Meet my new adventure wagon. In what seems to be the most fortuitous timing possible, I’ve gone electric and bought an E-van. I’m calling it the All-Electric Pūkeko, since it runs on pure volts, will have an induction hob in it someday and is blue, like the bird. It’s my first campervan.

It’s an LDV eDeliver 3, which means it’s a SAIC (上汽) and part of a very long list of Chinese-made EVs now available down the pub and in your local corner shop. I bought it at the end of last year, during some sort of dealer sell-off. When I got it, it had 20km on the clock. Not 20,000, 20.

Its range (this is the first question you had when you heard it was electric, right?) is about 243km, but if I drive it ultra-smartly on the slow roads, I reckon I could get 300 from it. The battery is a smidge over 50kWh, so it’s probably currently got about 50kWh of useable energy storage. Honestly, it’s a bit like having an iPhone for a car - Nanna voice: “remember to plug it in!”.

On the faster roads, even if you shun the temptation to speed up on the climbs and do other fun stuff with the instant torque, the range really is about 240km. This is fine for shorter trips, but demands a bit more plugging in at fast chargers when out exploring Aotearoa.

How I stumbled upon the adventure wagon for me

For a number of years now, I have watched in partial envy as backpacker friends have come through NZ, bought a van and gone on to explore the country, while living in their wagon. Some call it #vanlife, while others call it travel or living. I think one even once referred to it as “just bloody awful”, although I believe this was at the end of a long van tenancy and they were eager to get back to living in a house.

My envy was only partial, because I also carried some resistance. This came from two points on the compass: from the northwest, was a reluctance to place more of my eggs in the ‘dependence on oil’ basket; and from the east came my vibe of youthful adamance.

I’d been driving a Toyota Aqua since mid-2022 and had kinda got used to buzzing about the country, getting a guaranteed 700km for every 33 litres I put in. When I turned slightly-nomadic, after the last Covid lockdown lifted1, I had been car-free since 2014. I was totally used to living life in the fit lane, skipping financial losses by zipping around Auckland by bike. Buying a car - even a hyper-efficient hybrid one - made me super nervous. I didn’t want to pour any more money into the pockets of them2 than I had to, but I realised it was a necessity if I was to break out of the city life. The hybrid Aqua was the best solution I could afford. Over the years since, I believed that going full #vanlife would for sure see my fuel expenses jump and that was something I couldn’t face.

The second reason for my dismissiveness was age. Back in ‘22, I was in my early forties - which to my mind means I thought I was about 31 - and in far too good nick to be sleeping in anything beyond a tent. I like tenting and the #TentLife: sleeping on the ground brings a sense of connection, at least through several layers of various plastics, to our world. However, last year, I started to see myself at a much more realistic age: 33. Maybe 34.

Add to that the frankly insane rains Aotearoa seems to suffer more and more of, and I softened to the idea of something solid to sleep in. Plus, it would be a wicked support vehicle on some missions.

Perhaps a micro camper trailer is the answer?

No, it’s not. I spent a good chunk of hours on Trade Me, researching micro campers without realising it. They’re cosy, ornate, practical, customisable and vary wildly, from factory-built to Kiwi-Dads-in-their-garage-built. The idea of being able to leave a base behind on a campground, while going out in the vehicle for the day appealed. But what vehicle? My Toyota Aqua sure as muck wasn’t going to be doing any towing and I wasn’t about to buy a micro camper and a new vehicle.

I shifted focus and began to look at hybrid vans, but the fuel consumption sums didn’t sit right with me. It would be like driving the Aqua, with the ability to sleep in it, but for around a 50% jump in fuel costs. Eugh! Giving the overlords more of my hard-earned cash, just for the pleasure of stretching out for a proper sleep in my own vehicle3 did not wash.

Ready to abandon the idea entirely, Zoe and I were travelling south to hike near Te Aroha last August, when we stopped at Z Bombay. There outside the shop, plugged into the fast charger, sat an eDeliver 3 van. I'd stumbled across electric vans before somewhere in my hunt, but had written the idea off as “they don't have enough range for me”. However, this briefest glimpse conjured up a thought: if this person can make it work, maybe I can? Public fast charging has probably come a long way since I last used it4 .

The price was at the very upper end of my budget, but it ticked the main boxes of increasing utility size and reducing emissions. I went to view one in Auckland and was met with the most bizarre interactions from the dealer. Either lazy, disengaged or just having a bad day, he offered next-to-no interest in making a sale. So, I called the Hamilton dealership and bought one from them.

What are the van plans?

We are going places! It’s both my main transportation and base camp for my work. Since acquiring it, it’s been on road trips around Northland, I collected a bed from Tauranga and I’ve driven it from Auckland to Glenorchy and back.

It’s got a two metre long area in the rear, so it’s comfortable for ol’ lanky here to sleep in5. It’s not exactly high, though, so ol’ lanky can’t stand up. It’s also lacking windows, which means it’s lacking ventilation and there’s little natural light to wake up to, so those idyllic scenes outside can’t be seen once the sliding door gets shut. I’ll probably do something about that in time.

Cooking has been happening on the outside of the van, thanks to my old, but trusty, Trangia. With the correct ventilation, I hope to add an induction hob inside, in keeping with the electric theme. My Dad and I have also fashioned a plywood cabinet that is going to be bolted to the left hand wall as soon as I get a bit of time to construct and attach it.

The guy I bought the bed from sold it with two correctly-sized mattresses. He also threw in an incorrectly-sized, but superior, Dunlop, which I cut and glued to the correct sizes. Over several days, Mum then made two beaut covers for these - one in orange and one in purple. They look incredible and really bring the grey interior some fun. I’ll get you some photos in a future post, I’m sitting on them as I type this6.

Oh, and the grey interior is going to get a lift through a bunch of map-themed displays. Somehow. This is still a work in progress.

For now, this magnet map I picked up in Glenorchy will have to do…

That’s where we’re at. I’ll update you more on how the van plan is panning out very soon.

Today, we are in the presence of a celebrity. Not a Hollywood icon, not a centenarian crooner and none of this royal eminence parp, neither. Today’s celebrity is famous from the 21st Century way of doing things: it’s famous on the internet. It’s one of the most social-media-idolised in recent times and this VIP isn’t even a human1. It’s a tramping track; the much-revered Earnslaw Burn Track.

Of the many things named Earnslaw around Lake Whakatipu, the ones I can immediately point to are the steamship and the mountain. But, there are others. All these Earnslaws come from a single naming source: a Scottish village in the parish of Eccles, Berwickshire, close to the border with England. Earnslaw Burn is another such spawn of the original Scots Earnslaw, but what’s a ‘burn’ in this context?

To a speaker of English as a second language, a ‘burn’ might reasonably sound like something carried out to reduce a forest of its fuel, create a firebreak and prevent future catastrophic wildfires2. However, in Scotland, a ‘burn’ is simply a stream or a creek. British surveyor John Turnbull Thomson gifted the maunga known as Pikirakatahi with a second moniker and named it ‘Mount Earnslaw’. The glacier that sits upon it also got this name - Earnslaw Glacier - as did the burn that flows from that: Earnslaw Burn. Got it? Easy as.

Heading in to hike Earnslaw Burn Track, I had two main questions:

Main Question 1: Where does Earnslaw Burn Track start and finish?

The complexities of Earnslaw Burn for the average map-gazer is that it’s a trip of two parts.

Below the treeline, in the forest, is the track. Beginning at the end of Lovers Leap Road, off the Glenorchy-Paradise Road, it weaves, mostly on Department Of Conservation land, up the valley, offering only limited views of the Burn itself and demanding a workload from those who dare tread its root-lined pathway. After four hours, more for some, the officially marked track ends and trampers emerge from the trees to views up a tussock-filled valley, with the blocky summit of Turret Head leering high above. It’s quite a sight, but you’re nowhere near done. A pathway worn between the tussocks and through bogs continues across private land and leads around the corner to reveal powerful and dramatic views of Mount Earnslaw and its giant hanging glacier. You may then continue up the valley, apparently on a crash course with the glacier.

Where it all ends seems to lack consensus. My go-to, the NZ Topo 50, shows the DOC track in the forest, but avoids indicating any route beyond the tree line3. Open Maps is a little more open to the fact there is a well-trodden track out of the trees, then places the finish at the Gilkison Falls Viewpoint. In reality, you can continue on a few minutes even from there to reach a part of the glacier up-close on the valley floor.

Where you finish is your choice. Two out of three in our party made it to the glacier, while the third had a nap in the comfy tussock, beside the burn. Everyone had a great day out.

Main Question 2: Should we hike Earnslaw Burn in one day or spend the night up there and take two?

Our journey to the glacier and back measured in at a smidge above 29 kilometres4 and took us around 12.5 hours. Those not perturbed by a long day on the feet will be able to hike Earnslaw Burn Track all the way to the glacier and back in one long day; those more keen on taking life easy and stopping to see all-the-things, plus its extended family, will prefer to slow up, take some camping gear and enjoy a night in the wild under the canvas5.

If you’re struggling to make a decision, like I do with just about anything, here’s a handy quick mind-maker-upper:

Reasons to hike Earnslaw Burn in one day:

- It only takes one day;
- You can pack light, move fast;
- More time in the region to go explore the Greenstone, Routeburn, Cascade Saddle, Mt McIntosh, Wāwāhi Waka, Moonlight, Wye Creek or whatever else you fancy doing;
- Space is at a premium and the suitable campsites beside Earnslaw Burn can get busy - no one knows how many suitable-but-unused toilet locations remain in the area;
- You only need to know the weather forecast for a single day6;

Reasons to camp overnight beside Earnslaw Burn:

- You can start at a slightly more leisurely time than 7am;
- You can enjoy the rooty, muddy and undulating hike through the forest section at your own pace - plenty of time for crying, while sat on that log;
- A chance to see and photograph the glacier at different times of the day. The sun will be right behind the glacier in the middle of the day, when most day-trampers will be arriving. A sleepover will provide a chance to photo it first thing in the morning, last thing at night or even both;
- You might make new friends among the hoards of other campers up there, or, better still, meet a Hobbit7;
- Claim bragging rights for sleeping in this wholly unique location.

How was Earnslaw Burn Track to hike?

Earnslaw Burn Track is a one-day epic, with two acts and a multitude of settings. The first act takes you up between the beech, across knobbly roots and around large tree falls. The stock standard orange track markers sit on the trees and point the way, although there were two occasions on the way up we found ourselves on alternative tracks. Fortunately, these still led back to the correct way and we rejoined the track in front of other hikers, as if nothing had happened.

