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Published: January 6th 2011
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Crossing at Bark Bay
When the tides rise, your options are limited. I staggered towards the finshing line with my shoes in tatters, an untamed beard upon my chin, and a wild look in my eyes that I imagine resembled Robert De Niro in darker scenes from the Deer Hunter. I had been deep into the wild and survived. Drinking only the freshest of waters from the wildest of streams, eating a diet of mainly fish and battling the elements as they were thrown at me, the distant Matahau couldn't have been a more welcome sight. I finally could understand the elation of Bear Grylls as he approached civilisation at the end of each journey. This was The 51km Abel Tasman Coastal Track, one of New Zealand's 'Great Walks', and I had just conquered it.
In fact, I'm exaggerating a little. In reality, the walk only spanned 2 days and was more of a pleasant stroll than a challenging trek. And the fish was canned tuna. And my shoes were already in tatters. And who am I kidding about the beard? But, it wasn't without it's moments of desperation and ANDE's (Actual Near Death Experiences), as usual. But I am getting ahead of myself. I'll start at the beginning (and I'll still
be calling it a Great Walk).
We had taken the all-day scenic train ride to Wellington from Auckland, ferried to Picton and then hitch hiked to Nelson (North end of the South Island). Here lives Rich and Rosie who I had met on safari with
African Trails a few years before. Humble and gracious Rich and Rosie, generous and kind, parental and concerned. We spent a few days catching up on the good old days and checking out the town itself. Soon, they set us up with some camping gear, drove us to Awaroa Bay and waved us goodbye and wished us the best.
Before I say anything about The Walk itself, I would like to point out to potential hikers that this track is actually very undemanding, uncomplicated, and delightful. This following event is the result of an overly carefree atitude and a naive optimism that might eventually spell my doom. But not this time:
After Rich and Rosie dropped us off at 8pm, at low tide, on the far side of the Awaroa Inlet, Rosie mentioned that we might be setting up our tent in the dark. Rich added in an unusually serious tone to never
underestimate the power of The Tide. We added that they shouldn't worry, we'd probably be asleep in safety in about an hour and a half, max. And that it would take more than just a tide to deter us. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Four hours later and we were hopelessly lost, screaming into the night, yelling at each other, and (I later found out) Karina was choosing her final words to me. We had not only tried to negotiate the tidal crossing at Onetahuti Beach within the end of the safe crossing period, but we had done it in the dark. This sounds stupid, and it is, but if you saw how simple it looked you would probably have done it too. We ended up knee-deep in swamp water, chest high in swamp weeds, with seemingly impenetrable forests on 3 sides and The Tide creeping in behind us.
What had happened is that we had followed the treeline and not the waterline. On the map, you wouldn't think there was a difference, but in reality, it's a huge mistake and a one or two hundred metre difference (see 2 photos below text).
The thing is, on the map
it looked easy. Maybe a five minute walk along the beach. Keep to the right away from the water, and eventually turn off into the forest for the campsite. Simple. But, it had got completely dark an hour before and we were working by the light of a small head torch giving only a few metres visibility. We kept pushing on for about an hour through dense weeds and knee-deep water. With only an hour's experience with the track beforehand, we had no idea how tough it was meant to be, how offroad it got, how much water was to be expected at the crossing times and so on. We were as green as the surrounding rainforest.
Desperation is a thrilling and frightening feeling. The dark itself is a terrifying concept when you're outdoors and lost, and not something we experience so much in our modern city-lives. We literally didn't know which way to turn. Eventually, on a whim, we pushed through some trees and headed toward the sound from the certainty of the ocean's tide. Even though heading toward the tide seemed like the most dangerous option, we knew the waterline was the most tangible thing we had.
Learning to Fly
...in Picton, Marlborough Sounds We burst through the dense foliage onto a white sand beach, a few metres from the sea itself, then followed the shoreline until we found the campsite. A site for sore eyes you might say... In bed by midnight, exhausted, almost defeated, and extremely relieved. Rosie was right, so was Rich. Never underestimate The Tide.
After this, it was smooth sailing til the end.
Besides that little hiccup the trip was amazing. I don't know exactly what 'living the dream' means, but imagine this: Packing a few days worth of food into a backpack, a light tent and sleeping bags into the other, and taking off along the coastline of a world heritage site on the beautiful South Island of New Zealand. When you need a drink, stop alongside a freshwater stream and refill your bottle. When you want a break from walking, set down your pack and enjoy the white sand beaches, the clear water, and the brilliant greens of the rainforest. When you crave a bit of adventure, hire out a kayak and go looking for seals on the nearby islands. Or maybe wait til dark to negotiate the tides... (no, don't.)
And with the
campsites only costing ten new zealand dollars a night (about 5 euros) it's an inexpensive way to see some very secluded country. There's no car access, so it's only you and the wildlife and a few other walkers. We reached the end wishing there were another 50 kilometres to go.
A horse-whisperer in a cowboy hat picked us up from the side of the road and took us to our hosts again. He told us stories of how his horses were used in the Lord of the Rings films, the secrets to looking young (smoking pot every day and skinny-dipping in an ice-cold river every morning) and the best cures for our many sand fly bites. When we got back to Nelson we were already in planning for the next 'Great Walk' to tackle... and with Middle Earth whispers from Mordorian Mountains only a few hours away, it didn't take long to decide which might become our Doom.
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anonymous
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The trick to flying is to throw yourself at the ground and miss....or so says Douglas Adams who, I'm sure, puts it far more eloquently than I ever could.