10 Weekenders

To Make Believe: Using one’s imagination to create a pretend scenario.

I arrive home from work a little earlier than normal this Friday to allow time for the final preparation required for an overnight hike. The next day Rose and I are hitting the road early to drive the 90 minutes southwest to Pirongia for a two-day walk. The little village I’ve driven through many a time without stopping and nearby Pirongia Forest Park is home to a renown challenging tramping track, with a good Doc Hut.

Packing for a hike requires more thought than non hike weekends. It’s a fine balance between ensuring survival verse carrying as little as possible. It’s important to carry sufficient food and then some more for just in case. Just in case the weather is worse than forecast. Just in case injury requires an extra night under the stars. Same goes for clothing, pack for the worst, where worst can be anything from extreme heat to a blizzard. Planning and packing are one of the challenges I enjoy about hiking – a tramping pack needs to contain what homes have in wardrobes, kitchens, linen cupboards, vanity drawers and more. On top of all of this, there is something smug about achieving a well thought out meal plan where you sit down with a freshly cooked steak (that has defrosted as you walk) while the stranger next to you is eating something carrying the label of beef bourguignon straight out of a resealable bag.  

And so the packing begins. The smaller of my tramping packs is hauled out of the cupboard. Rain coat for the pack, check. Raincoat for me, check. Enamel mug, slight hunt around, check. The cooker, fry pan, gas canister. Check, check, check. Then it’s the clothes. No matter the forecast, the thermals, beanie and gloves are stowed away in a watertight zip lock. The clothes for hiking laid out on the floor awaiting the early start. Into the kitchen, while the sausages pre-cook, I sort the rest of the food neatly in the fridge ready for the early get away. Wholesome activities, after all, require early starts to amplify the wholesomeness.

Done, it’s time to relax before the adventure begins. Tonight, Summer and nearly three-year-old Beau are staying (stepdaughter and grandson). Beau is quietly playing on the rug with his cars and truck, chatting away to himself in a game of make believe. Rose has coached me not to disturb a game of make believe, partly because it’s a time of peace. It’s at this stage I realise I have been indulging in my own make believe. See Rose isn’t so enamoured with a Doc Hut. Her one experience was in the middle of winter; I am a summer only tramper for good reason. Our only shared hiking experience has been doing the Milford Track the “posh way.” Rose has stated many a time, this is her style of tramping. While I enjoyed it, very much, it also feels a little bit of a cop out, like freeze dried meals. So, in the spirit of compromise and relationship goals, we agree on two one day walks and an Air BNB, a make believe that sits somewhere between Doc Hut and “Posh Milford”. In fairness, it wasn’t a difficult compromise on my part, when the pro column has the likes of hot shower, comfortable bed, chilled rose and anti-pasto platter.  However, also in the spirit of relationship goals, I ask Rose humours my need to carry the gas cooker and cook sausages. Adventures in the great outdoors remind me fondly of dad’s parents Grandma and Grandad. They’d take us on little adventures, my favourite being to the back of the farm for picnics in the bush beside the Wiggly Tree (a fallen down but still growing large, old rambling Puririri tree). While we’d climb the tree Granddad would set to making lunch on the cooker.

So, while carrying a pack with a cooker for a day walk helps to foster the pretend scenario of proper hiking, I also embrace the spirit of ‘make believe’ hiking and after a leisurely departure time, stop en-route to buy a coffee and a slice. Alas, we arrive at the car park for the first day hike to the Nikau Loop, Kaniwhaniwha Caves and New Zealand’s tallest recorded native tree. The river looks high, with rushing muddied water. A ute full of local youths pull up beside us, jump out of the car in high excitement, taken aback by the state of the river. It’s feels like mere seconds before they jump back in their ute and take off down the road, to no doubt marvel at more destruction of what was four hours of heavy overnight rain. When looking at the weather the previous evening we’d noted the heavy raining warning in the area, but nothing in the morning news suggested anything of its impact or even if the forecast rain eventuated.

