The final stretch

Days 128-132, Birchwood Station to Motupōhue/Bluff

Since starting Te Araroa I have constantly reminded myself that completing the journey is not inevitable. Anything could happen between taking those first steps down to Te Oneroa-a-Tohe/90 Mile Beach and the last at Motupōhue/Bluff. Some of it comes down to preparation, and some of it to luck.

So here it is, the final stretch. Writing this makes me sad, but also proud because it means I’ve completed this wild and unrelenting journey. It has been the best summer I’ve had. Walking Te Araroa, particularly in the middle of a pandemic, has only reinforced to me the gratitude I have for living here in Aotearoa, and being both challenged and sheltered by Papatūānuku every day.

Thank you to everyone who has followed along—whether through reading this blog (and making sure I post regularly!), being a trail angel, or through your words of love and encouragement. As well as the walking itself, this journey has been made what it is by the human connections I’ve made along the way. I believe Te Araroa lets the good and the generosity of Aotearoa shine.

Ngā mihi arohanui ki a tātou katoa.

DAY 128 - Birchwood Station to Merriview Hut (27km)

The farmer we met as Mark and I left the hut kindly let us walk through the station so we didn’t have to backtrack. The gently rolling hills were heavily blanketed with mist as we left Birchwood Station, but the sun eventually peeked out and started eating away at the fog. We left the gravel road onto the next farm track leading us into Woodlaw Forest. In a dramatic act, the hill we were about to ascend appeared in front of us.

This hill climb was short, but very very steep. I think the sheep on the other side of the fence were amused at our slow sweaty march up the grass bank. I’m sure they could have run up there in no time. The next section, a forestry gravel road, flew by in comparison to what I’d just come up. I enjoyed Woodlaw Forest’s one pocket of indigenous forest, which was a little muddy but beautiful.

On the way down, I met a Dutch NOBO walker called Gillian. She was going to see how far she got before the winter really hit. She also told me she’d left some fresh fruit at Merriview Hut, which then became my proverbial carrot dangling in front of me. The track soon emerged onto a piece of freshly de-forested land. Cut-down trees are never a fun sight. I had some lunch, then continued on along the quiet country road to the next forest peculiarly called Island Bush.

Just as I entered the forest, it began to drizzle the finest of raindrops. Just a moment ago, I’d taken my jacket off because it was getting too sunny; it was one of those weather days. The corridor of tall spindly pines, however, kept me relatively dry. Good timing! I exited onto a steep slippery muddy farm driveway, which soon shot me out onto a busy road. Several logging and livestock trucks rumbled past, creating a backwind which almost whipped my hat off on more than one occasion.

The turn-off to Merriview Hut was a welcome sight after walking on the highway’s narrow shoulder. The hut itself was located on a property in a separate little field, right next to a field of deer. Being the first one there, I chose a comfy-looking mattress in the corner and did my usual hut arrival routine with the bittersweet knowledge I wouldn’t be doing this for much longer. Wash socks, stretch, eat a snack. Attending to my body’s immediate needs. I also ate the crunchy apple that Gillian left, which was probably the highlight of my afternoon.

A large topo map of the next stretch hung on the cabin’s wall. I’m not sure if it was there to intentionally make southbounders realise how little of the trail we had left, but it certainly had that effect. Not long to go now.

DAY 129 - Merriview Hut to Martin’s Hut (28km)

The Day of Mud (well, one of many) had arrived. It’s sometimes hard to gauge what the conditions of the trail will actually be like, when you hear so many different stories about the mud. I decided to go in with an open mind and embrace whatever terrain came my way. After all, this was the final section of wilderness before we hit the south coast and civilisation.

The stags were roaring their hearts out this morning as I walked along the backdrop of a brilliant sunrise. It was bitterly cold though, so I wrapped myself in all the layers I had until the sun was ready to work its magic. Surprisingly, the first section of the forest was eucalyptus. It reminded me of the forests in Northland and smelt sweet and menthol-y. The trees gradually faded and transformed into the beautiful native forest I’ve grown to love more and more.

And then the first muddy climb began. It wasn’t as slow-going as I thought it would be, and I made it up to the first peak, Bald Hill, only having stepped in one knee-deep bog. From the trig, I was treated to a panorama of the mountains surrounding the south of the south. What got me most excited, however, was seeing Oreti Beach outstretched and, in the near distance, Bluff itself. What had been a concept in my mind for the last four months was finally there in front of me. Only 100km to walk until that yellow AA sign marking the end.

The mud was out in force, and only got thicker and deeper as the track went on. I decided to have lots of fun through the mud: each puddle was a new game, or a therapeutic experience for my skin. I pranced through some and walloped through others. The deepest mud I got stuck in came up around my thigh. It was glorious.

The mud stories about this section were all true, but what struck me most was how majestic the forest was. The stunted trees, colourful mushrooms and funny moss provided endless fascination. Coming down from the last peak was a little steep and slow-going, but knowing that the hut wasn’t far off made it bearable.

