The art of making clothes pillows

Days 121-127, Greenstone Wharf to Birchwood Station

Kia ora e te whānau!

I had a revelation recently. If I turn my jacket inside out when making up my pillow, the zips won’t dig into my cheeks as I sleep. Sometimes I’m amazed at how long it takes to come up with simple solutions to trail life’s problems.

So, I’m now into Murihiku/Southland, feeling quite remote and far away from home. My first impressions of this region are that:

1) it’s not as flat as I’d imagined it would be

2) the grass is strikingly green! Literally, but maybe also metaphorically. It’s understandable, given the annual rainfall.

Speaking of rain, I’m surprised it hasn’t been raining all the time. I clearly have some pre-conceived stereotypes of Southland ithat I need to work through. In a selfish, I-don’t-want-to-get-wet kind of way, it’s been a good thing. But of course, Papatūānuku loves being brushed by the rain.

I think this final section of Te Araroa is underrated. I’ve not heard many people talk about the beauty of the Tākitimu Forest, nor the wonderful tawhai forests around Mavora Lakes.

Day 121: Greenstone Wharf to Taipo Hut (23km)

At 7.50am on the dot, I crawled into a packed shuttle bus filled with eager trampers. I sat with Esther at the front, and later found out that Courtney and Christie were at the back of the bus. It had been a while since I’d walked with them, it’s always a lovely surprise to re-connect with walkers you haven’t seen for a while. After a short stop in Glenorchy (where we resisted picking the apples off the tree next to the cafe) we were on our way again, off the beaten track and bumping along the gravel roads around Lake Wakatipu. I’ve noticed that my dormant car sickness has been rearing its head in the few vehicles I’ve been on along the trail. Maybe I’m not used to travelling at such high speeds anymore.

I got off the bus feeling nauseous, but the airy beech forest we entered soon remedied me of my queasiness. The track itself was wide and welcoming, sidling along the pearly Greenstone River. Along the way I met a few walkers going the other way including a couple of lively NOBO walkers who told me I should get excited to see Bluff soon from Longwood Forest. It still feels like a long way down, but every now and then I am reminded that two weeks of walking is relatively short compared to how long I’ve been walking for.

Along the path I met a DOC hut warden walking out from Greenstone hut. He told me another TA walker was just 10 minutes ahead, who had been dropped off by his parents. By process of elimination, I whittled down my list of suspects to a couple of walkers who fit the description. Sure enough, as I got to the hut for lunch, I saw Mark through the window. We’d shared some highs and lows in the Tararua Ranges, so it was cool to see him after all that time! The others weren’t far behind. By the time I set off again, the low hanging clouds had burnt off and it got hot again.

We’d been told that the second half of the day would be ‘wet underfoot’. That was pretty spot on, although the lack of rain in recent days meant most of the bogs were probably relatively dry. There was one point at which I took a wrong turn and unnecessarily traipsed through a delightfully large mud puddle, only to find that it was a trail that some cows had made. It didn’t matter anyway, because trying to keep one’s shoes dry and clean is a lost cause in these Southland forests.

The forest soon made way for open tussocks, and the bogs got boggier. It was too easy to lose track of the next orange pole in the distance, so I ended up choosing my own path through the squelchy fields. Taipo Hut was hidden around a hill, but I eventually found it. It was peculiarly fenced off—presumably to keep the cows out, and had a turn stile to get in.

Being the first one at the hut, I made myself comfortable on a lower bunk and followed the usual hut unpacking routine I’ve become so accustomed to these last couple of months. I filled up the bucket of water by the river far too ambitiously, and spent the next 10 minutes hauling the sloshy container back up to the hut a mere 50m away. The other walkers weren’t far away as usual, and luckily there was just enough space for us all to have a bed.

The sun setting from Taipo Hut — The sun setting / moon rising from Taipo Hut

DAY 122 - Taipo Hut to Carey’s Hut (18km)

Given there wasn’t much walking to do today, I planned to sleep in. That was wishful thinking, of course, because sleep-ins and huts don’t mix very well. Everyone else was rustling about with their breakfast-making as I rose from my light slumber, so I joined in the fun. I was still the last to leave.

The start of the track was a continuation of yesterday’s swamps. There was the occasional river to clean my shoes in, but it was a waste of time as the mud kept coming. I largely managed to stay clean, apart from one slip into a mud puddle and a knee-deep plunge into another one. Cows dotted the fields, curiously watching me, the bumbling backpacker, traversing their home.

