How not to walk Te Araroa trail
After receiving some unfortunate health news, Martin van Beynen planned an adventure that would test his superb tramping skills. What could go wrong?
Three days into my big walk and after numerous self-inflicted setbacks, the reality suddenly dawned on me. I actually knew nothing about tramping.
We didn’t go on tramps as kids and I had no friends interested in the great New Zealand pursuit.
Of course, I had been tramping before, but mainly with Mrs VB, the complete outdoorswoman until her knees blew up.
I would tag along as a sort of camp assistant. I carried the heavy stuff, pitched the tent and made the fire if needed. Mrs VB decided where we went, what to take along and was the map reader, botanist and record keeper.
I enjoyed myself, partly because I didn’t have to make any decisions, but my role was a subservient one. Our tramps were two or three-day affairs, always in good weather and in relatively benign terrain.
Yet somehow I had created a fiction in my own mind in which I was an experienced tramper ready to take on the remotest tracks and the hardest country. This misleading self-perception would bite me in the bum, as I will explain.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 1: Be realistic about your ability and fitness.
A recent diagnosis of inoperable cancer in the lungs prompted a now-ornever sort of approach to life, and I looked around for a challenge to keep my mind off the inevitable.
For a bookish, overweight, mostly desk-based reporter, an appropriate challenge might have been reading the complete works of Shakespeare or coming to grips with the philosophy of Kierkegaard.
But no, I needed something more adventurous, and the Te Araroa (the trail of great pain), a legendary walk the length of the country, came suddenly to mind. Te Araroa actually means “the long path”.
Once implanted, the idea grew into a fixation. I had to start and I had to start quick. The plan was to do the upper South Island part of the track before tackling the lower part later in the year.
I reckoned, in my blissful innocence, that it would take me about four weeks before I burst through the finish line at Ship Cove in the Marlborough Sounds to be greeted by an admiring horde of wellwishers and admirers.
The idea was to start at Klondyke, near Arthur’s Pass, and head north to Windy Point at Lewis Pass. I would meet a mate there and we would carry on together towards Waiau Pass and St Arnaud.
The first step was the fun part. Gear shopping. Most of my equipment was 30 years old and I needed a new pack, footwear, shorts, a raincoat and a thing called a buff (a long sock-like thingy).
Given my uncertain health and fitness, I also needed a satellite communication device which could track my whereabouts to alleviate the anxiety of my nearest and dearest and my medical team. I spent freely at two outlets (I am open to gear and retail endorsements) and came home with a car laden with gear and supplies. There was now no going back.
You can imagine the excitement and trepidation as Mrs VB drove me to Arthur’s Pass. She had deliberately withheld offering too many suggestions during my preparations because, well, I was the expert, wasn’t I?
Marty’s top tramping tip No 2: Seek advice and don’t be proud.
There I was in all my crisp, shiny new gear, an over-confident pensioner with a dodgy ankle and stage 4 cancer. What could possibly go wrong?
My gear was no doubt of the finest quality, but I hadn’t used any of it. It turned out the satellite communication device needed a university degree to operate properly and it wasn’t until I finished the tramp that I found a pouch at the bottom of my pack that contained a waterproof rain cover for the pack.
Many readers will wonder if I used poles. Poles! Why would I need poles when I had my two trusty native timber sticks? Neither, regrettably, lasted very long.
As I started down the track on a sundrenched Saturday – April 6 – with Mrs VB waving goodbye, I thought I cut rather a fine figure. Within half an hour, I had fallen in the river on my first crossing. Although I soon dried out, I wondered if this was a bad omen.
As I sweated my way to Goat Pass, burdened with an 18-20kg pack, I wondered how much harder it could get. About six hours after setting off, I arrived to a cheery scene at the Goat Pass hut, totally knackered. A group of four blokes had lugged up several cartons of wine and were having a bit of a party, at which everyone was welcome.
I quaffed happily as the last of the sun lit up the mountaintops. Given my condition, I should have stuck to water and gone to bed, but it would have been rude to refuse the hospitality offered. One reveller was good enough to repair my head torch, which had inexplicably given up the ghost. Only later did I appreciate how vital these torches are as the days draw in.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 3: Have a back-up head torch – and plenty of batteries.
Not wanting to intrude on my hosts all night, I withdrew to my bunk about 9pm as they broke out the whisky.
As I had been up since 5am and was dog-tired, I was expecting a great sleep. Instead it was a long night of dozing and tossing and turning to relieve pressure on sore muscles. The bonus was going out to a night sky lit up with stars.
