Taumarunui was a great place to have a rest. A former timber town, the buildings were old and graceful, a mix of art deco and heritage style.
Plans were made for the upcoming seven days which would encompass the 42 Traverse and iconic Round the Mountain track within the Tongariro National Park. It was quite a struggle to get everything lined up, with huts and camping areas already completely booked up, organising the correct sequence of availability took some effort.
Aubs, for his part, snavelled us a ride to Owhango at 9am with a young lad named Luke…the son of the woman who works at the Outdoor Store. He really has a knack for this. No road walking for us!
So, at around 9.30am we arrived at Owhango. We were dropped off at the canoe centre, where the trail notes had said we were welcome to pitch our tents. An employee, Jacob, told us to pitch anywhere and welcomed us to use the indoor facilities.
With tents set up, we wandered to the local cafe, followed by a quick walk through the local reserve. The reserve was really lovely, with huge trees and river frontage. We watched a family of Whio, an endemic and rare New Zealand duck, training fat, little ducklings to swim upriver. These ducks are rapid river specialists and the most powerful duck swimmers in the world. They number less than 2500, and conservation options are limited because of their specialist habitat. It was fascinating to watch the group learning together.Â
The lagoonA ripper of a tree
Back at the canoe facility, Aubs met another employee, who basically said, “The place is yours for the night. Call this number if there is a burglary attempt”. The doors were left open for us. No further tempting was necessary. Tents were packed up, and inside we went.
Inside, we had full range through an old hotel, the beds still unmade after guests had stayed, and food sitting in the kitchen uneaten. I decided to stay in “Dave’s” room, and rolled my sleeping bag out onto the top of the doona. It was…a little creepy. Big, old creaky corridors and the ghosts of peoples past inhabited the space. Quite literally.
The creaky, old hotel corridorDave’s room, where I slept. His name was written on a whiteboard on the door.
I didn’t sleep well, wracking and rolling with nightmares, and an uneasy feeling regarding bed bug possibilities. The night passed without incident however. No burglaries to report.
The 42 Traverse had been both intimidating and fascinating me. A strange name, but it turned out to be a very straightforward hike up and along a mountainous ridge.
The official “selfie spot” for the 42 TraverseRoad to the start of the trail (which we walked!) This river crossing was bridgedLovely waterfall
The river crossings were the standout features of the hike, the water clear and crisp. We camped near one such creek, and both braved the cold to bathe and gasp in the waters freezing grip.
River crossing one, where we campedRiver crossing two, the following day
I suspect we were very lucky that the area has been in drought. In different conditions, the 42 Traverse would have been a mud soaked, slippery hellhole. The ground on this occassion was fairly firm, and the mud puddles easy to navigate.
Imagine this in the wet!
Once on the road, we had decided we would try and hitch the 6km to the caravan park (no road walking for us!) The first person to come along picked us up and drove us to the front door. I could definitely get used to this!
As a result of the bookings, we have an enforced rest at the caravan park for an extra day, before we can commence the Round the Mountain track. I’ve spoilt myself with an ensuite cabin. There is nothing to do except read my book and rest. Perfect.
First little glimpses of Mt Ngauruhoe (Mt Doom from the movies) and Mt Ruapehu. There is still quite a lot of snow on the later! We will walk around Mt Ruapehu on the Round the Mountain track.
Hello! I am writing to you from the Waitomo caravan park, approximately 130km down the trail from Hamilton. It’s been a fairly torrid start to this, the second run at the Te Aroroa trail…I guess it was never going to be easy!
To put all of this in context, Aubs and I, back when we were partners, commenced the trail at Cape Reinga and section hiked to Auckland. That was five years ago. Much has changed in that time, and much has stayed the same. When I got back from the Scotland trip last year, Aubs asked if I would be keen to continue on with the TA. It sounded half mad…but we had been friends for the last four years, so sure, why not?
The plan was to meet in Brisbane, at the airport and travel to Auckland. From there, we would catch the bus to Hamilton, having decided to skip the laborious task of hiking from city to city through dreary suburbs and industrial wastelands.
The plan went off without a hitch and we soon found ourselves camped up in an urban caravan park excitedly purchasing and planning for the first stage of the hike. Crazily, the receptionist at the caravan park was from Norfolk Island!
Brekky before the bus ride to HamiltonSalubrious camp site“Hey! I thought I recognised you!”
The following day we braved the cold and got underway – destination Whatawhata – and what would turn out to be about a 20km journey.
Essentially, this was a trip through the outer suburbs of Hamilton along various roadways until we reached a particularly nice viewing area. Greenery and mountains were spread out before us, giving a glimpse into the landscape that we would be getting familiar with over the coming days.