The midway hut, Boundary Hut, came around a bend which was deceivingly close (first, you had to cross a bridge). Mark and Esther were having an early lunch at the hut, which clearly hadn’t been maintained in quite some time. The first sign of its abandonment was the broken window patched up with cardboard. The next sign of abandonment was the long drop, which perhaps should more accurately be called a short drop. We all exclaimed how lucky we were not to be staying in this one tonight.

The track to Carey’s Hut changed into a 4WD track with the occasional puddle to navigate. It soon ran parallel with the the top of North Mavora Lake, affording views of the sweeping mountains on either side of the long lake. It was as if the hills had parted to make way for the deep blue body of water.

After a short climb up a hill (haven’t had one of those in a while!) it was time to descend again. I was surprised to see that the hut, which lay below close to the lake, was surrounded by a number of large utes. Were we about to crash someone’s family reunion? With trepidation, I zig-zagged my way through the vehicles to the hut’s entrance. I could see a few people on chairs and a person fishing by the lake. It turns out they were part of a guided tour group and were leaving shortly. Esther and I patiently waited inside the hut until the group had moved on, to go down and wash our undies by the lake. It’s moments like these where you’re reminded that boundaries of social acceptability exist.

As usual, the sandflies quashed any chance of us relaxing in the sun. We instead huddled in the dark hut for the afternoon. I had a nap, and apparently while I was sleeping a few parties came in wanting to also stay the night. All the beds had been taken by that point, so they pushed on to Boundary Hut. I’m not sure if any of the other walkers dared to forewarn them of the long/short drop situation.

Day 123: Carey’s Hut to Kiwi Burn Hut (27km)

When a DOC sign tells you it’s going to take you two hours to walk 10km, you know it’ll be an easy walk. The track to the camp site was more of the same 4WD track. The tailwind pushed me along the flat track all the way to the Mavora campsite.

On the way I met a pair of cyclists who told me they’d spent six hours looking for Carey’s Hut (the hut we were staying in), only to tent somewhere along the trail. I thought that showed a lot of determination, as I can’t imagine spending that long searching for a hut.

At the Mavora campsite, Courtney and Christie were talking to a couple with a gorgeous little dog, who I later learnt was called Bonnie and it was her 12th birthday. She was playing with her birthday ball and made me think of my own dog Nyla, who I miss hugely. I can’t wait to see her in a month’s time (Mum—please give her a hug from me).

A swing bridge led us over the link between the north and south Mavora lakes. The southern lake is a lot smaller but just as tranquil. The trail was tucked in the beech forest skirting the lake, and made for more easy walking. However, by this stage I was beginning to miss the hills.

The afternoon sped on, aided by some podcasts and birdsong. I had to make a decision when I came to the final swing bridge before the hut: either head on up to the hut a bit off trail, or cross the bridge here and camp somewhere by the Mararoa River. Given the heap of time left in the day, I decided to head up to the hut and then decide in the morning if I felt like being masochistic (AKA follow the official TA route which is apparently overgrown and difficult) or take the tame country road.

It turns out Kiwi Burn Hut is pretty popular with local folk. A young family arrived just after I did. They had an 18-month-old bub, but decided not to stay the night out of consideration for other hut users (surely nothing can beat snoring though?) The two men who’d also stayed with us in Carey’s Hut joined, pitching their tent and making a good old-fashioned campfire.

Just before dark the two hunters returned, with no luck on the hunting front (I wasn’t complaining). Through talking to the hunters I learnt a bit about the stag roaring season which is currently underway. No matter how many hunters I meet and the more I learn about why hunters hunt, I just can’t seem to wrap my head around the activity of deceiving and killing an animal in that way, but different strokes for different folks, I guess.

The set-up of the creaky bunk beds and darkness of the Kiwi Burn Hut instilled some eery institution / haunted schoolhouse vibes, similar to when I lived in the old hospital during my exchange in Copenhagen. The hut had two separate bunk rooms, However, so I was thankful to have one all to myself.

The multitudes of sheep are a common sight down here

DAY 124 - Kiwi Burn Hut to Princhester Road (34km, including a little detour)

I woke up feeling not as adventurous as I’d hoped I would be. It had rained overnight, meaning there was a chance the overgrown farm route might be even less pleasant than if it were dry. I decided to backtrack to the bridge and walk 30km of road.