In the morning I felt terrible and it wasn’t just because of the wine. After two hours of hopping boulders and clambering down the Deception River my legs were shot and felt like dead appendages that needed to be dragged along.
I appreciated the beauty of the river but really, all I could think about was when the pain would stop.
As the light faded I was still a long way from the flats near Morrison footbridge, where I had hoped to camp in my new tent. Instead, I was still in the river exhausted, falling over and looking desperately for a place to camp.
My mood wasn’t helped by the fact I had never put up the tent before.
At last I came round a bend to find a flat, grassed riverbank and, at the end of my tether, needed several goes at erecting the tiny tent.
I thought I had finally cracked it, only to find, when I opened the fly’s entry flap, that it wasn’t matched with the portal of the inner tent.
It struck me that this must be a manufacturer’s error until the penny dropped. A finger hovering over the SOS button on the satellite device was reluctantly withdrawn.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 4: Know your gear.
I woke up after another endless and restless night in a better frame of mind but with no appetite which, for a big eater like me, was a worrying sign. I made a cup of coffee and surveyed a chaotic camp scene with everything soaked with dew.
Not to worry, I thought. The sun will soon rise to fix that.
By 10am, it was clear it would be midday before the sun reached the shady side of the river on which I had pitched the tent, so I packed up and set off with everything wet. I felt I had to do something to lighten the pack so threw out half a block of parmesan and ate a can of tuna.
The day was warm and sunny and I turned north at the Morrison footbridge to walk along the Otira River, soon finding a breezy spot to spread everything out to dry. After another five hours of
walking, my app told me I should be very close to the Kiwi Hut beside the Taramakau River.
Needing an energy boost, I tucked into the healthy snacks I took along. I gobbled a marshmellow Easter egg and some Licorice Allsorts.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 5: Scroggin might be old fashioned, but it’s better than easy treats.
As it got dark and while walking with a head torch, I began wondering if, despite my razor-sharp tramping skills, I had somehow missed the hut completely, so I doubled back to make sure. No luck, so I carried on. At last I saw a sign in the long grass saying Kiwi Hut.
It was another 10 minutes to the hut, but as it appeared in the torchlight, I would not have been more pleased if I had arrived at a Hilton Hotel with a voucher for a free night’s accommodation. My first dehydrated meal (a reminder that brand placements can be arranged) was on the menu.
Day 3 on the trail dawned grey and drizzly. This had been forecast. What I didn’t know was that it would rain for the next four days. To my great shame, I hadn’t checked the latest forecast before I left.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 6: Check the weather forecast before your departure.
Determined to have an easier walk after the slogs of the last three days, I aimed for Locke Stream Hut, which took only about four to five wet hours.
The initial delight to see the hut was soon tempered by the sight of a big dead rat as I came through the door and a completely empty firewood shed.
I went out to find some firewood in the dense bush and brought back some thin dead branches and rotten stuff lying on the ground, but the pickings were slim. I got a fire going but it couldn’t cope with the wet wood.
At least I was dry and had the hut, a marvellous example of framing and flooring hewn from bush timber, to myself.
About 7pm Francois, a wiry engineer from Paris who was dwarfed by his big pack, arrived soaking wet. His English was bad and my French was worse, so our communication was halting.
We went about our business that Wednesday night, and, not especially in his honour, I made French onion soup with an onion I had packed, margarine, a stock cube and the addition of chopped salami and parmesan.
Marty’s top tramping tip No7: Parmesan is your best friend.
Francois had an up-to-date weather forecast. It wasn’t good. The worst rain was forecast for Thursday night, which meant we had to decide whether to stay put in the hut or try to get ahead of the heaviest rain.
During the night it poured buckets and I could hear boulders being shoved about in the river below.
In the morning we decided to have a crack at making the next hut and, although I tried, crossing the river was out of the question. Francois suggested we bush bash and pick up the track further on without going through the worst of the river.
The bush bashing on the steep, slippery slope was exhausting and, after what seemed an eternity, we arrived at a point on the track which presented two choices: Brave the river or do more bush bashing.
I took the river option and Francois went into the bush. My idea was to work my way around a rock at the river’s edge, holding on to the rock. This involved going into a torrent of water, and, with the help of divine providence, I just made it. I waited perhaps a little smugly for wiser Francois, who eventually came slipping and sliding out of the bush.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 8: Don’t take risks because you are tired.
We edged our way up the track alongside the river and then through bush to begin a steep climb to the Harper Pass. My legs were dead and Francois scooted head. Somehow I dragged myself up the pass in what seemed an interminable struggle.