There aren’t a huge number of viewpoint opportunities in this first act. A view back towards Mt Alfred and part of Diamond Lake is possible from an early clearing. The track also meets the Burn’s gorge a couple of times, briefly allowing glimpses of the running water below and some of the surrounding hillscapes.

The second act is where things start to get really interesting, with the trees giving way to a large, grassy expanse upon the Burn’s flat upper valley. Tussocks and mountain scrub inhabit the plains, while rocky peaks and the glacier itself dramatise the view towards the skyline. People also become more visible with the lapse in trees, while helicopters buzz overheard and deliver yet more humans as cargo.

There’s no denying the sight of the glacier clinging to the side of the mountain is unique and awe-inspiring, precisely what earned it its social media celeb status. Yet, fame’s price in this case that appears to be a mass addition of foot traffic. Seasoned scene-seekers will fit right in, but those after true backcountry solace will be better off avoiding this on weekends and in holidays.

2025, what a year! We have to say that, don’t we? I don’t know why, but something about the 31st December has us stepping back from the giant annual mural, placing hands on hips, head cocked slightly upwards, as we remark “what a year!”

What a year!

For no reason other than it might be useful or interesting to some, here are my top 10 from the bunch of tracks I walked on these past twelve months. As usual, share your thoughts.

10. Tunnel Point, via Gibbons Track, Muir Track and Pararaha Valley Track - Waitākere Ranges, Auckland

For a year that’s been spent 90% in the Supercity, you can sure bet there’s going to be some Auckland tracks on the list, but these aren’t just here to make up the numbers. Follow this well-graded route from Whatipū car park and campground up the spur into the southwestern corner of the Waitākere Ranges. Enjoy vast views of the former Taranaki Bay coastline, now swamped in black sand wetland, as you follow the level ridgeline, before dropping down into the lush, nīkau-friendly Pararaha Valley - site of a former kauri logging settlement. A short calf-workout through the dunes delivers you to Tunnel Point Campground - perhaps the most isolated spot in all of mainland Tāmaki Makaurau - named for the tram tunnel blasted through the rock, which survives to this day. Spend the night and/or return along the wild Whatipū Beach. Alternatively, you can walk down from Karekare Beach and it’s a lot faster and easier - turns out this is what we actually did this year!

9. Ernies Track, Hunua Ranges, Auckland

The kauri dieback prevention work and subsequent sanitisation of the Waitākere Ranges has left many serious trampers craving a Sunday saunter that tests. To my surprise, its sibling range to the southeast contains a bunch of tracks that are no pushover. To reach Ernies, park at the Upper Mangatāwhiri Dam and follow the gravel Waterline Road beside the lake for a couple of kilometres to the junction with Ernies. There the challenge begins, with a muddy, undulating stretch through bush and over some bridges and boardwalks. Cross the Mangatāwhiri River, pass through an unusual copse of bamboo and begin the climb up towards pt. 497. Several views make themselves known, including one from a bench at the summit and another from a bench further on. The last treasure on this jaunt is the cool little Piggotts Hut, which sits where the track meets Lilburne Road. The road leads back down the hill to the dam and car park.

8. Mangapohue Natural Bridge Walk, Piripiri, Waikato

This is easily one of the North Island’s most impressive, but little-known, natural wonders. The Mangapohue Natural Bridge asks of visitors to complete a very short walk, in return, rewarding them with an impressive limestone gorge and a 17-metre high naturally formed bridge, towering overhead. No longer a loop, this is probably the easiest track to make my list, but the bridge itself is truly impressive and is far enough from the beaten track that it might come with a decent slice of quiet time.

7. Bell Track, Pirongia Forest Park, Waikato

Of all the ways up and down Pirongia, Bell Track has always been the most eventful to me. It has Pūāwhē (previously named The Cone), with its epic views to the northwest of Whaingaroa Raglan; on a corner shortly afterwards werewere-kōkako (NZ blue mushroom) like to grow; the track then gently descends through forest to Central Clearing campsite, offering a large open area and stream water to make your camp coffee with; kahikatea then becomes the star of the show - a 66 metre tall white pine, the tallest native tree in the country, is reachable up a side track immediately after a bridge. It’s a big day, but a memorable way to descend from the mountain’s Pāhautea Hut. (My nephew was born, as I hiked Bell Track in 2021.)

6. Skyline Walkway, Wellington

No gondolas, no luge, just a track that traverses part of those huge hills that loom over the Wellington skyline. Ah, skyline, I just got why it’s called that! Take a train from the city centre up to Johnsonville - a rail trip that feels at times like it’s borrowed its track plan from the Trans-Mongolian, the way it snakes gradually up the incline and the opposite end of the train frequently pops into view. Once on foot, wiggle through suburbia, up Cortina Avenue (I saw none) and left on Flinders Place to join the walkway. The wide, shared-use track then undulates its way along the ridge, soon arriving at the wooden viewing platform beside Mt Kaukau. The route then continues on its up-down path, allowing the city and harbour to boast its views (on a good day), eventually arriving at Johnstone Hill. Here I dropped down into Karori, wiggled through a short bush track by Zealandia, before jumping on a bus back to meet a friend for wine in Newtown. You can continue right through to Makara Hill

5. Duncan Wilson’s Track, Queenstown, Ōtākou

There’s a track with my name on it and it has nothing to do with me. That said, this is my list and I’ll include what I want. From Wilson Bay, on the shores of Whakatipu, take Seven Mile Point Track until a junction offers you a right turn up Duncan Wilson’s Track to Storm’s Rock. It’s a short one, taking approximately 3 minutes to reach the rock, but what a rock! Thank you, Storm, good find. The views across Lake Wakatipu are stunning and worth the minor detour. Whoever Duncan Wilson is/was, salute that man.

4. Waiau Pass Route, to Blue Lake, Nelson Lakes National Park, Tasman District

They say “it’s about the journey, not the destination” and that’s why this is a list of tracks and not destinations. However, an exception to that has to be the side quest on the Travers - Sabine Circuit that leads up to Rotomairewhenua Blue Lake. Holding officially the clearest water in world, it’s hard for the tracks heading to such a natural wonder to be anything more than a pilgrimage sidekick. Still, Nelson Lakes National Park is an eye-opening place, with a variety of stunning route options towards Waiau Pass Route, where this magic roto is found. I started my pilgrimage on Mt Robert Road, beside Rotoiti and took Lakeside Track, Lower Travers Valley Track, Cascade Track, Mt Cedric Route and Sabine Track to join with the Waiau Pass Route. This provided a stunning mix of riverside valley and alpine travel. It crossed over hard, compacted snow and through potential avalanche zones, beside the clear, blue Sabine River - which runs out of the Blue Lake. Rotomairewhenua / Blue Lake has the clearest water in the world and it must be seen, go there.

3. Trounson Kauri Park Loop Track, Northland

“I’ve been coming here for years. I’ve sat out in those bushes for hours on end. I don’t think there’s many kiwi in there. I once sat for an hour listening to some rustling close by, only to find myself face-to-face with a possum!”

I’m not entirely sure how much my pep talk to fellow campers affected their decision to take the night kiwi bird walk at Trounson, but Zoe and I still went out for a look. This is a breezy, 30-minute loop through part of an ancient kauri stand on the edge of the famous Waipoua Forest. The giant kauri trees are magnificent and worth every bit a look during the day, however at night the sound of the kiwi call takes over. Grab a red-light and set off from the brilliant Trounson Kauri Park campground (DOC campsite pass enabled + hot showers = amazing) and follow the easy gravel and boardwalk trail round. Walk gently and quietly and listen out for the calls and any rustling in the low foliage. We did this, pausing to listen when we heard a noise, which turned out to a be a North Island Brown kiwi. Whether the population density has increased since I last looked or we just got lucky, I’ve now updated the “odds of seeing a kiwi bird in the wild” to: high.

2. Moonlight Track, Queenstown, Ōtākou

Follow Moonlight Track at dusk, on a clear night from Moke Lake Campground and you might see why it got its name. Head up Gorge Road from Queenstown to Arthurs Point, however, and you’ll be heading in the opposite direction - like I did. It’s still a great track, however, and offers hikers of all abilities the opportunity to view some truly rugged and mountainous wild country, without stepping too far out of town. Take McChesney Road (the one and only) and join Moonlight Track (the road) until it becomes Moonlight Track (the track). It soon opens up to views of the Shotover Gorge, north towards Skippers and the Southern Alps. Officially, the track now follows the gravel farm road through to Moke Lake, but the more adventurous types should take the ‘old road’ beside Moke Creek and enjoy its tunnel section and multiple wet feet crossings. Usual river safety sense should apply. Take a tent and spend a night or two at Moke Lake camp for the full experience.

1. Waiorongomai Valley, Te Aroha, Waikato

Pleasant surprises can make all the difference between a good track and an amazing track when out tramping, so meet the Piako County Railway, up the Waiorongomai Valley, in northeast Waikato. Containing a plethora of pack tracks and rail lines from the gold mining days, you can make up your own route up to the ridge behind Te Aroha Maunga. Some of the tracks follow the steep rail inclines, where the majority of rails still sit or have been refurbished, and take you past other old gold infrastructure. We walked this area in amazement at the recent history still lingering. An old miner’s tunnel provides a link to Te Aroha Link Track and then you can take Waipapa Track down into the Waitawheta Valley and spend a night at the hut (recommend not weekends/school holidays, as it’s a favourite for families). Allow a day each way to reach the hut and enjoy all in that valley that deserves to be looked at.

So, there’s my ten. Have you done any of these? Do you have any recommendations for 2026? Has 2025 been a goodie? Here’s to 2026. What a year.

To pass or not to pass: that is the question.

It’s the question I sort of already knew the answer to. But I still went anyhow. Something about me wouldn’t let me head back down the valley, the way I’d come, without seeing for myself. So up I went. Up I went to Waiau Pass, to see if I could pass Waiau Pass.

When I came round the Richmond Range last year, the TA walkers I met went straight on into this section and crossed Waiau Pass. No snow, just a bluebird day. It was late November. Here I was, just a mere three weeks earlier, hoping to do the same. Everything will turn out fine, right?