It’s getting lighter much later these days. At 7.20am, after a hearty bowl of porridge, I set off with my headlamp on full-beam. Though overcast and cold, it was a relief that the rain had stopped. Nevertheless, my feet were drenched in seconds by the heavy dew clinging to the tussocks.

Back on the main trail, it felt strange heading backwards along the trail. So this is what it feels like to be a northbounder. The dull light of the early morning soon made its way through the airy beech branches, guiding me to the turn-off. I met some more hunters there, who asked if I’d seen any other hunters on my way. I told them about the ones in the hut, then silently wondered to myself if there’s a bit of competition between hunting parties. There’ must be so much etiquette around hunting off which I know nothing about.

The road was largely straight and dusty, but traffic was occasional and the surrounding mountains and forest kept things interesting. Being way ahead of schedule (my bus arrived at 6.20pm), I stopped frequently for a water break and to stretch my shoulders. You would have thought that by now I’d have honed my sense of how much food to take for each section, but no, I’m always either over- or under-packing food (mostly the former).

Having started early, I was so ready for lunch when midday rolled around. Just as I was looking for a spot to suit down, I spotted two heads popping up from the long grass. It was Courtney and Christie, who had decided to camp and take the overgrown farm route. They had found it hard-going and told me I’d made the right choice but not doing it. At least they have the stories to tell from it, which I’ll never have.

I had the longest lunch break I’ve probably ever had on trail, lasting over an hour. I was tempted to nap, too, but decided to head on just in case it started to rain. The mountains on the distance, which I presume are part of Fiordland National Park, were shrouded in a foreboding gloom cloud. The weather forecast said that we’d be getting some rain over the next week, but not enough to stop us TA walkers in our tracks.

I broke the last 13km of road walking up by calling my parents. I’ve been feeling pretty homesick lately, so it made my day to hear from them. Mum has just planted a blueberry bush in the garden (looking forward to that!) I’ll be reunited with Dad in 6 days’ time, and only wish the rest of my family could be there in person, too.

I finally hit the State Highway and was met by a convoy of cars, many more than I thought there would be heading in and out of Te Ānau. It’s funny to think that I’m in Murihiku now, the final region of the trail.

The rest of the night was a bit hectic. The bus arrived 30 minutes late; I didn’t mind waiting, but I wasn’t sure when the supermarket closed (can’t rely on Google these post-COVID days). If only I’d get over my fear of hitchhiking… As soon as the bus dropped me at the backpackers, I made a frantic dash to Te Ānau town centre. It was a good excuse to run again, despite feeling a little odd whizzing down the street in my rain gear I hadn’t had time to take off at the backpackers. My heart sunk when I passed the closed Four Sauare. I breathed a mammoth sigh of relief to find Fresh Choice still open. I was welcomed by a busker playing some jazz hits on her recorder in the supermarket foyer.

Re-stocked, exhausted, and ready for dinner, I hauled my box of six days’ worth of food (plus some baked beans for that night’s dinner) back to my accommodation. I shared the kitchen with a group of international travellers exchanging stories about their cultures and countries. It felt like the good old pre-Covid days, when backpackers were always busy.

Day 125: Princhester Road to Aparima Hut (the newer one) (22 muddy km)

I could have done with a bit more sleep that evening as I woke up feeling a little frazzled. Nevertheless I had a bus to catch. It came at 7.15 on the dot, and the friendly bus driver named Alan drove me to the exact spot I was picked up 12 hours earlier.

There were streaks of pink in the sky as I brushed my teeth on the side of the road. It was then that I noticed that I’d left one of my drink bottles behind in Te Ānau. Though disappointed, I found myself doing a thing I’ve done many times in this trip to reassure myself it wasn’t the end of the world: I call it the ‘at least’ game. At least I still have two drink bottles. At least there will be lots of water sources on the way.

The first six kilometres to Lower Princhester Hut were along an easy gravel road. I said good morning to the impressively large bulls and masses of sheep behind the farm fences. I think my love for sheep is growing exponentially. They are just the sweetest animals, and each seems to have their own look and walk and personality.

The hut which I briefly stopped off at, too, was sweet. There I met a man and his two young sons who’d stopped by me the evening before, while I was waiting, to ask if I wanted a ride. As I followed them up the track, I noticed the two boys were each holding a wooden rifle. I’m guessing the dad was teaching them how to hunt.