So, we set off on our walk starting on a gravel road beside the river, before it joins the Nikau Loop. The destruction is clear, with debris tangled in between the strong, tall standing trees beside the river. The other side, the maize crops in the paddock are partly mowed down by the strong currents of what must have been a temporary river. We wonder if this must be what a flash flood does. Parts of the road we walk are covered in silt. We scramble a few large trees that now lay horizontal. We come across a local, with a thick (we decide) Dutch accent. He’s lived in the area 35 years and does this walk every day and never seen anything like it. After enquiring about our intended route, he assures us our chosen tracks will be safe, so we carry on. Besides, Rose is now channelling her eight-year-old self saving creatures in distress. In this case the creatures are eels who are stranded in muddy puddles on the road. Some are unlucky. Some, Rose gives a little nudge to assess signs of life. A plastic bag that was providing an extra layer of water tightness for a sweatshirt now becomes a rescue tool. Our reasonably short walk to the Nikau Loop takes considerably longer as Eel Dundee wrangles the muddy, grey, wriggly things into the bag before a quick transport to the river for release. Nine in total are rescued. One is in such a muddy puddle I’m given the rescue device and asked to save this one, my proper tramping boots apparently more suitable than her trainers. I hate eels. As in, freak out, even as a write I can sense the physical shudder of my body at the mere thought of seeing one, let alone the ick of touching one. Quite odd given I grew up swimming in creeks and having the things take off beneath my feet. I try my best not to shriek in fear as I manage to capture the thing and quickly hand off to Rose who takes the glory of a safe delivery to the river.

We make the Nikau walk and sure enough the path is unscathed. And this is my favourite type of track. Shingle path, surrounded by New Zealand native bush, the towering canopy trees of the rimu and kaihikatea, the ground cover of ferns and moss. And that cool feeling against your skin, and the quiet sound of serenity as any life woes disappear. We decide the caves are too wet and reason the danger of flash floods? One could suggest its code for neither of us really like tight spaces and the thought of squeezing our way through tight crevasses freak me out as much as eels. Conquering one fear is enough. Afterall this is a make-believe hike. A real one, maybe I’d push the challenge boundaries further. Maybe. Unlikely.

By now there is a phone call from the boy’s father. By chance this weekend the eldest, Harry on the eve of turning 15, is doing a solo hike elsewhere in the Pirongia Forest Park. His father’s wish. They had done a practice hike a few weeks before and this weekend was show time. The phone call goes along the lines of the Park is closed due to wash outs and impassable tracks. Everyone that was registered for an overnight stay is off the mountain or making their way off, other than solo, 15-year-old Harry. For once he’s not looking at his phone, father’s instructions and all. Oblivious, on Harry walks up and up and up. Rose and I decide against the longer walk to the tall tree. What’s a tall tree anyway and start to make our way back. There’s not a lot we can do about Harry. It’s no longer raining, hasn’t been since the overnight deluge. I assure Rose there will be a Doc Ranger in the hut at this time of year for such a popular track. We find out later, even the Ranger has been evacuated. While it’s not raining, it’s a bit bleak and not conducive to a nice sunny picnic spot and I start to accept my sausages will have to wait another day. But Rose insists, why wouldn’t we? It’s now my turn to channel my 8-year-old self and quickly set to getting the cooker going. We have our hot drink courtesy of the Thermos. Because this is make believe hiking, I carry a picnic blanket, something you’d never take proper hiking because of the weight. And of course, there is tomato sauce and salt and pepper. Even a paper towel each. Make believe hiking really does have a lot of pros in the pro column. We enjoy our hot lunch and of course scroggin. What’s hiking without chocolate, nuts and raisins?

By walks end we are muddied, my boots covered from some of the ankle deep muddy surprises. By now, we have spoken to Harry. He is near the top and safe. I encourage him to stay in the hut not in the tent he carries. He takes no convincing at all.