I hadn’t lit the fire at Blue Lake Hut, so when morning rolled around it was colder than a tent and I had very little motivation to actually get up and do the thing I was supposed to be doing. Eventually, around 7am, I forced myself out of the sleeping bag. This had the result of converting me from being warm, snug and clueless to being cold, numb and clueless.

Still, I got away from the hut a little over two hours later (I have been known to take three, I am just not very efficient at packing). Another bluebird roaster presented itself outside. I made it up the ascent to see Rotopōhueroa Lake Constance in a little under half an hour. It’s darker in colour and much larger than its relation down the hill.

The scree climb and walk around the lake took very little time and I became convinced this trip up to merely “check out” the pass was going to be fast. I even began to believe I was going to cross the pass. Lol.

The poled route delivers you to the southwestern shores of Lake Constance, a lake which, for cultural and biosecurity reasons, you are not allowed to touch. I imagine the thousands of hikers passing through here each year all definitely abide by that request...

Leaving the lake edge, the route follows the gentle valley floor for a short while, before making a 90 degree turn to head almost directly up the scree to Waiau Pass. I paused for a breather, trying not to be too intimidated by the giant climb that lay ahead. It does look very intense from the bottom.

I reattached my giant pack to my back, took a deep breath and began the ascent. The initial climb follows tussock and scrub which has managed to settle itself amongst the scree. Countless other trampers have gradually worn step-like features into the mountainside. This doesn’t last forever, however, and the main sidle across the scree soon commences. I looked back at the valley floor as I started to cross, noticing the river feeding Lake Constance now appeared microscopic. I don’t really mind heights, but I still found this a touch unnerving.

I took a wrong turn on the scree and found myself climbing too sharply. The stones started to slip and they were taking me with them. I decided my best bet was to return down and take the right path. This involved a somewhat sketchy slip and slide several metres back down the chunky grit. Back on the correct channel, I climbed up and off the scree for a steep ascent up more worn tussock steps. This then levelled off as it headed to the right some more over tussock and rock. And snow. More and more snow.

My mind was taken back to a sign I’d seen in Blue Lake Hut, warning of the pass and the expertise required to cross. It finished with the sentence: the south side of Waiau Pass generally holds snow through to early summer. Here I was on the north side and I was already seeing heaps of snow. And it was still spring.

My mind went back further in time, to last year, after coming through the Richmond Range. One night, in the lodge restaurant in St Arnaud, my trail buddies and I got chatting with another man who said he’d walked Te Araroa a few years back. He was reliving Waiau Pass with us, highlighting its steepness, and how he’d used a rope to lower his bag down one particularly precarious section. He had made it sound extreme. He had made it sound like the last place I wanted to be with a bulky, wobbly bag attached to me. Alone, with no rope. That method seemed redundant to me - it could scuff or tear my boat.

I affirmed to myself that the only safe call I could make was to turn back. This was what a bit of me had suspected for about 18 hours, now. Back would take me along a route I had already experienced. Back would take me back past all those avalanches and avalanche zones. Back would require a further re-think of this journey: about its route and whether I even have a full raft traverse in me across this island. Also, it had reconfirmed what I’d long known: it really is no North Island!

My breakfast cereal with water on it had a funny taste that I didn't twig until the final few mouthfuls: chilli. That was definitely chilli coming through, spicing up my Great Start. It must've infiltrated my fold-flat cup-bowl during last night's dinner.

I stepped outside to gather some wood to leave in the shed and immediately noticed a black bird with a green colourful tinge, high up in a tree. I took one step too close and it and its partner - who had been in another nearby tree - took flight away from me. They began singing from their new location and I realised they were tūī. I don't think I've seen them in this kind of high terrain before.

The sun was creeping up above the mountains, its rays finally colliding with the soaked grass and shrubs left after the night’s downpour. I left the hut, began the hiking and immediately had to cross back over the same swing bridge, repeating my awkward shuffle off it in reverse at the other end.

I joined the track to Blue Lake, which takes walkers through a mossy forest, with tree roots to negotiate and lots of boulders to hop over on the floor. After just a few minutes, I reached the first of many avalanche paths, marked by a red sign. It's recommended you move swiftly through these zones, so I stopped for a snack and a taste of the clear-running river water, before going on.

This one was only 375 metres long, so I exited it swiftly. However further up the track was a double zone of 700 metre, which actually had the remnants of two avalanches across it. One lay over the track, forcing me to clamber up the slope to cross above it and then come back down the other side. I'd never seen an avalanche up close before. Rather than white, like snow, its contents was more a grey colour, with lots of mud and dried tussock blades strewn all over the top of it. The parts of it nearest the river sat dripping, hollowed out underneath, so you definitely didn't want to walk on it.

Aside from the multiple red-sign danger zones, the track basically meanders beside the clear and loudly flowing river. After hurriedly leaving the final avalanche site, I climbed briefly to a flat area with a neat boardwalk which crosses a very still pond. Its base was pure mud, while a layer of crystal clear water sits on top of it - presumably brought up by spring. The tranquility against the constantly crashing river was welcome and I took a moment to enjoy this peace offering, set in front of the snowy mountains, the source of the avalanche I had just crossed.

One short but steep climb later and I was at Blue Lake Hut. Without thinking, I kept my pack on and continued down the path to witness Rotomairewhenua - the lake itself - believed to contain the clearest water in the world (no, I wasn't going to paddle on it!).

I bounded down the track, full of anticipation for this natural wonder. After a right turn, to follow a slender track among some tussock, this championed water mass began to shuffle into view. The sun was beating down, maximising its supreme clarity. Depending where I fixed my gaze, I saw a mix of blue, submerged greens and near-transparency. Here I was, looking at the clearest water in the world.

Back at the hut, it was apparent that Blue Lake and its surroundings are located inside a very efficient sun trap. I removed my sweaty t-shirt, used the outdoor sink to handwash my clothes, then sat at the outdoor pub table, in the baking sun, writing this.

Happy to be where I am, out in this incredible location, but I’m still desperately unhappy while moving. And moving takes up most of every single day. Carrying a boat that never gets used, across a route that's essentially Te Araroa, with limited other pathway options south, is getting tedious. Why do something if you don't enjoy it? Can I modify things to make it more appealing?

I had the hut entirely to myself, the world’s clearest water just yonder in a lake, yet I needed to find more clarity.

Those serious doubts I’d suffered on the first day, climbing up to Angelus Hut, seemed to be dissipating. The descent from Cedric to Sabine Hut in the warm, spring sunshine, followed by the positivity of the other trampers around me had given me a boost and I was ready to practically run up the Sabine Valley.

The forecast was for a few showers in the afternoon, but nothing full on. The morning started clear, with some cloud rolling in after a few hours. It was light cloud and didn’t appear to be carrying anything nefarious.

The first several kilometres from the hut were bliss: flat and over a well formed track. I should know, though, it never stays like that. I’d been warned by three separate parties about the fallen trees along this stretch of track. I received a fourth from a tramping party of six men, as I met them at the first of about three track washouts.

“You’re going to see some fresh tree fall later on,” promised one.

“We’ve cut through it a bit. Made it slightly easier,” said another, eager to emphasise it still wouldn’t be easy.

It wasn’t. Every kilometre up the valley had to be earned. The track had been severely washed away in places and I clambered through a lot of fallen trees, but nothing slowed me down like the eventual gravitational strain of my pack.

My longest stretch without needing to stop and sit without it on was 4km. It must have been following a relatively flat spell, beside the river bank, because climbing in this outfit usually prompts a rest every 2km.

The Sabine Valley itself is yet another stunning South Island river location. Clear, light blue water rushes down its usually wide, rocky bed. The track, mainly through adjacent beech forest, mostly follows the river’s true left, after crossing via bridge at the end of its gorge. Long ranges of mountains loom overhead, some of which threaten the track with avalanches, particularly at this time of year.

The clouds gave in and very light rain began during my second rest break, at a large and beautiful flat clearing beside the river. It was obviously a great place to camp, evidenced by the remnants of fireplaces beside perfectly flat sections of grass. The droplets falling at this point were mere air conditioning for my overheating body as it trudged duly up valley, under the command of its quite questionable master.

The plan at start of day had been to try and reach Rotomairewhenua Blue Lake - one of the river’s sources, famed for having the clearest water in the world. The sign when I set off had said it was eight hours, but when I pulled in at West Sabine Hut after seven hours, finally beginning to get wet from the rain, I decided to call time.

Cold, hungry and battered, I tried to write this before going to bed, but found it would have to wait until morning. My head needed rest.

Tell them about the swing bridge!

Oh yeah, to reach West Sabine Hut, there’s a swing bridge over the river. On the hut side, you just walk straight off, but on the opposite side you must climb up onto the bridge, underneath its main supporting wires. This is not fun nor a pretty sight with a bulky pack on, with a carbon paddle protruding upwards and a helmet protruding out back. It’s even worse trying to do it as brain-fried, body-smashed, human man at the end of a tricky and tiring 16km tramp. Taking my pack off would've been the smarter thing to do.

West Sabine Hut is a neat 30-bunker, with fireplace, cooking area and even a chess set, the pieces improvised with stones. The West in the name comes from the split in the river, with the track now following what's called the West Sabine River up towards Rotomairewhenua Blue Lake.

Having gone up the mountain, today I just came back down. Those 1000 hard-earned metres of elevation to reach Angelus Hut were traded for 1200 metres the other way, to reach the shores of Lake Rotoroa.

There’s definitely some bedding in going on. I’m a year out of practice, having not lugged this boat very far at all in the past 11 months. So match unfitness - tick. Add to that, I also don’t really know where anything goes. Packing up, I quickly become confused about where a certain gear or food item lives. A well-oiled machine I am not.

That said, I still made it safely down the mountain today. I remembered where my left and right feet were enough times to make that happen. There were even times when I didn’t know where one of my feet was, as it had fallen through the snow and needed retrieving before the journey could continue.

From Angelus Hut I took the Mt Cedric Route. Immediately from the lake, this one climbs up and out of the basin. Smatterings of snow soon became thickly laid on custard blankets, many of them unavoidable to stay on the marked route. I trudged on up, taking a long break on a rock island, surrounded by snow sea.

Once up on the ridge, an incredible view north to Tasman and Kahurangi National Park became visible. I perched on a rock and enjoyed the sunshine for a 20 minutes, trying to figure out if the big sheet of snow I could see on the next ridge was part of the route and whether or not I could avoid it. I decided to stay with it and found most of the snow was solid enough to walk on.