Aubs tries to do it the easy wayThe what is to come…
Eventually we arrived in Whatawhata and were greeted by the friendly locals. One fellow, sucking on an icecream, informed us we were welcome to park up in his backyard. We just needed to let him know so he could leave his electric gate open. Despite the kind offer, we stuck with our original plan, which was to ask at the Whatawhata cafe.
The very jolly owner, already knocked off for the day and sipping a Bacardi and coke was delighted to see us! A couple of the first walkers through for the year! We were welcome to find a patch of grass out the back, in between tables, and pitch our tents. Welcome to use the cold, filtered water. Welcome to use the toilets for the night. Sorry there is no shower. Here, use this jug, that’ll make things easier for cooking. I’m sorry I didn’t catch her name. She was really so accommodating and welcoming. What a boon for the trail.
Cafe campsiteNot a bad sunset!
The following day is a little bit….crazy. It starts off fine, with a slightly overgrown and weedy, but pleasant enough walk alongside a murky, brown river. The sun shining off its surface.
Forsaken bridge
Aubs has had trouble with accessing his money since arriving in NZ, and, I think it is probably fair to say, that we are still “adapting” to each others vastly differing communication and hiking styles. Aubs decided to pull up stumps for a minute to talk to the bank (again!), so I decided to keep on going, knowing that we would catch up a little further down the track.
I crossed a bridge, wary of the reports that the next section was heavily overgrown and a nightmare to walk. To my delight, it was obvious that a trail angel had been through recently with the snippers and spray, so the track was clear and relatively pain free. Happy days. I consulted my app, crossed the highway and started along the road towards the next section of the trail. Before too long, I began to climb. Up and up, the views becoming better and better. A message from Aubs:
Where are you?
Just past the quarry. Get ready for a hill climb!
Up and up and up I go. I take a photo and notice three missed calls from Aubs and a message
What quarry?
I video call him back (For some reason that is the only way I can hear anybody on my phone). I see Aubs looking hot and flustered. He says:
I think you’ve gone the wrong way. You were supposed to continue down the highway. The Karamu walkway is closed because of lambing season. You were supposed to continue down the highway.
He then reads me the exact message on a different trail app. I’m a bit stunned. I can’t conceive of going back. I’ve already climbed such a long way. I’m almost at the walkway. I tell Aubs he will have to leave it with me. That I’ll sort something out. That I’ll see him at the homestead tonight. And we hang up.
I stand for a bit, unsure. Decide I might as well keep going for now. That I might have to risk it. I reach the walkway. I can see a big “Walkway Closed” sign hanging from the fence. I also see a big crew of road workers milling about near the top. I feel defeated and decide I might as well approach them to ask for advice, or even a ride back to the highway. I was glad I did. Picture this conversation (in a broad kiwi Maori accent):
You are a hiker are you? Enjoying your hike?
Well….yes. But now I see the closed sign and I think I have stuffed up.
Before you get all blue about it, I suggest going over there and having a look at the fine print on that sign. Go and have a look! Read the fine print! You’re good!
I go and have a look. And indeed, the knowledgeable Maori fellow is right…the sign says the walk is closed between the 1st of August and 30th September….a date we have now passed. Without knowing what to do I ask the person who seems to know the most. What should I do?
Go! Go and enjoy your hike! The lambs were born ages ago. You’ll be fine. It’s all good!
With limited options, I choose to believe in this guy. I climb the fence. I’m not going to write a tonne of stuff about the Kamaru Walkway, because I honestly still don’t know if I was allowed to be there or not. I will say however, that, rightly or wrongly, it was awesome.
Lunch break. I did get a message from Aubs here that said “This is the most dangerous road walk I have ever done”. I tried not to feel guilty.
On the other side, I came to our accommodation for the night. I could see Aubs on the verandah of what looked to be a hiker hut. Poor Aubs. He had had an awful day, fighting traffic and literally fearing for his life. I felt terrible about my naughty girl good fortune. To top things off, just after everything had been unpacked we encountered Lucia, who informed us we were in the wrong cabin. We were henceforth to pack up and move to the backpacker bunk room.
Hidden behind a car and an old wooden door lay an old milking shed with a few beds thrown inside. The bin was full and the place was just…pretty dim. We soon met Pastor Stu, who entered the hut, gave me a beer, sat on the one reasonable seat (with Aubs trying to shave in the background), kicked off his gumboots, twisted off his bottle cap, threw it onto the floor, and proceeded to regale us with stories about his pastor services for the prisons and police. I must admit that I thought he may have been having us on…aren’t pastors supposed to be better at listening than talking. An hour or two later, beers drunk, he left. None the wiser about either Aubs or I. A pretty crazy day.