As we settle into our Airbnb, we can see the top of the mountain. Cloud comes and goes, but it’s dry. And Harry will be getting sporadic views. In the hut he will be dry and warm, albeit eerily alone in the hut (turns out he was joined by another family).

After hot showers and a cold rose, a platter and a board game, Rose and I head for a little drive around the village. Little being the operative word. It is cute, old weatherboard cottages and homesteads interspersed with mainly 1970s/80s(?) homes. There is no pub. The one cute shop, not open by the time we are showered and public ready. There is a café not normally open for dinner, that is opening later that evening for Valentines. Despite having dinner food with us, we decide to come back later. Another one for the “pro” column. I enjoy my prosecco and Rose her cider with our Bao buns and salad, while looking up at Harry wondering how his freeze dry is going.

We snuggle into the warm, comfortable bed, with the luxury of a TV on the wall. After the standard relationship struggle of “what to watch”, we opt for Rose watching the basketball and me for sleep. Awww Valentine’s Day.

After a hearty cooked breakfast we set off for the second day of walking. We know this walk is more strenuous than the first. The climb is 723 metres to the Ruapene summit. All going well, Harry will meet us there and walk back down with us. The total walk, allowing sausage time, is five hours. We find the road to lead us to the carpark. Closed, the sign says. But the sign is only on one side of the road and looks like the cones have been moved. We look at each other with an unsaid question and answer. Off we set down the road. Without mishap we make the carpark, the only ones there. We set off on the highly recommended Mangakara Nature Loop, before joining the Ruapene track. Not far in yellow tape across the track suggests it is closed. We take it as a suggestion. The washed out bridge makes us scratch our heads. Clever cookies that we are, we think it’s a loop track so head the other way only to find a second washed out bridge. I’m starting to feel less clever but that doesn’t stop us from wading the safe looking river. With wet boots and socks we hit the Ruapene Track. And this is real hiking. The track is still formed, but with tree roots and rocks, it’s a tough climb up hill, the heart rate rising, the pack firmly on the back and we need to make sure we keep the orange track markers in site so we don’t get lost. Rose does verbalise her ponderings of what one would do if we had 20 seconds before a land slide hit. Her answer makes me wonder how long her 20 seconds is. I simply think perhaps we are not clever cookies but foolish ones with the headlines of the stupid middle-aged ladies that ignored all the danger signs. As yet we haven’t seen anyone engaging in such stupidity. Nevertheless, we solider on up and up. As we nearer the trig the track becomes big boulders we haul ourselves up. The fitness being tested with mini breaks required to capture breath before another assault up the rocks, the motivation of meeting Harry at the agreed time helping to fuel us.

We arrive first. It is overcast and we can see the rain falling in the valley below. Nevertheless, it’s cooker and sausage time. While the sausages cook, I adorn my raincoat. Then Bilbo Baggins walks around the side of the mountain sodden in his good t-shirt he got for Christmas (I make note to talk about when to and when not to use good clothes), but instead of Frodo throwing his arms around him in palpable relief, it’s his mother. He too enjoys a hot sausage, with none of us worried about double dipping the tomato sauce when 700 metres up a mountain in light drizzle. The teenager wants to keep moving. And so off we head back down. We pass three other people on the track heading up to the trig, feeling a slight sense of relief we have company in arguable foolishness. Nevertheless, we quicken our pace in case the river is on the rise. There was no issue as we wade across the river and I can’t help but feel this is real tramping. We reach the car park shelter, where we strip off muddied and wet gear, finish our snacks and water. Today wasn’t make believe hiking. Today was tough, in a rewarding way, and well and truly gives me my wilderness fix.

Although it does seem too short a distance from “make believing” with Eel Dundee and fighting nature at her elements, to enjoying KFC. But what’s one to do with a hungry fifteen-year-old in the car?