THURSDAY 14th APRIL - TUNNEL RUMBLES
I had been standing by the road for only about five minutes when the two old boys who had picked me up the evening before pulled up. “What a coincidence”, we all exclaimed. It wasn’t really seeing that they were just heading back to work on the same road but it certainly was perfect timing. They set me down back where they picked me up from which just happened to be about a km from the start of a track that went over the Rimutaka Range and came out next to Lake Wairarapa. I had seen this track on the map but hadn’t known it was an existent one until the night before. Experience so far told me that tracks on maps didn’t always tally with the material world but the night before I had found a brochure on Upper Hutt walkways that confirmed its existence. It was called the Rimutaka Incline walk and it followed the route of the old railway from Kaitoke to Cross Creek.

Reaching the track start I swatted up on the railways history on the info boards inside a restored train station shelter. The Rimutaka railway closed in 1955 the then new Rimutaka tunnel opened. It had run for 77 years and was one of only three railways in the world that used the ‘fell’ system, the others being in Brazil and in the French Alps. As the gradient of travel was so steep (1:15) the ‘fell’ system used a third rail laid centrally and raised slightly higher. For climbing ‘fell’ locomotives had two pairs of driving wheels set horizontally which gripped the centre rail and helped propel the trains up hill. When descending, brakes set in separate brake cars, were applied. Some of the trains had up to 15 locomotives and brake cars to keep them rolling and from running away down the tracks.

A 1:15 gradient might be steep for trains but walking I barely noticed I was going uphill as I wound my way through the gentle (by NZ standards) hills. I had expected some kind of hill before getting to Summit station but all of a sudden I rounded a corned and there it was, a set of old locomotives laid out rusting in the sun and the station shelter newly painted. From here I had the tunnel section in which I would walk through three tunnels, Summit, Siberia and Prices tunnel. At the dark entrance to Summit tunnel, by far the longest at about 600m, some cruel joker had put up a sign reading, “LISTEN for the train or is it a ghost.” Just what some poor kiddie wants to read before plunging into the darkness. I, however, have had experience walking though old railway tunnels as at home my mates and I used to walk through one near Hook Norton without torches to scare ourselves. That particular one was about a km long and it had a curve which meant you couldn’t see the light at the other end making it almost pitch black. This one, on the other hand, was dead straight so I could see the light at the end and I focused on it as I clinked into the dark, the noise of my poles on the stone floor echoing off the brick tunnel walls. I could have sworn I heard a train within the reverberation of my tramping din. Damn Sign! I kept having to stop to confirm the silence.

When I rejoined the world for Siberia tunnel the icy wind explained the naming as it grasped at my soul with its stiff fingers. A plaque stood as commemoration to three children that had been killed when, in Sept 11th 1880, a train climbing the incline was blown from the rails while crossing Siberia incline. The wind, as it spearheaded down the valley, almost imbued one with a sense of its malevolence and in my conspiritory daze I pondered over whether the 9/11 date was historically a day when dark forces synchronised. A day when the negative elements of nature and consciousness combined in an attempt to implement their will over the world. A feeble correlation of two totally unconnected events I know but what can I say, I have naturally open mind to the bizarre and ridiculous. It keeps me sane or, should I say, unsane. 'There is an area of the mind that could be called unsane, beyond sanity, and yet not insane.” (Terrance McKenna)

Back to the real world, at the bottom of the track the valley turned and spread to reveal Lake Waiarapa filling the flat expanse at its feet. Reaching the road the flat fields and sparse lanky trees bordering the lake had a savanna feel to them, the cows filling in for the gazelle herds. By now the mornings clouds had broken up and the sun warmed by skin between the cooling Southerly breezes as I followed the quiet flat road beside the lake. Seeing a sign reading, “Gardens 2km’ I set my sights for a lunch spot and let the rumble of my stomach replace the train carriages of earlier. I just expected someone to have an open garden with a nice soft lawn where I could graze. Little did I know what enchantments lay in wait. As I nosed through the deserted and cobweb strewn entrance to Prarie Holm Gardens the house looked empty, almost as if it had been vacated years before. When I found my way into the garden I stepped between two stone lions and was immediately immersed in the ornate and magical world that lay beyond. It was like stepping from the real world into a fairytale land, a secret garden in ancient spells and magical ruse. There were inquisitive paths skirting the
miniature and perfectly manicured hedges which lead through the unfolding and intimate dominions of this leafy paradise. There was a water wheel and lily pond, huge carved mushrooms and the bases of the towering native hardwoods and a multitude of secluded glades each with a conveniently placed bench for weary travelers. There were pretty lawns and love kissed flowers, fruit trees and creepers, shaded gazebos and a brass sundial crowning a paved crossroads. As I explored all the while birds chattered in the branches and automatic sprinklers whispered in the brimming flower beds. It felt as if the garden was alive and tending itself without the green
fingered genius that must have laid its roots and sculpted its beauty.