At last, I glimpsed the corrugated iron of the Martin’s Hut’s fireplace through the trees. The hut was built in 1905 to house gold miners working in this area. It has a 3.1-star rating on Google Reviews (seven people took their time to write a review, in case you were interested). Being the last hut on the trail for SOBOs like me, I reckon they’ve purposefully not done it up to give us one final backcountry experience. The hut was well ventilated through the many gaps in the walls and door. However I was surprised to find that they had normal mattresses, not canvas hammocks.

DAY 130 - Martin’s Hut to Riverton (27km)

Mark and I left together with our head torches on. We sloshed through newly rained-on mud, though it was not as intense as the day before. The track follows an old water race from the gold mining era, which meant there were a few deep holes and ditches to watch out for on the sides of the track. Occasionally, they would cross the trail. We negotiated these in the semi-dark with varying degrees of success; Mark tried throwing himself at one of the slippery banks and I tried doing the splits over one of them. We eventually managed to get our bodies over the gaping holes.

Turnbull‘s Hut was the next relic of the mining days to show up on the track. And we thought Martin’s Hut was old-school! This two-bunker has a hole directly in the back of the fireplace and a dirt floor. According to the hut book, many brave souls actually slept in here. I hope they had really well insulated sleeping bags.

With the prospect of meeting Dad soon, I hurried on ahead. Two more hours of mud-sploshing later, I finally reached the junction where the track turned to solid ground again. I met a group of six friendly day walkers who, when looking down at my feet, exclaimed ‘now THAT’S some mud!’ I think one of the walkers had been expressing concern about the amount of mud on the trail they’d come from.

Getting out to the carpark also meant getting reception. Dad let me know he was walking towards me, and we’d likely meet near Ōraka/Colac Bay. What lay between us was a mere 6km stretch of State Highway. Just before the turn-off, I saw Mark’s pack on the side of the road. I was at first slightly concerned, but then realised he’d found some water in a ditch to wash the mud off his legs. I decided to keep the mud on mine.

The highway walkway sped by and soon I was in Ōraka. The last time I’d stood at sea level by the sea was on Queen Charlotte track, so it had been a while. Down the beach I saw a figure inching closer, soon close enough to recognise my dad’s gait. When he refilled it was me, and me him, he clambered over some boulders to meet me up on the path. It was wonderful to be reunited with him, to finish what we started together.

After a quick lunch stop, the tailwind blew us along Tihaka beach. It was fine to walk on at first, but as the pebbles got larger and looser, our feet sunk into the ground with each step—our cue to move to higher ground. A humble wooden signpost with the all too familiar words ‘Te Araroa’ directed us up to the start of a series of headlands, carved by the relentless waves below. The track, though not well marked in parts, never strayed too far from the coastline. We rolled up, over, and down the headlands, trying hard to follow the way.

We were making good progress despite the rocky conditions underfoot. The only hill of the day presented itself behind a deer fence which we were required to climb through. It was a relief to find that the track was sheltered by bush, and the walking was nothing too strenuous. A korimako serenaded us with their melody as we climbed through the greenery. From the top of Mores Reserve we were granted views of Aparima/Riverton and Oreti Beach curving out beyond.

The climb down to the Aparima holiday park was pretty painless. It was heartening to see a full holiday park as most of the ones I’ve stayed at during Te Araroa have been eerily quiet, but this one was buzzing with Easter holiday-makers. Dad surprised me by bringing down hot cross buns he had baked himself. I’m pretty sure this was the first time I’d eaten Dad’s baking, and they were delicious. Absolutely better than the time I failed to make hot cross buns, but succeeded in making hot cross rocks instead.

In the evening we headed out to meet my friend Shannon for dinner. She was down here for a bit of a break, and it was great that it worked out with the timing of our trips so that we could meet yet again on the trail. It had been two months since we’d seen each other back in Wellington, which really didn’t feel all that long ago. It’s amazing to think what’s happened in those two months, though.

DAY 131 - Riverton/Aparima to Invercargill (33km)

The penultimate day of Te Araroa began by wandering along the quiet streets of Aparima. We stopped off at The Crib for coffee and tea to set us up for the 22km beach walk ahead. This section of the trail created yet another symmetry between the start and end of Te Araroa (though not quite rivalling the 100km of Te Oneroa-a-Tohe we began with). We’re were greeted on the beach by a local and his dogs, asking if we were walking to ‘Invers’. I’m slowly picking up the Southland vernacular as I pass through. A crib, by the way (for all your North Islanders) is a bach.

I’ve heard walkers say this beach walk is a time for reflection. I certainly found myself returning to various experiences in my mind, jumping from place to place via flashbacks of the walk. This made the morning go pretty fast. It was good to have Dad’s company again, and we dipped in and out of conversation. We met one NOBO walker, who looked like the hardy type who knew what he was getting into. Maybe I should just turn around and walk back once I’ve got to Bluff and become a NOBO (jokes).

As we approached the turn-off, the beach became more populated with cars and dogs and people. Sand turned into tarmac, and before we knew it we were back pounding the pavement. Im as the forecast predicted, it turned into a fine day and became unexpectedly hot. We stopped off on a bench for a snack break in Otatara before trotting along into Invercargill. A few drivers serenaded us with their car horns. They must be so used to walker streaming through.

