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It had been a long forty-eight hours even before my Te Araroa adventure began.
For starters, South Africa had beaten England in the Rugby World Cup final. I’d timed my departure to leave the day following the final, not wishing to risk having to find somewhere last minute to watch it in Kaitaia before setting foot on Te Araroa, and as a result I had to make do with a brief sleeping window of just a couple of hours before my bus to Kaitaia departed.
I was all prepped and ready to go. There was nothing left to do now but leave.
By the time 1.30AM rolled around, I was in a sort of daze. I washed my face, gathered the last of my things, and loaded myself into the car.
Mum held it together as she drove me the short distance to the bus station. The double-decker was already waiting for me. It would be a hasty goodbye: a quick hug and a few fleeting moments to say our farewells before I boarded. I took one last look out the window of the bus and tried as bravely as I could to hold back the tears as I blew her a kiss. I could sense she was doing the same. I waved and continued waving as the bus pulled away and rounded a corner and Mum disappeared from sight.
It would be many weeks on Te Araroa before I saw her again.
Trying as best as I could to allow the ambient noise of the engine and the air conditioning units to wash over me, I tried to settle into sleep. The lounger-style seat I was in wouldn’t budge from its pre-reclined angle. Soon I was berating myself for having left my earplugs in my backpack which was now stored safely (and completely inaccessibly) in the compartment underneath the bus.
I stole maybe a cumulative hour of sleep before arriving in Auckland. My bladder was bursting, and I was dehydrated as a result. It being not quite 6.30AM the terminal was closed, so I made a beeline for the Sky City hotel a couple of blocks away.
The view from my seat on the second leg of my bus ride to Kaitaia
In my haste to leave, I’d forgotten to pack breakfast and it was a long wait until the convenience store opened. The choice was limited and I had to satisfy myself with a packet of peanut M&Ms and regular flavoured Pringles. It seemed the ensuing months of eating rough were starting earlier than I had anticipated.
I took up a spot on the platform and waited for the bus to Kerikeri.
After a while, another girl walked past me with what looked suspiciously like a Te Araroa thru hiking pack, and took up a spot a little further up. A little while later, two men joined us further down the platform, also Te Araroa hikers by the look of them. By the time the bus arrived, a small gathering of hikers were trying to broach the gap between avoiding each other and making that awkward first introduction.
As I sat down in my seat on the bus, the person in front of me turned and asked if I was hiking Te Araroa. I was at once relieved and terrified: I’d spoken about hiking the trail only to myself, my family and close friends for the past 6 months or more. But here was a complete stranger, uttering the same words. All of a sudden, things became very real. A domino effect had begun, and myself and the other hikers rode out the first hour or so of the five hour journey to Kerikeri sharing our stories.
There was Haley from Texas, a recent thru hiker of the Appalachian Trail in the USA, and world traveller. Ed from the UK sat directly behind me. Like me, he was embarking on his very first thru hike. And Joe from the USA sat across the aisle, an older gentleman who completed the Appalachian Trail in 2014.
We passed through towns we would next see on foot, many weeks into our journeys. Orewa. Whangarei. Paihia. Waitangi.
Arriving in Paihia, one of the most visited tourist stops in Northland.
Our connecting bus to Kaitaia in Kerikeri was already waiting for us, so we de- and re-bussed in a hurry. Although the next leg would only be an hour and half in length, it was hot and sweaty due to a lack of air conditioning.
I sat next to a young many from Washington D.C. called Michael (who goes by the trail name “Einstein”). He had been hiking consistently for the past few years, and completed the PCT at the end of 2018 with Darwin (the YouTube star and ultralight hiking guru). I couldn’t believe my luck: I was now two degrees of separation from one of the people responsible for my decision to hike Te Araroa. It seemed remarkably fitting and completely crazy.
We talked for a substantial proportion of the journey to Kaitaia. I vividly recall one point in the conversation in which Michael enthused emphatically about his jealousy of me. He gazed off into the distance, towards the window next to me and seemingly through the landscape which raced along beside us. In a quiet voice, yet resounding in its significance, he simply said:
“You’ll never begin your first thru hike again. Your life will be forever changed from now on.”
