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Published: July 19th 2015
"Oughhhhhh." I exhaled in unrelenting disgust. "It smells like a dead body..."
I plopped my pack down on the nearby picnic table and vigorously scanned my surroundings. The open area was the length and shape of a skating rink. A brush line of palms, rata trees, and ferns rimmed a grassy lawn so immaculate any suburban homeowner would kill for. The Heaphy Hut stood on the far side of this manmade carpet like an image from a realty poster.
"It probably is," Agathe responded in her French accent, thoroughly engrossed in the wooden informational board overlooking the mouth of the Heaphy River. After a pause, she peered into the heavy brush to her right as if expecting to find the rotting corpse of a fellow tramper.
Determined to find the source of the smell, my eyes scurried over the driftwood and debris scattered along the shoreline behind me. My disgust diminished into a distant fog as my eyes followed the grass to where it abruptly dropped two feet onto the shore. Layers of crispy brown wood lay scattered on the shoreline like a long forgotten game of pickup sticks. Where they met the Heaphy River, ripples glimmered in
the caress of the breeze. On the far shore, a grassy mound rose above the river marking the end of the coastal track.
This was why I was in New Zealand. The majesty of the moment embraced me like an all encompassing hug. I was inhaling the fresh breath of the Tasman Sea, between the spells of nausea. I was on one of New Zealand's Great Walks, a days' hike and an hour-and-a-half car ride from civilization. My feet were skittled with blisters, but I wore them proudly like Boy Scout patches. I was a million miles away from my closest family member, but I felt like I was home.
I grabbed a Braeburn apple and a bag of mixed nuts out of my pack and settled into the view. Reaching for the same snack from her pack, Agathe joined me on the picnic table facing the river.
That morning we rose with the sun. With our packs loaded into my white Subaru Outback, we drove 20 minutes along the coast to the trailhead, north of Karamea. The sky yawned lazily with overcast as we set out on the gravel trail.
Leave the Kitchen Sink
at Home
I felt as light as a feather.
Used to the unforgiving, raw wilderness of Alaska and the cunning backcountry of the Smokey Mountains, my pack was always stuffed to the gills with everything I needed to survive. But on this trip, I did not pack my tent, sleeping pad, hand saw, camp stove, tarp, camp dishes, that cumbersome can of bear spray or a rope for a bear bag. Honestly, I didn't even bring bug spray.
On the Heaphy Track, we were luxury camping to a degree I had never experienced. The New Zealand Department of Conservation (DOC) provides huts fully stocked with wood/coal burning stoves. In the huts we were staying in, they provided gas cooking facilities, pots and pans, sinks with potable water, fresh outhouses and bunked beds with plastic covered mattresses. All for only $32 a night.
Without even a sanitation trowel, I
was as light as a feather.
I could feel the skip in my step as I set out on the trails' sandy colored pebbles. The vegetation rose like green sideburns on either side of us. Flax was whipping above from the tops of the stone earth disguised
by patches of moss on our right. Through the bush and ferns on our left, we saw the jungle that anxiously awaited us beyond the Kohaihai River.
The bridge crossing the river was an architectural masterpiece. It rose high and mysterious, like the gate to Jurassic Park, but rather than instill a sense of fear, it was open and inviting. As I crossed, my body filled with the sensation of being aboard a ship on the open sea. The boards squeaked beneath my feet as the 2x4 rail held my hand for support. I felt the energy of the river surge through me as it flowed from the most intimate parts of the Kohaihai National Forest, under my body, and out to meet the Tasman Sea.
On the other side, we were swallowed by a thick forest that rose steadily with the Karaka trees. The sandy stones dispersed into a soft dirt floor, lined with carpets of lush mossy fur. The air became heavy with moisture, filling my lungs and lightening them both in the same breath.
As we made our way up, we crossed over foot bridges and by waterfalls that spilled into small creeks and
streams. After thirty minutes or so, the brush opened up as if to say, "Look how high you've climbed!" Below we saw the mouth of the Kohaihai River run out to the sandy shores and white caps of the sea.
"I don't remember there being an incline this early on," Agathe pointed out as she adjusted her straps. Her and her WWOOFing host, Tim, had make the hike out to Scott's Beach multiple times. With the extra space in our packs, we allowed for a few luxuries. In my pack, there was a gallon of water for the both of us while Agathe carried a box of red wine.
