Seaside Rock

Darker days are drawing near, so I decided to finish ‘Bay walk’ before even I have to accept summer is gone.

Pohara to Whariwharangi (and back to main road): 27km

A couple of week’s ago I walked the roughly two-thirds of the length of Golden Bay, my aim being to keep strictly to the shoreline, despite inlets, rivers and other obstacles. With the whole of the Bay’s coast being so shallow, this is very do-able if you get your tide times right, so once again the right conjunction of weather and sea level presented itself.

I set off from my previous stopping point, Pohara Beach, at around 9am, needing to be at the last and possibly largest coastal indent, Wainui Bay, at low tide.
It would be a very long detour around the edge if I couldn’t walk straight across this vast stretch of sand flats, so I put on a quick pace.

The road more or less follows the coastline for most of the way, but my brief to stay on the water’s edge saw me clambering over rocky points and wading through tidal pools instead. I was forced to make the briefest of concessions at Port Tarakohe where security fences kept me away from the water's edge, but soon I was getting my feet wet again.

Walking along the road would be easier, but not as much fun?

 
By now it was becoming clear that this would be no leisurely stroll along endless stretches of golden sand as the previous part of the journey from Puponga had been, but constant climbing and wading. Not only harder and riskier work, but it was also taking longer than expected, and made me start to worry about making it to Wainui before the tide started to turn.

A walk along sandy Ligar Bay gave me a chance to get my breath back, before a harder climb around the point to Tata beach. It was going well until half way along, a familiar stench suddenly assailed my nostrils, instantly making the blood drain from my face. Many years ago Rose and I had become trapped on a rocky coastline with no choice but to push ahead, and were attacked by angry seals each time we rounded a corner. These ‘cute’ animals are no joke when territorial and surprised, and sure enough, I got a face full of sharp teeth and roaring fish breath when I cautiously raised my head above the next boulder.

Can you see the seal? 
Don't worry, it won't let itself to go unnoticed for long...

This was all I needed, it was already slow work hanging onto steep and sharp rocks without worrying about enraged sea mammals, which look exactly like boulders until you almost step on them. And no fun for the seals either - this was their ‘hood’, after all.

I’ve never been happier to see the always beautiful Tata beach, as I finally stumbled out of the rocks. I quickly paced its uniquely apricot-tinged sand before starting an even longer climb around to the surely fast-filling Wainui Bay.

I had clambered this particular stretch of rocks before, however, and it gives a unique view of a dramatic stretch of coastline. Only one distant seal and a familiar climb helped me make quick progress, and I arrived at Wainui Bay only half an hour after low tide. This gave me plenty of time to get across to the carpark on the far side, which marks the beginning of the Abel Tasman track and the very last stretch of my walk.

In an hour, you'll need a kayak to get across here.
(Looking towards Tata Point and the ridge I'm about to climb)

I had lunch here and tried to dry out my shoes, before starting a very steep ascent to the ridge above Tata point. Obviously I could hardly say I was staying on the coastline, but this did allow me to reach Whariwharangi beach, which had been decreed the end point of my Golden Bay traverse.

I probably shouldn’t rave too much about this hidden paradise - a sparkling jewel among the many beautiful beaches I’ve been blessed to tread on this very long walk.

Beautiful, deserted Whariwharangi.

After swimming in the surf, warm even at this time of the year, I reluctantly had to head back over the hill. Mid-autumn also means shorter days and cooler evenings.

I’ll definitely come back here and stay the night, maybe even in the purportedly haunted DoC hut. And I’d like to walk to Separation Point, which perhaps truly marks the end of Golden Bay. After that? Who knows - I’ll keep you posted…

The view from the ridge on the Abel Tasman track, looking back towards Tata.
Note that Wainui Bay is filling up fast

Linking Sands

My name is Al, I’m an Aquarius and I like long walks along the beach

We’ve lived in Golden Bay for just over a year and are becoming more aware all the time of how much there is to explore over here. I was gradually realising that most people’s experience of travelling the length of the Bay by car or cycle, and most likely from Takaka to Puponga, actually gives an extremely limited impression of the coastline. In fact, it’s only in the very last stretch, from Pakawau to the top, that the road runs parallel with the beach. Vast stretches of beautiful shore remain largely unseen by visitors, or even new residents.

I had always had my long strolls along one of the Bay’s many ’undiscovered’ coastlines, Rototai beach, cut short by the Waitapu inlet, a wide incursion of the sea leading to Takaka’s historic, but no longer functional, wharf. And beyond that, the mouth of the Takaka river itself. But I knew that if I timed it correctly I could theoretically get across at low tide and carry on following the shoreline, maybe as far as Collingwood.

