Heaphy Track Day One: Unemployed, of Paekakariki

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

I am guessing most of my readers may not know where the Heaphy Track is. Well, you know the week before Christmas, how there was that heavy rain and galeforce winds warning for the north-west corner of the South Island? Yeah, right there. The track starts near Takaka and crosses over a remote National Park, where there is no road for miles, and comes down the edge of the West Coast until you reach civilization. This is the story of our adventure…

The first leg of the track (going east-west) is five hours straight up from the Brown Hut. To make sure we were on the track by 11, we got up at 6am for the 9am flight to Takaka. Of course, this didn’t require me to wake up at 3.30, but I did anyway.

We who are about to tramp, salute you.

Dropped off the bags, parked the car, and still had time for a (much-needed) coffee at Mojo and read the paper. Then look for Gate 21 – not part of the main Air New Zealand gates. Not part of the Jetstar gates either. Finally found it down a flight of stairs, behind a vending machine. No sign of the plane though. No staff either. Called the airline, and the plane was stuck in Nelson, but would be leaving shortly.

[Two hours pass. Much coffee is drunk.]

Our taxi^H^H^H^Hplane

The plane turns up, and it’s even smaller than I thought! The pilot climbs out onto the wing and comes into the terminal to get our bags. Checkin formalities are non-existent – I think they would have taken anyone who was still waiting at the gate after two hours. Security procedures are equally absent – just as well, because everything is hand luggage, and my liquids and swiss army knife are kind of essential where we’re going.

View of the Marlborough Sounds.

The flight was short and fairly uneventful, with lovely views of the Marlborough Sounds, inflight copies of Woman’s Day and free Minties. But we landed at 1.30, and the shuttle dropped us off at Brown Hut at 2.30. Only five hours of track ahead of us. Right.

From Dec 2010-Jan 2011 Xmas holiday

The track description says that it climbs gradually on the first day. And I was glad to find this was actually the case. After a few hundred metres in the blazing sun, the path ducks under the trees, and it winds its way up the hill with occasional views back down the valley.

Some progress.

For the first hour we are oohing and aahing at the bush, the sunshine and the general loveliness of it all. Then I spend a couple of hours trying to get the straps on the pack balanced so it isn’t digging into my shoulders and the weight is balanced. This is really, really important. Then the last couple of hours are spent wondering how much further it is to the hut.

Aorere Shelter. Are we there yet? ARe we there yet?

By 7.30pm we have climbed 600 metres and made it to the Aorere shelter. I am fading fast, and have already eaten my rations of chocolate, muesli bars and dried fruit. Then I remember my impulse buy at Pak’n’Save – a tiny block of Mainland Tasty Cheddar. I pull it out of the pack, wondering how it has fared in the approximately 13 hours since it was last refrigerated. I can’t be bothered digging out my Swiss Army Knife, so I just break off a chunk. And did you know that the best way to ripen Mainland Tasty Cheddar is to stick it in a pack and take it for a walk?? It was so… what’s the word I’m looking for… tasty.

8pm and my feet are starting to hurt, not to mention my shoulders. Do I want to take a side path to see the view from the highest point in the track? I don’t think so - I just want to lie down and go to sleep, but there’s a slight absence of hut. My spirits are flagging. I turn to Dad. “You realize this calls for desperate measures, don’t you?” “You mean…” “Yes! I’m going to have to sing.” And I start belting out “Say a Little Prayer”.

We run through as many Beatles numbers (the cheerful ones) as we can remember the words to. Then it’s Elvis, Hound Dog. And DD Smash, Outlook For Thursday. There has to be Crowded House, “Weather With You”, and my own personal favourite, Walking After Midnight (either the Patsy Cline original, or the Fairground Attraction cover, take your pick).

Curiously, singing revives me. I discover that the louder I sing, the higher my boots lift off the ground. The hut, wherever it is, could have heard us from halfway down the valley, but I don’t care. I also discover that Dad knows all the words to Harry Chapin’s Taxi. And embarrassingly, he knows more words of the Marseillaise than I do – I get about three lines in and am reduced to going neh-neh-neh-NA, neh-neh-NA, neh-neh-NA…

Dusk starts to close in, and the white stones of the path shine in the fading light. The path has flattened out, and widens out onto a tussocky plateau. We have reached the hut. It is booked out, and everyone else has arrived and eaten dinner hours ago. They have left the last two mattresses for us.

I have a confession to make. I have this slight character flaw (ok, one of many, but), I don’t like talking to people when I get home from work. I specifically don’t like it when I walk in the door, and before I have even had time to put my bag down and take my shoes off, someone is all over me with “So how was your day?”. I mean, do you actually want me to grunt at you? That’s a big question – if you want a considered, civil answer, please give me the space to catch my breath, shed the stress of the day and incidentally any homicidal impulses I may have collected en route. At this point in my day I am incredibly vulnerable and should only be approached, in silence, if holding a cup of tea or a g’n’t. Not to mention that right now I feel sick from exhaustion.

The other trampers in the hut haven’t read the manual. One guy is almost offensively chirpy, quizzing us – “So where are you from?” I um and err. Honesty? Easier to maintain, but leads to complications and people asking 20 questions about life in Paris. Or blatant lying? This requires a consistent cover story, and could be undermined if Dad decides to get chatty with someone and I haven’t briefed him. “Wellington”, I offer. “Um, but I’ve been travelling.” And I leave it at that.

You may know that there is no electricity in New Zealand tramping huts. Dad gets out his headlamp and proceeds to assemble the freeze-dried dinner, while I slump at the table by the light of a flickering candle-stub. I gaze at the noticeboard. My eyes are tired and it is dark. All I can see is the word ‘PLEASE’ floating in big black letters on white paper.

The nausea is hunger and fatigue, and soon passes. Sweet and sour lamb has never tasted so good. We unroll our sleeping bags and fall into them. I forget to take out my earplugs and eyemask (essential when tramping). During the night, someone starts a chainsaw in the bunk room. I wake up and realize it’s Dad snoring. Loudly. Other trampers are shifting and twitching. I am torn between embarrassment and pride – it’s *my* Dad keeping the whole hut awake! But decide that discretion is the better part of not being tarred and feathered, and nudge him, which interrupts the melody. Briefly. Another tramper starts up a counterpoint, and I roll over, resigned.

In the morning Mr Cheerful attempts further conversation, and manages to establish that I am working for an international organization in Paris. But surprise surprise, I am not a morning person either, and so after some terse answers, he abandons further conversational attempts. I feel terribly rude, but I didn’t go tramping to make small talk, so I resolve that from now on, I’m going to tell everyone that I am unemployed and living in Paekakariki.