We meandered down gently. When we reached Scott's Beach, the trail became relatively flat.
For the next 15 kilometers, we traced the sandy beaches of the coastline with our steps. Dipping in and out of the rainforest, we crossed bridgeless streams with our arms out like airplanes. We jumped from rickety-rocks to driftwood steppingstones, attempting to balance the weight of our bodies and our loads. We passed through a long stretch of Nikao Palm forest, their fall leaves frizzy and dry, covering the ground. There was a heavy
stillness in the air as we walked through what felt like a sacred palmy graveyard.
By 1:00 pm the haze of the overcast melted into a blue jean sky, and we joined a few Oyster Crackers on the sandy dunes of a remote beach. While they napped to the lullaby of the waves rolling in and out, we had our lunch: wraps made on the spot with avocado, sharp cheddar cheese, hard boiled eggs, and lettuce.
When we reached the Heaphy Hut for our snack of Braeburn apples and mixed nuts we had hiked 16.2 kilometers over five relaxed hours. We still had several hours of daylight and another eight kilometers to hike to the Lewis Hut for the night, but we felt goon on time.
Solving the Mystery
We rested in the sun at the picnic table while the wind flooded across the jumbled wood of the shore. As it brushed the curls along my neck, I uncontrollably dry heaved. My throat was clogged with a sensation of being force-fed the rotting carcass of last weeks' roadkill. I stood up and walked several feet away gasping for fresh air - as if it would
help.
Where was that smell coming from?! Agathe whimpered. Thoroughly defeated, she put her nuts away.
"What
is that?" She gasped as I rejoined her at the picnic table.
I took the last bite of my apple and threw the core to a nearby Weka. These large, flightless birds are calculating and incredibly cheeky. They have the fidgety body of a chicken, the sleek feathers of a hawk, and the prehistoric face of a raptor.
I lazily gazed out over the shore, ready to be away from the smell but not quite ready to be back on the trail. Following the contour lines of the pickup sticks, my eyes caught something that did not belong. Just three meters in front of us, amidst the rubble of the forgotten game, the carcass of a three pointed stag lay staring up at us, mouth gaping open.
"Well, that's where the smell is coming from," I announced pointing to the camouflaged beast.
"Uuuuuuh!" Agathe said.
Stripped of its fur and bloated with salt water, the skin looked as if it would burst if a single fly landed on it. A mural of earth-tone bruises splattered
the furless skin, while the antlers themselves looked like a few more sticks in the mess.
"I want to go out there and get those antlers," Agathe said in a serious enough tone. We both knew however there was no way she was getting any closer to that smell.
Glad to have the mystery solved, we were back on the path.
A Magical Backcountry...Where nothing can kill you.
After the Heaphy Hut, we followed the Heaphy River upstream. Fantails stalked our every move for kilometers waiting for us unearth worms or drop crumbs. They tolerated our cooing and attempted communication, flirting their full fans only to flit them back a split second later when a camera came out.
Kahukatea, Rata and Rimu trees towered above us. Humus intertwined with branches on all levels and drapped like vines throughout an enchanted forest. Shrubs managed to somehow grown on the sides of the tall trees as if they were a raised planter box existing solely for their livelihood.
Tramping in New Zealand is like entering a fairytale, except on these trails you don't have to worry about running into the big bad wolf. There is
no risk of being eaten by grizzly bears, warned off by rattlesnakes, or even being captured Orcs. As the trail swoons at your every step, and the birds welcome your presence, you feel your soul slip into an open space of wonder.
A Night Unsupervised
We arrived at the Lewis Hut to the sun pouring into every crevice of the rustic cabin. We dropped our gear on benches in the far dorm room and explored the premises. I took off my boots and changed into a pair of clean, wholesome wool socks.
On the notice board, we read the warnings about the cyanide traps on the trail set for the possums. Possums in New Zealand are not like the Opossums in the States. These guys look like small, fuzzy baby panthers with cute noses, long bushy tails, and oval ears. They are about the size of a large house cat and have fur almost as soft as a chinchilla's. As cute as they may be, this invasive species feeds on the eggs of numerous flightless birds, including the famous Kiwi bird.