The climb up to the saddle was technical and muddy in parts, though enjoyable. It felt almost like meeting a long-lost friend again, as most of the terrain has been either flat well-groomed trail, or open alpine terrain. The forest floor of the saddle (which I don’t think has a name) was covered in a carpet of ferns. Above the carpet stood a frame of trees creating a gate through which the sun beamed. It was quite majestic, and I hoped the rays would stay for the rest of the day.

The other side of the saddle clearly doesn’t get much chance to dry out underneath the lush forest. I did more slipping than walking to get to the first open tussock bit. I’d heard this area was boggy, with tussocks reaching heights above most walkers’ heads. It didn’t sound like too much fun, but I actually found it quite fun to prance through the swamps.

Luckily each patch of bog was interspersed with an easy-going bit of forest. I treated the bogs as if they were a game: each new section was a level up from the last. The aim was to find the orange waratah heads, and not to fall in the hidden holes or creeks—otherwise game over. Quite literally, I reckon some of those holes could snap your ankle. I only fell in a few times, but had enough lives left over from previous sections that I made it through.

The alternating forest/tussocks went on for the rest of the afternoon, until I reached a junction and DOC sign telling me that the hut was only 40 minutes away. With one last hill to climb, I powered on up, stopping to take in the beautiful surroundings. The Tākitimu Mountains are incredible. Someone had maintained the last part of the track recently, so I didn’t have to be on the constant lookout for pole markers.

I was the first person to arrive at the hut, and it turns out, also the only person. There are two huts on this site actually, but one is slightly more rustic than the other. I had a peek in the older one, but definitely settled on the newer hut. This was my first time alone in a hut. On the upside, no snoring to worry about! On the downside, it got a bit lonely apart from the bull who visited the hut in the evening, and was utterly in phased by my presence.

Sock mud lines are the autumnal equivalent of sock tan lines in the summer

DAY 126 - Aparima Hut to Telford Campsite (21km)

I could make all the noise I wanted to this morning as I rustled about in the hut, getting ready for the second day of walking through Tākitimu Forest. It involved mostly forest (yay) and a big climb — my kind of day. Lighting some candles in the hut made breakfast much more ambient. That’s the upside of leaving while it’s still dark.

Another positive of leaving at the frack of dawn is being witness to some amazing sunrises. The sun crept over the hill behind me as I walked into yet another cloud of doom. The sun outshone the grey and soon the hills ahead, too, were lit up. There was more swamp underfoot to deal with, but it wasn’t all that bad.

The shrub turned into a gentle track amid the tawhai forest. I’m constantly amazed at how each forest has such different personalities, each shaped by the colours, textures and light. The sun elusively filtered its light through the trees ahead of me: each time I arrived at the spot where it shone, a cloud would cover it all up.

The birds were out in force today, too. My favourite moment was when I was curiously interrogated by both a tītipounamu/rifleman and a tomtit. I heard a bird call which I didn’t recognise—it was rather melodic and fluid, each note slid to the next.

The last few kilometres to the hut, though flat, were tedious and each step through the endless mud patches felt burdened. I must have had low blood sugar or was just really hungry, but the hut meant lunch time and a rest before the big climb of the day.

I managed to sort of escape the hoard of sandflies awaiting my arrival at the hut. Rain pants are amazing fly guards—I’ve used them for this purpose much more than I have for keeping dry on this journey. I enjoyed a lunch of you-know-what (still not sick of peanut butter though).

The climb ahead marked the last point at which Te Araroa climbs to over 1000m elevation. As I began my climb, I reminisced about all my favourite climbs of Te Araroa beginning with Raetea Forest (just after my tent pole broke), Pirongia, walking Tongariro Crossing against the tide, Mt Crawford in the Tararua Ranges, the double whammy of climbing both Little Rintoul and Mount Rintoul on the same day, Waiau Pass, Goat Pass, most recently the three peaks in one day on the Motatapu track, and many more. Thank you, body!

My peaceful ascent was interrupted by a stag roaring in the semi-distance. If I didn’t know it was stag roaring season, I wouldn’t have known what to make of the moaning, groaning sound. It definitely was not native birdsong. I just hoped the stag didn’t mistake me for one of them though I can’t imagine he would have, given that I smelt more like a wet dog than a deer on heat.

Someone had written ‘well done!’ on the orange triangle marking the top of the climb. I stepped up onto the open alpine ridge which afforded views of the Southland farmland stretching below. There was too much cloud to see Bluff, but I’m in no rush to be reminded that the end of this adventure is fast approaching.

