You might be wondering if anything else of note happened to me on my Christmas holiday, so doggedly am I recounting the tramp. Well, of course lots of stuff happened, but not all of it had such dramatic potential – or such an astonishing setting.
After the drama of the
previous day, it was all downhill from here – literally. The track wound its way down the hill and along the Heaphy River. My joints were aching after the last two days efforts, and two matching blisters had sprung up on each little toe. On top of all this, I realized I hadn’t had a coffee for 48 hours. Why do we do these things to ourselves?
When we stopped for morning tea, I put the pack down with great relief. Most of the way along the track, we hardly saw any other walkers. The bush is so big, and there were so few of us, that you could walk in total, blissful isolation.
We got up to struggle back into the packs and move on, and I noticed a movement. For once, we had company on the track. A New Zealand robin, by the looks of it.
He hopped closer to me, and I stood stock still. He came right up to me and started pecking the light-coloured stripes on my shoes – thinking they were worms, no doubt. I felt the softest of impacts, and tried not to laugh. He hopped on top of the stump where Dad had put his coat and backpack, and gave them one or two exploratory pecks. Then he spotted the Vogels bread bag (did you know that Vogel means bird in German?). I moved at last, to rescue it from his enquiring eye and beak.
It wasn’t even lunchtime and I was exhausted. Every step hurt, and the downhill didn’t help. The track seemed endless. Eventually I said to Dad to go on and put the kettle on for lunch, so he took off ahead of me and I just kept plodding. Surely I must be nearly there? I passed a rare group of walkers coming the other way, and asked them how far the hut was. “Half an hour”, came the cheerful reply. Ten minutes later I came across another DOC ranger, sawing through a tree that had fallen across the track. How far was the hut, I asked hopefully. “Half an hour”, came the reply. Still? Oh dear.
Time blurred – and stood still. I felt like I’d been walking forever. And then I saw Dad coming back towards me – he took my pack, and I winced as the shift in weight made my blisters hurt from a different angle. But it meant we weren’t far from the hut.
It was just as well he had gone on ahead – our matchbox had given up the ghost, and he had just caught the previous trampers before they left the hut and begged a light to heat up the water for soup.
We arrived at Lewis Hut, right on the banks of the Lewis river. Desperately in need of relief, I veer off to the small toilets standing a short distance from the hut. Now, I know the sandflies on the West Coast are legendary – but I am still taken by surprise at the savagery of the assault. One month after the walk, when I started writing this entry, I still had the scars. Please don’t ask me where.
We took refuge in the hut itself, which thankfully has dense insect screens across all windows and doors, so we could get some fresh air without being eaten alive. After a nap, the prospect of carrying on down the path was slightly more appealing. Chuck a couple of panadol down to dull the throbbing in my toes and off we went.
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| Putting a brave face on the blisters |
We had beaten the worst of the downhill, and the afternoon’s walk was almost a doddle, winding alongside the Gunner river. The landscape changed again, bringing us nikau palms, dramatic cliffs, pebbly banks, driftwood, and the tannic brown of the water. Sitting on the bank eating our Whittakers dark chocolate with orange (shameless product plug – am hoping for a sponsorship deal on the next walk), we almost expected to see Frodo and Sam go by in little coracles.
The day was wearing on when we finally arrived at the Heaphy hut. I dumped my pack gratefully, fished out my mobile phones, and made a beeline for the water’s edge. All I could think about was soaking my feet. I was intercepted by Ms Head Prefect, who gleefully informed us that the only cellphone coverage is available down past the high tide mark, and even then it’s Telecom. Oh bugger.
What a beautiful place the Heaphy river mouth is, despite its lack of useful cellphone coverage. The water was shockingly cold, but therapeutic. I stared at the silver horizon, the pearly sky, the placid water. We had walked over the hills to the sea. We still had one day to go, but we had already achieved so much.
Looking back towards the hut, there is a dramatic stand of nikau. I noticed a beautifully carved wooden bench and walked over to investigate. It had a plaque in memory of a long-serving ranger, with the inscription: “Paradise to be enjoyed”. Quite.
For some reason, the sandflies weren't so vicious down at the Heaphy hut. They swarmed around the door and the bench for taking off of boots, but the toilets were mercifully pest-free. Perhaps it was being on the coast.
The hut was not very full, although the people who were there had spread out so much that there was not much space on the lower bunks. There were few attempts at conversation – I think everyone was feeling a little travel-weary. For once it was my turn to arrange dinner (I won’t glorify the process by calling it cooking). The lamb tagine was really quite tasty, and even resembled actual lamb tagines I have eaten. I made a sketchy effort to update my journal, with notes that I can barely read now, and then I climbed on to the top bunk, sandfly bites and all, and passed out.