Right…now to add to things, my keyboard has died. So once again in NZ, I’m back to typing on my phone. Why Te Araroa??!!! Why do you hate me so?
The next morning I knew something was wrong. My throat felt like little knives were cutting it. Cut, cut, cut. I tried to put it down to the plethora of dust mites I had been inhaling in the dusty barn all night. Breakfast was had. With Pastor Stu. This time we heard about his recent operations. On departure, Aubs was made to try fingertip chin ups on the door frame. We watched the Pastor succeed in a few. Aubs, not so much. But at least he tried. We left quickly and thankfully, grateful for the stay, but feeling a little bit like we’d been conned at the same time.
My throat starting feeling worse. Thinking about the day ahead, a huge day of climbing up the Pirongia range, didn’t help. I told Aubs to push ahead. I needed to be in my own head space. I would be slow, slow, slow. Things started ok. Fairly flat, with an insight into the ravages that recent floods have borne on the area, with huge trees uprooted and debris several metres deep lining the banks of the river.
Flood ravaged creek bankLooks are deceiving!
Once we started going up, things got real for me. Up and up and up through beautiful forest, but my head was gone, focussed solely on every piercing breath which needed to be taken. Hours later, towards the top, the track devolved. More tree roots, step ups, slippery downhills and steeper uphills. My head was pounding and I felt feverish. Each step a mental push for focus and breath. Eventually, I half stumbled into camp. Aubs was there to greet me, and give me a very welcome hug. I felt spent.
Part way up!
The reward was an absolutely magical sunset with incredible views in all directions. Still, an early night for me.
Sun setting behind “The Cone”
The next day I felt worse. Not much sleep and now a blocked but runny nose. And brain fog. Massive brain fog. And I needed to get down this mountain. A quick look at the trail comments led me to believe this could be hell in hiking boots. Muddy and slippery. A number of commenters stated it had taken them up to nine hours to complete this challenge. Gulp…
Thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as that. A recent dry patch helped, and although muddy and slippery, I was able to hold my concentration and nerve and make my way down. I do confess to questioning myself…. I should be at home watching Netflix on the couch, or sleeping…Why am I doing this? Sometimes I do really wonder, why?
Mud, mud, mud
Aubs was waiting at the bottom and we took a small break before continuing on another 8km to our camp for the night. Aubs was once again dealing with the bank, so I continued on, making the most of the opportunity to put on a podcast and blow my nose time and time and time and time again.
I reached Jo’s Funny Farm. No joke. I wasn’t feeling that humerous by that time. I was, in fact, feeling absolutely sick and dead tired. My spirits were more than bouyed by meeting Pip the dog, and making my way into Jo’s comfy pad for hikers. With a bit of a rest I decided I would be better off setting up my tent, keeping my germs to myself, and letting Aubs have a good sleep indoors.
My favouritist friend on the trip so far, Pip.
LOL!! The night gave me no rest. I was in bed before dark and juuuusssttt as I was drifting off to sleep, Jo’s partner arrived home. The animals were fed and their satisfied chomping reined supreme. Lights went off and I once again settled back in. A cat, (whom I was later introduced to as Socks) snuck into the vestibule and started mewling. Socks left. Sleep approached. Morepork….morepork….morepork. Right in the tree above me. I asked her why, and all I got back was that she wanted to say hello. Hours later, an indignant duck quacked me from my restless slumber. All of that is to say, that I woke with slits for eyes and the world’s runniest nose. I wasn’t pretty.
Sickly slits for eyes
It was a long morning of slow packup. Made all the more enjoyable talking to Jo, a true blue trail angel who does it because the service is needed and for nothing more. Feeling sorry for me, I was given a natural remedy to help flush me out. Not to be taken until I was resting at the end of day. With half open eyes, I set off.
Despite everything, it was an enjoyable day. Aubs and I are coming to an understanding around how we need to operate with our hiking, and things feel a lot smoother. It feels long, but the bush is nice and not particularly challenging…besides the mud of course!
We reach the camp site at the red shed of Pukari hut by around 3pm. There is a family there already, but I’m not up for mingling. I make camp away from the rest, take my magical elixir and fall to sleep.
Do not camp here for a while. That’s all I can say.
I wake much brighter eyed. Things are on the up! This has worked! A quick dinner and walk and I am back in bed. It starts to rain and I contentedly (though snuffelly) fall asleep to the world’s most luxurious sound.