Soon we were in Kaitaia. Whilst the others scattered to search out either their accommodation for the night, or (hopefully) a hitch to the Te Araroa trailhead at Cape Reinga, I made my way towards a white ute which had just pulled up. Out stepped a man in shorts, bare feet and a button down shirt. It was Pauly from Utea Park. Pauly and his wife Tania have offered a wonderful service to TA hikers for many years. For the relatively inconsequential price of $120, they have offered rooms at their haven just off Ninety Mile Beach for the night before your hike begins, a shuttle to the trailhead the next day, and a final night’s accommodation on the way back down the beach two days later.
Pauly kindly offered to stop for me to pick up my lunch supplies at Pak n Save before we headed north. I wandered the supermarket in a foggy haze, picking up two of almost everything (salami, rice crackers, 250g cheese blocks, and bags of grated cheese), hopelessly unsure how much exactly I would need before I reached this point again in about a week’s time.
I’d never done this before. The longest backpacking or tramping trip I’d ever taken was an easy one-nighter over a weekend in winter just a few months ago. I hadn’t needed to worry about carrying food for days on end.
This is the last year Pauly and Tania will be providing this service to Te Araroa hikers.
At least from this site. Various issues with the local council have finally come to a head and they have now moved on to a neighbouring property. When I spoke to Pauly he was hopeful they could pick up again where they left off there, but it would take some time and they wouldn’t be right on the beach.
There was a palpable sense of peace, calm and serenity at Utea Park when I arrived. I felt lucky to experience it in all its glory on a beautiful sunny day. We pulled up on the grassy lawn amongst a few scattered buildings and I stepped out of the ute. Pauly directed me to a nearby cabin, which he has hand built himself. On the side nearest me there’s a sign that reads “Kiwi”. The cabin immediately next door has a matching one: “Ruru”.
It was still early in the afternoon, a little before 3PM, so I settled myself into the cabin, spreading my various items of gear out on the matching double bed next to mine, willing my stomach to please stop doing backflips. I decided to take a nap. It had a been a long morning on the go, and at least some of my anxiety could be attributed to anxiety.
But even when I woke an hour or so later, the feeling remained.
As I walked out onto the deck of the cabin, some people arrived from the beach. Hikers.
I watched them put their tents up, and make beelines for the showers. I willed myself to be sociable, wandering over to the kitchen/bathroom building and tucking myself into one of the well worn sofas scattered around its edges. I stifled a little internal disgust at how unclean the sofa felt, but still sat there simultaneously pretending not to listen, and yet listening intently to every word they said. What was the beach like? How awful was the wind? Did they get sandblasted? How did the tides work? How blistered are they?
My home for the night, the Kiwi cabin at Utea Park
I listened for the negatives: the things that would give me the justifiable reason to give up. I looked for signs that they were far more experienced than me. But they all seemed just as green, fit and healthy as I was.
We talked a little. To my surprise, despite being told not many kiwis walked the trail, two of the four hikers were older kiwi gentleman named Scott and Nick. They each had experience tramping in the NZ environment, specifically the Tararuas where they would often meet up to hike together. Having been given a generous four week period by their respective wives to take off gallivanting around the country, they were planning to hike around 750km of the trail before picking up the next section next season.
The second group were a British kiwi police officer named Gary and his younger companion Todd. I discovered Gary had set out to raise money for the Blue Light charity which specifically works with young people to reduce the risk of youth offending. Todd seemed to have plenty of complaints about the beach, but Gary was doing his level best to build his morale and confidence.
I made my excuses and left the hikers to themselves, finding it difficult to connect with a group that already seemed to have bonded so much.
The butterflies in my stomach were back with a vengeance.
After agreeing with Pauly that we would set out for the Cape at 8AM the next morning, I retreated to my cabin where I tried to call Mum. She didn’t answer. I dialed Dad’s number instead. I tried to hold back the tears, and take what encouragement he could offer. Cutting the phone call short before I started to blub, I decided to try Mum again once I’d composed myself. Finally hearing her voice, I broke down. I told her all of my fears and worries, and she did what she does best: provided a sympathetic ear to them all. With a final message of luck and love to me, she hung up.
I’d never felt so alone. In my mind’s eye I visualised a map of New Zealand, and imagined my tiny little person sitting way up here at the top of it, a mere few kilometers from the very tip. It seemed an incredibly long way to Bluff.
A journey of three thousand kilometers, begins with a single step.
I found myself drifting off into a kind of slumber, but my dreams were haunted by nightmares of sand, extreme heat, empty campsites and panic attacks.
But I knew one thing.
I was at least going to try.
After all, I had promised myself that.