Having announced this intention, my wonderful wife started procuring dry bags (to keep precious items safe from seawater during scary inlet crossings) and a long-needed ground mat for camping, and I began to feel a heavy obligation to stop just talking about it and actually walk this walk…

So I balanced weather forecasts, tide tables and work deadlines, until finally the very end of March emerged as the optimum time for me to go, but by now the scope of the plan had increased a little. I was going to walk the entire sweep of Golden Bay, from just below Farewell Spit in the West to as close as I could get to Separation point in the East. By treading every stretch of shore in Golden Bay that I possibly could, crossing rivers, inlets and rocky points, would allow me to experience this beautiful and remote arc of coastline in its entirety.

Having made this bold assertion, I’ll quickly add that this would only be ‘Phase 1’. Logistically, time and tide would only allow me to get from Puponga to home over the following three days. The eastern arm of Golden Bay would have to wait for the next conjunction of weather, water and work commitments.

There's surely dinosaurs in them thar hills -
the primevially-jagged Mount Burnett from  Ruataniwha Inlet

Day One: Puponga to Collingwood (approx 29.6km)

Rose dropped me off at Puponga at first light on Thursday 28th, making a round trip of over an hour and a half before her long day’s work, just to indulge my latest folly. I know I am a very lucky man.

Despite Puponga’s undeniable natural beauty, the shore itself is rocky and marshy, and only levels out into the more typical stretches of golden sand as you approach the community of Pakawau. The sun was hot by this point and I took my first break, already noting that the back-pack-sized dry bag I was carrying my tent, sleeping bag and everything else in was definitely made to be water proof rather than comfortable. It was essential for the submerging crossings I had lying ahead though.

By now I was able to kick off my shoes and tread the cool, foaming edge of surf as it disappeared into the distance towards Collingwood. I was aware that the beach was going to diverge from the road and lead me on what might be a very long and pointless detour, along a narrow spit of land to the northern head of the Ruataniwha inlet. I’d been assured that wading straight across from this point to Collingwood is theoretically possible, but lowest tide had passed and the impression of open sea between me and my destination convinced me to play it safe. Instead I turned back inland, walking 2.6 km across the empty inlet towards the road, warm mud squirming between my bare toes for most of the way.

The shoreline around this area known as ‘Ferntown’ is essentially a delta of the Aorere river, extremely marshy and probably impassable. I had no desire to vanish into quicksand, so admitted defeat and followed the road for the final 6km to Collingwood.

I had walked almost 30km, mostly on sand with a poorly-fitted load on my back, and my legs and shoulders were letting me know it. But I’m always happy to return to the place that started my love of Golden Bay during a family holiday almost five decades ago. As is the way with this frontier town, the Collingwood holiday park is almost completely unchanged in all that time, the cabin we inhabited in the mid-70s looking almost exactly the same!

Leaving another derelict wharf, at Collingwood

Day Two: Collingwood to Paton’s Rock (approx 14km)

Walking half yesterday’s distance was balanced by the fact that I would begin by crossing what I assumed would be my biggest obstacle - the Parapara inlet at Milnthorpe. My many walks along the 2km of Collingwood beach had always been cut short by this wide expanse of water, so despite arriving at early morning low tide I had sealed up my dry back-pack and contents tight in preparation for a swim. I decided to keep the smaller dry bag containing my phone and other essentials separate, and held it high above my head as I began to wade across.Upon reaching the other side with the sea having barely reached my waist, I couldn’t decide whether I should feel silly, or not. I’m sure I had looked silly, but am well used to that and was just elated at overcoming what had become a Quixotic ‘impassable stream’ in my imagination.

And here's another - at Washbourn

The map told me I still had another crossing ahead, the Washbourn inlet, so hurried on to exploit the remaining low tide. Unfortunately this meant that I didn’t take in beautiful Parapara beach, one of the shorelines completely new to me, as much as I’d have liked to. Unlike yesterday, the day was an autumnal grey, but the varied, muted shades of sky, sea and sand was strikingly beautiful in a completely different way. I needn’t have hurried; although having been intimidated by the impressive expanse of Washbourn at high tide, today I was able to wade across at knee-height. The skeletal remains of yet another disused wharf dominates this area, testifying to Golden Bay’s briefly bustling distant past.

My destination was complete contrast to yesterday’s hardships. Instead of a freeze-dried meal and a chilly night under canvas, tonight was a beautiful meal and flowing wine with friends at their hilltop home in Paton’s rock, Rose joining me to stay the night in a very comfortable spare bed.

