Jamie Quinn hikes up a steep incline on the Inland Track. The track is categorised as a challenging tramping track due to its variable terrain and backcountry nature. Photos / Alexandra Wimley
Jamie Quinn hikes up a steep incline on the Inland Track. The track is categorised as a challenging tramping track due to its variable terrain and backcountry nature. Photos / Alexandra Wimley
"You have no idea how many tourists they pull up from ravines each year," the employee warned as he made no attempt to hide his blatant judgement. I wandered into the outdoor equipment store in an olive green sundress and a flimsy sweater. My blonde hair was damp from the cold rain. I had assumed that a warm, sunny morning would grow into a warmer, sunnier afternoon. Like most days, Auckland proved my optimism faulty. It had dropped five degrees and a few buckets of rain since I left my flat.
I reassured the man that we, "basically knew what we were doing," my american accent ringing through the shop like a loudspeaker, and I did my best to pretend to listen as he rambled off the attributes of the sleeping bag he was pressing me to buy. I feigned interest as I eyed the sale bin containing sleeping bags at half the price. They were compact, light and boasted a four degree cold weather protection. No, I wouldn't survive sleeping unprotected outside, but I was reassured by the heated huts promised in Abel Tasman National Park, tucked along the west coast of the top of the South Island.
After I had paid, I asked him if he thought I was crazy for taking the 32-litre pack I had just purchased on a six day tramp.
He laughed.
"That bag is meant for quick day hiking." He shook his head. "Come back in two weeks for your 'I told you so,'" he said, still assessing me. As I walked out into the grey Auckland rain, I knew he still thought of me as an unprepared American girl getting in over her head in New Zealand's backcountry. But at least he knew I was stubborn.
Just two days later my hiking partner Jamie and I were riding through small town New Zealand in an eight-seater van with a driver whose enthusiasm reflected his past as an avid outdoorsman, even if his gut and receding hairline didn't quite match up. "I walked the whole Coastal Track in less than a day," he said. All 60km of it. He wasn't bragging, just stating a fact like he droned off the names and histories of the small towns we passed through. He then told us he was once part of a team that helped a man in a wheelchair complete the tramp, and that there was a group of men who dragged a grand piano through those same woods, up the same hills, over stumps and tree roots. Jamie and I were falsely assured.
We disembarked the van at the beginning of the track in Marahau. As we tightened our straps and took inventory of water, cell phones and warmth, the bus driver lingered making stabs at conversation and looking at us with jealousy, as if he wished he could go back and do it again. "Good luck!" he finally said, fake cheery.
Immediately, the landscape left nothing to desire. Silver-turquoise water lapped at opaque coal mountains on one side and wetland grasses on the other parted by the flat, grey gravel path before it led us into the sparse foliage of coastal forest.
The Coastal Track begins at Marahau framed with wetlands on one side and mountains on the other, which it enters and branches off into the Inland Track.
For the first mile the path lazed along the coast with beach views peaking from gentle green and sandy trees. The air was crisp with the slight smell of salt, and we were soon hot even in t-shirts from walking fast with the weight of full packs on our backs with our lungs working hard pulling in the freshest air they've seen in months.
Our plan was to hike the loop that the Inland Track makes with the Coastal Track to make a six day, five night tramp in Abel Tasman National Park. The Coastal Track is one of New Zealand's nine Great Walks which are renowned for drawing hundreds of thousands of visitors each year due to their ease and beauty.
On the Department of Conservation's (DOC) website the Coastal Track brags, "golden beaches, crystal clear waters, caves and lush coastal forest; this gentle walk offers multiple scenic treats." This track is classified as an intermediate track: A great walk, an easier track. The coastal track is also popular among kayakers and day hikers, making it a bustling wilderness escape, especially in the summer months.
The Inland Track couldn't be any further away in description from its counterpart. Classified as an advanced tramping track, the DOC website warns that this track is "suitable for people with good fitness, moderate to high-level backcountry skills and experience (including navigation and survival skills) required. Tramping/hiking boots required."
We paid little attention to these warnings, assuming that it wouldn't get too cold this far north and we would only be on the Inland Track for two nights. My Asics running shoes may not be ideal all-weather tramping boots, but they were supportive enough. What's the worst that could happen?
As we turned onto the Inland Track where the two spit, the grade immediately steepened and the straps of my pack began digging aggressively into my hips, shoulders and collarbones, but I still felt strong. I was out of breath and my legs were burning but the air was refreshing and I felt the endorphins urging me on.
