Despite some reservations as I settled in for the night, I, thankfully, did not wake with the need to spit out hundreds of dead flies that had made host on the ceiling of my car.
On arrival to Lake Aniwaniwa camping ground the night prior, a brief rummage through my pack, head-torch on, served as invitation enough for this swarm of bugs to make themselves acquainted with my car and sleeping quarters.
I’d feared, as a result, that they may continue on with such self-righteous inclination into my, unaware, open mouth as I slept the night away.
Though this is, of course, not to say with any real certainty that they did not.
It’s equally likely they did, but continued on and met their demise in the depths of my stomach.
They were, at least, not where they’d been gathered before I closed my eyes the previous evening.
Routine would have it that my only disturbance in the night was - not bugs - but a wake up call in the early hours to empty my bladder. Though be it optimisation or laziness, rather than drag my way though a dark, dewy field to find the toilet, my approach allowed me to do business with one foot still inside the car.
Another instance saw me wake due to the cold; having thought I could get away with using a top-sheet for cover, deceived by the brighter, warmer October days into thinking the nights shared a similar warmth. But rather than retrieve and release my sleeping-bag, just to re-roll it in the morning, I opted for pants and a fleece.
After all, what's an extra night in the same clothes I’d be wearing the following few days? Best we get acquainted and comfortable now.
On rising, I allowed myself a slow morning; recognising that whilst I still had a 3 hour drive, my journey from trail head to the first hut - Penekire - was a relatively short jaunt. Though it would feature the most climbing of any of the days on the trail, it was not anticipated as being a particularly arduous affair.
Such foresight meant that my morning allowed for oats and coffee, to be eaten and sipped on the jetty; both my stomach filling and my mental faculties rising alongside the Spring sun, with no company but for bird-song that would become a constant companion over the following days.
What followed was a particularly tedious, forever winding gravel road which made up the majority of the remainder of the journey. The occasional tease of a vista, the idea - not promise- of more unbroken, sweeping views served as encouragement to keep moving, as though stopping were ever even an option.
Though such glimpses served as sips, micro-doses of anticipation of what was to follow. If beyond this fern sheltered gravel road lived panoramic, mountain views, stretching across the horizon, then what more could this Great Walk have in store for me?
Likewise, a short time stuck behind a crew clearing a large amount of rubble and a few decrepit, tree trunk husks, was some subtle foreshadowing.
For in the comfort of my car, with the windows only slightly ajar, I was not only safe from the elements, but entirely ignorant of them. Deceived by the stillness of the morning on the jetty, and the bright sunshine ridden sky that accompanied my drive, my thoughts had turned to that of the fast approaching Summer months.
Outside of such comforts, however, waited wild winds and gusts that at the first opportunity attempted to tear off my car door as I arrived at the trail head at Onepoto Bay.
Thankfully, apart from in fleeting sections, the trail - and I - were largely protected from the wind with the ancient forest which hosted me offering almost complete protection. Instead, the wind kept me company; the trees of which I was enveloped and the forest canopy singing to the tune of the wind with endless rustling, swishing and swashing.
The winds’ rustling of the trees seemed reminiscent of waves; familiar in their oscillation, and the melody of their back and forth stirring some turning of thoughts causing me to think of how, throughout my life, I’d never lived away from the ocean and waves. Though the list of places where I have lived is not extensive, none have been further than walking distance from the water.
The subsequent thoughts were with the mountains; how the rugged peaks are still so novel to me, captivating and mostly unexplored and untouched by my own feet.
But do those who have spent their lives in the shadows of mountains and traversing their ridges equally long for the ocean?
Even then, as I worked my way to the top of the Panekire Bluff, the occasional lookout and vantage point treated me to an expansive view of the lake - though the winds quick to forcibly usher me back into the shelter of the forest.
My understanding of this particular Great Walk is that its path is far less trodden than others; not only is it remote and somewhat isolated, it also features some additional logistical requirements.
Being mid-week, too, meant that the path and my journey was not shared with many others. The first hour of my walk being the most populated, passing around ten others, mostly in couples. Though dispersed between themselves, it was later revealed to me that they were a hiking group from Invercargill, having travelled to the North Island specifically to tick off the trail.
I passed a second, independent couple, too, who looked notably disgruntled and unenthused.
Likewise, it was revealed to me later that they had endured a particularly restless night, having camped and been subsequently tormented by the wind, sleeping - or not so much - in fear of their tent collapsing atop them or, worse, a stray branch doing the same.
The trail from Onepoto to the Panekire hut is regarded as the most challenging section of the trail, with a substantially more vertical inclination than the remainder of the walk.
I arrived atop the Bluff early afternoon, 2PM, after having set off around 11AM, leaving me with a great deal of time to rest, reflect and otherwise watch as clouds were hurried across the mountain ridges that stretched across the horizon, the lake nestled beneath them.