It took me a while to pick a bench but I eventually settled for one overlooking the pond where I could hear the soothing sound of the fountains peeling droplets. As I sat and ate on my own I could sense people all around me but no one could be seen. I imagined the garden to be full of people discovering its delights, each oblivious to each other, too caught up in the wonderland that surrounded them. I could have stayed there for days but I had to drag myself away as there were too many km’s left for the day to cover. Leaving through the silent entrance I felt a pang of guilt not leaving anything in the honesty box but my wallet was buried deep within my pack and fishing to retrieve it only netted me my towel and a pair of socks. I promised myself that if I passed again I would drop in and make a donation for the upkeep but it was obvious that it was planted and maintained for love not money.

It was another three hours through the savanna and by the time I reached the road running underneath the lake the sun was setting and it was time to find a night spot. I had just filled my bottle from a small stream by the road that looked the least tainted with farm waste but you never really know what you are drinking. Boiling only kills the germs and other nasties and doesn’t get rid of the fertilizers and other chemicals. I planned to just knock on a farmers door to get permission to camp up in a field but there were few
houses and the one I eventually tried was just farm workers who directed me back the way I came to the farmers house. It was almost dark by that point so I took a chance and just jumped a fence and pitched by the road. I would be gone at first light and if I was rumbled, what farmer could resist my beards charm and my charity walk sob story.

FRIDAY 15th APRIL - THE DARK AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
The night time bombing raids hadn't woken me but while packing up my tent I noticed the ducks had had a busy night cluster bombing the intruder behind enemy lines. I flicked off what shrapnel I could with a tent peg and packed it away as the sky blushed its way towards daylight and a farmer over the road rounded up his cattle on the back of a quad bike. I got walking early and without any dawn confrontations. After a few hours of following the quiet roads I pulled up at the Pirinoa village shop and stopped for a cold chocolate milk on the picnic table outside in the sun. While I was sitting there surrounded by my dew soaked belongings the postman pulled up in his red van and took in his deliveries. On his way out we got chatting when he asked me where I was hitching. Telling him I was walking to the Cape I asked how far he reasoned it was and he said it was at least half an hours drive away. I had been planning to camp half way but looking at the map together he suddenly chirped up, "you could make that today" and it suddenly dawned on me that I could finish before the day was out if I really pushed it beyond all previous records. It would be agonizing to camp a few hours from the end when I could just mission it and, albeit in the dark, make it today. His comment was the push I needed to jolt me into finish mode. The end was so close it was too much to bear drawing out my journey any longer. I would walk well into the night if I had to but I would get there today even if it half killed me. The whole walk had been leading up to this point and in the culmination of three months walking I was going to draw on my deepest reserves in one last marathon effort and go out with a bang.

Just after the postie had driven off he U turned and gave me his mobile number. "If you can get back to the end of Cape Rd by 10am I can give you a lift back to Featherston," he offered. "See you there mate," I promised as he drove away and it was a promise I was determined to keep. Leaving the shop in my wake I shot off at breakneck speed towards the finish line. The gun had been fired by the comment and with a grin the size of a house chiselled onto my lips the reality that I was on my last day hit me with every euphoric rush of unbridled excitement that surged through my body. My skin raced with a spider-print of electrical charges and the emotion bubbled beyond the surface in bursts of hysterical giggles and yelps of joy. At walking pace the end had been close for a long time and all the excitement I had generated of its impending arrival had suddenly emancipated itself from the shackles of my self constraint and turned me into a maniacal flurry of synaptic energy. I got a small hold of myself when I passed a sign saying 'Cape Paliser 40km' but the grin remained domesticated on my features as a permanent landmark to my elation.

Glimpsing the ocean again was as joyous as ever and as I got further down the Cape road it flirted with the shore until it ran just behind the wild black sand beaches. There was a range that ran almost to the coast so the beaches were met by its steep sided slopes, the road a feeble barrier between them. There had been some serious floods in the Waiarapa only about a week before and this part of the coast had been the worst hit with the ranges small streams dramatically transformed into angry torrents tearing up the hill sides, blocking the road and destroying many of the bridges that kept it on its course. The coast looked like a war zone with the hills slashed by fresh slips and the once tranquil river valleys littered with jagged boulders and flood debris. On one part of the coast just East of the Cape they got 15 inches of rain in two days according to a crayfish fisherman I got talking to. That's a serious amount of water to fall from the sky and I was lucky to have arrived when I did and not the week before when I wouldn't have even been able to walk the road. Looking down the hill at one point I could see the terraced ruins of past roads slipping towards the sea. The slopes that looked as if they had been quarried were actually just civil engineering graveyards making up the foundations of the roads current route. It would be another 10m higher the following year.

The road switched from dirt to seal and as I bent round the coast I passed a handful of point breaks dotted with local surfers. The swell was huge today and word had obviously got around. It was a surfers dream but a Cray fisherman's nightmare and when I finally heaved my way into Ngwai all the Cray boats were marooned, their launching tractors lined up silently growling their discontent. Just before rolling into the small fishing village a seaweed collector pulled up next to me interested in where I was heading. He gathered seaweed mainly for export to California for high grade fertilisers but, "the real choice bits were for eating", he told me. "Go for your life", he gestured, handing me a bottle of coke and after a few sugar sweet glugs he said I had better make tracks if I was to get to the lighthouse before dark. There was, in reality, no hope of that as it was already 5pm and the two hours of light left would seriously struggle to illuminate the 15km home straight. As I moved off the restlessness of a heard of cows spreading through the adjacent field drew my attention. One started the call and the hysterical 'mooing' quickly spread through the pack. it was if they were screaming encouragement from the grandstand for my final lap of the track; a congratulatory roar to carry me over the line. I raised my poles in mock salute to my fans and added some pack to my step in appreciation. One couldn't let ones fans down and if they suddenly turned nasty I wanted a decent head start.