I sidled round a mountain and joined another ridge for the descent. Suddenly a very loud crack ran out. I turned 180 to see what it was just in time to witness a boulder slide cross the patch of snow I was still on, perhaps five metres behind me. Most were little shraps, but there was one biggie that would have hurt if it hit me. Lucky dog.

The rest of the ridge descent was stunning, as the whole of Lake Rotoroa gradually slid into frame. Its clear blue water really stood out against the mountain rock and tussock and on a hot day like today, all I was longing for was to drink it all.

As I reached the bushline, I realised I was super thirsty. All the water I’d collected at Angelus was long gone and I hadn’t visited any of the tarns I’d seen way down below the track. The descent then ramped up a notch and began demanding a level of concentration that I was not hydrologically equipped for. This made for hot work, not helped by a poor showing on the brain front.

Still, I made it down to the water’s edge, where Sabine Hut sits just metres from the lake shore. I sat in the hut and rehydrated, as various hikers went and came. My plan for an extra trip over the lake to D’Urville Hut was off.

Camping beside the lake is home tonight, I will fall asleep to the sound of the water lapping and fish jumping. Now, where do I put all that water?

"What am I doing?" "Do I have the ability to get through this?" "I can't. I just can't."

All thoughts I had as I slowly cranked my way up the near-vertical Cascade Route, headed for Angelus Hut, in Nelson Lakes National Park. Snow made up 30-40% of the picture before me, including some steeper sections of the track.

As I stepped onto the white crisp, it compacted down and turned to hard ice. Or so I thought. A slight turn in my foot as I progressed saw this freshly-compacted solid give way. The weight of the pack-plus-me was too much for it and my leg and foot were sent shooting downwards, as far as the next available rock.

"I don't have the gear for this."

I wasn't having fun and I was having lots of negative thoughts. This contrasted wildly with the start to the day, when Scoot and I had walked the relatively flat Lakeside Track, along the shores of Rotoiti, then up some of the Travers Valley. Gentle blue water lapping at the lake's grey pebble beaches and the epic halfpipe-shaped valley full of green wonder and mountains behind had given the senses a good feast. Now, I was in hell. And it was a hell of my own creation.

Sunset was around 8:20pm and I wanted to be within range of Angelus Hut by then. The back of my t-shirt was lined in sweat from the climb, while my knees were red and chilled from their last dip in the snow. The peanuts I had chowed down during my last break, right before the vertical section kicked off, were burning out. I was running on pure adrenaline.

The steep climb doesn't last forever and eventually - after probably 45 minutes - I reached the top of the waterfall. I continued walking across the mountain tussock, avoiding all the patches of snow that I could to reach the ridge. Five minutes from there is the hut. It was 8:15pm. Time to nourish!

I bust through the hut door like a zombie needing a hit. I somehow bagged a bunk before finding water and putting it on boil, ready to bring myself back from the brink.

For whatever reason, I'm back carrying my little blue boat across the South Island. That was Day 18, Coldwater Hut to Angelus Hut.

Recently, I’ve spent a lot of time agonising over whether to head over Waiau Pass and paddle down the Waiau River to Hanmer Springs or double back to Lake Rotoroa and take the Buller to Murchison, then find a way to join up with the Upper Grey River. You know, standard issues most people my age have to deal with.

These are two route options that head in quite different directions. The Waiau-Hanmer option would plant me further south, to the east of the South Island’s main divide. From there, I’d pick up Te Araroa (TA - the walking track down the length of the country that I’m supposed to be avoiding and saving for my 50th birthday) and shuffle myself through to the central lakes of Coleridge, Takapō, Pukaki etc.

The Buller-Murchison option would take me west (west is best), but with a undetermined jaunt from Murchison to the Upper Grey. There’s a nice long State Highway between them, but nobody wants to walk tens of kilometres down that with a boat on their back. I clocked up a 28km State Highway walk when covering the North Island and can confirm that was quite enough. My shoes from that day concur. Several days bowling down a highway is an adventure of the wrong order.

Which do you think I should do?

To add to this decision-making indecisiveness, another source of anxiety has been whether or not I’ll find someone to actually accompany me on either of these river runs. If I’m solo, I’ll most likely have to take the TA, look longingly at the rivers as I hike next to them and savour crossing those cracking turquoise lakes once we get to the centre of the motu (island). When crossing the North Island, walking besides rivers, not paddling felt like I was failing. Do you know anyone who might be keen to packraft a river in the upper South Island next week? Please put them in touch.

Gear is also using a lot of brain cells in the run-up. Last year, before my 17-day dash to St Arnaud, I grabbed two Belkin power banks. Both compact, with 10000 mAh and USB C ins and outs, I thought these would be suitable enough for my needs. However, when I got into the field and plugged them in, my phone charged the power banks! Not the other way round, like, uh, a powerbank is meant to do. A quick bit of research revealed that not all USB Cs are born equal and this particular pair were missing some chip that did balabalabala. it did something. I desperately want to avoid a repeat, so heavy research to find a power bank combo for this mission is an energy drain.

After some tent research, I also invested in a brand new Durston X-Mid 2 Solid. It’s the ultralight, trekking-pole tent that many people walking Te Araroa rave about, including my mate Mathieu who walked the trail a few seasons back. He first told me about these tents and I eventually pulled out the plastic card to order one. One trip to Whatipū last weekend and I can safely say I’m impressed. The fly pops up quicker than you can say “cheap Decathlon pop-up tent” and then you hook up the inner: no more sopping wet inners if you’re pitching in the rain. I say that last bit like my first go with the tent was all super-easy and didn’t require me lots of time and mistakes to figure it all out - Lol.

On top of all that, I’m also freaking out about whether to get a new headlamp, an inReach, a new phone, the need for a new water purifier cartridge, whether or not to fly with new power banks or Click & Collect them from Christchurch, plus which hat I should take (“Aotearoa” or “gold prospector”).

All of this fretting is the mirror opposite of why we go wild. Just get me out there already.

“My journey across the South Island with my little blue boat” restarts this Sunday.

It was May 2024 when I rocked up back in Aotearoa New Zealand’s biggest city without much more of a plan than “tread water financially and go overseas”. That time in China, the UK and Gibraltar stretched my finances thin and I returned to the country a fiscally-downsized human man. But I did have a hefty adventure plan: let’s get the South Island done on the raft!

From Cape Farewell to the Nelson Lakes I voyaged in my little blue boat, often tramping overland between the waters of Te Waipounamu. 17 days at sea, mentally. However, feeling the lure of the Supercity’s chequebook, I called it and headed back to work: producing radio for Sport Nation over summer, then helping launch NZ Herald’s new morning show Herald NOW over autumn, into winter.

It’s been an incredibly busy bunch of months, but I have poked my head above the soil and see now is the time to get back out there. Living in Metropolis, surrounded by scenes of at least 70% concrete, has given rise to an endless slew of daydreams. Many centre around that short, but incredible rafting journey of last year: the anticipation of that first crossing over the Whanganui Inlet, followed by a same-day jaunt into the pure, isolated bush by the Kaituna River; paddling down Golden Bay; the float-and-drag around the back of Moturoa/Rabbit Island; and the community of cool folk I met trekking the challenging and wholly unique Richmond Range. These dreams all lead me to conclude: we aren’t really meant to live in Metropolis. We just do because it appears convenient and comfortable; the same convenience and comfort that renders many of us incapable of escape.

I updated my mission map! This is a job I constantly put off, due to its complexities and having to relearn how to do it every time; you can’t just dump .gpx files onto Google Maps and walk away! You can see my route so far here, since the very beginning back in January 2022. Yes, that’s right, coming up on four years ago. Let’s get this thing done.

From early November, I am planning to pick up the route from Coldwater Hut, at the head of Lake Rotoiti. From there I will cut a route through the central lakes - they all need a paddle. From Wānaka, I will head over the pass to Wakatipu’s headwaters, Greenstone it to The Divide, before taking on Te Anau. It’s the South Island’s biggest lake, so would be rude not to.

A brand new 2026 Durston X-mid 2 Solid tent is en route. Gear and pack weight has been a constant hurdle in this mission and I’m hoping the new portable hotel offers a suitable volume reduction. The wilder parts of the South Island don’t offer resupply options on every street corner, so if I can carry more kai (food), I’ll be diverting less. Expect some kind of first impressions of my purchase soon.

This journey to Bluff has been anything but the through-journey it was dreamt up as. Injuries, running out of season and other life distractions have all made it drag on. It’s been a good reminder of the changes you can go through in life and how these can dramatically alter your immediate goals. However, every time I’ve pressed pause on the remote, it’s never once been an easy decision and it’s always come with the caveat that I will continue at the next opportunity.

That paragraph I just wrote also reads like a caveat, haha; “I’m leaving on this thing, but I also might not finish again!”. We will see. Perhaps, I need to be fundraising? All the longest sections that I’ve completed previously were in aid of three charities, so maybe that’s been the missing driver all along. Okay, if we do this for a charity - which should it be and why? Answers in the comments.

With the urgent and necessary iwi and council action to address kauri dieback disease in the Waitākere Ranges comes a common complaint: “it’s no longer tramping”. Leveling all the tracks and compressing them with gravel has squeezed the true challenge from them. And those are the tracks that have been remedied and reopened. Hardcore, off-road tramping gems like RGB and Simla have been shuttered, never again to test a person’s knee with their slippery mud and insane gradients.

Enter: Hunua Ranges. Once, to my mind at least, the poor tramping cousin to the Waitaks. Crawling with gravel roads, largely regenerating native bush and minus the black sand coastal vistas of its western counterpart, the Hunuas always lacked that last magical 10%.

That was the former opinion of this very compromised west coast fan. However, here's how that changed after a recent day out on Ernies Track.

“Ernies Loop - 5-6 hours. Do you have enough time, water/snacks, fitness to complete this today?” warned a sign, passively. We scrubbed our boots and marched on, although a little piece of me did question if we did.

To get to Ernies, you have the simple task of walking a few of kilometres along a gravel road, which weaves its way along the shores of the Upper Mangatāwhiri Reservoir. On our bluebird day, the artificial lake glistened between the trunks of the ponga and kānuka that line its shores.

As we powered along the road towards the junction with the track, a cluster of boisterous yelps and screams were getting louder. A lone woman stood at the trail sign, as if posted there by her superior. We trundled past, our speed initially undeterred by the change in terrain; carefully laid chips of gravel were instantly swapped out with pockets of slip-slidey mud.