Jamie was a little slower, but she let me go ahead. Before each climb, which were often ladder steps embedded into the earth, I paused to take in the stunning scenery and to remind my lungs how to breathe. It was an overcast day but the sun still managed to glow through the trees, to sparkle of small streams that I leaped over like a hurdler on a track. Ferns glinted like silver pendants. The noise and stress of Auckland slipped away; there's something special about having your life on your back, earth under your feet.
The Inland Track is lined with thick foliage as it winds through mountainous forests.
The day took us about six hours, including a lunch break at a shelter midway with a beautiful view to the beach we had come from hours before. Just when my legs started to succumb to the lashings of lactic acid and my water supply grew low, the trees parted and Castle Rocks Hut sat in a little clearing. We made it.
The hut was sparse but neat and welcoming. Blue plastic mattresses lay stacked on wooden slats, and a metal wood-burning stove sat like an artifact left behind by centuries past. There were wooden benches and a big table by musty windows, glossed by years of wood smoke and rain. It wasn't much, but it was a place to put our packs down, and if we could figure out how to work the stove, a place to eat and sleep in relative warmth.
The latter ended up being easier said than done. We spent too much daylight and too many fire starters to achieve a measly smolder in damp wood. We cooked Uncle Ben's Mexican rice with Jamie's solid fuel stove which burned bright blue for about ten minutes, bringing the water to an unimpressive simmer. The water at the hut came from a hunky metal tank outside, and it had to be purified for drinking, so we opted for chemical purification with chlorine tablets that left the water tasting like summer days: Plastic and swimming pools. As the sun went down, we prodded at embers to ignite a fire large enough to let us fall asleep as we hid in our sleeping bags, reading by torch light until the exertion of the day lulled us to sleep shortly after sundown.
Jamie stokes the fire in Castle Rocks Hut's wood burning stove.
"What the f*** is this s***," is not exactly the first sentence you want to wake up to in the morning, especially not at a cold dawn as the sun is barely peaking through smoke-stained windows. I look up through the windows groggy and half-blind but alert enough to notice that there is too much white. We were warned about a lot of things. Snow was not one of them. I looked at my Asics running shoes sitting in front of the stove, still damp from the day before and sighed.
Castle Rocks Hut sits under a blanket of overnight snow fall.
We decided our only choice was to plod on to our planned second day. It was 13km to Awapoto Hut, said to take about six hours, including a couple of steep climbs and a "river crossing," which was disconcertingly undefined.
You could have called the short walk to the first stream a winter wonderland, if you were padded in snow proof gear. Pearls of snow cartwheeled from dark bark branches as the day heated up. Green leaves grew through the ice like Christmas tree branches.
Unfortunately, we were not prepared enough to enjoy the snow in its glory. I spent most of the time staring at my shoes, avoiding puddles of snowmelt to no avail. The path was a river of snow and rain and ice. Then we came to the stream.
What I'm sure would have been a peacefully meandering brook that we could have leapt over the day before, now gushed with melted snow and the day's incessant rain. It would have been past our knees, and we still had five and a half long hours to walk. And this wasn't even the "river crossing" the guide book warned us about. We decided to turn back to the hut. We weren't going to be those foreigners who have to get airlifted, frostbit and freezing, from the woods for the world to see on the 5 o'clock news.
Back at Castle Rocks, the space around the oven became a drying rack for our multitudes of wet clothing, and we worked on our fire-building skills to stay warm and entertained. Maps and timetables in hand, we re-planned our route, and became acquainted with a weka which resided under the hut's porch, pecking around for crumbs in the snowy mud.
A weka forages the ground around Castle Rocks Hut looking for food scraps left behind by trampers.
Our new plan: We would return to the Coastal Track in the morning the same way we came and hike along the coast until catching a water taxi out on the sixth day. We had quickly learned to take the track warnings seriously. They weren't kidding when they said back country skills and proper hiking boots were necessary for this track. They also say New Zealand sees all four seasons in one day. They aren't kidding about that one either.
We woke up early on day three with a sense of urgency. We knew what our new plan was, but we were unsure what the condition of the return track would be after a full 24 hours of snow and rain. We ate lukewarm oatmeal and acrid instant coffee and haphazardly packed our bags so sweatshirts and stoves hung from them like wind chimes. We mummified our socks in cling wrap and plastic baggies as a desperate means of keeping our feet dry in our shoes.