At one stage I fell over and my glasses ended in the mud. Not to worry, I could see enough. (Next day I put some ties on.)
Marty’s top tramping tip No 9: Glasses can fall into rivers and be swept away. Put a tie on them.
I removed my rain pants and, too tired to change, summited in my merino underpants. A hobble down the track brought me to the Harper Pass bivvy, a tiny two-bunk hut with no space to swing a pack, let alone a cat. It was a godsend.
I had a bath in the river and thought I would make a hot drink, only to find that somehow my matches had got wet. I crawled into my sleeping bag more tired than I’d ever been, except maybe for day 2, with my matches in my pocket to dry them with body heat.
By night, the matches had dried out and I had a palatable dehydrated spaghetti bolognese and the best sleep so far.
I woke up on day 5 feeling pretty good. According to the original plan I should have been in the Boyle Village preparing for the next stage, and was at least two days behind already.
This is where the satellite device was earning its keep. People could see exactly where I was and could have a good laugh at my slow progress.
Given my snail’s pace, I was getting a little worried about my food and gas supplies, but Roman legionnaires marched on a handful of rice a day so I figured I would survive.
The palatial Hurunui Hut came into view through the rain about 5.30pm, and I soon had a roaring fire going and was able to cook a meal on the stove-top to save gas. I had the hut to myself so spread everything out to dry.
Day six was another rainy day but I headed off for another slog in a good mood and with the end in sight.
There was still room for one more major cock-up, but we will come to that.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 10: Make sure you have good matches and a back-up. Keep them dry at all costs.
That night I had the luxury Hope Kiwi Lodge to myself and cranked up the fire. In the morning I cut some firewood and tidied the hut for the next guests and headed off at 8.30am sharp for a six-hour tramp to the Lewis Pass Highway to meet up with Mrs VB.
I won’t lie to you. I was thinking more about a glass of Shiraz and steak and chips than which track I should take, and headed off with a bounce in the step of at least one foot, without checking my phone app.
Disinclined to stop before I reached the highway, I trudged for about 3½ hours before stopping in a riverbed to have lunch. The massive sandflies had the same idea.
I carried on quickly, already anticipating the joyous reunion with Mrs VB and the treats she had no doubt brought.
The track brought me past a hut which I assumed would be Hope Shelter, a landmark out to Windy Point.
When I saw the hut was actually the Three Mile Stream Hut, I realised with horrible nauseating clarity that I had taken the wrong track on leaving the Hope Kiwi Hut.
There was no choice but to trek back the way I had come. The call of the wild echoed through the valley with every word beginning with F.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 11: Consult your maps and watch out for pre-exit euphoria.
Friends who were following my progress through the satellite tracker had seen my mistake and messaged me. Two said, “Wrong way, dude!”
The device makes a “peep peep” sound when a message is received but in the bush it never occurred to me I was getting a message. I thought it was just a bird call.
As I plodded back, I lost the track and crossed a stream into a clearing. I could see a hind and then suddenly a magnificent stag appeared. He was almost worth the detour.
Back at Hope Kiwi, I saw a group of hunters had had the audacity to take over my hut. I admitted my mistake to them and just as well because they had met Mrs VB in the Windy Point car park.
They were all top blokes and did not give me the hard time I deserved. I could see they were wondering how this complete plonker had managed to get this far in one piece.
One of the hunters had picked some wild mushrooms and cooked them up with garlic-infused olive oil, generously offering them around.
A stock take of my provisions revealed that, due to my meticulous planning, I had only a serving of pasta, a bit of salami, a chunk of parmesan and some margarine left.
I fried up the chopped pepperoni salami (did I mention I am open to product endorsements?), added the cooked pasta and mixed in every last crumb of parmesan. A few mushrooms and their juice were left so I threw those bad boys in too. Delicious.
Marty’s top tramping tip No 12: Simple ingredients can make a great meal – as long as they are salami and parmesan.
The evening with the good-natured hunters was convivial and next morning, realising I had no food left, they gave me a beef teriyaki dehydrated meal and three pieces of chocolate.
I thanked them profusely but said if they wanted to be named in this story there would be personality endorsement charges.
The tramp out in the morning was a long and painful five hours. Endings are inevitably anti-climatic but, chastened and humbled, I was never more glad to see Mrs VB and the end of the stage.
I thought the days in the wild walking and thinking my best thoughts would have helped clear my head and strengthen resolve for the years of treatment ahead.
But instead three thoughts predominated:
How much further to the hut?
What am I going to have for dinner? Where is the next track marker?
Still, those eight days on Te Araroa reminded me of a valuable life lesson. Suffering is good for the soul.