Morning comes. I wake, feeling quite a lot better. The miracle cure has worked! But wait…what’s this! In an absolute panic I flee out of my sleeping bag and make it into the vestibule before my insides let go and I literally shit like hell. It’s like one of those cartoons where the character vomits way longer than they need to. But this was shitting. In a steady, steady stream until nothing more could be inside. Fucking hell. Is this a holiday? I make my coffee and get on with things. At least I’m feeling better. There’s nothing more I can do.
And so, finally my friends, we are headed into Waitomo and a rest. It is raining and drizzly all day, but not cold. The track is interesting. Absolutely lovely forest in parts and slippy, sloppy mud crevices in others. Aubs and I continue to get better at communicating our intent with a “you do you” philosophy.
Remote runwayBreakfast break spot Creek crossingMud, mud, mud. Again!
We arrive in town and get into the accommodation. After all this snotty sickness and exploding cleansing I finally get a hot shower. It is bliss. A pub meal, a good sleep and things are back on track. For now anyway.
This is it! Final day. As always it is that mixture of excitement and loss that pervades my mind when I wake up. It’s early. Much earlier than I have been waking usually. My body knows a conclusion is coming. One way or another. I’m ready. Let’s go.
It’s a beautiful day. Sunbeams dancing on the water. I make my way slowly across the beach and begin the climb for the final test.
It’s not far, but it is like this last section is designed to test everything you have learnt on your journey and to put it all together in one final challenge.
Firstly, have you learnt to do all your online homework? Have you worked out whether the military area is going to be open or closed? Have you made contact with the bus driver, the ferry operator, the lighthouse on the other end to try and work out how you are getting off the trail? Do you know how you are going to leave this place?
Secondly, are you prepared physically? Are you able to climb numerous huge mountains? Walk through bog? Climb over barbed wire fences? Walk trackless for the majority of the day?
And speaking of, are you able to navigate through this landscape? Can you look at the map and identify the lochs? The mountain ranges? The general path that you should try and follow? Can you cross swiftly flowing creeks? Or, slide down muddy, slippery slopes to reach them?
It turns out I had mastered all these things. I cruised along, overcoming one obstacle after the next, moving ever closer to my final destination. The Lighthouse.
I arrive around lunchtime. It is like a ghost town, broken down cars and old metal fences singing in the wind. I walk into the cafe to find it empty. Take a couple of snaps with a plaque on the wall related to the Scottish National Trail. It is a very unassuming finale to an epic walk. And that’s okay. At the end of the day, there is only one person that the walk needs to live up to, and that’s me. Has it lived up to my expectations? My word it has.
This wee walk has delivered it all and I owe a debt of gratitude. It has loved me and stretched me and made me live outside my comfort zone on many occassions. That is, after all, why I do this. To live in joy and discomfort, and be redefined by it. Made resilient and strong.
I yell out politely in the cafe, and an owner arrives. She explains that three of the four sandwich options are unavailable. A cheese and pickle sandwich is the only choice. One of the finest tasting sandwiches I ever had.
There is still no definitive answer in relation to the whole bus / ferry combination required for leaving this place.
I decide my best bet is to walk halfway to the ferry, stay in a final bothy tonight, and walk the rest of the way tomorrow and hope for the best.
The final bothy is incredible. Right on the ocean and salubrious in nature. I have my own little room with bed pad and tables. There are a group of six other friendly “bothy hunters” in their own room, and they congratulate me on my achievement and pass the whiskey around. It’s nice to celebrate with anyone, even strangers.
On a whim I decide to walk up a massive mountain, hoping to look out to sea. The mountain is potentially the largest I climb on the whole walk! I get to the edge of the sea, and magic. Just magic. Sheer cliffs, inundated with seabirds. Inquisitive puffins, their little orange beaks and feet so recognisable, fly in close, buzz around me and fly off again. The sound of the seabirds is deafening. It reminds me so much of home I could cry.
I head back to the bothy and there is one last thing to do. I pull out my headphones and walk onto the beach. It’s 10pm, but the sun is just starting to set. There, on the beach, in front of the golden sky, I dance. Proud of myself. And made all the better for this experience.
This article was first published on The Trek which can be found here
It’s 6pm. I have a small wine, chips and I’m looking out over one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever visited. Needless to say, I feel pretty damn good!
I woke this morning to my old friend, the sun, peaking into my tent and precipitating good things to come. I have only a very short walk today, on account of the military range around Cape Wrath being closed. I could have gone in after 6pm, but decided, a nice, relaxing day spent beachside would be a fantastic prelude to the the conclusion of this epic walk.