With my path having crossed with a handful of others along the way, I’d have assumed the sleeping quarters to be shared with others, too. Instead, the hut would belong to me and just one other, Matt, for the night.
Matt, being far more socially inclined, or otherwise charismatic and engaging than I, fed me the information on the hikers I - we - had passed earlier; the group from Invercargill and the weather tormented couple.
He’d be completing the trail in its entirety, with his father waiting for him at the Hopuruahine Landing. I, on the other hand, would be leaving the trail partially incomplete. With the water taxi drop off and pick up only reaching as far as Whanganui.
In the interest of consistency, I once again had to excuse myself in the early hours of the morning.
Toilet excursions can be a tricky, awkward affair when staying in huts; tip-toeing around a maze of sleeping bodies and bags before missing a foot hold on the bunks ladder and blasting your head torch into someone's face.
Thankfully, sharing the hut with one other, who happens to be sleeping on the other end of the room, minimises this issue.
Though, unfortunately for Matt, there is no quiet nor discreet way to unzip and remove oneself from a sleeping bag and likewise zip themselves back in.
What may have masked such noise however, was the wind which had continued in all its glory throughout the night. Despite the huts' exposed positioning, it stands strong.
There would be some expectation of groaning and tension of the wood under the wind's torment, but no. It stood - stands - resolute, strong and but for the vicious man-handling of the bush and trees that surrounded the hut, and the continuous whistling, there was little to be heard.
The morning was particularly moody; low lying, grey clouds obscuring a view which yesterday seemed to extend indefinitely.
Matt set off earlier than I did, leaving at around 8am. Though we’d anticipated seeing each other on the trail. As he loaded his pack onto his shoulders and clipped himself in, he reminded me that if I am ever to find myself in strife or difficulty to simply ‘count from 5 to 1’, and everything will be OK. Referencing, in jest, the Mel Robbins self help book that had so kindly put him to sleep the night before.
I, just like the day prior, opted for another slower morning. Staying put to sip on multiple cups of coffee and treat some water, and again, watch as the clouds drifted across the horizon.
When I did eventually venture from the comfort of the hut, it was not long before I found myself dropping back down from the peak and into the lakeside bush. The descent, such as it was; sharp, steep, twisting and turning, became an outdoor playground in parts. Skipping over fallen branches - likely victims of the last couple of nights - and hopping and jumping over logs and boulders being used as makeshift stairs.
Gravity, such as it is, saw me build momentum and speed. Though I tried to resist in parts, so as to not aggravate and already aggravated achilles, fortune would have me roll my ankle anyway. So a dull ache persisted on both the right and left side of my foot and towards the heel for the entirety of the day.
But what such aggravation failed to do, thankfully, is dampen my enthusiasm or enjoyment of the day.
Where once the wind and its fury was ever present, as the descent continued, as did its ability to impose itself; fading to a murmur and but a background rustle of the tree-tops and leaves extending increasingly high above me and as I continued to burrow down.
Instead, the score to my walk became that of the soft crunching of twigs and leaves underfoot, the now more present - or at least noticeable - tweeting of birds, and the occasional feature of the lake waves gentling washing against the shore.
Likewise, a reoccurring feature, though not an ever present one, was that of the rain with its gentle, subtle tapping of the leaves and ground in support of my footsteps.
A detour was taken to Korokoro falls, recognising the opportunity to enjoy a short rest and snack alongside one of nature's finer water features.
The falls themselves far too boggy to offer an ideal snack spot, I instead opted for a seat atop a rock slightly downstream from the falls proper. Perfectly positioned to enjoy the sounds of the gentle, running water, juxtaposed with the white noise, the constant roar of the falls in the background.
Korokoro Falls themselves struck me as almost artificial. Despite clearly not being so, the hard edge and rectangular shape I interpreted of the falls gave some sort of synthetic inclination to them. Though that is not to take away from their beauty.
On my return to the main trail I started to become impatient. And this section of the trail, for no other reason than my impatience, became tedious and in places frustrating.
Despite Matt’s earlier advice to count down from 5-to-1, I instead opted to begin counting the vibrations of my watch; each vibration signalling a kilometer walked. I felt compelled to break down the journey by counting down, from 6, each vibration, to give me some sense of hope and indication to how close to the next hut I was.
A flawed exercise really, with signal wavering in and out, the vibrations - and therefore kilometers - far from accurate. Mentally, though, and at the time, it seemed the best way to digest and process the journey.
My patience, wavering as it was, saw me hurry along with a sense of both desperation and stubborn determination to reach the next hut. Though my momentum and frustration seemed to be alleviated far sooner than anticipated, where I was brought to an instant stop upon my encounter with an oasis in the forest.
Greg. Old Greg.
Where, on my approach, I’d assumed the smoke bellowing chimney to be a feature of the Marauitu hut, where others had already made themselves at home, it instead revealed itself to be one of a few private huts. This one being looked after and occupied by Greg and his wife.
