottom bunks, we were soon gasping in the lake. Unsure of what might lurk in the muddy bottom, I floated. It was bliss after hiking approximately 111⁄2km.
Three other trampers arrived and we spent time chatting and chasing incessant flies and bees from the kitchen, waiting for it to be late enough to retire.
I read in the hut that Marauiti translates as ‘‘comet’’, referring to the many stars lighting the night sky. Sadly, it was overcast, but the cloud around the moon flaunted an orange ring that was pretty spectacular.
Bees and cicadas buzzed on a trail that took us through stands of rimu curtaining the forest the next morning. Nestled in the bush, two private, one-roomed cottages with the bare essentials surprised near a short, yellowish, sandy beach. There were more climbs than the previous day and the leaf carpet was thicker. Vistas show a lake of teal blue.
We dumped packs in the bush just minutes after the Korokoro Campsite turnoff, to take the hourreturn sidetrack to Korokoro Falls. Water flowed noisily in the river we followed then crossed, stepping across dry boulders with the help of a wire. The distant rumbling, tumbling sound of the falls faded to resemble a rain shower as we climbed, coming out opposite the 22-metre-high crest.
I sat on damp earth, watching a sheet of shimmering water, the cooling mist settling lightly on my skin.
Six-and-a-half hours after setting out, we reached the 30-bed Waiopaoa Hut. Out the front, peeking between a gap in trees, the lake was enticing. The sandy bottom disappeared beneath thick green weed, and the water was warmish.
Waiopaoa Hut is newer than Marauiti, but dim inside. Most fellow hikers spent the afternoon and evening outdoors despite the sandflies.
It was straight uphill on our third morning, with a short undulating respite before continuing up Panekire Bluff, the air cooling in the dim shade.
Through gaps in the trees I spotted a boat, the sound of its droning motor just audible. It left a short, fan-shaped, white wake in the motionless water which reflected green hills hemmed by whitish-yellow shores.
Near the bluff top, silently still, knobbly beech trees are draped in thick moss, branches reaching like withered arms. I felt like I might discover ancient ruins. A glimpse of distant brown hills showed a world bathed in sunshine.
Four-and-a-quarter hours’ hiking brought us to Panekire Hut at 1180 metres. In the hut, sinks have no taps or, if they do, water doesn’t run. Dormitories have three levels of bunks. We were first there and claimed bottom ones. The third level, just below the corrugated iron roof, looked coffin-like.
Under a moody sky the far-below lake, surrounded by bush-clad hills and valleys, shimmered silver to the left, blue to the right. Two kereru¯ swayed on ma¯ nuka branches.
Exhausted-looking hikers arrived after a steep ascent from the Onepoto Bay trail end. Some continued on. Cloud swirled low, obscuring the view, and the setting sun threw a burning orange glow between trees. By dark, the 36-bed hut was nearly full.
Views were still hidden by cloud in the morning. We left ancient trees, like giant bonsai, behind and an hour later we reached an unmarked track heading left. It led to a rock ledge giving unobstructed views of forested land encompassing the lake, rolling and jutting away into the horizon. Looking at the weaving bays, I could imagine Haumapuhia thrusting the earth aside searching for a way out.
Below another lookout, just steps off the main track, water sparkled like glow-worms. We enjoyed the descent, and we reached Onepoto Bay 41⁄4 hours after leaving Panekire Hut.
For the last time, we swam in the lake’s clear waters, soaking off the sweat and grime. Then reluctantly, I left Lake Waikaremoana’s mystical beauty for the dusty, gravel road back to city life.
At the end of a gravel track, you’ll find the mystical wonderland that is the three-day Lake Waikaremoana Great Walk, writes Eleanor Hughes.