The beach itself is accessible only on foot. A 4 mile (just over 6km walk) in and out, which gives it a mysterious, luxuriant feel. You only see it if you put in the effort. And the effort is so worth it.
The walk in is lovely in its own right, passing by a number of lochs set high on the moors. They are sparkling in a deep, blue shade that I haven’t seen over the past couple of weeks, on account of the beaming sun.
I round the corner and see it. It’s a defining moment of the hike. Mountainous cliffs, reaching like fingers into the sea. And there, in the distance, at the very edge of this land mass, is the lighthouse of Cape Wrath.
Memories come flooding back when I see it. The towns, the camps, the food, the people, the waterfalls, the lochs, the mountains, the glorious weather, the ridiculous weather, dancing, crying, singing, shouting. Walking. Walking. Walking. This adventure is so close to finishing now. In that way that thru-hiking does, I’m feeling both immensely sad and intensely grateful at the same time.
I quickly find a perch to set up my tent, high on the grassy hills, looking straight out towards the Cape. My last night camping is similar to my first, in that sheep are the only souls with any conversational skills, sharing my campsite tonight. A couple of little lambs have already made a play for my walking poles.
I wander the beach for several hours, wandering over the rocky shorelines at both ends. A loch sits discreetly off the coast, and water flows in a little river, from there to the sea.
This time tomorrow, it should be done. Tonight, I savour the experience and the incredible view, as I listen to the waves rolling into the sandy shore. How very lucky I am to have the opportunity, will, and resilience, to do this.
This article was first published on The Trek which can be found here
Last night was a doozy. Straight up. Though the wall did it’s best to protect me, it was still a rip snorting ride of nerves, as the tent bent and buckled and swayed under the ferocious might of the freezing wind.
I remember just a couple of weeks ago, it was nighttime bliss, sleeping in a singlet and undies. Last night, by comparison, it was socks, double thermal leggings, singlet, thermal top, fleece jumper, and two hoodies. Despite that, I was chilled to the bone about the potential breaking of my home away home. The noise, the shuddering and shaking, the sound of wind screaming over the water, all of it made for a night of little sleep.
We survived though. The tent and I. And rose to a reasonably clear morning. The squalling rain throughout the night was no match for the drying power of the wind, and so it was a dry tent that I packed into my bag.
I started the day with the second of my road deviations. This time, I had noticed a creekside track indicated on the maps, which would take me several kilometres towards my destination. This was a great alternative to the original trail. Pure creekside, virtually no bog, and importantly, no dangerous rivers to cross. A great beginning.
Not so much the next 17km or so. A combination of the road walk and back on the actual trail into Kinlochbervie. Mostly it was bleak and dreary, the rain hitting hard the whole time.
The highlight of this section was realising that I was so close to the ocean. The smell of brine, seaweed and salt, fishing vessels, and screeching seagulls, all indicators that I am getting so close to my goal now.
I arrived, wet and hungry at the Kinlochbervie hotel at around 1.30. I’d been seeing signs about how welcoming they were, the hot food and drinks I could expect to receive, for quite some time now. Closed. Not opening until 3pm. Gutted.
I wasn’t going to wait around that long in this weather. I went to the shops and got a few supplies and then made my way to a little place I had heard about in Oldshoremore. These legends, Andy and Angela, allow hikers to set up camp at their retreat, with access to the showers and a little kitchen. Angela even offers me the use of a proper towel, and passes me a “little special” as reward for my efforts. A small bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Legends.
I sit in he kitchen now, enjoying things. It’s raining, but the forecast is for clearer skies over the next two days. I am ready. It’s time to bring this one home.
This articles was originally published on the The Trek which can be found here
I’ve had to do a little bit of soul searching in the last day. My rest day in Inchandamph was spent huddling in my room, maps and internet at the ready, whilst the rain pelted down outside. It really didn’t stop all day. And it got me thinking. And it got me worried. And it got me focussing on my goals. And what I determined was this….
I’m here to walk the length of Scotland. So faced with these rather atrocious conditions, I’m going to do what I need to do to achieve that. I look at the maps and decide that I am going to do two sections of road walking, totalling a distance of about 25km, which will move me past some of the more problematic areas of creeks and gorges that I would still have to contend with on the Cape Wrath Trail.
The problem, is “spate”. When it rains heavily enough that it drains from the steep sided mountains very quickly, it leads to an enormous, rapid and dangerous rise in water levels. With all this rain, I’m really worried about spate. Worried I’ll get stuck somewhere I don’t want to be. This awful weather is set to continue, and I’m ready to complete my mission.