Is that a seal, or a wave? Actually, it's both

Day Three: Paton’s Rock to Pohara (approx 13km)

With low tide at occurring around midday, it was a very relaxed start this morning, sans the backpack containing tent and sleeping bag which were no longer required. With an infinitely lighter step, I leisurely followed the more rocky stretch of shore between Paton’s rock and the Rangihaeata headland. Still not quite lowest tide, I had to scramble across rocks at the outermost point, pausing to watch a seal happily drifting around the rocks with its flipper raised languidly in the air. Beyond here the Takaka River forms its own delta as it reaches the sea with three main tributaries to cross - the first being not at all pleasant. For whatever reason, perhaps run-off from the steep Rangihaeata cliffs, the seabed is extremely muddy here. Deep grey ooze almost trapped me halfway across the first time I attempted it, and as I sank past my knees I couldn’t help nervously speculating what might be in there with me. But once again my luck held, and I was able to wade across at armpit level (arms again aloft to keep cellphone out of the brine) without encountering excessively deep mud. The next crossing was very different. Just as deep, but being the most directly flowing from the Takaka river, it was also very cold and carried a noticeable current. The final waterway at the Waitapu inlet was more typically still and warm, (making me inwardly shudder at the thought of stepping on languishing stingrays when I could no longer see the bottom).

Crossing the chilly Takaka River

Setting foot on Rototai beach, a mere hour from home was a good feeling, but the sun had come out and the tide was perfect so I decided to keep going. I wanted to walk the length of Rototai, cross the Motupipi River (which flows past our house) at its mouth, and finish on Pohara Beach. I reasoned not starting with this crossing on the future second part of this walk would give me greater time flexibility - and I somehow didn’t want to stop.

Despite the tide beginning to turn (sections of beach were already disappearing), the mighty Motupipi was traversed with relative ease and the rare sight (to me) of other people greeted me as I set off down the ever-popular Pohara Beach.

Picked up by Rose and whisked off to a late cafe lunch, I was definitely safely back in the arms of civilisation.

Looking back from Pohara beach across the Motupipi River
and towards distant Puponga, where I began my stroll 3 days ago

Walking almost 57 kilometres, alone and mostly barefoot, has the perfect way to appreciate Golden Bay’s diverse and beautiful shoreline. It might have been very self-indulgent, but sometimes we all need to walk away for a while. Health-wise, I’m acutely flat-footed, so the aches inflicted on my leg muscles by walking on shifting sand is balanced by the good it’s done my arch-less soles - and soul. I’m looking forward to the final Pohara to Whariwharangi Bay stretch of this circumnavigation, and hope time and tide will align again for me soon.

Tideland - Part Three: Setting up a mooring

This blog was never intended to be a diary, but a lot has happened recently...

Motupipi River at dusk - the view from our deck

Easter weekend has just passed and we’ve now been living in Golden Bay for over a month - the realisation of a very long term plan. We’re adapting to coastal life and ‘Takaka time’ pretty easily: the constant good weather and friendliness of the people we’ve met has certainly helped.

But actually getting here turned out to be anything but easy.

Our biggest fear at the time, that our three cats would find the move and relocation stressful and unhealthy, actually turned out to be pretty-much unfounded. In fact, it was ultimately one of the easiest issues we had to overcome.

Ed and Monty struggle to adapt to their new deck

The biggest obstacles were physical: the notoriously rough stretch of water separating New Zealand’s two main Islands, and the 791m mountain pass which is modestly referred to as the Takaka ‘Hill’. And the biggest stress was to become our inability to get over either of them.

In hindsight picking the same day to move as the arrival of a tropical cyclone seems like tempting fate to the absolute extreme, but these storms are by their nature very difficult to predict, and our complex plans involving flights, ferry crossings and vehicle hire had been put in place well in advance. 

Wharariki Beach: The 'poster girl' for New Zealand tourist calendars never disappoints

Never-the-less, I flew into Takaka airport in a light plane with three bewildered felines the night before Cyclone Gita arrived, just to play it safe. Arriving at the airstrip we were immediately welcomed with 'Bay' hospitality, and gifted a free hire car to get us to our new home. Regardless of what lay in store for us over the next couple of weeks, this local generosity has remained a constant.

Several hours later, while I huddled in a sleeping bag with restlessly prowling cats in the  corner of our empty new living room, Rose was driving our packed-to-bursting hire truck onto the 2.30am ferry.

If you think this division of labour seems unfair you’re probably right, but I cope with rough seas (and they were) about as well as Rose copes with rough flights and she had no wish to share the cats suffering either in the air on in the car, to and from airports. 

My idea of paradise - beaches for miles, and the sun just won't stop...

Our first mistake was probably to seriously underestimate the time needed to pack properly. Although we’d been stowing belongings in our garage for months, the week was a maelstrom of frantically shoving it all in and out of a truck, car and trailer, (gradually without the benefit of daylight, food or sleep), in mere hours when we should have allowed days. It became clear that moving from the North to South Islands was more like immigrating to another country than we could ever have suspected.

Rose arrived with the truck at around 11am on the rainy morning of February 20th - scant hours before the hill she had just crossed was devastated by Cyclone Gita. Over 20 slips were brought down onto the road, some of them washing whole sections of it away.

We were blissfully unaware of this at the time, our new neighbourhood somehow almost completely sheltered from the force of the storm. The first evidence that other areas hadn’t been so fortunate was a power-cut that afternoon. but in our ignorance, even this was treated lightly. Our first day back on the national grid in six years and we’re without power - that’s got to be funny, hasn’t it? 