My feet were not used to the long and flat type of walking we’d been doing all day. It was a relief, then, to cross the bridge into the city for the final push. Following Google Map’s suggested most direct route, we took a tour through the industrial outskirts into the main streets. I was immediately struck at how similar Invercargill is to Palmerston North. It’s definitely the Palmy of the South.

Our backpackers was situated in a leafy suburb opposite the grand Queens Park, the Central Park of Invers. As a converted villa, it has an incredible homely feel to it. They even had matching crockery. This was definitely one of the better places we’ve stayed on the trail, perfect for the final night before Bluff Day.

Time and space on Oreti Beach was plentiful

DAY 132 - Invercargill to Motupōhue/Stirling Point (the end) (40km)

I can’t pinpoint how I felt, setting off for the last time. There was a cauldron of emotions in me, but the task of walking 40km didn’t give me too much time to dwell on how I was feeling. The ending of daylight saving gave us a whole hour of light to make use of. Dad and I got going at 7.30, re-tracing our steps back to the start of the estuary walkway. As expected, the northwesterly gales blew us around but we held our ground. At least it was sunny, for the first few hours anyway.

This shared cycle/walkway is the start of a path which the council plans to finish one day, but is not yet complete. This meant we had a stretch of 16km road to look forward to, but at least we had this bit to ourselves. At one point the path skirted around a sewerage plant. A sign kindly warned us that there may be ‘odours’ wafting around this place. We didn’t need a sign to tell us that—our nostrils—but it was nice to know the source of the smell.

In the distance, a rainbow formed over Bluff. Behind it, an ominous sheet of grey was creeping in from the south. As soon as we joined the highway, we squeezed in a quick morning tea break before the weather took a turn for the worse. The rain came in hard, and at the same time the side wind became a headwind as the road turned east for a while. The perfect storm of conditions, and with Bluff so close but distant, blew my morale away. Of all moments on the trail, I found this one to be the hardest to push through.

But like everything on the trail, nothing is permanent. Though the gusts kept blowing us sideways and backwards, the rain eased off after a while. We climbed down into a patch of long grass behind a bush to shelter for a bite to eat. It didn’t matter that the grass was wet because so were we. Once I got over my relative misery, the situation we were in became quite humorous: eating lunch in a ditch on the last day of Te Araroa. It couldn’t get any more TA than this.

The path, being not quite complete, was easier to walk on at times than others. It was as if they did it on purpose, so we wouldn’t feel too sad about finishing. As Bluff drew closer, things felt more real. The Bluff sign is made of rusty iron blocks and is fun to climb on. For tradition’s sake, we stopped to take a photo in front of the sign, marking the first steps into a town which had before then been simply a concept in my mind and word on a page.

Te Araroa walkers technically have a choice on how they want to get to Stirling Point, the location of the yellow AA signpost/the official end of the trail. The main route had previously been closed due to dangerous bulls roaming the fields. Though we weren’t sure if this was still the case, Dad and I didn’t want to tempt fate. (Side note: apparently the trail at Cape Reinga is currently closed due to feral dogs in the area?!?!) We opted for the hill climb instead, taking us up and over Bluff Hill.

As expected, the wind reached peak windy at the hill’s lookout. On the top we met a woman whose daughter was going to walk TA next season. She was from Wellington, too, and we both agreed this was windier than anything we’d experienced in the capital. A few seconds after we said that, her sunglasses almost blew off her face.

Once we’d soaked up the hazy views of the Tiwai Point smelter and beyond, we made our way down the final descent. The trail meandered gently through sheltering bush and popped out on the southern coast of Bluff where the waves whipped kelp around and crashed on the cliffs. The afternoon sun was lazing in the sky. The dramatic landscape made up for the morale-dropping road walk earlier in the day. What a way to end the walk.

The yellow signpost came fast, faster than I wanted it to. It’s strange having dreamed of and imagined this scene of arrival many times, and having it suddenly play out in real time, in first person. The post was circular; I thought it might be rectangular. A couple congratulated us on our achievement, metres away from the platform. I walked to the post, Dad following, and placed my hands firmly around the pole. My eyes locked onto the sign pointing to Cape Reinga, 1405km away as the crow flies. But I had not flown. I’d walked (and cycled and canoed a bit) 3000km to get here. I’d placed my feet after each other on hills, mountains, saddles, paddocks, roadsides, bogs, and pavements. It feels good, I exclaimed to Dad. I felt full.

We sat for a bit. Dad gave me a card from my sister Helen and presented another laminated certificate, this time with pictures of both islands on it (you might remember Mum and Dad giving me one after finishing Te Ika-a-Māui).

To celebrate I ate some chocolate dipped in peanut butter, one of my all-time fave trail snacks. Once the sun had sunk into the hills, we headed off to our accommodation for the night. For the first time in 132 days, I was not walking towards the goal of getting to Bluff. That was done. These footsteps instead marked the beginning of a new chapter which I don’t quite know what will hold yet. We went to the Four Square to buy some dinner ingredients and had a quiet night. I’ll just take things one day at a time for now.