So, it will still be a continuous crossing of Scotland, with just a couple of small tweaks to help me get there safely.
With that decided, I quickly worked out I could be at Cape Wrath within 3 days! Problem….access to Cape Wrath is going to be closed for military target practice bombing! I can’t believe it! I’m going to have to drag out to an extra day. I’m ok with that. I’m going to have to be!
It is absolutely pouring rain all morning as I think about leaving. There are indications that it might clear up a little later in the afternoon, so I stay in my room right up to check out time at 10.30am. Straight into it. Saturated.
I’m on one of my road walk deviations this morning. 15km into Kylestrome. Despite the rain, the road walk is amazing! Incredible views of mountains and lakes. The road isn’t hugely busy, though I do suffer from inconvenient and rather humiliating splashing each time a car goes past.
It doesn’t snow, but it sure does sleet. The most dangerous factor today though is the wind, which is gusting in the region between 50 – 70 km / hr. It’s enough to stop me dead in my tracks, which it does do, frequently. I’ve already started worrying about a potential campsite for the night.
For the afternoon I’m back on the trail and heading extensively uphill and over a moor. I manage a few good viewing stints in between rain showers. It really is beautiful.
By the time I reach the turn off to climb Ben Dreavie, the weather has socked in again and it is just a squalling white haze. I do as the trail notes suggest, and continue on the track I am on, down to the road, giving the mountain a miss.
On the road, I’m still thinking about camp. I’m aiming for an old house ruin, and I’m just hoping that I will be able to use it to protect my tent behind a wind wall. As I struggle against the blustery conditions, going backwards instead of forwards at times, I can still appreciate what I am seeing in this landscape. It is THAT amazing. What’s more, the wind is whipping up giant water spouts that dance across the lake like restless souls.
Just as I reach the ruined hut, a fellow pulls up and offers me some space in some stables if I need it…though he doesn’t know the condition of the stables and I would need to retrace my steps about 5km or so. I thank him. The truth is, that if I cannot pitch this tent in exactly the right spot to get some protection, I might need to take him up on his offer.
I have a look. It’s not going to be comfortable, but there is just enough room to squeeze in next to the critical wall. I set up and dive into the tent, with no intentions of leaving for the foreseeable future. The wind is vicious. If I didn’t have complete faith in the rock solid nature of my beloved Hubba Hubba tent, this would be a very scary night indeed. It still might be I suppose, but within these walls I feel pretty safe and secure. If not particularly snug.
This article was originally published on The Trek which can be found here
It was a straightforward walk into Oykel Bridge where I was incredibly fortunate that a staff member, upon seeing me standing forlornly at the locked front door at 11.30 in the morning, opened up and proceeded to let me into my room.
Rest and relaxation. That’s what I really needed. A shower. What a treat.
I made my way to the little Fisherman themed bar, and was soon joined by the Cresseys, where we did have our much anticipated celebratory drink and catch up. There are people that just exude warmth. This was these two. They reminded me of a young couple on a first date, the attention and care they gave each other, rather than a pair that had been married for more than 30 years. It was lovely to be included in their circle for a while. We were soon also joined by Gavin, a lad from Leeds, also looking to complete the Cape Wrath trail.
The following morning I said goodbye to my new friends for the final time. As a solo hiker, I’ve always found that at some point, you need a champion to help you through. Dave was that for me. Arriving right when I needed a little support, a friendly face, and a sounding board. He has been posting daily videos of his epic hike that are well worth checking out (here) …nice to have a little cameo appearance or two as well! And of course, the cause he is raising money for is one that has affected all of us in some way. I wish the both of them all the best, in both finishing the trail, and enjoying a happy retirement together.
Astoundingly, it is not raining. Grey, but clear. Light breeze. Perfect. I’m feeling good, and I get cracking. The first 10km offers a lovely creekside trail, dotted with fishing huts and solitary figures in waders looking to cast a line. Gavin soon joins me, and we chat for a while. Turns out we were both at the same Blues and Roots concert in Byron Bay many, many years ago. Small world.
I soon leave Gavin behind though, as I’m feeling energentic and exhilarated and the landscape is amazing. As I have become accustomed to, it’s towering mountains on all sides, with the soft banks of the river snaking it’s way through the middle. It’s soggy, but not as boggy as it has been the last few days, and I relish enjoying the day.
Eventually, I start a climb, powering my way to the top of the pass, where I stop to take a break. I realise I’ve travelled about 24km and I’m only just taking my first rest stop. That’s the power of a nice day, spectacular scenery and a large pub meal and breakfast!