Preparing to hike back to the Coastal Track from Castle Rock Hut, Jamie wraps her feet in cling wrap to add water protection to her hiking boots.
The hike to where the path forked was mostly downhill mixed with our prayers that the looming clouds would hold off. We played a guessing game of rain, river or wind when the trees swirled or a trickle could be heard in the distance; it was a game with no winner. Each small stream came with a sense of unease. We dug through our memories of day one for the severity of each crossing and where they lay on our path, but we were always pleasantly surprised when they were passable. Regardless, my shoes were sopping and muddy in a matter of metres, with the plastic failing as a barrier.
After lunch the trail branched off to connect to the Coastal Track. At first it climbed steadily until we found ourselves at the top of the tree line. In the faint distance we could see bays hugged with tree covered hills, but the path carved through a cold new-world version of Arizona, minus the cacti. The sun warmed our sweat-stained athletic shirts without foliage to divert it and a salt-tinted breeze swept over our shoulders the earth turned from decaying leaves, dark branches and brown dirt to mars red clay with sparse and tan-grey trees framing the track.
The trail turns to red clay as it exits forests and winds along the top of mountains on the path connecting the Inland Track to the Coastal Track.
It was a beautiful sight, but I was quickly learning that nothing would be easy out here. Soon the path turned steeply downward, prodding us on closer to the coast. The ground became a morbid version of a child's Slip-'n-Slide where every step we took was a gamble. Cradling the path, I leapt from patch of moss to less-slick branch to avoid the icy mud that would surely send one of us flailing down a mountain. There were a few close calls. Jamie and I would lapse into casual conversation, our attention slipping, our strides lengthening, until I was hanging onto a spikey bush for dear life, thorns in my hands, on my back like a turtle with the red mud staining my black pants indefinitely.
After a tense kilometer of this we turned off the track to head to Anchorage Hut. It was a steep, short climb made effortless by the otherworldly views. They were straight out of a "100% pure New Zealand" advertisement. Long grasses glistening in the breeze over marshy land that turned into turquoise blue seas with emerald foggy mountains as framework. The growing droplets of rain and my pudding-filled legs were all that stopped me from setting up camp right there on the side of the cliff and disappearing into the arching coves and gentle waves.
The steep hike from the Coastal Track to Anchorage Hut allows for ocean, swamp and mountain views.
I laughed out loud when I saw the "hut" if you want to call it that. Our first two nights were spent in an outhouse and this was the Langham. The structure sat a stair-step from a quiet beach with a single out-of-service rowboat growing old on the shore. Couples of oystercatchers were silhouetted in their coal feathered blackness against the sea, their beady traffic cone orange eyes staring out at the waves. Other hikers and kayakers lazed in the sand barefoot, silhouetted by the afternoon sun.
We were greeted by "filtered water" signs and muddy boots sunbathing outside the living area's door: A perfect sign of humanity after three long days of being alone and unsure.
This was the great walk kiwis brags about.
Birds forage in the waves near Anchorage Hut.
Trampers use the heat from the wood burning stove to dry their shoes, socks and clothing at Anchorage Hut after a muddy hiking day.
That night we dragged our mattresses in from the sleeping rooms, which were unheated, into the kitchen area to sleep by the fire with two other young hikers, an Austrian and a German, both on working holidays. We slept deeply, stomachs full of instant mashed potatoes and accomplishment. Yes, we were unprepared, but we were not incapable.
The next day was a peaceful 8.4km walk to Bark Bay Hut along the coast. The terrain was so flat it verged on boring, but it was a welcome change from the undulating ups and downs we had come to expect. My legs, though bruised, beaten and sore, pounded the path effortlessly, strong and accustomed to the exertion of daily hiking.
About half way in we came upon Torrent Bay, which snaked through beautiful vacation homes with no road access. They were all angles and wood beams with solar paneled roofs reflecting the sun. I couldn't help but daydream as I hiked about ditching all my responsibilities and renting one of these abodes to hibernate in for the rest of the winter, living on the smell of wood smoke and the ocean.
But alas, we had to continue on. We stopped by a dock for lunch where water taxis come to pick up day hikers. We wanted to ask the driver what the weather looked like for the next couple of days and about a high tide crossing that we were unclear about.
Our plans were uncertain. From Bark Bay we could either hike back to Anchorage for the next night before returning to Marahau to catch our bus, hike from Bark Bay to Awaroa Hut and take a water taxi from there or spend two nights in Bark Bay and take the water taxi from there on our last morning. Our plans rested on the weather, which still threatened torrential rain, and a high tide crossing to Awaroa which we had heard mixed reports about.