In the log book on the indoor picnic table, we read a few notes from other
hikers. One hiker a week prior, trekked out alone leaving her lighter behind. She was the only one in the hut and spent the night with no heat and no way to cook food. Luckily she did have her headlamp and some granola bars. A couple, just a few days before, wrote that they saw two Kiwis wander out of the bush onto the trail in front of them in broad daylight. My heart jumped.
I could see a Kiwi! To know that we were so close to these almost mystical, flightless birds, was riveting.
As the sun began its day on the other side of the world and the night settled in, so did we.
We were the only trampers booked in the hut for the night and felt like two giddy children whose parents had gone away for the weekend - trusting us alone. We pulled two of the mattresses out the dorm room and laid them on the floor in the common room in front of the stove. We gave each other Thai style glut massages in gratitude for our bodies making the 24.2-kilometer journey so smoothly.
When dusk was but a
sliver behind the rugged silhouette of the tree-line, we ate our dinner of rehydrated sustenance.
Agathe lit the candles that Tim thoughtfully sent with us and poured us each a plastic coffee mug of red wine. The chill set in quickly, so I donned my footed cow onesie. Sitting across from me, Agathe sipped her wine in the candlelight as if we were in a high-class jazz bar.
Our silences had an unrelenting freedom about them. There was never an awkward need to fill the quite. Our hike leading all the way up to this moment was like a guided meditation, a traveling Ashram.
The silence soon turned into laughter as we discussed the mystery and smell of the dead stag. We gave each other henna tattoos in the candlelight and let the world beyond our yellow dome of candles fade away. We were cozy in the heat from the coal stove and soaked in the magical, purr-like squeal of a Kiwi somewhere out in the night.
Rising Above
The next morning we tidied up and had breakfast. We left our packs in the back dorm room and headed further up the trail This time we
headed up through switchbacks and beech trees. Every now and again we would get a view of the river below or pass some random machinery left for trail maintenance. The forest in the higher elevated had a mature nature about it. Palms had faded out and the canopy, though lush, allowed the sun to sprinkle through onto the track.
We were both light on our feet, glad to be rid of the weight on the uphill stint. After a few hours, we headed back down the trail to grab our packs and have lunch with a visiting Weka. Fearless, he came up and pecked at loose grains of rice. At one point, I turned to see his entire head in our pot of rice salad. It was clear why these prehistoric looking birds were considered the New Zealand equivalent to a pigeon.
With our packs back on, we backtracked the eight kilometers to the Heaphy Hut, where we met three other female backpackers and the lone trekking, Tarzan Kiwi man Dave.
Luxury in the Heaphy Hut
I was overwhelmed why the warmth and the luxury of the hut. Even for a DOC Hut this haven was immaculate.
Built only in the last few years, it contained four dorm rooms with the capacity to hold a total of 30 trampers. The countertops spread across two walls meeting on the southwest corner of the hut, their stainless steel perfection designed for a five-star restaurant. The sturdy, also stainless steel island in the center looked like the board of a chess game, checkered with 12 gas burners. The tea towels hung fresh and untattered, and the three rustic picnic tables were the girls sat shimmered with enamel. And when the sun would fully set, sensors would trigger the indoor solar lighting.
We spent the evening sharing stories on the trail and playing the card game Bullshit. The girls informed us that the tide chart was more than a simple informational memo board. If we wanted to be on the Karemea side of the trail before 4:00 p.m., we had to cross Crayfish Point before high tide. It was only by luck that we passed at low tide our first day.
That initial day, we had no idea. Neither of our WWOOFing host families had mentioned a tide crossing. Looking back, we had hiked that spot with our bodies
hugged against the rock and earth wall, the waves of the sea licking our boots. We thought nothing of it until we passed a memorial to a few hikers who had gone missing and were assumed claimed by the tide waters decade before.
We woke up to rain the next morning - at 6:00 a.m.
By 7:30 am we were on the trail like two holy hooded figures condemned to a death march. Agathe in her XXL black rubber trench coat and I in my $2 plastic bag with a hood and no sleeves. We walked silently as the canopy of the trees protected us from the brunt of the rain. Two of the girls from the night before were ahead of us. They left early not wanting to risk missing their van pick up at 2:00 p.m. The one behind us they called "Mountain Goat" because she hiked quickly and easily. She steamed passed us after about an hour on the trial.