Living history - the Langford store, serving the Bainham community since 1928

Our sense of humour was to serve us well over the next fortnight. The road closure meant that we couldn’t return an expensive hire truck for over a week, and after a near-evacuation, a cut-off Takaka began to suffer food shortages and petrol rationing. 

But worse still, our house purchasers defaulted on their settlement payment, leaving us to teeter on the brink of financial ruin as we struggled to afford the mortgage and insurance on two houses.

Without going into specifics, the compassion of the vendor of our new home pretty much saved our bacon, (which was definitely off the menu as we struggled to survive). 

The daily late fee our tardy house buyers tided us over when the whole horrible business was finally concluded, but was little consolation at the time. I could say more here, but am choosing to move on after a brief warning. House sellers beware: the integrity of a contract is only worth the integrity of the person who signs it with you.

Naturally we celebrated once the money finally came through. We’ve dined at the Mussel Inn, picnicked at Wharariki Beach and I’ve cycled everywhere from Collingwood to Pohara. 

Rose posted a request on the local facebook group for firewood, adding that we would come and chainsaw/chop it ourselves. She was bombarded by offers and we’ve met some interesting and generous people while putting in the hard yards to stock up on wood for the winter. 

This was a shapeless pile of metal and plastic when we moved in...

She has also repaired our ramshackle greenhouse and we’ve insulated the entire underfloor of the house. Although autumn has officially been here for a month and daylight saving has just ended - the hot Golden Bay sun shows little sign of abating.

It hasn’t been easy getting here, but so far at least, we’re living the dream...

Who needs a garden bench when you can have a jetty to relax on?

http://fasmatodea.blogspot.co.nz/2015/03/tideland-part-one-coming-in.html

http://fasmatodea.blogspot.co.nz/2015/03/tideland-part-two-going-out.html

The Return of the School Night of the Living Dead

It’s spooky what you can find out when you actually do some research!

Way back in October 2014, I tried to interest the media company I work for in running a short piece about a bygone NZ tradition in late night fright films - The Sunday Horrors. it seemed ideal to me as Halloween was just around the corner, and the period in which they were shown (the 1980s) was a time which most of our readership could easily recall. 

My employers passed, and it became a blog post instead:

http://fasmatodea.blogspot.co.nz/2014/10/school-night-of-living-dead.html

Three years later, with Halloween becoming less a twee splash-back of Americana and more the ‘geek Christmas’ every season, I tried again - and the successful result appears below.

https://www-alpha.stuff.co.nz/entertainment/tv-radio/98255843/school-night-of-the-living-dead-remembering-tv2s-sunday-night-horrors

This time I did some proper research and was dismayed by how badly wrong I’d got certain ‘facts’ from my first version. Admittedly, the 2014 blog post was written from a personal perspective - as usual I had assumed it was all about me, and the Sunday Horrors stopped when I ceased watching.

More Sunday Horrors then you can shake a stake at -
channel's 2 and 3 go head to head with the undead...

In reality something which I had always assumed was a strictly ’80s phenomenon didn’t care that I was living overseas in the early ’90s, and continued in rude health for the entire first half of that decade, too. The Sunday Horrors survived the introduction of TV3, hosting by Count Robula, and the advent of Shortland Street and MMP. It stared down Suzanne Paul, compulsory cycle helmets and the dawn of cafe culture.

Just how many countries can boast a former head of Government
as a TV horror host?  Only one that I know of...

So let the spirits take you - Karen Hay is once again bidding you goodnight and the main feature is about to begin. Settle into your Lazy-Boy and do not adjust your set - the film may actually be in black and white. No tricks - you’re in for a treat. 

Happy Halloween!

Bangin'

To celebrate our anniversary we usually visit glamorous destinations to eat, drink and spend too much money.  This year we dragged ourselves to physical exhaustion and beyond…

Team OrangeCat give the competition paws for thought...

I run and cycle fairly regularly because I enjoy it - and need to spend time away from a computer screen for my health and sanity’s sake. (I have already failed in at least one of those categories).

But it’s always better to to have an event to aim for, and when Rose told me about the Big Bang Adventure little did she know what she was letting herself in for.

Their website told me that you could only enter in teams of at least two, and somehow catching Rose at a weak moment, she agreed to join me - Team ‘OrangeCat’ was born!

Mountain biking - how hard can it be?

This all day multi-disciplinary event has a strong map reading and orienteering angle, and so exact details were shrouded in mystery right up until the actual date. All we knew for now was there would be running, mountain biking and a mystery aquatic event.

Rose arranged mountain bike hire for the date and I drafted my ever-dependable Dad as our support crew, another stipulation of entry.

Fast forward the inevitable training montage (alright, a little bit of running and stuff) to the big day. But first, there’s something you need to know about Rose. Although a brown belt in two martial arts styles and constantly active, she also suffers from a mysterious muscular ailment which has shortened her right leg and made even walking painful at times.  But paradoxically, our running seemed to help and Rose gradually became fitter and more pain-free than she had been in years.

