Catching up part 1: The Heaphy track and Karamea

So here we are again. It’s been a little while…again. And I’m supposed to come up with a clever and witty way to attempt to explain to all my long-lost loyal readers (such that they are) why the hell I never finished writing about my travels last spring. The trouble is, I used up that clever and witty post already (see below). I got nothing. Well I do have excuses, but they aren’t really that clever. Something along the lines of not having time because harvest started in New Zealand, followed by a move and constructing a rather comfortable setup in Portland, only to tear it all down once again for the madness of yet another harvest. Maybe I’m just more comfortable procrastinating until the last possible moment, in this case riding on a plane at the start of another travel marathon to New Zealand. Or maybe my life was removed from the mindset of a traveler, having put roots down for a little while (albeit a brief while). Maybe I just needed to be crammed on a plane, having said goodbye to friends and family for 6 months, packing my life into a backpack and a box, feeling the urge to tell a few more stories before the fresh ones crowd them out. We’ll go with that one. And maybe I just needed the guy sitting in front of me to push his seat all the way back…perfect.

The Abel Tasman was the only the first leg of the backpacking adventures, allowing the opportunity to explore golden sand beaches and subtropical forests. The Heaphy track promised to be something quite different. It’s the longest “Great Walk” in New Zealand, stretching almost 100 kilometers from the Farewell Spit through the Kaikoura National Park and finishing along the remote northern tip of the west coast. My friend and guardian angel Aoife, whom I had rendezvoused with at the Innlet, had offered to give me a ride to the trailhead the next morning. Still feeling rather good about my new found hitchhiking abilities, I nonetheless accepted her offer, and we set off the next morning after a hearty breakfast. While guidebooks and maps have surely improved the world over in the last few decades, this particular part of New Zealand still stubbornly clung to history, and a drive that was supposed to be “approximately 12km” turned out to be closer to 30km. And while the guidebook did mention that there may be a “low point in the road that may be a wet crossing”, it accounted for neither the number of said crossings (4) nor the depth (the shallowest was several inches). When we pulled up to the 4th crossing, the water was moving swiftly and looked to be almost 6 inches deep in places, with rocks sprinkled for extra merit. One look at Aoife and I realized that I was near the point of exhausting her goodwill, so I pulled my gear out and prepared to hike the rest of the way in (somewhere between 2 and 20km, according to the guidebook). As luck would have it, a Canadian expedition en route to the trailhead happened to pull up just as I shouldered my gear, and I managed to hitch a ride with them the rest of the way in, for a nominal fee of course. Bidding Aoife farewell, I climbed aboard.

The Heaphy track begins at the headwaters of a small river valley, and follows a step and steady climb for 10 miles or so, gaining nearly 800 meters in the process. The trail was very well maintained (felt more like a logging road than anything) and the climb was steady, so I settled into my pace and started climbing, pausing at breaks in the trees to judge my progress. My campsite for the night was the very first shelter along the trail named Aeore Shelter, which made for a pretty short day. Dropping my gear I continued up the trail another mile or so to Flanagan’s Corner, which marked the highest point on the trail. Some crazy DOC ranger had dragged a picnic table up there (or more likely driven it up, given the size of the trail), which was occupied by an elderly Kiwi couple. Turns out they were both ecology buffs and gave me a private lesson on the local flora and fauna, some of which only grow in this one place in the entire world. My personal favorite was the dracophilia tree, a sort of tiered pom-pom looking tree that made me wonder if I stumbled into the pages of a Dr Seuss book. At least the kiwi’s looked normal enough.

After a quiet night at Aeore my trail turned west and flattened out as I left the river valley for the high desert of the Kaikouras. I paused at Perry Saddle hut briefly to take advantage of the sunlight and dry the dew off my rainfly. In the meantime I explored the inside of the hut, which was obviously maintained regularly and very clean (as huts go), when I noticed a hand written note posted on the notice board describing where to find the trailhead to the summit of Perry Mountain, the 2200 meter peak at the north end of Perry Saddle. With plenty of daylight left, I decided to give it a go, finding the (hiker’s marker) off the main trail and stashing most of my gear, save some water and lunch. The climb was grueling, winding straight up through a forest of gnarled trees which gave way to ankle-spraining scree which in turn gave way to large broken boulders announcing the approach of the summit. The sun mercifully found its way behind some clouds as I gained elevation, and with sweat pouring out pores I didn’t know existed I clawed my way to the top. The view was well worth the exertion. To the east, the river wound its way through Farewell spit to the Cook Strait, and to the east, I could just make out the Heaphy track winding its way to the west to the Tasman Sea. As I stumbled along on burning legs searching for a comfortable lunch spot, I came upon a fire pit and a rather human shaped rock shelter. While the wind was howling and carrying on about what an awful idea it would be to camp up here, I wondered what kind of crazy person would think camping up here was a good idea. Looking up at the sky beginning to come through the clouds, I realized it wasn’t a fair to judge this person just yet, as the billions of star witnesses making up the defense were at recess. Recharged and reinvigorated after a little food and a satisfying rest, I bounded down the mountain and continued on my way along the trail. The sun began to shine once again, and I paused along the way to strip for a plunge in a stream fed mountain pool, washing away the sweat and grime I had accumulated in 2 days of uphill climbing.

