It has been quite a while since my last update, and much has happened since I picked up the path into the Herekino forest.
The entrance into the Herekino was barely more than a hole in the bushes at the side of the road. I looked around in absolute awe of the high, dense bush that surrounded me on all sides. I was a little dismayed that the start of the track up the hill consisted of a set of steps, I felt I would much prefer to climb the hill using a variety of muscles rather than just the few it takes to climb steps. The steps only lasted about half an hour though before it became natural flooring. I was already sweating through my clothes and had removed the bottom parts of my trousers on the basis that legs dry quicker than fabric, and it was cooler. As the hill got steeper, the bush got thicker. I could still the next orange marker in the distance, but I now needed to stop at each marker and scan through the leaves for the next one. As I climbed I slipped and crashed down onto my hip before starting to slide back down the hill in the mud. I rammed my hiking stick into the mud but to no avail, I kept on slipping with no hold on the ground. I then held the staff sideways and managed to catch between two bushes and stopped my descent. I had mud caked all up one side of me, but fortunately I hadn't injured my hip at all. I carefully got to my feet and stood simply balancing for a few moments. I had to scrape the thick mud off my boots before I could take a step without sliding back again. It took all my strength and cunning to get up to an area where the floor leveled out. I dropped my pack and sat, breathless, and looked over my map. I could see that I would be getting to the top of Mount Taumatamahoe, about 700 metres up. I figured I must have gone a good 200 metres up and was keen to get up there so I could start the easier part of the journey. Going down. However, I found myself going down almost immediately. This I did not want. I had struggled to climb these 200 metres and I didn't want to go down and have to climb them again. This was the way of the trail though, so I could do nothing else. I descended what felt like 199 metres down before the path started back up again, although the trail had now become overgrown to the point where vines and roots had fully covered the floor, making it much easier to not slip over.
After a few hours I came across my first huge and ancient Kauri tree. It was immense. There was no way for me to take a picture of it and for there to be any sense of scale. I hope the pictures I did take will give some semblance of the beauty they held. I continued to climb, then disappointingly to descend again and again. The floor would switch between being intensely overgrown and being bare, thick mud. I slipped and landed badly at least once every half an hour now and I was beginning to count my lucky stars I hadn't twisted or broken anything. This was when I slipped again, falling forward, downhill. I reached out to grab securely onto a tree in front of me. Its trunk was maybe the thickness of my arm, and it snapped loudly under my weight revealing its sharp and jagged inner. I took a sharp breath inwards as I saw in a flash my own impalement upon this tree as I fell on top of it. A heavy pressure pressed against my lower belly and I braced myself for the inevitable, only to realise in another quick flash that my backpack belt buckle had just saved my life. With its thick, solid band around my waist it had taken the initial blow from the broken tree and twisted me away from impalement and enabled me to escape with just scratches. I still then twisted and continued to fall further down the hill, dragged so due to the weight of my bag which was now facing downhill. When I came to a stop I simply laid there, panting for I don't know how long. This is madness, I thought to myself. I had waited so long to here in the actual bush, and here I was, far too acquainted with the bush already. But 5 hours in to an 8 hour trek, you can hardly turn back, and nor would I, knowing the terrain that was behind me.
This was not, however, the last time I would face apparent death. Not even the last time that day, as at one point when traversing a thin path around the hill in a rare moment of flat ground, the floor itself simply gave way, revealing a hole beneath me that dropped into a waterfall below. Again I was saved by my bag on this occasion. It was only the added bulk on my back that trapped me, one leg in and one leg out of this hole. Still I had to push on. When I finally made it to the top of Mount Taumatamahoe I realised there would be nowhere to camp at the bottom. It was nothing but thick bush as far as the eye could see, even the trail I was on had not even a desire line to follow and required me to push and pull myself through trees. I made a phone call (my track notes had said there was reception at the very top) to Brian Griffiths, who lived about 15km away and who my track notes told me would be happy to put me up for the night and give me a lift back the next morning. True to the notes, he agreed to meet me at the dirt track where the walking path came out in about two more hours.
I had finally gotten to the point that I thought would be the easy part. No more uphills. This was true, unlike the way to top, which had gone up and down with far too much regularity, the way down was completely down. As I stared at the angle of descent I was expected to go down, I honestly gave out a small whimper and looked back over my shoulders, considering the impossible task of going back the way I'd come. It was already 3pm so it would be dark in 3 hours. I would certainly die if I tried to back the way I'd come in the dark, and there was literally nowhere to put a tent up without having a saw, hatchet and a spade. So I had to go down. I had to face to terrain of thick mud, trees of uncertain strength, vines and roots so small you think you could break them by simply stepping through them, but actually couldn't be broken even by me striking my staff through them. This descent was the scariest thing I've ever done. I slipped and fell many times. I even got lost at one point, having to re-climb the hill to find the next orange marker. One particularly nasty little branch struck me right on the eyelid and left me with a scratch that lasted several weeks. I was bleeding from my arms and legs and my eye by the time I emerged at the bottom on a dirt track large enough for a single car. I dropped my pack and collapsed to the ground. A couple of Piwakawaka birds flew around me in their odd stalling manner, oblivious or uncaring to the ordeal I had just been through.