This was hugely encouraging, but I also knew we would never be serious contenders - our goal was to do as much as possible without causing lasting harm.

Leaving at 5.30am with me crammed in the back of our car around two huge mountain bikes and a sack of scroggin we headed for the Kapiti coast, and the recently disclosed race location. On hilly private land just east of Raumati we were to throw ourselves into four cross country events. Alternating between running/orienteering and mountain biking, before ending up at Queen Elizabeth Park for the water challenge.

A always, a lot of anxiety dissipates once you’ve actually made it and know what’s expected of you, but the difficulty level was extreme. Finding  a variety of electronic check points up and down the hillside was made slightly easier in that we were able to stay with ‘the pack’ to some extent, although the steepness and altitude of the terrain was extremely daunting.

The first orienteering stage. We go up, and up...and up.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t worry about my staunch OrangeCat team mate at points throughout the day.  Mobility pain aside, in the darkest moments a history of heart problems in Rose’s family made me question the sense of this foolhardy venture.  Just when I thought she might do the sensible thing and give up, Rose rallied every single time and willingly stepped back into her world of pain. She probably showed more courage and determination than anyone else on the course, certainly me.

And down - I'm holding the map which was our life-line.

I worried a little about my father as well, left for hours on his own waiting for us to finally reappear and driving our gear from one transition point to the next.  But true to form he was totally dependable, always smiling and encouraging - making the best of a day anyone else would find a chore.

He even had a selfie taken with one of the top managers of the organisation I work for, just by falling into conversation with her.  Couldn’t have done it without you, Dad!

Emerging after getting lost in the bush - still smiling...

We struggled up endless bush-clad inclines, hurtled down logging roads on our hired bikes, got seriously lost when we fell behind anyone who could actually orienteer - but found our way out again. 

Ending with a punishing motor boat ride through the pounding surf to a marker buoy, we crossed the finishing line, intact, alive, still friends - and not even last.

Surf's up - time to get very wet...

I know I’m married to an incredible woman, but 27 years on she continues to surprise me still.
Next year - shopping and eating in Melbourne!

(and here is a video of the day - watch out for those OrangeCat hats at 0:25 and 1:09)

https://www.facebook.com/ThreeSixtyNZ/videos/1010547665740889/

Tora, Tora, Sorer

When will I learn that a coastal running event
is never what it sounds like?

Beautiful Tora

Loping happily along the sunny Wairarapa shoreline with the sparkling pacific stretching to the horizon. Seals bobbing peacefully in the surf, seabirds wheeling overhead… and my goodness, what’s that cheering sound - is that the finishing line already?

Cue that 'needle being pulled across record' sound effect…

How about 6km of stupidly trying to keep pace with the race leaders until last night's curry feels ready to make an unfortunate reappearance, while sunburn and windburn vie for supremacy?
But this is the easiest part - now turn sharply inland for 10km of gruelling climbs and connective-tissue ripping descents.

Never forget where you've been...

You finally stagger back onto the road only to discover that another couple of kilometres of dusty gravel awaits, until you shamble across the finishing line at last, to a sympathetic smattering of applause.

Coastland run? You’ll barely see the sea - what you will see is a hell of a lot of steep farmland, and gravel.

How did the sea get so far away?

But was it fun?

One of the very few people I overtook, a fit looking young woman, actually clapped and shouted - “Go Bro - you’re doing really well!”

Volunteer marshals, stuck on the top of a ridge in blistering wind and sun for goodness only knows how long, smile and shout encouragement as you stagger past. (No, Sir and/or Madame, you are the true heroes, nay, superheroes of these events).

The cameraderie and sheer goodwill that runners have towards each other is a wonderful thing - as is the opportunity to feel alive, even as it numbs your lips and cramps your muscles.

And then there are the minor triumphs of human spirit all around you. Not so much the athletes at their prime, but ordinary people pushing themselves harder than they ever have before. Maybe overcoming illness, injury, diminished confidence - a thousand different stories about why they might choose to do this to themselves.

So although I have to confess that taken-for-granted fitness once effortlessly within my reach now requires so much more of a flailing stretch, yes, it was fun.

Thank you Tora Coastal challenge organisers and apologies to my own connective tissue - I suspect we won’t be best of friends tomorrow.

Bushwhacked

I’m trying to rediscover an enthusiasm for running in time for an event next month. But I can’t do worse than I did last spring…

'Run through the jungle' (Image copyright Breadcraft Wild Challenge)

I'm an occasional runner and cyclist, but not especially talented at either. Really more of a hobbyist, I occasionally like to enter a race event with actual athletes. Setting a goal - even if it is as simple as turning up on time, on a given day, always feels like a good idea.

