tramping new zealand

The guys yesterday said they took 2.5 hours from Kings to Stone Hut, and during the night, I thought about my options.

If I left early, say 6 30 am, I could get to Kings by 9 am and then walk out to the road by lunchtime.

Maybe someone would be leaving in the afternoon, as the distance to Tapawera is about 38 km, and I wasn’t so keen to walk that full distance.

Have to say my damp feet and midriff itchiness were starting to get to me, and I certainly appreciate a dry bed, house, etc. A shower. Non-dehydrated food.

Hitching can be frustrating if you are that type. Cars that you think would stop, don’t. Eventually, someone unexpected does. I’ve had many four-wheel-drive with just the driver around my age with a kayak or bike on the back speed pass, then get picked up by an ancient VW Beetle where I had to have my pack on my knees, or a woman in a two-seater sports car.

My last hitch was the boat on the North Mavora Lake, so I’ve been lucky. Then again, trying to leave Skippers, I walked for a long while, a couple of hours before the first car came by.

It can be unpredictable.

But despite my intentions, it was almost 7 am when I departed after deciding I needed a second round of coffee. This time, I put everything in my pack, including my big camera and waist bag and hightailed it.

It took 2.5 hours until Kings Creek Hut, of which about a third needed my headlight. The track was overgrown in parts, but it had less up-and-down than the day before.

I had a brief stop at Cecil Kings Hut, then another at the newer version not far away. At that point, it was full throttle as now the track was mostly cleared. With four days’ food gone from my pack, I would’ve thought my pack would be lighter, but man, my shoulders were sore.

It was about 1 30 pm when I finally struggled up to the gravel road.

It was quiet.

I had some optimism. I’d seen a couple of fishermen in the river, and they might be off to Tapawera accommodation later on.

I had hope because, after all, you just need one vehicle.

It’s a road that encourages movement for anyone on foot, as eventually there’s the possibility of reconnecting with civilisation via the Internet.

I ate the last couple of muesli bars for lunch, and plodded increasingly wearily down the dusty road.

There wasn’t much traffic. Actually, none.

I stopped every 20 minutes to assess progress and to take the weight off my shoulders, accompanied by just the sound of the big Wangapeka River and the wind in the forest.

The sky was the reverse of the last two weeks. All blue sky except for occasional puffy clouds floating past.

If it weren’t for my enthusiasm to get home to a dry bed and some fresh food and not have to camp by the side of the road with no water and a still broken tent pole, I’d be happy to keep marching on.

The Dart River Causeway came and went. That was 8 km gone.

Eventually, a van was spotted, but it was going in the wrong direction. Not long after, a beekeeper went past, the right way, but with a flat deck and two guys occupying the two seats.

It took more than four hours from me getting to the road for a car to finally pull up and squeeze me in. They had made a pilgrimage to Mount Owen, where a good friend mysteriously disappeared back in 2012. Now they were off to Seddonville for the night, meaning they could take me to Kohatu on Highway 6.

Almost immediately, a chef picked me up, having finished delivering 100 evening meals to workers from the hop fields. He spoke of the benefits of being a bulk caterer rather than owning a restaurant, where customers were much more demanding and picky.

But he was only going to Wakefield, which was an awkward place to land in the early evening of a Friday.

100 cars went past. Then another hundred. Actually, it was probably more.

But you already know the happy end of this story.

Just as I phoned a friend, thinking I might need to get picked up, a large four-wheel drive stopped and took me right to my front door. The driver had retired that very day and had just knocked off from his last day at work. We discussed making the most of life while we could.

I’ve had a pretty big summer of doing what I could as the final rehab of my Achilles tendon.

35 km for the day, which worked out to be the second longest hiking day in the last seven years since I started tracking my steps. 42,000, in case you were wondering.

My tendon had passed that test, but now it was time to reconnect with civilisation.