Greg was quick to offer fresh, clean water from his tap and a seat, to which I obliged. Barely a second after sitting down did the sky open and the rain start to pour.
His little sanctuary, his oasis in the forest, could not have been better timed.
Having opened my bag to retrieve a snack, Greg saw my mug and without a second thought offered me some hot water. Once again, I obliged.
I’d transcended frustration and instead found myself slipping beyond the forest oasis and instead into a slice of paradise; sipping freshly poured coffee deep in the Waikaremoana forest, the rain pittering and pattering around me alongside the occasional call of the Tui.
Here I remained, at Greg’s little slice of paradise, for the next 30 or so minutes.
Aside from returning a question Greg posed - ‘what time did we arrive? - his wife remained entirely anonymous, having stayed inside the hut and out of sight for the duration of my visit.
Instead, Greg talked with me about his experience and history having looked after this hut, on behalf of local iwi, since he was a young man. And whilst he does not own it, it would appear to be his in spirit. Having shared with me stories and memories of the great deal of time he has spent here with his family: his kids, and his kid’s kids. One of his daughters was even due to be joining him the following day, too.
Unsurprisingly, he made the impression clear that he knows the track very well. Though he does not walk a great deal of it anymore, as an older man, he still has insight and knowledge to share whilst continuing to experience the trail vicariously, via the various walkers that end up on his front door step.
Greg also let me know that Matt, who had continued to evade me, had come through not so long ago.
So, after my coffee I was up and away again. Rejuvenated and enthusiastic. Any sense of frustration since dissipated and instead feeling patient and encouraged.
The remainder of the track up to Waiharuru Hut, was mostly unremarkable, though entirely peaceful. In particular, a moment was spent admiring, from afar, the serenity of Waiopaoa Hut and the way it seemed to - with its olive colouring - blend in with the greenery that surrounded it. The rain still falling, though gently, whilst the birds continued to sing.
Had it not been for the forest oasis earlier, I'd have been compelled to spend the night.
It is on this section I finally caught up to Matt. We revelled, for a brief moment, in our joy and admiration for Greg, his fresh water and kettle, before I continued on.
Matt mentioned that he was at his upper limit, trucking through much further than he ever would ordinarily. Clearly, he was beginning to feel, or already in the depths of feeling, that frustration and impatience I had done a couple hours earlier.
On my passing, I reminded him that all he need do was count from 5 to 1.
This section was the wettest and muddiest. And whilst the rain that had started at Gregs continued on, the canopy overhead offered good shelter. The humidity meant wearing a jacket was uncomfortable and hot, soaking me from inside out, so I continued on with just a long sleeve t-shirt.
Arrival at Waiharuru hut revealed a set up certainly at the more luxurious end of DOC huts; where instead of just one hut that combines both sleeping and eating quarters, it is broken in two.
One is a hut dedicated to bunks and is exclusively sleeping quarters whilst the other a kitchen and food hall. Both very large.
Whilst, on arrival, there were 4 other people, 2 parties of 2, they soon moved on, meaning once again, the huts were reserved for just Matt and I, who lumbered into camp shortly after my own arrival. Good timing, too, as similarly to our previous night, the wind picked up. But this time, with the addition of rain. Though, the wind such as it was, saw that the rain seems to be travelling horizontally, rather than vertically. This also, a little disappointingly, curbed my enthusiasm for a dip in the lake that ran past the huts and that had otherwise been so inviting.
The intense weather continued throughout the night with strong winds and a constant downpour.
Despite the rain, wind and perfectly cosy nature of the weather and hut, my sleep was especially disturbed. In part, no doubt, due to the general fatigue of a particularly large day. My body had struggled to regulate its temperature very well, with the sleeping bag seemingly acting as an incubator and encouraging a restless night full of tossing and turning.
The morning, though, was clear and calm.
I awoke to the symphony of birds. And, throughout the night, between my restlessness and best impression of a rotisserie chicken, I’d heard the distinct call of kiwis. This was the first time I’d ever heard them in the wild.
On rising, there was certainly some residue soreness to be felt, especially in the lower half of my body, but also the shoulders. Shoulders of which have been deprived of, and become unaccustomed to the weight of a pack. Though the soreness was quick to disperse once I’d got moving and loaded the shoulders back up.
Setting off, one final time, on rain softened and twig laden track; the same birds that had woken me that morning keeping my company. Though far less harmonious, and much more conversational in their tweeting and singing, making for an especially pleasant, soft and short journey.
The wind, too, had reduced but to a whisper.
All to be heard amongst my footsteps and birds was my own voice, as I talked to myself throughout the short walk. My conversations being a cocktail of both content fuelled mania and just thinking, musing, out loud.
The trail led me to my journey’s end; carpet of moss where the lake met the shore.
Here I sat, for a time, waiting, watching, as the waves rolled and gently kissed the moss’s edge and the clouds - gentler in their affliction this morning - marched across the horizon.