Summer | December 2025

The campsite was perfect, perched above the water, with a tap. Sheltered. The jackpot of a big utility platform to sit and cook on.

I passed two groups of two hikers, but their conversation was of the grunt-as-we-go style.

To be honest, it was a pretty grim day. Four or five hours getting wet while climbing and descending a hill.

Once, you could drive a small truck to Downie Hut, and the track was completely navigable. Now, with World’s Best Practice, it was everyone for themselves.

It had rained on and off during the day, and when it wasn’t raining, it was drizzling. Add that to brushing past damp bushes, and it was like I’d been through an automatic car wash.

The 250 m climb to the hut seems interminable, but as things both good and bad do, it came to an end in failing light.

8 am, and the heavy rain predicted for the day arrived. My body was shattered after the three long days getting here, following the three big days to Nydia Lodge. It rained most of the day, with the wind whistling in the trees and occasional booms from the chimney.

Despite my efforts, when I got back to the hut, I found I’d only done 2,200 steps for the day, well short of my minimum 5,000. That was an unbroken sequence for more than a year. That had me taking short steps on a not very long walk, going up and down for a long while to get over the magic threshold.

I woke early with the idea of going to Nardoo Hut, but realised there’s more work to do on the track up Burn Creek.

I sat with the door open, contemplating life and how lucky I was to be up in the hills.

Man, it had been a day.

This sounds overly dramatic, but let’s say that finally taking my pack off and spending 10 minutes looking for my keys, well, it was good to finally open the doors and throw my pack in my car.

My body won’t stand up to what my mind is requesting.

Overall, this was a successful overnight mission that left me thinking the West Coast rivers and hills may not be the best rehab treatment. Maybe the flatter East Coast rivers may be more appropriate.

You see the hut from a distance, a few hundred metres, and just as I opened the door to the hut, it started to pour. Then hail savagely. Lucky for me.

The farm route became increasingly neglected and hard work in long grass, but after an hour, I reached the forest, which was DOC’s domain. The track was well marked, well beaten, and stayed that way all the way to the hut.

In the morning, it was, let’s say, chilly. Big plumes of fog emerged from my mouth.

A four-wheel-drive was parked outside the hut, and parked inside was a bow hunter and his very well-trained dog. He made space for me, having not expected anyone to come up with the poor weather forecast.

We talked about the delights of bow hunting, and various bush experiences, injuries, favourite areas to go, paua diving, his profession, and how mine had big lulls in activity that I spent away from home.

200 m further upstream, I needed to cross, and that wasn’t gonna happen. I could hear boulders rolling in the flow.

Laurie offered a ride in the tractor, but it wasn’t straightforward. My pack had to go behind his seat, my hat and walking pole on the floor, and I stood in the doorway gripping what I could for the next half hour as we jolted our way down the bouldery four-wheel-drive track.