So last year I had another go at the Pukaha (Mt Bruce Nature Reserve) Wild challenge, this time not just doing the 10k run up and over the bush-clad slopes behind the reserve, but also the 32k cycle ride back to the starting point.

The dawn of the big day was full of promise, the first clear day after an unrelenting week of spring rain. And so the sunrise drive north to drop off my bike at the transition point was a very pleasant experience. Unfortunately, this was overlaid with a much less enjoyable factor as a few hours earlier clocks had been wound forward an hour for the beginning of daylight saving. Climbing out of bed cheated of an hour's sleep after a late night laced with champagne and whisky in celebration of a friend's birthday might have been one of the day's biggest challenges.

Resigned to the fact that a recent brush with the flu virus meant it wouldn't be my best work, I decided just to try and enjoy the experience instead. It's surprising how liberating this can be; we males are afflicted with obsessive competitiveness, something which can presumably be traced all the way back to ensuring our genetic line would prosper in more desperate prehistoric times.

Mammoths and sabre tooth tigers are not among Pukaha's bounty of exotic species, so I was determined that testosterone poisoning need not play too big a part in the day’s gathering (but it probably would).

The starting line. The serious competitors have little rubber tubes on their shoulders...

Like all races, the starting line scramble very quickly resolved itself into three distinct groups. The serious athletes in body hugging black 'superhero' outfits were already out of view in a flurry of wet leaves; as usual I was loping over tree roots somewhere in the middle group and the more casual, recreational participants were ambling happily somewhere behind us, enjoying the beauty of the surroundings.

The recent rainfall had mixed with the leafy ground-cover to create a slippery vegetarian paste infamous for its reputation to delay trains, and as the track turned steeply upwards my breathing started to rasp in my throat almost immediately. It's dispiriting to be out of condition and only too aware of it, but the fact that some of the steepest, greasiest sections were literally impossible to run over, slowing you to a careful walk, was actually a breath-catching blessing.

A spectacular view across to the Tararua range opened up very quickly behind us and I sacrificed any last slim hope of a respectable finishing time to stop and take photographs at each of the recording points on the way up. This caused the race Marshals some amusement, and a couple of them even posed for me. 

One of the day's true heroes: a Race Marshal.

 It also instigated a weird game of leap frog with the runner closest to me. She ran past me as I clicked away like a tourist, and then I’d eventually overtake her before stopping again at the next photo opportunity. No doubt I’d discovered a new way to irritate a fellow competitor.

This stop-starting might be anathema to an adequate finish, but did mean that the summit was reached relatively painlessly and there was only a small pause before joining everyone else in flinging myself down the descending track. This would have been an opportunity to regain a lot of ground if it wasn't for the extremely treacherous terrain, and I slid and fell more than once.

We broke out into open farmland surprisingly quickly, and I was able to use my stride to edge far ahead enough of my group to stop and photograph them pounding past me again.

The slippery slope downhill.

Reaching the bottom of the hill irresistibly registers in your psyche as the end of the on-foot section, so the slowly unwinding, dusty farm road making up the final couple of kilometres just felt like extra homework.

Interest was added by a shoelace malfunction and the unseen presence of another runner matching pace with me, their breathing and crunching footfalls issuing an unwanted challenge as the finishing line comes into view at last. Although I'm tired and in imminent danger of being taken down by my own loosening footwear, a tiny spark of competitiveness kicks in at last and I decide not to relent, or even turn my head to see who it is, until the end.

My ‘shadow’ turned out to be a very petit mother of two who quickly disappeared under congratulatory hugs from her family once past the finishing line. Mounting my bike, I cycled off off into even greater ignominy.

The fact that there would be a head wind for the entire journey back to Pukaha, supernaturally shifting to hit me in the face no matter which direction I pedalled in, was a given. But what I couldn't blame anything else for was my decision to bring my cross-terrain bike, a sturdy 'draft horse' quickly left behind by super-light racing bikes; buzzing fluorescent hornets quickly disappearing around distant bends on the sealed road.

Being too concerned with the run and not checking the cycle course details properly had led to me bringing a proverbial knife to a gunfight.

I tried to enjoy the scenery, which was rolling and verdant in the new spring sunshine, but became hugely disconcerted by the complete absence of any other cyclist after that initial swarm had vanished. Was I lost? Or was I so far behind that the race organisers would have to make accommodation arrangements to wait for me?

This distinctive road sign means the end is nigh. (Copyright Breadcraft Wild Challenge)

I wasn't last; no doubt some terrible catastrophe, or at least flat tyres, had befallen those few behind me. The ragged, sympathetic cheer which went up from big-hearted spectators at the finishing line gave me my first cause to smile for the last 32km as I coasted into the car park.

Talking to a regular event competitor afterwards, I admitted that although I couldn't take much pride in my time, I had genuinely enjoyed myself.
"Enjoying it is the main thing”, I was assured.

I vowed to beg, borrow or steal a road bike when I attempt this event again, but now need to come up with something else to blame my performance on, next time.