The clouds were moving in and downwards, so I shifted into Race Mode to get down to the campsite before it began raining heavily. I almost made it in time, but found a sheltered spot under a tree to set up camp for the night.

It did not take long for sandflies to accumulate on my fly tent in their masses. I’m now lying here smugly, but also scared to go outside in case they all fly into my tent. I’ve also devised a time-consuming yet effective system for entering and exiting my tent while keeping the flies at bay. It’s just occurred to me that I have not seen a single other person today. I wonder when the last time was that I went 24 hours without encountering a single human being.

Looking over the Telford Burn, Linton Station

DAY 127 - Telford campsite to Birchwood Station (27km)

I was flattered that the family of sandflies waiting on my tent fly wasn’t put off by my lack of cleanliness. I got flashbacks to Pureora Forest, when the billion mosquitos serenaded me as. I got out of my tent.

There’s not much point in leaving before 8am these days because it’s still dark until then. It’s good to give the earth a bit of time to wake up and warm up. I was slow packing up anyway (it’s been a while since I’d tented) so I left with enough morning light to see the path. Today’s track passed through Linton Station, Aotearoa’s largest station. I don’t really know what the difference between a station and a farm is, but from what I can tell stations are just big farms.

The sign at the start of the track was a laundry list of instructions for walkers: Don’t leave after 10am; walk in parties fewer than eight; move out of the way—silently—if stock are moving, and wait until a stock person tells you what to do next; FOLLOW THE ORANGE MARKERS etc. etc. I got the impression, in fact I knew, that these landowners weren’t very keen on TA walkers using their land. I heard that a walker once broke into a hut on their land, so there seem to be trust issues going on. Anyway, I made sure to stick as closely as possible to the orange markers all the way through.

Sticking precisely to the trail proved to be more difficult than it sounded. First, there was no solid ground trail for half of the track. The markers were not always obvious, either. Then there were the herds of sassy cows on the path who stared at me and would not budge. I made a little detour around them, sidling the cow pat-covered hills.

Once past the bovine maze, I was greeted by a flock of about a thousand sheep being herded into the neighbouring paddock. It was quite impressive to watch the shepherd and dogs at work, the shepherd whistling his orders to the dogs who clearly thought this was just the most fun game ever. There were two sheep who tried really hard to escape from the dog’s grip, but ended up succumbing to their intimidation.

Trying so hard to obey the landowners’ orders, I moved silently aside to let the sheep move. I was careful to move off the path just enough to get out of the farmer’s way, but not enough to be told I was too ‘off the trail’ (and thus face a penalty of up to 3 months’ imprisonment, as another sign on the station warned). The stubby-and-singlet-wearing shepherd acknowledged me, so I asked if I could walk through. He replied with a casual, ‘yip, all good mate’ which gave the green light for me to forge on. It was lunchtime anyway, though, so I stopped and watched the drama unfold of moving sheep into paddocks.

After lunch, the trail veered off the main farm track and up a hill, thankfully with fewer animals to disturb. The lack of shade and water sources made for an intense climb, but a good podcast or two did the trick. I met a few more farm workers along the way who were installing irrigation systems. They were friendly enough.

The rest of the trail led me though a few turnip fields, slippery ditches, sheep paddocks (with a dead sheep in one of them) and finally out onto a gravel road. It felt good to finally be out of what was not the most enjoyable section of the trail. As bad as I’ve made it sound, there were some good parts too: I saw the ocean for the first time in six weeks and the surrounding native bush was lovely, too.

One kilometres of road walking on, I arrived at the long poplar-lined driveway of Birchwood Station. Southland sure loves their stations! The owners of this station have converted a hut into a place for Te Araroa walkers to stay the night. As I hung my tent out to dry, I spotted Esther walking down the drive. We had last seen each other at Mavora Lakes, and I wasn’t sure if I’d see her again. She’d section-walked the last few days northbound as she’d already walked the section I was about to do southbound. I was happy to exchange notes with her about what was to come: lots of mud and gravel roads.

The others went out to the Tuatapere Tavern for dinner, but being the Scrooge I am I stayed and ate my bowl of mashed potato, and caught up with my friend Maike. It was just what my body needed at that point: to not move and save energy for the next stretch ahead.

Horse with emo fringe ft. Walker with scraggly beard