SATURDAY 5th MARCH - KaKa

Forest, forest and more forest. Not that I was getting bored of it, it was beautiful forest and there was constant variation to keep me entertained. I was aiming for the Waihaha hut which I had been told was a six hour tramp. The DOC ranger that told me must have been some kind of man-machine as it took me 8 hours at full steam. There was one really steep bit which, due to its near vertical nature, had to have a rope lashed to a tree near the top to help people get down. I used it to absail down and actually felt quite nimble despite my cumbersome pack. I would have really struggled about a few months ago rather than spring, gazelle-like, down the crumbling cliff.
 
The hut was practically full when I pulled up at around 5pm. There was a nice South African couple, Dan and Cecilia, and Derek, a friend of theirs all out from Auckland for a weekend tramp. There was also a couple of lads down from Hamilton for a bit of a hunt and a lot of a laze. I introduced myself and quickly bagsied a bed before anyone else turned up, hopefully no one would. The big modern hut was right by the river and before I lost my nerve and after a bit of pancake Cecilia kindly donated I froze myself in the name of refreshment and cleanliness. Just as I was settling down for a bit of diary two mountain bikers shot from the bushes into the hut clearing. Once they dismounted and noticed the hut was almost full they let slip that they were the first of a party of 12. So much for a quiet night. I could have done with all these lot last night!
 
One by one, they emerged on their bikes with the last on foot laden with huge rucksacks of food and wine. They certainly were camping in style apart from the fact that most of them were going to have to sleep outside on the deck. They were a lively bunch but I wasn't in much of a social mood so I sat outside trying to press some more words onto the page. It wasn't happening and I gave up when Dan offered me a glass of wine. My tongue soon loosened and I chatted to Dan and Cecilia about tramping, the hot topic for some reason. Just as the dusk was ripening a skwarking bird arced overhead and Derek, very excitedly, told us that it was a Kaka parrot, his favourite bird. Every time one flew over after that he leapt up pronouncing, "that's a Kaka!" I think he must have been one in a past life as his enthusiasm exceeded any possible ornithological interest and rather resembled a child's first visit to the zoo. Definitely a bird I won't forget.

SUNDAY 6th MARCH - FOREST FRIGHT
 
I was the first to rise so I had to fill the role of the keep tramper that gets up too early and then proceeds to wake everyone up by noisily packing rustling plastic bags while packing his pack which he should have done the night before if he had had any consideration for others in the slightest! And breath! Before departing I asked those I had chatted to the night before for sponsorship and got a surprisingly generous response which helped put a bit of gusto into my morning steps. By all accounts, it was going to be a big day today. The sigh said 9 hours to the road end but I wanted to get further and I held onto the vain hope of making it to civilisation by nightfall.
 
The forest I was walking through got more and more spectacular as the day aged until I was walking through a ancient arboretum of huge Kahikutea, Miro, Rimu and Totara hardwoods. It was the most striking rainforest I had been through so far and my amazement unfurled with every turn the track took me. The huge wooden giants were stitched into the soil with a tentacle tangle of roots which turned the forest floor into an intricate tapestry that chronicled a past age. It was like walking through a glade of tribal elders that towered over me in their wisdom and watched over my passing. Some of the grandfather trees had thick moss shielding their limbs from the elements, keeping them warm like a granny knitted sweater. Others had matted crowns of dark green dreadlocks and the rain mist hung around their heads like a cloud of sweet smelling ganja smoke, frozen in the breeze. I even got so see my first wild deer.
 
If one wants to get a true sense of NZ history they have to immerse themselves in this dense podocarp rainforest that spans back to the Taupo eruption of AD186. Some of the forest predating this is even preserved in a bog surrounded by its future generations. This existing bush predates the earliest human settlements of the 6th and 7th centuries and, in my eyes, it helps, along with the volcanic events, constitute the essence of this countries evolutionary past. Human habitation, although decimating much of the face of this island reserve, only really amounts to the blink of an eye but I suppose that hold true for the planet as a whole. In some sense NZ can be seen as an accelerated modern day microcosm of humankind's impact on this fragile planet. A living breathing testament of our power to conserve or destroy; an example of our ability to live in harmony with or in ignorance of the planet that is our home.
 