The noises were getting louder and we soon caught up with the emitters. A small bridge over a stream provided a brief respite from the mud. As we crossed, a long train of teenage boys was slipping and sliding through the mud just ahead on the track. They playfully mocked one another for every wrong-footing. As we neared them, one of the boys at the back turned and said “Hi, Sir!” before instructing his friends to let us overtake. As we passed, he spoke in Mandarin to one of his mates. Zoe later translated this as him realising: “He’s not our teacher, is he?”

I wasn’t, but there were more teachers dotted along the trail. We overtook several more groups of young people, each one burdened with a large pack, before arriving at the shores of the Mangatāwhiri River. On the pebbly beach sat another lone woman, reading her book on a fold-up chair. She confirmed she was a teacher, stationed there to ensure no student tried to cross the river in the wrong place. This was useful info and may have prevented us from crossing the river in the wrong place.

Shortly after crossing the river in the right place, an orange track badge pointed us through the middle of a small bamboo copse. You know, that exceedingly common native plant of Aotearoa: Bambusoideae. A surprising species to see inside the native bush at a regional park, but a clear hint at the area’s recent history.

A lengthy and steep climb followed, during which we passed several more groups of teens. Some were doing the loop anti-clockwise, gripping trees and trying not to slide too far as we paused to give way to them. A pair of teachers waited by the bench at the summit, which came with a mint view back across the ranges; there are worse spots to be posted for work.

One more bench awaited and we stopped to take in some fluids, a snack and the view. At first glance, I wrongly presumed we were looking north towards the Tāmaki Strait and the islands of the Hauraki Gulf, but as I chewed on a palm-load of Proper Crisps, I realised what we were really looking at: the Manukau Harbour, the Āwhitu Peninsula and the southern end of the Waitākere Ranges. Auckland’s western playground and my old mate just popped up to say '“hi”.

Ernies is a proper tramping track, with some technical tests seldom seen in the present day Waitākere Ranges. It throws at you a river crossing, a steep ascent and plenty of slippery mud, in exchange for some decent vistas, easier boardwalk sections and a pleasant undulating section higher up. My view of the Hunua Ranges was changed forever. Within its boundaries, Aucklanders and Waikatoans can frolic through a real rugged variety of tracks, from gravel roads to muddy slop fests.

We still had one final landmark to take in: Piggotts Hut. To return to the Upper Mangatāwhiri camping area and car park, Ernies Track joins the gravelled Lilburne Road and Piggotts Hut sits right there.

A small, flat clearing beside the road makes home for what is both a campground and a hut site. The little metal bunker has four mattresses inside, with a covered deck and cooking area recently bolted onto the front. The level grassy area out front offers plenty of site options for those with canvas-inclinations, or who just missed out on a bunk.

Since it’s a junction, a lone teacher was waiting beside the track signpost and he confirmed my suspicions: the young ones were all trying for the Duke of Edinburgh Award. No other reason to carry giant packs around a one-day loop track, right?

The sun had dropped behind the trees, leaving the entire site in a sudden and chilling shade. Zoe and I sat on the bench under the shelter, breaking slabs off a giant bar of Whittaker’s chocolate. It had been the best day’s tramping in Auckland in a long time.

Then I remembered a little-known fact about this side of the Hunua Range: it’s aktshually in the Waikato Region.

My alarm was successful, although I always sleep with a metaphorical one-eye-open when wild camping in public places. Who knows who likes to come down and swim at the crack of dawn or throw stones at the morning millpond?

I prised myself out of my warm sleeping bag and into the cool, morning air. Some orange was starting to glow on the rocky range in the…

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In the blink of an eye, we gassed it down to Rotorua for a single weekend night. The drive from Auckland is doable for an overnighter. Just shy of three hours each way. I remember when it was somewhere between three and four. At least, I think it used to take that long?

We pulled up at Kuirau Park for a moment of depressurisation and admired Earth doing the same; bubbling mud, jostling pools and cloudy ponds all the consequence of our planet’s need to let off steam. There’s something for everyone: violent screams, jolly bubbles and steaming ponds. No two pools are the same within this park, just outside the city centre.

We scooped up our pals Lennie and Jana and continued south down State Highway 5 to climb Maunga Kākaramea. The Pākeha name of this volcano is Rainbow Mountain and it’s a colourful climb: red and orange earth stuff emerges from the crater sides, while green and turquoise lakes light up the other breaks in the trees. It’s a muddy slop-slide for around 90 minutes each way, but offers a rewarding summit, with views of Lake Tarawera to the north and Taupō to the south.

Five minutes down the road, we quickly togged-up and jumped into ‘Hot and Cold’, a roadside area where a hot stream meets your more traditionally-minded cold stream, allowing bathers to ‘choose their temperature’. Mind your toes, the vents under water can be scorching and surprising for our cold bodies.

These streams are right next door to Wai-O-Tapu (Sacred Water) - the volcanic tourist attraction that houses the world-famous (in New Zealand) Champagne Pool. That’s a pay-to-enter attraction, but at the other end of the loop road is a giant pool full of bubbling mud. I’ve stopped there numerous times over the years and keep going back as it’s just too good to miss. We stopped this time too, on our way back to town, and found the mud continuing to blub. I guess there’s comfort in finding things the way you expect to. Bloob.

Over dinner, Lennie mentioned Ōhinemutu, a Māori village on the shores of Lake Rotorua. We decided to take a visit next morning and found a wharenui (meeting house), an ornate church and a bust of Queen Victoria, all nestled between steaming vents, hot ponds and cracked concrete with gas hissing out. It was just the cultural exchange our Sunday morning wanted, although the cherry on top was the pair of black swans that had migrated from the chilled waters of the lake to the warmer currents of the hot pond. There they stood, getting a dual experience of a foot spa and a buffet of sulphur-battered grass blades. What a life.

Beyond two days, there’s still an array of free options on offer in Rotorua. What’s your number one freebie in the “City of Sulph”?

Imagine a moonlit night. We're in Northland. The cloud is refracting the bright, white light, enlarging Earth's nearest neighbour, so it looks like a giant lantern in the sky. With the clouds come occasional showers of fine drizzle, which barely penetrate the thick forest, but you can occasionally feel one or two cold splashes on your skin.

We're walking beneath the thick canopy, provided mainly by ancient kauri trees. Many of them are hundreds of years old, while some standout mega-trunks are easily over 1,000. The moonlight collides with their wide, bobbly trunks, highlighting the large dried drips of gum and turning them blue in hue. Wind whistles through the tops of the trees, but can't reach us down at the bases.

Occasionally a pūkeko squawks, setting off the entire tribe. The racket peaks, then dies off as quickly as it started. A ruru cries in the distance, deftly by comparison: "mooore pork!" The forest is in night mode.

Above: our first kiwi sighting, Rakiura, 2023, during the day, of course!

As we tip-toe round Trounson Kauri Park's wooden boardwalk, my head fills with memories of my previous failed kiwi missions here. Trounson was my first ever DOC campsite, back in late 2009, and the excitement my brother and his girlfriend at the time shared as we zipped round that track was soon met with disappointment; there was the time I lay in wait for an hour - silently, alone - finally hearing a rustle, only to find myself staring into the eyes of a possum; and then there was my most recent stay, where I inadvertently invited an extremely drunk American to join Lennie and I on the walk, only to stand in the forest listening to him blather on and slur his reasons we weren't going to see any kiwi. From bad luck to bad choices, I had written this place off.

A small branch slaps and some leaves rustle. We're back in the present now and there's something in the bush to our right. Most likely a possum, right? Or maybe a wasted American, attempting to crawl back to camp? We stand alert, in silence, Zoe's head torch illuminating the ferns and small ponga leaves in red light. Another similar sound indicates its maker has moved. I point and we track its movements, listening for every rustle, click or hint of a sound. Like a ninja, it occasionally moves silently, reemerging again some metres from where it was last heard. This is not the movement of a possum.

We shuffle to our left along the track, eyes transfixed on this giant red circle of possibility. Then Zoe spots it. Right there in front of us, no less than one metre away. That giant unmistakeable beak poking through the foliage. Half a metre high, I catch its eyes in the torchlight. It's a kiwi bird, a wild one, just rummaging its way through this forest. We're both breathless. I can't believe it: the countless hours I've spent in this forest, waiting for this scene and tonight it arrived.

Have you ever seen a kiwi bird in the wild?

The image above is a young kauri tree, taken just moments before our face-to-face encounter. Sorry, our glimpse at this North Island brown kiwi was brief and our mate soon moved on elsewhere into the bush, so no photo. Trounson Kauri Park must’ve had a fresh delivery.

The mission: traverse the length of New Zealand’s South Island in my little blue boat. Actually, it’s a packraft, but for selling this adventure, it’s far more impressive to talk about carrying a boat around everywhere on one’s back. Plus, packrafters associate packrafting with smashing down whitewater rivers, nose-into-the-fizz. I see this as fundamentally different. To me, it’s a journey from A to Z, Cape Reinga to Bluff, the top to the bottom, north to south, from beginning to end. Why? Just to see if I can. Nation-length travel using just the power of paddle and foot - what a goal!

Upon waking up in my small tent at Wharariki Holiday Park, then carefully disentangling my cumbersome, gangly self from inside it, the southern goal of Bluff felt very, very far away. The activities of the early morning were front of mind: pack up and get on up to Cape Farewell at a somewhat respectable time.

Eugh, packing. Fitting a few smallish items into one large pack doesn’t seem like a tough mission on paper, but out in the literal field it always manages to surprise. I have a very rigid order in which items must be packed and a very rigid habit of always leaving one item out. Today was no exception. On the kitchen deck, I stood, while the tent and sleeping gear went in first. I then crammed my clothes and cooking gear into the gaps. Food was packed on top and I was convinced I was nearly ready, until I spotted my gas cannister, perched innocently on the wooden table.

“You numpty!” my outer monologue sighed and I started to pull the top items out to start again.

Pack finally packed, I strode out of the camp and along the kilometre or so of gravel road towards the cape. The grey-stone road snaked between lush green fields, leading me gently uphill. Mucky-bummed sheep stood, chewing grass and gawping as I, loaded like the human equivalent of a donkey, marched purposefully towards the cape’s info sign and small wooden viewing deck.

