By JUSTIN BROGLIO | Moonshine Ink
While on exchange during my college years at Lincoln University near Christchurch, New Zealand, I took up an offer to join a friend on one of the toughest tramps listed in my island guidebook. In addition to stating that Vegemite is a delicious addition to morning toast, it’s safe to say the book understated the difficulty of this tramp.
I should explain that Kiwis don’t hike; they tramp. They tramp for days, weeks even, and tramping is so popular that the New Zealand Department of Conservation has graciously built a series of military style bunkhouses, commonly called “huts,” along most of the tracks, or trails, around the country where trampers (aka hikers) can spend the night in comfort.
One such tramp lies south of New Zealand’s main island on Stewart Island, a much smaller, sparsely populated island known as Rakiura in the native Maori tongue.
Rakiura is home to the North West Circuit Track, a 125-kilometer challenge that was described in our guidebook as “quite demanding due to the often wet, muddy, and steep surfaces.”
Being an avid hiker back home on the mainland, and having done several multiday trips in Idaho, Washington, and the Sierra, I figured, “No problem!” After all, how hard could it really be?
The answer was hard. Very hard.
You can only get to Stewart Island by ferry boat or plane. Thankfully, Tom, my Kiwi friend and self-appointed Rakiura guide, knew a guy who knew a guy with a plane. The only problem was that the pilot only flew the route to Rakiura twice a week, and with his schedule booked weeks in advance, we’d only get five days to explore what the guidebook suggested allocating at least 10 to 12 days to do.
So, as I quickly learned in the Land of the Long White Cloud — the English translation of the Maori word for New Zealand, Aotearoa — “no worries, mate.” Tom and I adjusted our plans and agreed to pick up the track on Little Hellfire Beach, which must have gotten its name for the sand flies that made this beach a biting, stinging nightmare, and hike roughly 70 kilometers (43 miles) in five days north along the coastline back to the small town of Oban on the island’s east side. We’d be missing a solid 50-kilometer chunk of the track’s inland portion, but we’d stay on the coastline for almost the entire journey.
In The Land Time Forgot
The great thing about flying into a five-day tramp is that you get a bird’s-eye view of where you’re about to spend the next week. Sandy beaches dotted with rolling sand dunes stretched for miles and backed up to virgin New Zealand bush country with towering rimu trees and a dense fern canopy. It was straight out of “Jurassic Park,” complete with a rocky, steep coastline that looked un-trampable.
We landed late morning with what should have been plenty of time to complete the 14 kilometers up to the East Ruggedy Hut by dinner. The track left the beach quickly, heading into a long climb so steep and muddy that the Department of Conservation had installed knotted ropes. Despite this assistance, I still fell numerous times face and chest first into the sticky, island mud, which smelled like rotting compost. Imagine hiking up the Silver Belt Gully at Sugar Bowl with knee-deep mud and you get the picture.
Six hours later we reached West Ruggedy Beach, where the tide was up. This meant we’d have to skip the beach walk and the short climb up to the hut for a teeth-clenching, three-hour terrifying walk along the rocky coastline with towering waves attempting to knock us off at each step.
That night we opened two of the four beers we’d hauled in to celebrate with at the end of the tramp. This was going to be one hell of a week.
Hunting Camp
Day two brought encounters with the elusive kiwi bird, and 17.5 kilometers — 8 of which were straight up and straight down and crossed nearly 20 streams. We made it to our Yankee River Hut destination with just enough light for Tom to cast a line and haul in a healthy blue cod for dinner. The next day the trail continued to drag us up through the dense fern forest and slide us down the mud-covered slopes on the other side. On day three we accomplished a rain-soaked 12 kilometers to the Christmas Village Hut where we met a group of hunters.
Sheep farmers from New Zealand’s South Island, they had completely taken over the 12-bunk hut for a week of island deer hunting, bluff oyster diving, and Kiwi-style nights away from their wives and responsibilities. The group of a dozen men and their teenage sons all wore tattered shirts, shorts, or overalls and laughed at our “high-class” waders, Jetboil backpacking stoves, and homemade walking sticks.
After a comical introduction with my California accent, they doubled up on a few beds and welcomed us out of the storm with open arms. Our clothes hit the drying line and the storytelling began.
That night we ate like kings! Since the hunters had come by boat and weren’t limited to what they could carry, we dined on fresh oysters (two of the men had diving gear), lamb kebabs, and as many beers as we could handle. I’ll never forget the stories of fame and fortune told that night and the camaraderie born out of a simple chance meeting on an island in the middle of nowhere.
Day four was our shortest day of the trip with only 11 kilometers between the Christmas Village Hut and the Bungaree Hut. We started very late thanks to our new friends’ gracious hosting the night before. That day I noticed both our waders had turned from REI green to a New Zealand brown, and I wondered if my boots would ever dry out again. But we’d become so accustomed to the mud that we’d even stopped complaining about it.
Returning to Civilization
There’s something that happens to you on a tramp. No phones, no computers, no outside contact whatsoever, except with the people you meet on the trail. You begin to take on a sense of survival and, before long, you start to like it.
The next morning we woke up with the sun but didn’t leave the hut right away. As the only two occupants in the Bugaree Hut, we sat in the comfort of our makeshift home and pondered days to come. Tom and I brewed two pots of coffee and discussed family, our degree pursuits, dream ski trips, and everything we were going to accomplish before we got old and had to settle for five-day hunting trips away from our responsibilities.
We walked another 18 kilometers that day. The muddy trail turned to boardwalk and single track during the last legs back to Oban.
That night we pulled out our wallets, re-entered society, and bunked up in the only hostel in town. After confirming our flight out the next morning, we opened the last two beers Tom had left at the bottom of his pack.
We left that small island on the far south corner of New Zealand a little wiser, a whole lot dirtier, and having discovered something to tell our grandkids about — it doesn’t get much better than fresh oysters, five days without a shower, and mud-covered boots.
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