On the other side of the pass I can see the blue waters of Loch Assynt, surrounded on one side by Scottish fir trees. It is so reminiscent of one of my favourite views from home, that I can’t help but feel a little homesick.
To end the day, another creekside track. This one narrow and rocky and requiring a little concentration, but it is easily negotiatiated. I am surprised and pleased when I finish up my 34km in just over 8 hours. It has been an absolutely wonderful day of walking. Perhaps my favourite day. What a feeling to regroup, regather, and surge forward once again.
This article was first published on The Trek and can be found here
Different day, different scenario. I woke up ready to right to right the ship.
Despite the rough day yesterday, it did what it needed to, which was put me in a position in which I had a number of options today. All of them reasonably good.
Firstly, it did start raining during the night, though not as heavily as what had been predicted. Still, I followed through with my intention of getting up early to cross all of the rivers I needed to before things got out of hand. I was away by 6.30am. No coffee.
I did have a plan though. Get through the next 10 km, enjoy it, and get to the Knockdamph bothy. There, in the comfort of the indoor environment, cook up all the dinner I was supposed to have last night and as many coffees as I required. That was goal number one. And I’m very good at chasing goals. Instantly my head switched from troubled to motivated.
The walk to the bothy was beautiful. Cascading waterfalls eventually opening up into a steep sided gorge, orange rocks glistening in the wet, green trees sheltering the depths of the pools, serpentine in it’s nature. It really reminded me of the amazing desert gorges of central Australia. Unexpected wonder.
Along the trail I enacted what could potentially be option 2. I emailed Oykel Bridge hotel, where I am booked to stay tomorrow night, to see if they had any space available for tonight also. That is a wait and see option, but it gives me a frisson of excitement to know that I might be getting a hot shower tonight!
I arrive at the bothy at around 9.30am. It is empty, and I select the space that might suit me best if I’m to stay, and go about cooking up a storm. With a full belly I am able to complete other small tasks that add to my overall positive psyche. Drying the tent and packing it up properly. Writing up my daily notes from yesterday. I feel like I’m getting back on top of things.
People begin to come and go, stopping in to get out of the rain briefly and have a bite to eat. I’m pleased when a couple come in with three dogs in tow, all looking for treats and a pat! A familiar voice, “hello”, and I turn to see Dave, the surprise even greater because I hadn’t expected to run into him again. We catch up on our stories. He’s been taking an “easier” route than me the past few days – carrying a day pack only, going to accommodation in between days, and taking a less difficult route. He sincerely tells me how unbelievable it is that I did what I did yesterday. That I made is so far in these conditions and in this terrain. That I should feel very proud of myself. Almost makes me cry. He leaves, knowing we will see each other at Oykel Bridge tomorrow where I will meet his wife (for whom he is dedicating his cancer walk), and we will have a celebratory drink together. Our paths will diverge at that point, each of us left to finish our adventures on our own.
I still haven’t heard back from the hotel, and so, having seen a big, fat, half tame rat running around the bothy, I decide to enact option 3. I will walk another 7km to the School House bothy. If I haven’t heard from the hotel, I’ll forget that plan and stay at the bothy. That is how it works out in the end. The bothy is lovely however, and I have my own little room that I have been snuggled up in, reading, for the afternoon. I feel rested, well fed and relaxed. I’ve got this. (I think.)
This article was originally published on The Trek which can be found here
The bothy was full last night. A group of female bike riders competing in a race and some younger blokes hiking, all trapped by the rivers and unable to progress. I got the impression they weren’t that thrilled that another person had shown up. Later, another solo female hiker (the first I have come across this whole trip), Anne Marie, arrived as well. It was nice to have somebody there that was willing to converse.
All five of the girls had beds on the floor upstairs. I must admit to feeling somewhat grateful for this female cohort of sleepers and remember thinking how inspiring it was that all of us were out here toughing it out in the wilderness. Not long after that…cacophony. Absolute cacophony. Those bike riders sure could snore! I really hadn’t been expecting this level of loud. Sleep, was not a possibility. In the morning they roared awake at the crack of dawn only to find that the creek was still too high to cross, so back they tromped, not bothering to keep their voices down. Anne Marie and I stared blearily at each other, packed up our stuff, said goodbye and goodluck to each other, and left.
So it was that I was in a very different headspace today. My plan, such as it was, was to basically go twice as far as I had been planning on, to ensure that I could take advantage of a light rainfall day. I had a creek crossing I was aiming for, knowing that rain was set to stream in again overnight. That thought, on no sleep, was a little depressing.