As I drew nearer to my campsite I spotted several DOC rangers hiking through the bush, and hiked along the trail with them briefly before they disappeared back off the trail. My campsite for the night was Gouland Downs, which had the advantage of not having a public hut (and thus less public). It did, however, have a government run hut for research purposes, which was occupied by the rangers I had run across earlier. As I was setting up my tent, a beautiful blonde woman pulled into camp and began to set up her tent, and I suddenly had the feeling that there was something special about this particular campsite. Before I had the chance to walk over and introduce myself however, she disappeared into her tent and did not return for an hour or more. Sighing to myself, I pulled out my cooking supplies and set to work on dinner. I was joined by a rather curious but rather unintelligent weka, a flightless bird about the size of a chicken, who was keen on investigating the boiling water in my pot. In a different time I would have satisfied his curiosity, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he bore some distant relation to another flightless bird of questionable intellect that went extinct on another island some 150 years ago…

Perhaps the smell of my delicious cooking enticed the other camper from here tent, or perhaps she had just woken from a short nap, but I was fortunate enough to have a dinner companion after all. Turns out she was a German 20-something from Hamburg named Marleis who was slowly winding her way around New Zealand doing agricultural work to pay for explorations. The rangers returned while we were eating dinner and we chatted about the usual where from and what for, and as it turns out they were in the midst of tagging the endangered Great Kiwi (the largest in New Zealand, or the world for that matter) and had been scouting for good places to trap kiwi for most of the day. Sarah and Dave were both indeed DOC rangers, while Natasha and James were both former DOC rangers who elected to do private contracting instead (as James put it, get paid by the government and not deal with the bloody mess). They were heading out to hunt that night, and I immediately asked if they minded if we tagged along. They agreed to let us go, but only if we promised not to tell anyone about it. Word has a way of spreading quickly along the trail, and allowing tourists to take part in the tagging of endangered wild animals (while just so happen to be on the currency) may not be in the best interests of the DOC, let alone kiwis. The sunset and night fell, and we set off with the group, flanked on either side by rangers and trackers. James went over exactly how one catches a kiwi, grabbing its legs in a particular way and flipping it upside down to calm it, all without snapping off its signature beak or rendering it lame. Natasha helpfully chimed in to watch out for their claws, which are very good at digging up insects and ripping up Jack Wolfskin gortex jackets. Even in the dark I could see Marleis’ eyes widen, but as Natasha hiked up ahead with James, Dave caught up and informed us that under no circumstances were we to do anything but observe, avoiding my choice between looking like a sissy city boy and crippling/killing a national treasure. We left the trail and hiked down a large embankment to a small clearing. To the north was a small stream, the east the steep embankment we just hiked down, so we took up positions around the outside of the clearing to the south and west in a semi-circle, making a net. Dave took up a position near mind, obviously sensing that in addition to be a clumsy American I might just be stupid enough to try to get involved (having something to prove from my getting picked last at kickball in grade school days, among other things). James arranged himself in the middle of the circle, and had a small mp3 player to entice wild kiwi with various X-rated kiwi calls. Dave muttered to get comfortable, as last night they had sat motionless for 2 hours waiting for the elusive kiwi to show up, which of course it never did. I settled into a spot where I could see the stars through the trees and waited. The first of the calls blared loudly from the clearing, and sure enough, they were answered some distance away. After another 10 minutes, James repeated the calls, which again were answered from what seemed like the same distance, and I began to wonder if someone had forgot to make sure there weren’t other DOC groups out here playing tag with us. The minutes continued to tick by, stretching longer and longer as the excitement of the hunt began to wear off. After my leg fell asleep, James repeated the call one last time. This time, however, it was answered, and far closer than any of the previous calls. James repeated the call once more (an especially provocative one I might add), and the call came even closer. Absolute silence reigned for a few moments, with every hair on my skin searching for any vibration in the air. Something moved behind me. I couldn’t move, not to turn my head towards the noise, or even to shift my second leg, which oblivious to the suspenseful nature of the situation, had also fallen asleep. No matter, every inch of my attention was focused on that rustling, my mind mentally projecting the distance, 10 feet, 5 feet, moving to my left, now pausing for a moment, now walking around to the fruit, over to my right side. Then nothing. Whatever it was now stood less than one foot away from me, probably trying to figure out why the hell this funny looking red tree stump was perspiring. Suddenly I felt something tap my arm, lightly at first but quickly followed by several sharper, more authoritative taps. Likely very confused now and wondering where the sultry kiwi vixen had vanished to, I heard several steps behind me and the loudest kiwi cry of protest I have ever seen. Think T-Rex roaring at a Ford Explorer in Jurassic Park. Quick thinking James quickly played the kiwi temptress once more and the intruder charged to the center of the clearing, libido flaring no doubt. Before it could realize its mistake, James leapt up (in the dark mind you) and snagged the male kiwi in one fell swoop. We broke the circle and walked/hobbled in to give him our congratulations. But James wasn’t done. Lifting his head suddenly, he quickly passed off the kiwi to Natasha and darted off in the woods again, returning moments later with a second kiwi. Evidently the female kiwi had followed her mate (apparently he had a habit of sneaking off) and was coming in to spoil the party. How James had spotted her, let alone chased her down in the middle of the woods in the middle of a moonless night shall forever be a mystery to me. I bet he was the first one picked at kickball.