We rested our belongings on a picnic table in Torrent Bay, which looked over the mid-day relaxed tide. We could see the trail we had just come from poking through the trees, and we dug into a much deserved lunch of trail mix and beef jerky.
When the water taxi powered into the dock, Jamie and I chatted with the driver, a welcome chance to escape the swarming sand flies which had just begun to make a lunch out of my exposed ankles. We expressed our concerns about the weather, and he told us that there were storms expected for the next couple of days, potentially serious.
Regarding the Awaroa tidal crossing, he didn't claim to know exactly what the tides were, but he said we should be concerned. According to the official time tables the crossing is only passable two hours on either side of low tide which was 6am or 6pm, and the crossing was about half way along our path. It would either be a very early or very dark tramp.
We made our decision. We would spend two nights in Bark Bay and just go on a day hike the day between to explore the tidal crossing without commitment.
Campsites at Bark Bay Hut lay along the beach with a view of the Bay.
That afternoon we got to Bark Bay early, which gave us a perfect chance to relax and start a proper fire. The hut sat in a clearing by a small estuary with a single abandoned row boat floating lazily on the water. The spot looped around to a pretty beach with tent campsites spotted with long skinny trees and grasses leaning towards the ocean. At low tide I walked through puddles as the row boat lazed on the wet sand, and napped on the beach until the sand flies took their toll; I had built up my tolerance but only until a certain point.
Trees line the open area where the Bark Bay campsites lay along the water.
We were joined that afternoon by a ramshackle assortment of travelers from all over the world, as is typical on the Great Walks. The first to join us was a couple from New Zealand who were kayaking along the coast. We had met them the night before at Anchorage. They were relaxed, kind and reserved and impressively athletic and adventurous. The quintessential Kiwis.
The next to wander in was a young English girl tramping by herself. She was mousy, thin and unconventionally beautiful, carrying a proper Kathmandu pack with tramping pants and all the right gear. She was sweet and quiet and explained to us that she was on a working holiday in New Zealand, but she wasn't quite sure where she'd be working. She alluded to having been bored with her job in the U.K. After she graduated from university, so she wandered off in search of something else.
We were chatting by the fire when we saw the next group arrive across the inlet. They looked alien tramping across the wet sand that was quickly accumulating salt water. It was raining through the dying light and the group of four huddled under a large navy blue tarp as they struggled to avoid a soaking.
The group consisted of a German man of questionable age. He could have been in university with his goofy smile and almost-inappropriate jokes, but he was tall and confident and seemed well traveled. Along with him was an American. He was older with the air of someone who was especially sure of himself. As we chatted into the night, the American had reference to almost every place the rest of us mentioned whether it be a dumpy city in Louisiana, a triple digit population town in the U.K. Or an obscure village in Iceland, the American had been there or at least knew someone who had. He never mentioned what he did for a living, but he seemed to live life on his terms.
As the sun went down, another university-aged man walked in and greeted us in broken English. He was French and traveling alone on holiday. He didn't talk much throughout the evening but when he did it was easy to ascertain that he was intelligent. He studied economics, had just graduated, and was taking a year off before starting work. At one point in the evening he asked the Kiwi couple if they thought it was possible to traverse the entire South Island by car with less than $500, including fuel.
We spent the evening chatting about our experiences, our lives, our backgrounds over rice and instant mashed potatoes cooked over gas stoves and chocolate and cookies pooled among us, the universal code of good will among backpackers.
We may have stayed up a bit later than nights before chatting with friendly strangers, but the next day I still woke up before dawn to a chilly room and a dead fire. Luckily, Jamie and I had no set destination for the day and were allowed to have a relaxed morning. We heated enough water for ample hot oatmeal and coffee, and we packed our bags light. I felt weightless as I set off with Jamie to enjoy a relaxed walk to Awaroa, or however far the tides would let us go.
There was a steep 20 minute ascent from Bark Bay, but the light pack left me unburdened and my legs were conditioned by previous days' strains. We meandered along the crest of the trail until it descended down to Tonga Quarry, which was picturesque if you could ignore the sand flies. It was lined with dark grey slick rocks that I climbed and explored like a child on a playground. The weather was slightly overcast but the sun shined weakly through the foggy clouds.
A hiker walks along Onetahuti Bay, a crossing that was inaccessible at high tide until a boardwalk and bridge were built last year.