Fifty shades of Age

I know it’s just a number, but the day I reached my half century was pretty special.

Being weird means you might get weird presents on your birthday....

I have a happy, fulfilling and probably somewhat-sheltered life.  I’m quick to acknowledge those I owe my contentment to - fiercely-loving, brave, pioneering parents who came halfway across the world in search of a better existence, an incredible woman sharing my life who is probably the best thing about me, and a few, long-suffering friends who enrich my life in ways they’ll never know.

I turned fifty this week, an occurrence which both astonishes and pleases me at the same time - like reaching a far-off destination in good time and on less fuel and monetary expenditure than you expected.

But last year, I had a pretty wretched birthday - choosing to spend it at work and by sheer bad luck having a ‘lousy day at the office’.  On top of this my Facebook privacy settings somehow decided to conceal the fact that it was my birthday, and anyone who might have cared remained blissfully unaware that the day was significant to me.

I wasn’t about to repeat this mistake for my fiftieth and so took the day itself, and those either side, off (and re-checked my Facebook settings).

Rose began her schedule of ‘secret’ events by inviting nearby friends and neighbours for pre-birthday drinks on Sunday afternoon.  I think I’m a much more relaxed guest than host, but having so many familiar faces give their time to gather for my benefit is something you can’t help but enjoy.  Bringing them all together also gave many an opportunity to catch up, and it was heart-warming to see so many friends in animated conversation with each other, on our deck,  on a perfect summer’s afternoon.

My birth date itself dawned hot, with the traditional opening of cards in bed.  

Rose’s card came with the message : “This is a day full of clues which need to be solved…” and proved to be the case at each stage of an unforgettable birthday.

I steadfastly failed to decipher the clever and rhyming clues which came with a new gift at each destination, but was very happy to be led by the nose through the day.  

Clues and itinerary, one of the best organisers on the planet
made no exception on my birthday

Beginning with breakfast at our favourite Greytown cafe, we headed to Wellington for the next stage of the adventure.  Incredibly, we met with wind and rain on our journey, but this rapidly began to disappear as we reached the capital. Free-forming until the sun was shining fully again, we ducked into Te Papa to see the acclaimed Scale of our War ANZAC exhibition, but queues formed from the passengers of the two enormous cruise ships docked in the harbour sent us to the Dreamworks exhibition instead.  

A swooping, very wide-screen dragon flight through the world of How to train
your Dragon is an exhilarating highlight of the Dreamworks exhibition

It might have been second choice, but I’m so glad we saw the beautifully designed celebration of this studio’s art and creativity (including the actual greenhouse set from Curse of the Were-Rabbit!).  There’s nothing like a sharp reminder of how an illustrator might not have tried hard enough, and missed his calling, on his 50th birthday…

All too soon it was time to board the East by West Ferry fro our trip to Days Bay, on the far side of the harbour.  The day was hot and sunny by this time, and we sat up on the top deck, taking in views of the harbour we haven’t seen since living in this city.  We crossed the wake of the recently passed Interislander and picked up some of the larger vessel's ocean-going companions as they turned to follow us instead - yes, I even got dolphins on my birthday!

The original plan had been to paddle board at Days Bay, but being behind schedule and a northerly breeze made us quite happy to park this activity for another time - as long as I got into the sea at some point I’d be more than happy.

"We're on a boat!"

We had a wonderful lunch at the Cobar restaurant, looking out across the harbour from a shaded outside table, watching the local school take to the water on their ‘beach day’, the squeals of delight reminding me how I used to, and still feel about getting into water at any opportunity.

We swam out to an anchored raft straight after lunch, the sea surprising Rose with how much warmer it is than the Wairarapa rivers we’re used to.  I carried on to the Day’s Bay wharf, and then we thad time for a coffee at another cafe before catching the ferry back again.

Judging by that smile I’m not the only one who loves being in the sea on a hot afternoon.

At a couple of points during the afternoon it looked as if the sun might finally be disappearing behind hazy high cloud for good, but every time it seemed to blast out with full force again (as evidenced by Rose’s ruddy complexion when we got home ).

Passing Te Papa again on the way back to the car, we decided to try our luck with the Scale of our War exhibition again, and this time we got straight in.  Not only was the detail of the oversized human figures overwhelmingly impressive, from magnified stitching and shoelaces to skin pores and stubble, but the Gallipoli-themed installation was naturally very moving.  

Richard Taylor touches up one of the gigantic recreations of an Anzac combatant
in the Scale of Our War exhibition.

A beautiful home-cooked meal marked the end of a very full and indulgent day.  Relaxing with a movie, whisky in hand and skin pleasantly taut with an abundance of sun and sea spray is my favourite way to end any day.  Unwilling to let it all end, I stayed up late, watching a movie and responding to birthday wishes on Facebook (yes, the settings worked properly this time).