Conquering Red Sea
When we approached Crayfish Point, the sea was out so far I would have believed it if someone told me it was low tide, rather than two hours before high tide.
As I took in the beach, I knew I was looking at two hours of lost sleep. We trudged on, our rain covers crinkling to the rhythm of our every step. The sand gripping our feet as if it were quicksand in another life. My boots were soaked from the rain. I pummeled right through the last three bridgeless river crossings like a kid splashing in puddles. My feet were raw, and I felt the blisters resurfacing under my soaked wool socks and second skin.
When we reached Scott's Beach, my feet skipped knowing we were on the home stretch. By this time Mountian Goat and one of the other girls were ahead of us, leaving Agathe, Amanda and me at our slower pace, chatting casually.
All chattered stopped abruptly as we stood dead in our tracks.
Before us, where the trail soon led to our Jurassic bridge, something I can only describe as the red sea sparkled in our path. As far as we could see the trail radiated from the amber color of the rising river, flooding not just the path but the entirety of the surrounding forest. The white stones of the trail glimmered
a toasted orange and the forest that rose out the clear water appeared even greener in its new atmosphere.
We stood there facing the trail with uncertainty and then met each others eyes, each silently asking, "Now what?!".
"Well, I guess we are going in barefoot," I said as I bent down to unlace my boots. I rolled my pants up above knees and slung my laces over my left shoulder.
Before I braved my first step in, I looked out to see Agathe up to her kneed in water. She looked like a cloaked Quasimoto with her black poncho skimming the surface of the flooded river.
"It's not as cold as I thought it would be!" Agathe announced. Each step was a tiptoe as she peered through the clear water.
"There better not be eels in here," she added trying to hide the seriousness of her statement, but I knew the truth of it. At the Heaphy Hut, I want to lure in the group of eels that lived in the river and feed them, but the idea had left her almost paralyzed with fear. Much to her relief, I decided it wasn't necessary.
I took the plunge next. My feet rejoiced in the frigid stream as everything below my knees went numb. As if on a balance beam, I walked the moss that clung to the trail like furry sideburns. The soft squishy carpet was a sort of heaven for my blistered feet, especially when compared to the gravel that tickled the parts of my feet that were still tender and uncallused.
Amanda followed behind me. She was smart enough to bring two trekking poles and used them now to maintain her balance in the water. She stayed on the stones of the trail, which lay lower in elevation to the moss carpet. At one point, I looked behind me to see her waist deep in orange.
At the first bend, I expected to see the stones rise back out of the water. Instead, I saw an unrelenting straight stretch of amber river. I called out to Agathe who was now out of sight.
"Do you see the end of it?" I yelled.
"Not yet," she yelled back.
By this time, I could not feel my feet. I was forced at times to cross from sideburn to
sideburn due to the deepening areas of the trail.
The core of my body loved every moment of it. The water itself brought a rush of life flooding through me. The calmness of the forest embraced my every step and seemed to be cheering me on like a companion.
Around the next bend, the glassy water continued to overtake everything as far as we could see.
After about kilometer, we heard voices ahead. Mountain Goat and her companion were waiting for us at the bridge.
"You guys put your shoes back on?" I asked. "We don't have that much further to go!"
"We never took them off," Mountain Goad said as they both looked at me. "We took the detour route."
"Ohhhhh….the detour route," I said trying to not appear caught off gaurd.
I guess amidst our chatting we missed the sign pointing to the alternate route. I felt bad for Amanda, who had blindly followed our lead into the deep trenches of the flooded river.
I dug my flip flops out of my pack and hiked over the bridge and onto the car-park beyond.
We all stripped off our wet
clothes and changed into dry ones. Huddled in the shelter of the van pickup spot, we all had lunch.
Moments later Tim pulled into the car-park! We were excited to see him.
Overall my trip on the Heaphy was spiritually fulfilling. My body craved to be away from the luxuries of the world, and I was so glad to have one last adventure with Agathe.
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Dancing Dave
David Hooper
Kahurangi
What a beautiful part of the World Bekah. I expected grey sand but your pic of Scotts Beach it is yellow. And no bug spray!!! I thought it was obligatory on the West Coast to escape the kamakase dive bombers a.k.a. NZ sandflies or is that only further South or seasonal? Paradise always needs something to keep the hordes away or it wouldn't be Paradise!