My sentimental attachment to Cape Farewell stems from my first visit, during my 2015 bike ride. All the island’s extremities were little milestones to tick off; Cape Farewell, Slope Point, East Cape, Cape Egmont and Cape Reinga each came with their own emotional package of the journey at that point. As I recall, Cape Farewell was a small comfort amidst a rollercoaster of broken - and breaking - wheel components, combined with a welcome warmth that autumn hadn’t delivered further south. Waves smash into the cape, made of the same water that laps at the nearby North Island coast and the geography in those parts is decidedly more North Island than South. This all added to the exciting sense that my Te Wai Pounamu1 circumnavigation was drawing to a close.

I stood on the deck, looking down at those waves crashing into the rocky champagne-coloured cliffs and realised another journey was just about to begin. The cape now had a second meaning to me. I secured my pack to my waist, clicked my GPS watch on and began the steep climb to the west, along the Puponga Hilltop Walk.

With several steep sections, the track follows the rolling hills through grassy farmland. The views of the ocean are unlimited, although the real magic is the vistas of the area’s unique coastal landscape.

After a short time in the hills, the track delivered me to the eastern end of Wharariki Beach: world-famous for that shot of the Archway Islands, taken from within a cave and given away as a stock lock image on Microsoft’s Windows 10. Scores of people are attracted to this remote beach location, boosted by the fact it is actually awesome.

The tide was still high, so I couldn’t use the beach’s full length and walk over to its western access track. Instead, I staged a photoshoot on the sand in front of the archway, before trotting up and over the dunes and onto the main beach access track. This leads back to the car park, which is adjacent to the holiday park where this day had begun. However, before setting foot in the car park, I threw a right and continued my westerly float towards the Greenhills Loop Track, which sounds more like a level from Sonic The Hedgehog than it does a hiking track.

This is a track through a bunch of farm paddocks, complete with sheep loitering in the way. Unaware of this approaching monster, they nonchalantly chewed their grass, only catching wind of my hasty approach at the last second and breaking into an immediate sprint.

The morning cloud had risen, but there was also a large gap, through which the sun beamed down, lending the grass an extra vivid appearance. My morning coffee and heavily-loaded walking had left me parched, so I paused by a small creek and filled my filter bottle with its flowing juices - presumably some random combination of water and sheep wee. I pressed the filter through the clear liquid and took a sip: “Water! Delicious!”

Several kilometres south of where I stood lies the Whanganui Inlet, a giant harbour joined by a small gap to the rampant Tasman Sea. My intention was to cross it in my boat. But first, I had to get there, across a private farm. Remembering a former colleague, Holly, had connections to the area, I’d messaged her a few weeks before, trying for a contact. Her Dad was away whitebaiting, but a friend came through with a number for a man named Pax. I sent a text to Pax2 and he came back with a “yes”. I was crossing the farm!

A neat and new-looking wooden bridge took me over Green Hills Stream, and I continued onto the southern section of the loop track, which started to gently climb. We were leaving the north coast behind. I followed the wide track and dropped down into a wetter, boggy area between two hills, through an open gate and began the gentle climb up the other side. Pax’s instructions were to just jump the fence into his farm, so I was monitoring my Topo map and GPS for when that would need to happen. It was during a random glance at the map that I noticed I’d already left the public track. “When did that happen?” I wondered, looking back at the hillside behind me and noticing the now-obvious orange track marker poles. “Guess I’ll be on the farm a bit sooner.”

I don’t really know when I stepped onto the farm, but I know I did at some point. The wide vehicle track petered out and I found myself following animal tracks and two lines of pressed grass, presumably left in the wake of two farm bikes. These and the GPS were now my guide.

Unfit from many months of travel around Europe and China, without much of my usual exercise routine, I wearily pushed on my legs, dragging my weighty pack to what looked like the top of the biggest hill. The views back to Wharariki and the Archway Islands were spectacular, so I paused for a moment to take them in: I may never see them from this angle again.

Over the next hour, I snaked my way through the paddocks, following the compressed lines of grass, in the approximate direction of the homestead. The green expanse was epic. Geographic interruptions included a glimpse of the West Coast, to the right of a large, pointed rock stack bursting out the top of a hill. To my left lay the dark green native forest of the Kahurangi National Park’s most northern section.

As I gained on the housing, the route became more defined. Eventually, a yellow, gravel track led up the last slope to the farmyard. As I approached, I noticed several large cows sat right on it, right in my way. Would they budge? Slightly, it turned out, but only slightly.

Pax had warned me they wouldn’t be home, so I marched straight on through the deserted farmyard and out onto the public gravel road beyond. That would lead me down to the northern edge of the inlet. The high cloud seemed to be building and the sun was now behind it. Would I face rain on my first day?

Unlikely, as I arrived at the inlet to an onslaught from the southwesterly wind that the afternoon had ramped up. White horses crashed all over the place on the choppy water. I stood on a small causeway, built for the road around the inlet, and watched the water getting sucked out from the mangrove-laden pool across the road. There was plenty of water to still launch, if I wanted to, but I didn’t want to.

A lot of the Whanganui Inlet is mud and impassable at low tide. With the tide going out and a sou’wester busting in, most of my intended southbound journey would be wind-over-tide. Otherwise known as ‘lumpy’. Add to that the headwind factor and I had a recipe for ‘not fun’. In the name of not being a duffer, I sat on the rocks of the causeway and mulled my decision for ten minutes, finally deciding: find somewhere to bed down for the night and come back tomorrow.

Signal on my phone allowed me to read the reviews and info on the nearby Kaihoka Lakes. They had a toilet and were less than 2km up the road. In these extremely rural parts, that was practically a holiday park! Eager to find a temporary base, I hoisted my pack back upon my shoulders and began the climb up the road.

The wind had shoved the cloud out the way and the full sun now seared everything, offsetting the cooling effect of the gusts. I walked past a farm, where a lone farmer performed his tasks, such as reversing his ute up the driveway to the barn. He can’t have seen me, as he didn’t acknowledge me and people in those sorts of places usually do.

The lakes were incredible, exactly as the reviews had implied. The deal-breaking longdrop toilet was in a small vehicle parking area, which merged without boundary into the sandy beach. Crystal clear waves lapped at the white sand. Native nīkau palms stood firm around the lake, their vibrant green fronds swaying in the wind.

I placed my pack by a picnic bench and had a look around the foreshore for an obvious, but inconspicuous place to bed down for the night. The only flat patch of grass was next to a wooden ‘no camping’ sign. Never an ideal spot to pitch a tent.

I stashed my pack in a small woodland behind the toilet and embarked on the 600 metre track to the other Kaihoka Lake. The track was straight, with some level sections ideal for a tent, but it lost points due to the distance from the toilet!

Ultimately, I reasoned I should sit out by the lake and wait. If nobody showed that afternoon, in all likelihood, I would be fine until dawn.Okay, new challenge: sit and wait. While sunny, the wind was cold and there few places of refuge. The best I could do was hole up behind a giant flax, right on the lakefront. The leaves were clapping in the wind, but I lay my pack down and managed to boil my pot for a cup of tea. There I sat, counting down the clock and watching for people; dull, but important work.

5pm passed and I found myself gazing up at the giant rocky range between these dune lakes and the ocean; 6pm came and I heard a car drive past, the tyres scrunching the gravel, emitting a familiar sound; 7pm came and I cast my gaze yet again towards the rocky range - was that the silhouette of a person walking their dog along the top? I doubt it.

At some point, I boiled water and made my spiced TVP and bulghur wheat combo for dinner. I chewed on a spoonful of it wearily and realised I would be eating this a lot over the next few days.

Despite not being interesting, it was an interesting afternoon to look back on; an exercise in tolerance. I didn’t know how many days it would be until I could ‘charge all the things’, so phone time had been restricted;creating an exercise in restraint. By the time 8pm rolled around, I just wanted the day to end.

I unrolled my tent and took my time putting it up, beside the sign. Not as an act of defiance - it really was the best spot. The light was rapidly dipping, the sun threatening to disappear behind the rocky range. The outline of the person and their dog remained in their positions, a metaphor for me that afternoon. Tomorrow would be different.

Inside my tent, I prepared my bed and grabbed my phone for one final task: to set a 5:33am alarm. Last thing I wanted was to be screamed awake by an angry dog walker.

Oh, the mighty Mainland. My achilles heel. Not a nemesis, more a giant speed bump; or hazard on the tracks, forcing this driver to pull the lever and bring the train to a halt. Still sliding on the rails, not quite at a stop, I wondered many times in my years of hiatus whether I could continue to journey the South Island, by packraft, solo. It had never been the raging rivers of Te Waipounamu putting me off; and the bigger mountains and true out-the-back backcountry only appealed; my uncertainty was a sense-driven desire to remain living, preferably breathing. In essence: to not be a duffer.

In the 1930’s kids adventure classic Swallows and Amazons, elder child John telegrams ‘Daddy’ to ask permission to take he and his siblings away on a sailing adventure, to camp on an island in the lake. Daddy’s reply is cryptic:

“Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers won't drown”

Daddy was presumably paying per character sent, yet his succinct reply summarises brilliantly the preference for risk taking over cowardice, before circling back to highlight how adventures can weed out incompetence. For much of the risk, I was all-in, but conscious of the South Island’s unique dangers: isolated rivers, raging through gorges and canyons, between very high mountains. By contrast, many of the North Island’s rivers were a gentle float, out into widening estuaries. Not risk-free, but far safer to go alone. Caution had me determined to not let my North Island success sleepwalk me into a South Island duffership. However, not going would also amount to a duffership.

A lot of time and brain energy had been spent on figuring out the best way to attack this mission. Memories of walking beside the North Island rivers I had declined to paddle solo were accompanied by a feeling of disappointment, followed by the smug awareness I’d made the safe call. I didn’t love that feeling. Despite it almost-certainly guaranteeing my preservation, to live another day, it felt occasionally like cheating. Like I was skipping out on part of the trip. It was a packraft-hike journey, not a hike journey. I knew I wanted to minimise that feeling on the South Island.

Ultimately, I had decided to just get on with it. I had a hut pass expiring in January, I had a window of time in which I could go and all the spring forecasts looked settled. I would go as far as I could solo, then try and call in reinforcements when needed. Or pause. Who knew how it would go? That’s one of the great things about a trip of this kind: the unpredictability.

Cape Farewell was to be the start line. I mean, it is the most northerly point of Te Wai Pounamu, so there was no other option. Often confused with the South Island’s giant kiwi bird beak - Farewell Spit, a 34 kilometre long sandspit that protrudes eastwards into the Tasman Sea - the cape lies several kilometres west of there and - unlike Cape Reinga - is the true top of the island.