Our next stop was Onetahuti Bay, which we had been warned may be impassable, yet when we arrived we discovered a bridge and boardwalk allowing trampers to cross over the water remaining dry. It had been open in 2013, but the guides posted in the huts had not been updated. Our poor British hut-mate from the night before had woken up at 4am to make the crossing, and I felt a pang of guilt that she had been in the dark like us.
Another lesson learned. Use only updated information.
After a flat crossing along the bay, trampers enter marshland and ascend into beach forests on a newly constructed boardwalk.
At this point, about two hours into our day the blisters pockmarking Jamie's feet became too much, and she decided she would call it a day before we go too far. I carried on. I was already unhappy about the concept of returning to smog, traffic and concrete. I knew I'd miss being in the wilderness, especially the most beautiful wilderness in the world, and I wanted to cover as much ground as I could.
I ended up tramping 27km in six hours. I ran, walked and struggled through all stages of New Zealand beauty: Ocean, forest, river, mud, clay, mountaintops, sea level rocks until I made it to Awaroa Hut, and then I turned around and did it all again, with the steep downhill I originally ran down becoming stair steps to struggle up and visa-versa.
Outcroppings along the tramp from Bark Bay to Awaroa offer views of the ocean framed by mountains.
I think one of the main things that scare people away from tramping, save the physical exertion and lack of showers, is the empty space left in the absence of headphones, Snapchat, emails and background noise. When you're just walking, free from an iPhone to glance at or music blaring in your ears, your mind is allowed to wander. It usually goes straight to that list of topics not to discuss on a first date: ex-boyfriends, childhood trauma, your relationship with your parents, that weird dream you had last night. Your mind walks to places you haven't been in years, remembering things like the way your high school smelled or one inconsequential day from your childhood.
A boat can be seen through the trees along the track.
Jamie usually hikes behind me. My legs are longer and slightly more in shape from years of running. She's pointed out that I tend to take the difficult route; I go up the steeper rock stairs or through the wetter puddle. I do the same thing in regular life, and it's not even a conscious decision. I don't wake up saying, "what will make my life difficult today?" But my brain seems trained to do what's difficult.
My paths may be steeper, but they get me places like this, and you meet the most fascinating people at the top. On that final night the DOC ranger who was stationed at the hut nearby took pity on Jamie and me. He offered us a meal and sat with us talking about his life. The ranger told me that when the huts are empty, as they occasionally are in the winter, he lights a fire, grabs a bottle of whiskey and plays guitar until 3am. He is unashamed and blatant.
Later, he talks about the North Island like it's an overpopulated sore on the country which should probably just be annexed. He tells me he would never go bungee jumping, but he's been in some sticky spots with helicopters. A long white scar shows below his knee from a helicopter door that cut his skin almost to the bone. "I didn't feel a thing!" He says cheerily.
At 7 o'clock sharp, as promised, he delivers two plates heaped with wild boar that he killed himself, potatoes, vegetables and gravy. Jamie and I sip cheap whiskey that she had lugged on the entire tramp, us having been too tired each night prior to drink it, and we savor the meal. It tastes like New Zealand, like home and hospitality.
Our hut mates for the night are two middle-aged trampers, one from Australia and the other from England. We talk about basketball and all nationalities of football. At nightfall Jamie and I join the British woman to seek out glowworms and stare at the stars. When I walked out of the hut that night, I was startled by how bright they were in the sky, growing goosebumps on my arms. Living in cities, whether its Boston or Auckland, you forget that there are more than a spattering of pin pricks in the sky; when the light of urban life fades away the sky is made of stars. My legs ached, my clothes were soiled and my ankles were pockmarked by bug bites. My backpack bruised my hipbones and the smell of chlorinated water has started to make me sick. And yet there was nowhere else I'd rather be.
Jamie and a fellow traveler at Bark Bay Hut for the night follow torch light along the path to find glowworms.
In the morning I woke at dawn and hiked to watch the sunrise from an outcropping by the hut. The sky morphed from deep plum to pink to blue, and I watched a red container ship laze in the distance, as small as a toy in a bathtub against the snow-capped mountains. Whether you're a newcomer like Jamie and I or you've lived here all your life, this Great Walk acquaints you with New Zealand before the Aucklands, the Wellingtons, the Queenstowns. It's just you and the country beneath your feet.
The Milky Way is clear in the sky free from light pollution.
An outcropping a short hike from Bark Bay Hut is an ideal place to watch the sunrise over the ocean.
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