I had banked on the Ngwai shop being open so I could stuff a few celebratory beers in my pack folds for a lighthouse party but on arrival the shutters were down. I didn't need beer, I had risotto and cereal bars to crown my achievement. Just as I was heading off an "Oi you!" sounded behind me and I wheeled around expecting a telling off but was in fact greeted by a white haired chap who had offered me a ride this morning back at the Pirinoa store. I filled my bottles from his tap and regretted I wasn't a whisky man when he offered me a scotch. His wife was having dinner in front of the TV and they both wished me well as I hauled my pack and headed on. The sun had just set and when the angled beams failed to spark the brooding tractors engines I gritted my teeth for my last stand. The sharp pain between my shoulder blades from carrying my pack all day kept its silent screams quiet as my final resolve staged its grand coup. My body was numbed in anticipation and as it rounded one of the ranges roots the sweeping spotlight of the lighthouse flashed into view. I was thinking I would be celebrating in the dark at the end but the penny quickly fell through my mind fog. Of course, I was going to be under a lighthouse! The spot would be searching but the star would be out of reach below. I deserved a little but for now, self flagellation aside.

Ships hundreds of miles away could see the light beam so my first sighting didn't mean I was close. I still had at least 5km and in the half dark, pierced by the dipping moon, I drove myself on resolutely. Keeping to the faint outline of the road a hissing sound suddenly blew up from the darkness between me and the sea. It sounded like someone summoning me for a clandestine meeting and I stared into the black to try and make out a figure. Out of the darkness there suddenly came another 'psssst' exploding into the air right next to me. I jumped back startled and sped hastily on not wanting to find out the source of the noise lurking in the dark. Dumfounded, I thought for a second it could have been some kind of blow hole in the rocks but the last burst had lain that thought to rest. There were some eerie noises vibrating the air tonight and as I passed a small point jutting into the surf I though I could make out a girls screams hanging on the breeze. I wasn't about to investigate either of the creepy outbursts and as long as I kept moving the disturbed dread remained at bay. I was almost under the lighthouse when it suddenly occurred to me what the midnight marauders were. Of course, it was obvious now that I had remembered the flash memory of someone mentioning them. They were seals! Wailing, snorting and generally boisterous seals. Maybe they were egging me on as well but it was more likely they were just telling me to bugger off!

Standing under the circling lighthouse, I had almost made it. All that was left was finding my way up to it. I had been told earlier by a couple by the road that there was spongy grass leading up the hill to it and finding an opening in the fence I started climbing uphill hoping to hit the path. It was too dark to scan the hill above me and my fading torch did little but illuminate my sore feet. The hill was getting steep and the spongy bushes deeper and my struggles weren't being rewarded. As my, "I've got this far" mindset slowly ground to a halt I stopped and sat beaten on my pack. Only cereal bars could help me now and I munched one in the nights cool facade while preparing for plan B. Get back down the hill without being claimed my the sponge's absorbent grip, get my wits together and then find the bloody steps! It couldn't be that hard and walking to the other side of the hill, getting intimate with a few cow pats on the way, I made out some buildings in the gloom. They were, of course, the old lighthouse buildings at the bottom of the wooden staircase. I hadn't checked that side of the hill as it required walking past the lighthouse which seemed, after a 1,700km trek to get there, an insane idea that my unsanity refused to consider.

There were 258 steps and as my quads burned the finish line flickering at my fingertips. Falling over the top step, I dropped my pack and poles and waited for the reality to hit me. After 13 hours walking, 58km (a new record by almost half!) and 258 steps, not to mention a commando hill climb and two river fordings, I had made it to the end. Letting out a long pent up sigh I waited for my triumphant scream to issue forth but it never came. I had imagined myself roaring from the rock tops, my joy, relief, exhaustion and pain melding into a single vocal outcry that echoed from the hill sides and followed the warning beams far out to sea but the will never materialized. It wasn't that I didn't feel all those emotions, I did and more. All I can say is that I had such a raw range of feeling weaving its way through me that I was simply overwhelmed to the point that I couldn't process any of them let alone motive any action from them. It was the other way around actually. I wasn't thinking I was feeling, and my feelings couldn't summon the actions to express themselves. All I could do was sit down in the lighthouse doorway and absorb the quiet intoxicating night, breathing in its essence and imparting a tiny part of my being with every out breath. Loud celebration didn't seem appropriate. Simply being was enough.

The Tunnel!		Sleeping Cray Boats

What I couldn't see in the dark		Knackered and Happy

Victorious		I love self timers!