By late afternoon I had left the marked track and was following quad tracks heading south. I was aiming to hit an old logging road that rang along the bottom of the range but by all accounts so far it sounded like the road hadn't been used for decades. I was just going to have to bush bash my way South until I hit something resembling a road. It was all quite exiting really as I hadn't done any real off track stuff yet and it didn't look as if I could get too lost. Before long I heard a quad up ahead and turned the corner to see a hunter stopped by a little stream for his dog to get a drink. After he had restrained him I went over and asked him about the state of the track ahead. We had along yarn about my best possible route and I was occasionally distracted by the dead goat lashed onto the back of his quad dripping blood by my feet. our conversation soon shifted onto DOC's poisoning programmes and their use of a highly toxic poison called 1080. Its apparently banned across the world but DOC carries on spreading it like there is no tomorrow. According to the hunter and others I have spoken to, 1080 doesn't just kill the pests its meant for, it kills everything it is meant to protect as well. It stays in the ground for decades and contaminates everything it comes into contact with. Kiwi's eat the worms contaminated by the soil and other animals eat the grass or drink the water it had spoilt. One can be guaranteed that 1080 also gets into the milk and meat that NZ is so renowned for. The hunter wasn't a big fan of DOC and his sentiments certainly weren't the first I'd heard. DOC's over zealous conservation programmes had got a lot of people backs up and as he put it, "they are killing the country for country folk and saving it for the city folk." NZ's clean green image was getting further tarnished in my eyes and its psyche was seeming more and more schizophrenic.
 
Telling the hunter the way I had walked he asked me if I had heard his dogs back up the track. "They were your were they," I replied and I relayed how they had scared the living crap out of me earlier. Just as I had come out of the bush some loud ferocious barking erupted from the grasses to my right. Thinking that I had some pig dogs about to rip me limb from limb, I bolted and, fuelled by sheer terror, ran about 200m down the track until I realised the barking wasn't getting any closer. I didn't know I could move so fast with all my gear on and I must have looked a right sight, legs and pole flailing with a look of sheer terror plastered across my face. We had a chuckle and than I departed on my merry way. He had told me I could get through to the forest road but he also said I wouldn't make it before dark so finding a nice clearing overlooking the bush wild hills I tented up for the night.

MONDAY 7th MARCH - INTREPIDATED
 
The rain awoke me several times during the night and I prayed every time I drifted off again that it would let up before I had to get up. This was the morning, however, when my unblemished rain record was tarnished. I also had my morning crash course in bush bashing to complete through the wet fronds but my spirit wasn't dampened like the rest of me soon was. I set out through the drips, still following the quad track, with the hunters words resonating in my mind. "Hit the river and then head for the pines, " he had told me. How hard could it be. I hit the river before long and, fording it along with a few of its tributaries, I stuck to the track on the most direct route towards the looming pines. "Just head for the pines." I was totally drenched so I didn't have to worry about avoiding the muddy puddles and just splashed straight on through. "Just head for the pines." The track died out when I hit the pines. "just head for the pines, head for the pines," was still cerebrally circulating like a sick record but what did I do once I had. It was bush bash time and I dug out my compass to keep me on a southerly setting.
 
The road could have been a few metres or a few km, I just couldn't be sure. As soon as I had got a few steps off the end of the track I felt lost already. Its amazing how comforting a track or any description is, even if it is heading in the wrong direction. It signals a route to civilisation that has been traveled by others before you, a safety line to comfort. I felt vulnerable off track. There were no comforting signs and the tangle of brambles and fallen trees in every direction provided me with little solace. It was time to just swallow my anxieties, put my head down and crash my way further out of my depth. The brambles and spiky bits tried their hardest to hold me back but my resolve held as I ventures deeped into the alien world. A quick glance at the southerly needle now and again kept me on track but a straight line was near impossible. There was no turning back now as, although I had traveled only a few hundred metres, I would never be able to retrace my stumbles. Covered in forest slime from head to boot I crashed on until, to my unbridled joy, I tripped out onto an overgrown forestry road before the fear could come between me and my compass hold. My relief was overwhelming and I let out a hoop for joy despite having only been in the pines for less than half a km. I wouldn't have to let this safety line from my clutches.
 
As if on cue the rain clouds parted and the sun shone through, picking out the glistening blackberries through the bramble avenue I was walking through. I had the odd sour wince but my breakfast was mostly ripe. I felt like a true bush man; exploring un chartered territories and surviving on the fruits of the forest as I went. I can try and glamorise it as much as I like but the fact remains that a mere bark of a dog can scare me into a frenzied dash for my life. I had survived the deep bush but I was still far from being a seasoned adventurer. A bearded old bush dog but no Indiana Jones!
 
15km of tar seal and I intersected the highway across to Taurangi where I planned to spend a few days feeding myself up before WOMAD festival this coming weekend. Huraahhh!!! I had been looking forward to  it for ages and a smiley world music weekend of festival fun was just what I needed to slingshot me down to Wellington. Easy hitch behind me, I found a hostel where I could earn my stay, I stocked up on cheap and delicious 1080 dripping lamb chops and cracked open a beer in front of a cheesy Van Damme movie. I had a bathroom to paint and lots of chores but never had hostel life appealed to much.

Jah Rastafari

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