The rangers quickly set to work taking measurements and blood samples and attaching tracking bands while Marleis and I stood by uselessly observing. Natasha looked over at Dave, grinned, and called me over. Now what you need to do, she said, is take the big male here by his leg and cradle him in your arms, like holding an upside baby. Naturally. Before Dave could utter a word of protest (I think I managed to get a syllable out), I was holding an endangered national monument like an overstuffed pillow case. After the proper electronic documentation was undertaken, the kiwi seemed to relax a little, and tucked his head under my arm in what was almost an intimate gesture (or a desperate attempt to avoid the light from my headlamp). This moment was fleeting however, and as he began to struggle he was quickly removed from my care. Marleis (who was almost as jittery as the kiwis) also got to take a turn, and admittedly looked far better with her kiwi than I did with mine. Before long both kiwis were tagged, poked and prodded, and the time came to place them in a velvet sack and administer a mild sedative, so upon waking they would think it had all been a dream. Lacking these items however, we just tossed them (gently, or as gently as a man like James could muster) back into the woods. They stood a bit startled for a moment, before disappearing back into the darkness. As the rangers headed off to another spot, Marleis and I headed back to camp, thanking them profusely for such a rare opportunity. Enchanted campsite indeed.
Marleis and I compared itineraries and elected to hike the remainder of the trail together. We crossed a serious of suspension bridges as we made our way through high desert country, before the scrubby bushes gave way to forest once again. At the edge of this transition was our campsite, and we rewarded ourselves by finding a cold stream to plunge into before returning back to the campsite for dinner. Marleis had booked herself in the hut that night and befriended another German named Jens, and the three of us ate dinner gazing on the mouth of the Heaphy River, some 20km in the distance. As the sun set that evening, clouds rippled over the horizon, as if someone had forgot to pull the sunset canvas taunt over the horizon. The show didn’t end there, with the Southern Cross and Milky Way competing with the half moon in the sky.

Jens, Marleis and I set off the next day under overcast skies, crossing many more suspension bridges as the clouds beginning to sprinkle rain. The forest here was much different than the one the greeted us at the beginning of the trail, with beech trees giving way to dense jungles full of ferns and massive trees. We had crossed the rainshadow. Despite the weather and the increasing number of black flies, we all remained in high spirits, climbing trees and taking pictures, answering the riddles of little birds that guarded our path. Now I’ve heard that some people become philosophical after spending time in the woods. Others become spiritual or environmentally conscientious. And some people wear banana leaves on their heads. I’m not sure who started it, but we unanimously decided that the best way to keep the rain from our heads was to wear large seed pouches on our head. Feeling the tribalism developing, we crafted ourselves a totem (Mr. Banana Leaf), and thus was born the Banana Leaf Tribe!