My good pals Lennie and Jana drove me to Wharariki Holiday Park in their camper. They live in the Tasman region, which is handy for a trip to Golden Bay and back in a day. After sharing a showery wander through the rolling sheep paddocks and across the dunes to Wharariki Beach, they bid me farewell and I was left to check into camp for the night.

I lugged my heavy-feeling pack through the holiday park to my little flax-surrounded grass square and inspected the site. Being an adult with pittakionophobia means I have an irrational fear of stickers. Before tent up, any residual fruit stickers or other filthy litter on my camping site must be removed, or at least burrowed forcefully underground with a stick. My hands will then be washed or sannied, before touching my own property again. Fortunately, on this occasion, there was just the one Gala apple sticker lurking on a blade of grass, to my distress. Who even buys fruit by brand? Bring me the names of these morose beings.

The showers halted long enough for me to throw up my well-worn Zempire Atom, 1.5-person adventure tent. This is a tent that has been through a lot: the North Island packraft trip saw it need a new pole, several new stakes and new bungee cord for some of the stake loops. Then, last year, the pole snapped again, this time ripping a giant gash in the fly. Before flying to the South Island, I had stitched it back up and covered the wound with seam seal. With the glossy glue shimmering in the light, I began to peg the fly into ground, pulling each stake loop taught, giving the tent its shape. As I pulled the front loop out across my pitch, and attempted to a slot a peg through it, the elastic decided it had had enough. “Drft!” was the sound it made, as it gently pinged into my hand. Oh well, what’s a journey without a hurdle along the way?

The refuge of the holiday park kitchen is one of my happy places when on a trip. From as little as $12 a night, you can sit in relative warmth and shelter, drink cool drinks, drink hot drinks, cook as much as you like, charge-all-the-things and - if they have one - watch The Chase on the tellybox. When you’ve had several wild days, out in the weather, camping in the bush or even just showerless at another campsite, the little haven that is a holiday park seems like heaven. When hanging alone, readying to depart on a journey, it’s still a welcome last luxury.

I trotted up the slope and up the wooden steps into the kitchen. It’s not the most bougie of all the holiday parks I have stayed at - and, believe me, I’ve stayed at a lot - but it’s definitely clean and cosy. And it achieves ‘cosy’ without forcing you to sit on old dog-eaten throws and eat with ancient silver-plated cutlery, with congealed noodles stuck between the fork prongs. Rustic comes courtesy of the stovetop kettles, which sit on the gas rings, cooling from their last boil; pleasant comes from the immediate outlook on show through the mostly-glass front of the building: the green, rolling hills of the South Island’s true top, featuring grassy farm pasture, interwoven with the familiar deep green of native bush plantations. There’s no TV, but this is better than The Chase and a reassuring scene to sip hot tea to.

After a walk up to Cape Farewell for some cellphone signal, I returned to the kitchen and prepared some stodge for dinner. Stodge on this section of the journey comprised of TVP (soya protein chunks) and bulghur wheat, with veg stock, dried chilli and garlic to flavour. I also carried dehydrated peas and, on a lucky occasion, I might stumble across a shop selling Mexican spice sachets. I chose bulghur on a whim, noting that its protein content outstrips that of rice and couscous, my usual adventure carb staples. The beauty of both bulghur and TVP is it only requires soaking in hot water to prepare, as opposed to rice which needs a sustained boil. This saves a lot of fuel over a journey. And time. It really saves a lot of time.

Ready in just minutes, I sat back in my chair at the table, hands clasping the metal handle of my brand new Naturehike titanium pot. I tucked into the stodgy mixture within. One sporkful hit my mouth, the chilli and salty flavours immediately warming my palate, while the crunch of the bulghur was what it was: nothing to write home about. Nutrition was the main goal, there would be plenty of time for pizza later.

Satisfied enough, I glanced through the windows at the grey sky and natural, green scenes below. Wands of flax slapped about gently in the light winds. Tomorrow, I would be out on those hills and headed for somewhere new. A duffer, I could yet still prove to be, but an unhappy duffer I knew I wasn’t.

Kiwi Robbie Danger is cycling around the whole world. In doing so, they hope to become the world’s first transgender person to complete such an epic adventure and claim the Guinness World Record, too.

Cycle touring and bikepacking is both awe-inspiring and labour-heavy. There’s a buzz with staying in a new place every day, answering only to the freedom of the route and getting to taste the air from every single location your face breezes through. And then there is packing. And admin. And keeping yourself safe. It never ends, until it all ends. And then it’s all just over and you wonder what you’re going to do next.

There’s something big about saying you’re cycling around the world. It’s not a walk in the park, neither is it a trip round the coast of a single nation. This is The World. How do you even begin to attack something like that?

I wanted answers. I love an adventure yarn and hearing about someone’s epic journey; how they enjoyed a particular place or escaped some random pitfall. I messaged Robbie and asked for a Q&A. Below is the result of that interaction.

What does ‘a real day in the life of Robbie’ look like on this quest?

Wake up. Strongly desire to go back to sleep. Make coffee and pasta for breakfast. Pedal for 10-12 hours. Eat continuously. Get a witness signature for my record book. Take photos and videos. Try to keep on top of planning the next few days and reaching out to people I can stay with. Spend all day figuring out where to sleep. Pitch tent or stay with a friend or sleep in cheap motel. Try to do more phone admin. Pass out with phone on face. Repeat.

Have you met others attempting similar quests?

I met three in North America, and a lot more people in Europe. I came across Simon and Laura (instagram/weridebikesplaces) in BC, I’d been hearing from locals over a few days that there were other world cyclists ahead of me, and I thought I’d never catch them but one day they were just there lounging in front of a hut on a trail. They’ve been on the road for over two years and chase the seasons. And I met Steve Hunter (Gram @freddi_woomba) who had hiked and traveled around the world for over 10 years, on his first bike tour in Ontario. He’s written a book on his adventures called “Relish In The Tread”.

In Europe, I met eight people who are cycling east around the world. Most people are travellers first and cyclists as a means to an end, while I’m more *into* riding - doing much bigger distances and longer days. There’s a bunch of us who do that, but we’re in the minority.

Where do you stay each night?

I try to camp when I can because it’s good for the budget (whether it’s wild camping or a campsite depends on the country). Then cheap motels a couple nights a week, and warmshowers hosts or friends (old friends, new friends from Instagram, friends of friends, and once, friends I made on the side of the road) whenever I can.

Whether or not I end up in the city or countryside at the end of the day dictates what I choose usually. I never camp in cities. Villages sometimes if I turn up really late. In a lot of countries wild camping is illegal, because people behaved badly and ruined it for everyone else, so if wild camping it’s really important to be a good ambassador for the sport and not get caught!

Now it’s winter, I’m using guesthouses and Airbnbs a lot more. It’s -5c today in Tbilisi. Thankfully Türkiye and Georgia have been very affordable so it hasn’t been a problem here - not like in Western Europe where I had to camp because I’m not spending $200 on a hotel!

What has travelling the world been like, as a transgender person?

Travelling as a transgender person can be tough. You have to carry a lot of medication across borders, and some countries I’ve visited are hostile towards trans people. Transphobia is at an all time high in the United States, and here in Georgia there was a new anti-LGBTQI+ law that came into effect on December 2nd which bans transgender healthcare for Georgians, displaying pride flags or promoting LGBTQI content, among other things.

A lot of travellers will say “world travel is easy! Everywhere is safe!” And often locals are very generous, kind and lovely. But politically the world is still headed in a more conservative direction, and we need people who have privilege to keep advocating against populist conservative policies and, well, stopping their racist uncles. We’re watching the world close off to us more and more every year.

What’s the reality when it comes to getting through some of the world’s more dangerous corners?

Guinness says you can fly over “impassable barriers” provided you cycle the required 29,000km. Active war zones and places that have severe punishment for LGBTI+ people aren’t required of me. Most people are nice, BUT I try not to take my chances, whether it’s with people or nature. I’ve abandoned one camping plan because of creepy local graffiti and another to outrun a thunderstorm.

For countries where accomodation isn’t cheap, you can usually safely pedal further at night on some low traffic roads until you’ve made a gap between you and the problem. Also, to most people I look dirty and don’t have anything of value, this can be a blessing and a curse because you won’t get robbed but some more well-to-do people also won’t help you lol. To some people, you present as a homeless person and receive the same run-of-the-mill NIMBY bigotry that unhoused people can’t escape. You should also definitely make good use of Google to know about any dangerous plants or animals in each place.

Oh yeah, and borders and corruption and stuff. Google that too. I guess my answer is that any time I’m not pedalling, I’m probably searching something. Recent searches include “photos of termites”, “border of the European Union”, “bic lighter wheel stuck”, and “can you use regular soap in a washing machine?”.

Had any disasters?

Most of the time it’s never a true disaster anymore, because I try to take measures to mitigate these things; like having a bike made of parts that fail gracefully, with plenty of warning. Even when I got hit by the car (Iowa City, USA) and sent to hospital, I was already making plans and figuring out what to do before they even discharged me.

On this trip, things haven’t necessarily gone awry, but I have been offered a place to stay multiple times while loitering somewhere rural looking at my phone trying to decide where to camp. Each time has been incredibly nice! I also got put up by Audrey, the director of the Bike Library, who let me use their tools and space to fix my bike after the big crash. The Bike Library is a huge community bike hub and really, truly community orientated.

How do you plan a route? I imagine there are lots of ways round the world by bike?

I used Komoot! It displays major touring routes like the ACA and EuroVelo, and recommends routes based on safe cycling infrastructure and popularity. It’s not perfect, sometimes I end up on a dodgy road, but it’s pretty good. When it isn’t, I contribute to Komoot in hopes that future cycle tourers will get better routes than I did. Istanbul in particular was very hairy.

Aside from that, it’s about trying to hit the right seasons (summer in cold places, winter in hot places). I arrived in Tbilisi with no days left to spare - the day I got here it snowed on me as I came down the mountain, and the next day it was -5c.

Can we see your route on a map somewhere? Or what you’ve completed?

Check out what I’ve completed so far in my Komoot collection - here!

What is one thing you want everyone to know about a feat like this?