Peter Griffiths arrived about 20 minutes after me and said that I looked in quite good condition. Most people he picked up from there looked far worse than I did. I didn't know how to respond to this, considering I had a second layer of mud across my whole body and was bleeding all over. He and his family gave me a great evening filled with much of the outstanding hospitality I've found in New Zealand. They washed my clothes and I had a bath (a bath! Imagine the joy after a day like that!) and they fed me well too. I slept early and long and was honestly feeling better about the experience. I told myself it can't all be like this, it must just be a bit of rough, unused terrain.
So the next day I set off for the Raetea forest, only to b faced with yet more of the same. On this day I faced a river flash flood. I stepped into the ankle deep water that was only a few metres across, and by my second step in a literal barrage of mud and stones and sticks and water came careening around the corner and smashed into me, almost knocking me from my feet. I feel sure if I had been knocked over, I would likely have suffered some injury as a result. As I continued over the next couple of days, I again and again experienced the same situations. The horrific angles I was expected to ascend or descend, the roots and the vines that would trip me, the bush being so dense that I had to back track regularly as the orange marker would be nowhere in sight. I also slipped and pulled a muscle in my leg. Not badly, but enough that I had to turn back two hours in to my walk through to Kerikeri. It took me four hours get back with my aching leg but I managed to hitch from the road back to town and spent a long hard night in a hostel, thinking about the future of my walk.
I had expected it to be mentally and physically challenging. The 90 Mile Beach was a mental and physical challenge. The mental challenge of continuing without no stimulus, the physical challenge of putting one foot in front of the other ever day. But this new challenge was a danger challenge. I had no expected to level of danger involved in this walk, and I concluded that no amount of beautiful scenery can compensate for broken bones or serious injury. I believed then and still do now, that I couldn't have continued to walk away unscathed from these incidents. Perhaps I can count my ability to come away from it with only having slightly pulled a muscle as having come from my blessings from the Maori, but I wasn't prepared to push it any further. So with a heavy heart and a night of much sadness, I decided resolutely that my walk had indeed come to an end. I booked myself a ticket the next day back down to Wellington and felt instantly better about things. It was actually quite remarkable how quickly I moved on from having failed at the task that I'd been preparing to do for over a year. All of the time, planning and money spent was forgiven and I felt excited to be starting again, with a new and exciting life awaiting me in New Zealand's capital.
The entrance into the Herekino was barely more than a hole in the bushes at the side of the road. I looked around in absolute awe of the high, dense bush that surrounded me on all sides. I was a little dismayed that the start of the track up the hill consisted of a set of steps, I felt I would much prefer to climb the hill using a variety of muscles rather than just the few it takes to climb steps. The steps only lasted about half an hour though before it became natural flooring. I was already sweating through my clothes and had removed the bottom parts of my trousers on the basis that legs dry quicker than fabric, and it was cooler. As the hill got steeper, the bush got thicker. I could still the next orange marker in the distance, but I now needed to stop at each marker and scan through the leaves for the next one. As I climbed I slipped and crashed down onto my hip before starting to slide back down the hill in the mud. I rammed my hiking stick into the mud but to no avail, I kept on slipping with no hold on the ground. I then held the staff sideways and managed to catch between two bushes and stopped my descent. I had mud caked all up one side of me, but fortunately I hadn't injured my hip at all. I carefully got to my feet and stood simply balancing for a few moments. I had to scrape the thick mud off my boots before I could take a step without sliding back again. It took all my strength and cunning to get up to an area where the floor leveled out. I dropped my pack and sat, breathless, and looked over my map. I could see that I would be getting to the top of Mount Taumatamahoe, about 700 metres up. I figured I must have gone a good 200 metres up and was keen to get up there so I could start the easier part of the journey. Going down. However, I found myself going down almost immediately. This I did not want. I had struggled to climb these 200 metres and I didn't want to go down and have to climb them again. This was the way of the trail though, so I could do nothing else. I descended what felt like 199 metres down before the path started back up again, although the trail had now become overgrown to the point where vines and roots had fully covered the floor, making it much easier to not slip over.
After a few hours I came across my first huge and ancient Kauri tree. It was immense. There was no way for me to take a picture of it and for there to be any sense of scale. I hope the pictures I did take will give some semblance of the beauty they held. I continued to climb, then disappointingly to descend again and again. The floor would switch between being intensely overgrown and being bare, thick mud. I slipped and landed badly at least once every half an hour now and I was beginning to count my lucky stars I hadn't twisted or broken anything. This was when I slipped again, falling forward, downhill. I reached out to grab securely onto a tree in front of me. Its trunk was maybe the thickness of my arm, and it snapped loudly under my weight revealing its sharp and jagged inner. I took a sharp breath inwards as I saw in a flash my own impalement upon this tree as I fell on top of it. A heavy pressure pressed against my lower belly and I braced myself for the inevitable, only to realise in another quick flash that my backpack belt buckle had just saved my life. With its thick, solid band around my waist it had taken the initial blow from the broken tree and twisted me away from impalement and enabled me to escape with just scratches. I still then twisted and continued to fall further down the hill, dragged so due to the weight of my bag which was now facing downhill. When I came to a stop I simply laid there, panting for I don't know how long. This is madness, I thought to myself. I had waited so long to here in the actual bush, and here I was, far too acquainted with the bush already. But 5 hours in to an 8 hour trek, you can hardly turn back, and nor would I, knowing the terrain that was behind me.