Marleis and Jens were both stopping at the Heaphy hut that night along the mouth of the river, but I (in my attempt to avoid overcrowded campgrounds) had elected instead to move on to a shelter 2 more hours up the trail along the coast. We paused for a little while at the mouth of the river, but as the skies continued to darken, I knew I needed to make camp soon or face very unpleasant circumstances. I left my companions at the crowded but cheerful Heaphy hut and continued down the coast. As I made camp that night in my lonely campsite, I had a feeling I was in for a bit of a storm. Turns out I was right.

I have camped in serious weather before, but never alone, and never this close to a raging ocean. The shelter was well off the beach, but as the storm picked up intensity I couldn’t help but wonder about storm surges and tsunamis. Making matters worse, the shelter was at the foot of large sloping cliffs, which offered little protection from, well, anything. The rains were heavy at first, but they began to lighten up past midnight and I thought I had come through the worst of it. Then the wind started blowing. It was an eerily devilish, screaming down the sides of the cliffs through the trees before pausing just a moment and then battering my tent. I had my tent staked down with large rocks, but as the beating continued I began to worry that my tent poles were getting ready to snap. My tent is mushroom-shaped with two poles crossing at the head of the mushroom, which just so happened to be facing the wind. It also just so happened that this part of the tent was right above my face, making each gust an up close and personal experience. It was a maddening storm. When it finally did abate (around 4am) and I finally started to drift off to sleep, the storm delivered one last gust strong enough to smack the tent right into my face. Screw you too. With the storm gone, the sandflies (which had become increasingly numerous as we descended down the Heaphy River) came out in full effect to greet me the next morning. The plan had been for me to wait for Jens and Marleis and hike with them, but I couldn’t spend another minute in that godforsaken place. Breakfast was on the trail that morning.

I had one more night scheduled on the trail at a place called Scott’s Beach, which supposedly had the prettiest sunsets of the trip. I waited for Jens and Marleis there, and decided to hike out with them, thanks to overcast skies and, well, the prettiest German of the trip. Jens was travelling around by campervan and staying at a holiday park in Karamea, the forgotten little town whose only claim to fame is a rainbow hostel and a bar or two. From there we had planned to travel the long way to Picton, where I would catch a ferry and make my way to harvest in Martinborough. There was only one problem. The van wasn’t working. And by not working I mean totally dead. And unfixable. A disaster. Only, well it wasn’t. Jens had lived in the ole girl for 2 months and felt he had gotten his money’s worth, and while this meant we were stuck in Karamea for the time being, that didn’t bother him at all. And to be honest, it didn’t bother any of us. Karamea was awesome!

For starters, instead of staying at the hippie hostel, we stayed instead at the holiday park, which had a bunk room in it with comfy mattresses for half the price of the hostel. The park was run by a retired elderly couple named Joe and Pip (a Dutchman and a Kiwi respectively) who were about the nicest people you could ever meet. They met each other in New Zealand 55 years ago, and were spending their twilight years living off their pensions in a trailer, managing various holiday parks for a few years at a clip before moving on. Joe was a former commodities trader who, as Pip put it, lived through his phone, so much so in fact that he absolutely refuses to talk on it anymore. Seriously. If the phone rings and Pip isn’t around, plan on getting the answering machine. He doesn’t even like to touch it. Instead, he spends his time cooking and walking his cat, Tiger, around the holiday park.

There was one flash “resort” in Karamea which had a hot tub, so after dropping our gear at the holiday park we made for the showers and tub, and of course, celebratory beers. And coffee. Good coffee. And more celebratory beers. We re-provisioned our food supplies at the local general store and cooked a feast that night, drinking wine and listening to German reggae until the wee hours of the morning. The next morning we awoke to beer and banana pancakes (love Germans) and decided to spend another day exploring Karamea. In addition to the hostel, resort, general store and bar, there was a library (open 4 hours a week), a museum (think it was part of the library), and an artist colony. And a second bar. That was about it. Having explored these places, we went back to what we were good at, cooking up another feast that evening and knocking back a few beers. Being Saturday night, we elected to explore the local nightlife, and as luck would have it an Irish band was randomly playing in one of the pubs in town. Dancing and drinking with the hippie hostel folks commenced, and I happened across another traveler from Oregon, a junior on hiatus from Lewis and Clark College in Portland (where I looked at going to school before ending up at Willamette). Small world indeed.