Jac’s Journey

My blogs about South Island have been dripping with superlatives. I can’t help it. Shortly after arriving into New Zealand, I read some tourist literature that said New Zealand was sometimes called the last place on earth, because it was so remote, but that Kiwis preferred to think it was nature saving her best for last.

On South Island, that just might be true. The magnificence of the mountains, rivers, glaciers, coastline, high passes and wildlife is beyond anything I’ve experienced. There is so much diverse natural beauty in a small space.

As I arrived at the northern end of South Island, I could feel the superlatives melting away. The scenery dropped into the common or garden variety of beautiful. Words like lovely and pretty became more appropriate than magnificent or awe-inspiring, which don’t even fully describe some of the places I visited on the south of South Island.

It was here I would do my longer trek. Ideally, I would have tackled the Milford or Routeburn tracks, but with snow-laden alpine crossings on all the major southern treks, I had to pass because I’m not an alpine climber. I don’t have the experience or skills to survive overnight in wintry snow and ice, in a hut that’s officially closed and has no heating. Brrr.

So, the Abel Tasman track it was.

It felt a little like second best. But nonetheless, I was looking forward to a beautiful trek; a relatively flat 50k along the coast of the Abel Tasman National Park, with no snow survival skills required. The weather forecast was for a little rain, but nothing dramatic.

Day one was lovely. After a leisurely breakfast I drove from Nelson to Marahau and started my walk after lunch. On the way to Anchorage, I wandered past curving bays of golden sand, through lovely forest, alone with my thoughts, the call of birds and the splash of waves, plodding steadily with 15 kilos on my back, most of it food and water.

The Department of Conservation huts are pleasant. Bunk rooms are just that; mattresses side by side on wooden boards. Evenings are spent in candlelit conversation with fellow trekkers, while you make your meal on a camping stove and wonder who’s on the mattress beside yours.

The second morning dawned. This was going to be my long day; 7 hours trekking to Awaroa hut. It was forecast to be the wettest day. But nothing dramatic, remember?

The rain started as I set out from Anchorage. And. Did. Not. Stop.

The raindrops were big, fat, wet, globs of water. They dripped off the end of my nose, they ran down the back of my neck, which was clever, because I had my hood up. To take my mind off how wet I was I set about coming up with the lots of different ways to describe the rain.

In the end I decided it was whingeing rain. It was like being locked in a room with someone who was whingeing, loudly, incessantly, and you had no way to stop them. No matter how firmly you stick your fingers in your ears and la-la-la to drown them out, their whingeing creeps into your soul.

I was just beyond half-way, 4 hours into a 7 hour walk, and I was wetter than I’d ever been in my life. Never-ending, whingeing, big, fat, globs of rain had gotten everywhere. My backpack was waterlogged and felt 4 kilos heavier than when I’d set out. Rain had run down the inside of my gaiters and was swishing about in my boots, creating a foot spa effect with each step, which was more pleasant than you might imagine. Water dripped from everywhere, had seeped in everywhere, nowhere was sacred –not even inside my waterproof pack liner.

Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me any further. I’d arrived at Bark Bay hut and although my booking was for Awaroa, I was prepared to sleep on the floor if all the mattresses were taken. I prayed they wouldn’t be; I mean, it’s winter, just how many nutters walk the Abel Tasman track on a day of incessant, whingeing rain?

I stripped off wet layers, amazed at the volume of water I wrung from my clothes. I blessed my investment in quick-drying thermals and stuffed my boots with loo roll to try and absorb some of the mobile foot spa.

There were a dozen of us in Bark Bay hut that night. We couldn’t get near the fire for the wet clothes hanging around it but it was a fun evening, including a surprise reunion with someone who’d been on my Great Barrier Reef dive trip.

Another new friend declared, ‘I don’t like tramping!’ It was her first multi-day trek and she was – I’m amazed it was possible – even wetter than me. Wrapped in her sleeping bag as all her clothes were dripping in front of the fire, she announced her intention to get the water taxi outta there next morning.

She thought I was a madwoman as I set off to walk. She’s probably right…

Day three was lovely. It wasn’t possible to get further than Awaroa hut because of the tidal crossings, so it was another short day, just 4 hours, and I took my time. Because I could look up without getting whingeing rain down the back of my neck, I was able to appreciate the curving golden bays again. I chuckled as I thought of my view-appreciation-techniques from the day before:

Stops. Stares. Mutters. Another beach. Grunts. Starts walking again, cos you get more wet when you’re standing still.

Day three brought another reward. People had been telling me about Awaroa Lodge, a posh resort half an hour’s walk from the DOC hut, and their lovely coffees. As I got closer, I was imagining a frothy cappuccino with chocolate on top, perhaps with biscotti on the side, licking my lips in anticipation.

Arriving there, tired and happy, I realised how ridiculous it would be to buy coffee. I was carrying coffee in my backpack. Awaroa Lodge sells beer! And I had the best beer I’ve tasted in a very long time.

So my 50k walk was shortened to 37k, as people were expecting me back in Nelson next day and I didn’t want to be reported missing. I couldn’t resist another night at Rob and Lesley’s lovely motel, and sat chatting with them over a cuppa, describing the delights and trials of the Abel Tasman Great Walk. With their warm welcome, care and hospitality, and later, restorative red wine and pizza, I was ready to face the fact that it was time.

Time to leave South Island.

Abel Tasman Walk