I set off. Uphill and across the moors. The landscape, as usual, was amazing. The track and terrain, a wet mess. Imagine just trudging through a half filled bathtub full of grass and mud and stones. That’s what it was like. Every step takes effort and concentration. The going is tough. And the tough are not going very fast at all. It takes almost 4 hours to do the first 10km. I have a couple of day hikers pass me in the opposite direction, but then see nobody else for the rest of the day.
It is lonely and draining. I’m trying to keep my spirits up, but I’m slipping and sliding and crash to the ground a couple of times. Luckily, no injury. The second 10km finishes up with a long, steep downhill on a rocky scree slope and made even more treacherous by the waterfall that’s pouring down the path. Again, it is incredibly slow going.
I reach where I had originally intended to stop for the day, exhausted and somewhat strung out. I consider what to do, and in the face of no particularly easy option, decide to push on. “I’ll just see where I am at 6pm” is my thinking. Up, up, up I go again. Despite the gradient of the slope, I’m enjoying a little respite on a well maintained forestry track. That peters out though, and suddenly I am left to my own devices to contour around a mountain range. It’s already well past 6pm, but the grass is a swamp and stopping not an option.
An old song by Shawn Mullins that I haven’t thought about in years starts running through my head repeatedly. “Everything is going to be alright. Rockabye. Rockabye”. Over and over and over again. Carrying me along.
I push on. My nerves are starting to fray. “This isn’t fun”, my brain is saying. Wet feet all day, sludging through the wet grass and mud, no track, can’t see where I’m supposed to be going, getting hungry, heavy bag, tired, getting late, nowhere to camp, struggling. Everything is going to be alright. Rockabye.
Suddenly I see the creek I have been aiming for. The old ruins in a spectacular setting. I can tell, even from right up high, that I will be able to set up camp.
I reach the ruins and quickly ascertain that I was right. The ground is dry and flat enough to camp. I pull my tent out and am accosted, absolutely annihilated, by a swarm of midges in a bilious rage. I had been beginning to think that I had some sort of superpower in keeping midges away, having gotten this far without encountering them. Now they showed me who’s boss. I get the tent up and dive in. As quick as I am, there are hundreds of them in the tent. It’s now after 8.30pm. I’m so tired and despondent that I don’t even feel like eating. I snack on a sachet of tuna, but that’s enough. All I want to do is lie down, wrap myself up, and hope things improve.
Everything is going to be alright. Rockabye.
This article was originally published on The Trek which can be found here
I feel pretty proud of myself this evening. I put the work into a plan for today, and it feels like it paid off. A hard day made easier. Success. Though still very hard!
The forecast for today was a little grim. Heavy rain throughout the night and into mid morning. And so many rivers to cross.
The plan was simple:
1. Expect to be wet all day
2. Walk on the good track through the heaviest period of rain, aiming to arrive at a known to be tricky navigation point as the rain is expected to ease, approximately midday.
3. Hope that the forecast was correct, that the rain will ease and I have the opportunity to cross the first major river crossing (at the top of two waterfalls) following a little bit of a downpour lay period. Be prepared to camp in the area if the crossing is going to be too dangerous and wait it out.
4. Assuming I can cross, navigate slowly and carefully around the mountain contour, leaving the designated track and descending to the creek to cross again where I can find a good spot. Follow the creek on the opposite side to meet the track again later on at the loch.
5. Maintain composure and concentration for all water crossings, making sure I secure my phone properly each time.
That was the plan. And it worked! I split the day into little sections, aiming to complete the previous task prior to thinking about the rest. I left the hotel in the pouring rain at 10am. It never let up for the next 12km whilst I reached the navigation point at Loch Fada, but then, a clearing. Just as had been predicted.
With the fog dissipating, I followed a series of little white cairns upwards, eventually reaching the waterfall creek crossing. I took my time with this, following the river further upstream. Eventually, I found a spot to cross that I was more than comfortable with. Stage 3 completed.
I navigated around the contours, the sunshine occasionally beaming out from behind the clouds. The landscape was magnificent in it’s remoteness. I left the track early and descended down to the creek where I could see it was still narrow enough that an easy crossing was possible. On the other side, I started a bit of a slog to walk creekside towards Loch an Nid where I would pick up the trail again. It might have been a slog, but the relief I felt to be across the river and know that I could continue was well worth it.
And from there, all it took was a lot of resilience, physical exertion and concentration to eventually reach the Shenavell bothy.
It takes quite a bit for me to admit when I am proud of myself, but I don’t mind saying it for this one. I crossed countless knee high creeks, slogged through mud and had wet feet all day, but made it to the bothy without a negative thought. That’s a straight up win in my books.
This article was originally published on The Trek which can be found here