This was not, however, the last time I would face apparent death. Not even the last time that day, as at one point when traversing a thin path around the hill in a rare moment of flat ground, the floor itself simply gave way, revealing a hole beneath me that dropped into a waterfall below. Again I was saved by my bag on this occasion. It was only the added bulk on my back that trapped me, one leg in and one leg out of this hole. Still I had to push on. When I finally made it to the top of Mount Taumatamahoe I realised there would be nowhere to camp at the bottom. It was nothing but thick bush as far as the eye could see, even the trail I was on had not even a desire line to follow and required me to push and pull myself through trees. I made a phone call (my track notes had said there was reception at the very top) to Brian Griffiths, who lived about 15km away and who my track notes told me would be happy to put me up for the night and give me a lift back the next morning. True to the notes, he agreed to meet me at the dirt track where the walking path came out in about two more hours.
I had finally gotten to the point that I thought would be the easy part. No more uphills. This was true, unlike the way to top, which had gone up and down with far too much regularity, the way down was completely down. As I stared at the angle of descent I was expected to go down, I honestly gave out a small whimper and looked back over my shoulders, considering the impossible task of going back the way I'd come. It was already 3pm so it would be dark in 3 hours. I would certainly die if I tried to back the way I'd come in the dark, and there was literally nowhere to put a tent up without having a saw, hatchet and a spade. So I had to go down. I had to face to terrain of thick mud, trees of uncertain strength, vines and roots so small you think you could break them by simply stepping through them, but actually couldn't be broken even by me striking my staff through them. This descent was the scariest thing I've ever done. I slipped and fell many times. I even got lost at one point, having to re-climb the hill to find the next orange marker. One particularly nasty little branch struck me right on the eyelid and left me with a scratch that lasted several weeks. I was bleeding from my arms and legs and my eye by the time I emerged at the bottom on a dirt track large enough for a single car. I dropped my pack and collapsed to the ground. A couple of Piwakawaka birds flew around me in their odd stalling manner, oblivious or uncaring to the ordeal I had just been through.
Peter Griffiths arrived about 20 minutes after me and said that I looked in quite good condition. Most people he picked up from there looked far worse than I did. I didn't know how to respond to this, considering I had a second layer of mud across my whole body and was bleeding all over. He and his family gave me a great evening filled with much of the outstanding hospitality I've found in New Zealand. They washed my clothes and I had a bath (a bath! Imagine the joy after a day like that!) and they fed me well too. I slept early and long and was honestly feeling better about the experience. I told myself it can't all be like this, it must just be a bit of rough, unused terrain.
So the next day I set off for the Raetea forest, only to b faced with yet more of the same. On this day I faced a river flash flood. I stepped into the ankle deep water that was only a few metres across, and by my second step in a literal barrage of mud and stones and sticks and water came careening around the corner and smashed into me, almost knocking me from my feet. I feel sure if I had been knocked over, I would likely have suffered some injury as a result. As I continued over the next couple of days, I again and again experienced the same situations. The horrific angles I was expected to ascend or descend, the roots and the vines that would trip me, the bush being so dense that I had to back track regularly as the orange marker would be nowhere in sight. I also slipped and pulled a muscle in my leg. Not badly, but enough that I had to turn back two hours in to my walk through to Kerikeri. It took me four hours get back with my aching leg but I managed to hitch from the road back to town and spent a long hard night in a hostel, thinking about the future of my walk.
I had expected it to be mentally and physically challenging. The 90 Mile Beach was a mental and physical challenge. The mental challenge of continuing without no stimulus, the physical challenge of putting one foot in front of the other ever day. But this new challenge was a danger challenge. I had no expected to level of danger involved in this walk, and I concluded that no amount of beautiful scenery can compensate for broken bones or serious injury. I believed then and still do now, that I couldn't have continued to walk away unscathed from these incidents. Perhaps I can count my ability to come away from it with only having slightly pulled a muscle as having come from my blessings from the Maori, but I wasn't prepared to push it any further. So with a heavy heart and a night of much sadness, I decided resolutely that my walk had indeed come to an end. I booked myself a ticket the next day back down to Wellington and felt instantly better about things. It was actually quite remarkable how quickly I moved on from having failed at the task that I'd been preparing to do for over a year. All of the time, planning and money spent was forgiven and I felt excited to be starting again, with a new and exciting life awaiting me in New Zealand's capital.
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