As I self-indulgently reflect on my rather selfish life so far I realise that it isn’t really about me.  What makes me smile now, and always, are the wonderful people I’ve met along the way. 

Solo Misadventure: Part Two – River deep, Mountain high

Getting from the Waiohine to the Tauherenikau river isn't usually difficult where I live, unless you do it via a mountain.

Accommodation for one - bring your own matches.

The view of the Tauherenikau river in summer, glimpsed from the train at the start and end of our daily commute, scarcely does it justice.  From the railway bridge it tends to look like a large dusty quarry with some despondent rivulets of water winding their way across the gravel.

But only a little way further into the hills it becomes a poster girl for New Zealand tourism. 
The banks nestle in on either side, and native bush begins to proliferate, palms shading, and ferns fringing sparkling clear pools. I’d swear you can smell the oxygen in the water, it fizzes near the sun-warmed surface as you pass through this beautiful river.  An author I was privileged to interview a couple of years ago coined the expression ‘the weight of nature’ in one of his books, and you can certainly feel it here.

I reach these parts of the Tauherenikau by wading up the river in high summer, able to cover a fair distance due to the low water level.  But I can only get so far, and only recently I realised that the answer had been staring me n the face every time I visited my favourite swimming hole at the other nearby river, the Waiohine. At the end of the road is a sign indicating the beginning of the track to 899m Mt Reeves, but when I finally read it properly, saw that the track continues down to Tutuwai hut, perched near a part of the Tauherenikau river I hadn’t seen before. the sign indicated the 11km distance would take 4.5hrs.

My legs still feeling the effects of the previous day’s return from Riversdale, I pedalled the familiar journey to the start of the track. 
I had originally intended to make the return trip to Tutuwai hut in a day, but Rose had convinced me to turn it into an overnight stay.  Her motivation might have been to get me out of the house but she also probably saved my life.  I had almost made the classic mistake of not respecting the mountain - it might only have been 11km, but it was STEEP!

The track ascended sharply through pine, then bush and eventually beech forest.  Assuming that the summit would be the halfway point of the journey, I hoped to reach it in 2hrs 15 minutes.  Nearing the top a wind picked up.  I passed a small party of mature trampers heading the other way, and as I write this they are still the last human beings I’ve seen in 30 hours.  Because, as it turned out, they had been the last people to stay at the hut and I had it entirely to myself.  

View from the top of Mt Reeves

But back to the present, with thigh muscles whimpering, I managed to make the top exactly when I hoped I would.  The Wairarapa spread out far below me and I got my first view of the Eastern Tararua range, glowering beneath some ominous clouds and reminding me again that this wasn’t just a stroll - people have died in these mountains.

If I’d thought the climb was steep the descent was insane, and I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was to make it down in a single hour - seeing the pink straight angles of the hut roof through the trees was jarring after the constant green and brown of the track, but a huge relief.

The company I enjoyed at Tutuwai hut.

Tutuwai appeared to have enough sleeping space for a couple of rugby teams, but presently there was just me, and it stayed that way.  As much as I enjoyed the solitude, another party might have had matches with them. This was a crucial oversight which lead to some embarrassing attempts to ‘MacGyver’ my way out of forsaking a hot dinner.  I tried to focus the sun through an empty wine bottle onto some dry leaves, but discovery of my plight had come too late in the day … I even tried rubbing sticks together and finally banging rocks.  A discarded lighter flared briefly then died once and for all.  I was stuffed, or rather not stuffed after a modest dinner of dry food and not the nourishing 'Kaweka' meal I had packed.  It was having to take the coffee, which I’d carried here, off the menu which really hurt, though.

I swam and read until the light finally disappeared - the sun appearing to roll along the ridge of the mountains, rather than dipping behind them.

The view from Tutuwai hut veranda.

I spent a surprisingly unnerving night in that huge hut all by myself.  Every creak of the cooling building seemed magnified, as did the distant scream of some still-unidentified wildlife.  What most concerned me though was the possibility that I could be invaded at any minute by a drunk party of pig hunters.  The sound of the nearby river fooled me several times by mimicking distant human voices, but despite all this I eventually fell into a deep, long sleep.

Despite the forecast, the next morning was sunny and hot, so I hit the trail early, prepared for the slope back to the top.  I say prepared, but it still hurt.  Weirdly, on summiting and coming back into cellphone range at last, I received a text from my manager, asking me if I wanted Waitangi day off.  I now see that dark things have happened to New Zealand while I was gone, but my first news was the opportunity to extend my holiday by another day - and I grabbed it.

My last view of the Tauherenikau valley as I head for home.

Like my Riversdale trip, I also finished this one with a swim in the Waiohine when I reached the end of the trail.  Tramping is supposed to be a social activity, and as much as I enjoyed myself I did feel very isolated and maybe a tiny bit lonely, (I even caught me talking to myself over breakfast).  I’ve had great, if exhausting experiences over the past week, but it’s time to call a halt to the solo misadventures for a little while.