I finally got underway around 9:30 and was not 1km down the road before striking my first obstacle for the day: a T junction where the sign says Te Araroa can go both ways. This was ok as the notes say there are two alternatives but unfortunately the notes then go on to describe a principal route that does not match that shown on the map. Wanting to follow the shorter map route I turned right, but did not come across a bush track on the left as soon as expected. As the notes are out of date, describing a previous route following the gravel roads, there was no indication where the turn off to the bush track would be. Not wanting to waste more time I backtracked to the intersection and took the left hand route as described in the notes and marched down the road, determined to make up the time the longer route would take.
The Mangatawhiri Forest south of the Mangatawhiri Dam is criss-crossed with roads and mountain bike tracks. Fortunately I was able to follow the notes without taking another wrong turn (some key turns don't have TA markers) and found my way to the Lower Mangatawhiri Campsite. I had a quick boots-off break at a picnic table a short distance from a group of not very talkative guys who had been motor biking the trails that morning. After a quick snack I set off again, following the now marked trail into the Hunua Ranges.
Not far along there's a short bridge that bore a sign saying "no access" due to forestry operations. Someone before me had torn down tape blocking the bridge and apparently blazed on ahead, ignoring the sign. I decided to do the same, mainly because the only other way of getting out was a huge walk around, but also because the TA, though it walks along the boundary of a forestry block, never actually crosses into it (according to the map). So off I went.
Despite the ominous trail notes saying you need good tramping skills to do it the first kilometre of track is well maintained with a boardwalk in places, presumably to minimise the chances of people damaging the roots of Kauri trees in the area. Beyond that a sign warns the track deteriorates and that sturdy footwear and water are required (previous signs have already warned that a 1080 pellet drop means you shouldn't drink from streams in the area). Forging on I began to experience the "jungle" Nathalie had warned me of in a txt. There's patches of vines in places that at first there seems to be no way through, but then you see some have been cut and you can weave your way through. Then the track starts going up and I stopped to break out the hiking poles to help haul/push myself up the steeper banks.
Happily once you're up on the ridge the trail is easy to follow; despite the notes saying you must play close attention to the markers not to go astray they are common and easy to spot for the most part. Some way along I came upon another hiker: an older guy sporting a North American accent. Turns out his name is John, he's from Seattle, he's 62 and since retiring from his job as an environmental scientist for government seems to have spent his life thru-hiking (he's done the PCT twice, most recently last year). Happily John is a chatty and intelligent guy--he's got a lot to talk about and it's worth listening to. So I led on, picking out the trail, while John told me all about the PCT, a bit about his job, his travels and discussed various things such as Te Araroa and American politics (was relieved when his opinions of this appeared to closely match my own; I'm not sure how I'd handle conversation with an ardent gun-toting republican...).
Eventually we emerged from the Hunuas and crossed the swing bridge into forest bordering farmland. We stopped for a boots-off break and something to eat. John got eaten alive by sand flies so I offered him a razene. He might have a nice and light 10-12kg pack but I've got the antihistamines!
Far from a nice wander along the contour out to the road the track is up and down, skirts around a cattle paddock, then up and down some more before popping out on the road in front of a school. John was out of water (he topped up at a stream but it tasted funny and after I told him about the 1080 he dumped it) so we headed up to the school to find something drinkable. A woman driving by directed us to the caretaker's office and he happily let us in to top up at his sink. It turns out the school, which looks very posh, is a private school for underprivileged kids to attend on scholarship. Awesome idea...it's just a pity the terms of the will responsible for the trust that funds the school mean it's only available to boys.
Fully hydrated we set off on the long walk to Mercer. At the junction with SH2 a woman pulled over and came to chat. Her name was Judith and it turns out she and John knew each other as they had met when she section-hiked part of the trail a couple of weeks ago. She kindly gave us a museli bar each and let us know where to find the route under the highway and out into the stop bank. After a while we said goodbye and set off.
Walking a stop bank is not as easy at it sounds (or looks on a map!). Far from being nice flat grass they're chocked up by cattle and half the time the grass is so long you can't see where you're putting your feet. All that aside I put my head down and strode it out, knackered but determined. Four kilometres out from Mercer I ran out of steam. Fortunately John was also tired and so the two of us walked slowly out to the road. The sun had set and by the time we reached the highway it was starting to get dark so we hitched the last kilometre into Mercer.
Mercer is a small town servicing the highway. The pub, Podge's Place, and neighbouring motel run by the same couple Sandra and Podge, lets TA hikers camp on their back lawn for free. John and I pitched our tents and went for showers before meeting up with another hiker, Sophia, in the bar. It was nearly 9pm but John ordered a pizza and I got wedges; a late dinner is better than no dinner! Plus Sandra is über accommodating--she loves hikers!
Even after a shower I could barely walk so I sat at the table with a ginger beer, hanging out for wedges, but wishing I could just go to bed. Sophia, John and I chatted. Sophia is a Kiwi mother of two who's left her two teenage boys at home with their Dad to have guy-time while she hikes TA. Apparently one of her sons is acutely embarrassed his mum is thru-hiking...which begs the question: why? Who knows...must be some weird teenage boy thing.
Finally the pizza and wedges arrived. I drowned the wedges in sweet chili sauce and scoffed them. Was thinking about heading to bed when the three rowdy locals who had been in the pub all night came to chat. John had already commented that they couldn't say three words without saying "f@$&", to which one of them replied (in a strong Irish accent) "when I was little we were taught if you don't say f@$& at least twice in a sentence you're doing it wrong". Hmmm.
They were friendly blokes, but obviously on the way to being well oiled. Shortly into a conversation about the Waikato River the most red faced one of the three made a highly racist and offensive joke. The other two roared with laughter. Sophia chose that moment to make a quick exit. I was torn between wanting to say that kind if thing is not ok and not wanting to cause trouble. I decided to wait it out and had a brief chat to bloke #3 about Stewart Island before a lull in conversation gave John and I the chance to make our excuses and head out. Settling into our respective tents John commented that back home they call guys like that rednecks. I reflected that people here would probably say the same, but that rough (but otherwise friendly) types brimming with ignorant racism were likely to be found in every rural pub throughout New Zealand.
No comments:
Post a Comment