Over the last few years, I’ve watched bikepacking move into mainstream cycling consciousness and, just like gravel cycling, people are coming from pro cycling teams with big marketing budgets. It seems like it’s becoming a way to extend your professional cycling career for a few more years. Unfortunately, this is attracting even more of their fans: many are wealthy, white desk boys, who don’t understand how to respect the land and the local communities that support the sport of bikepacking.

Every year we see local people complaining about bikepackers staying on their land without permission, not turning up to the accommodation they’ve booked, or otherwise being rude and entitled. This is why I have “Decolonise bikepacking” written on my Strava. If we want to continue enjoying this sport, we should fight back against capitalism taking over bikepacking, whether that’s through helping bring more diverse voices to the sport, or teaching people how to be outdoors responsibly.

What’s your dream cycle tour?

At the moment I’m dreaming of taking the ‘coconut milk run’, with small bicycles. The milk run is a famous sailing route that follows the trade winds from the Americas through the Pacific Islands to Aotearoa. Imagine bikepacking all the Islands and sailing in between them. So dreamy.

My other dream is to eventually go around the world again with another person, see all the friends and do more tourist stuff that I can’t do on the world record. I already have a very silly tandem, so I like to imagine it’ll be one of those Cinderella “when the shoe fits” moments. It’s a beauty, custom made 20-inch wheel travel tandem that breaks down into two suitcases. I have to pick it up from Melbourne after my record.

Where is the finish? And when do you expect you’ll finish?

I’ll finish in April 2025 at the entrance of Auckland international airport. It’s not the most glamorous location for sure, but it was the most convenient way to design the route!

How do we keep up with you and follow along in the meantime?

You’ll mostly find me on my Instagram: @dirtdroprobbie

Robbie’s ride is raising money for Outline Aotearoa - providing rainbow mental health support services. You can find out more and donate here.

And you can read and subscribe to Robbie’s Substack here:

Danger is my middle name

21,500km cycled around the world

Mōrena…

Read more

a year ago · 10 likes · 4 comments · Robbie Danger

Kia ora, team!

Please help me. I’ve been housesitting for eight weeks now and my grand total for overnight adventures this summer equals zero. Yep, none. And what a summer stunner it’s turning out to be. Even on Tuesday, when we were forecast for all manner of hell to rain down on us in the form of thunderstorms, all we got where I was was a bit of grey cloud rumbling somewhere in the distance. I’ll take it. My tenure looking after these cats will soon be ending and I’ll be a free agent to go and hit me some wilderness. In the meantime, that favour: please regale me in the comments with news of your summer adventures. Give me inspiration, hope and satisfaction that you’ve been doing some cool things with your time. Cheers!

In fact, this cat-sitting role reminds me of the end of the first day of my South Island packraft journey. I’d set off from the northern point of the island that morning and walked through a farm to reach the Whanganui Inlet/Te Tai Tapu. It was around 2pm and blowing an absolute hooley. The tide was on the out and I didn’t fancy finding out how much of the estuary was mud at low tide. The mission is to paddle as much as possible and only hike when the water runs out, so I decided to call it a day. The tide would be back into the estuary next morning and the weather looked good for a crossing.

Needing somewhere to camp, I hiked up the quiet, dead-end, gravel road to the Kaihoka Lakes. This is yet another pair of dune lakes found on the western side of the country, alongside the likes of Taharoa, Kaiiwi, Waikere and Rototoa of the North Island. As I gladly trundled down the short track from the road to the water’s edge, the first lake glistened at me in the untethered spring sunshine. For a small lake, cut-off from the ocean by several giant rocky heads, the wind was sure making itself known. So’wester, it was, bringing with it a familiar chill and making the flax beside the lake clap loudly.

I slipped my weighty pack off my shoulders and left it to rest beside the lone wooden picnic bench. Needing somewhere to wild camp, I killed a few minutes scoping out the area, looking for somewhere I wouldn’t be seen nor annoy anybody. The small vehicle area by the lake had a toilet, so I’d preferably be within a wee walk of that.

Once I had some options, I began the drawn-out task of waiting for the wind to drop. And this wind really didn’t want to drop. 4pm passed, 5pm passed, 6pm passed and the flax was still clapping. Small waves of crystal clear water repeatedly smashed onto the sandy shore. Time seemed to stand still. The sun began to dip and I started to feel a bit cold. I got in behind a big flax cluster and boiled some water for a tea, which killed some time and helped with the chill. As I sat there, sipping my brew, I thought about the day, how it had gone and how it had ended. “I did not expect this!” I said, fidgeting slightly in my grass tuft seat.

It was a good reminder: sometimes the challenge is just staying put.

Ten years ago I was on something of an awakening mission. My zany idea, as some would put it, was to cycle round the coast of New Zealand. Not simply a ride around all the coastal highways and cycle routes, but actually pedalling a full lap of the two big islands, riding on the beaches as much as possible. It’s the adventure that gave rose to my first book, The Big Loop.

On the 2nd of January 2015, I rolled out of Auckland’s Mission Bay and headed for the Coromandel and beyond. It was peak summer and, as I gradually powered my laden bike south, I visited and camped in some of the finest places I’ve ever seen. Life became Life Lite™, stripped of all the modern day complications, the day job was simple: get to the next place.

For eight months, I lived on the road - and the beaches and tracks - carrying everything I needed and more on that poor bicycle. It was the freest existence I have ever experienced. A sensation so addictive not a day passes where I don’t long to feel that freedom again.

I sometimes talk of going round again. Seeing the changes in some of those places I haven’t seen in ten years would make a heck of a journey. The ocean will have ravaged some, resculpting them beyond recognition; earthquake rebuilds and other disaster renovations will have remoulded others. Knowing the geography the way I do now would open up a basket of new and cool locations to camp and alter my route significantly.

There’s also a bunch of other things I would do differently to make this a slicker, more frictionless affair. Maybe these will come to help you when planning your own self-powered adventure or cycle tour. Let me know in the comments if you have any more.

1. I would lighten the gear load

Back then, my knowledge of ultralight gear was next-to-nothing. I prepped for it believing my budget was tight, so I just took what I already owned: one humongous three-person tent, a two-person Trangia and a metal water bottle I got free from work; my sleeping bag was light enough, but I didn’t compress it in a drybag, so it took up more room than it had to; I loaded my panniers with paneer curries, of the non-dehydrated variety; and I carried a full-size iPad 2 in my small backpack! I did, however, live with a tiny microfibre towel for eight months, plus a half-length sleeping mat in 0 degrees Central Otago isn’t much fun.

Going again, I’d take a 700g solo tent, 80g backpacking stove, collapsible drinks bottle and live off my purpose-serving TVP and couscous dehydro meals.

2. I would bikepack all the way

I rode round the coast using the more traditional panniers and racks: a metal frame on the back of the bike, with a couple of bags clipped to the sides. Bikepacking - which uses a variety of bags, each clipped to the bike’s frame, handlebars, forks and saddle - was just coming along and I hadn’t really seen it.

The advantages of a bikepacking set-up include better weight-distribution across the bike, which improves handling, especially off-road. Since you don’t have two massive bags sticking out the side, the temptation to bring everything and the kitchen sink is numbed.

Instead, I had to gently tease my wide bike through those metal posts designed to stop vehicles, occasionally clip fences and trees with my luggage and I got held up in Dunedin, after a bolt head holding the bag frame to the bike sheared off. All things that wouldn’t have happened with my gear clipped neatly out of the way.

3. I would run fatter tyres

Parts of Hawke’s Bay, mid-Canterbury and the West Coast have pebbly beaches that I really want to ride. On my mk.1 journey, I reached some of these and had to turn inland and ride a bunch of annoying roads, sometimes 3-4 times the distance. While the Serfas Drifter tyre I was running was slick on the tar seal, gripped like glue on the chip seal and was more than capable on gravel, they were just too thin for pebbles.

Enter: fat bike! Any second trip would be about drawing a more perfect picture of the country than last time, so I’d like to ride straight down those beaches on a Monster Truck bike, please!

4. I would wild camp more

As a novice, who’d been subjected years of news stories featuring angry people complaining about freedom campers leaving crap in the bushes, I often steered clear of free camping.

There was that time a Dunedin City cycle trail map led me up the side of the cliffs just before dark, so I had to spend the night there; there was also that time I cowboy camped on Kairakau Beach, only to be woken up by rain in the middle of the night; and there was that time I got turned away by the YMCA and found myself with no choice but to chuck my tent up behind a bush on the western shores of Akaroa Harbour. I can still visualise the council car crawling past me at ant’s pace the next morning, as I sat all packed up and enjoying breakfast on a picnic bench!

My more recent packraft journey had me sleeping in some far wilder spots, on beaches, by rivers and deep in forests. I know how to leave no trace and I love it. Let’s go…

5. I would set off earlier every day

In Masterton one morning, I witnessed a couple of touring cyclists frantically packing up. Beads of sweat dribbled down their stressed-looking faces as they rolled their tent up as if we were 30 seconds from a bomb exploding on the camp. It was 7am.

“That doesn’t look very fun,” I laughed to myself. I probably then trotted off to the kitchen, made myself a coffee and sat and made notes for my book, while eating “breakfast number 1”. Following packdown and “breakfast number 2”, around 10am, I most likely rolled out of camp and began the day’s cycling.

Far from becoming a military cycling operation, departing just a couple of hours earlier would be sensible. Come winter, I could have arrived in daylight, had more time to enjoy the places I passed through and had a bit more evening to write book notes, too. It’s just a pity I adore lazing about with a cup of coffee in the morning!

I recently went on an adventure. Finally continuing on from my 2022 packraft traverse of the North Island, I flew to the South Island and picked up the journey from there.

“Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers won't drown”

Te Wai Pounamu has always been the metaphorical skyscraper to climb, compared with the North Island. Its rivers are vastly more aggressive, more remote and less direct when travelling north-to-south, since most of them run off the Southern Divide to the east or west coasts. Arthur Ransome’s adventure classic Swallows and Amazons features the blunt line from father, in response to the kids’ request to head off on a sailing adventure: “Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers won't drown”. A solo packraft adventure of the South Island perpetually straddles this same duffer-not-duffer frontier. You can paddle the gentle inlets and lakes, hike through the mountains in relative solo safety, but round every bend sits a raging, whitewater temptation. The knack is to resist. Or get someone along to paddle with you.

It’s here that this adventure falls flat for me. The two main ingredients that attract me to such journeys are solitary strength and self-power. The enthrallment of travelling huge distances, under one’s own steam, over the Earth as nature - not our concrete designs - intended, is unmatched. Every day is about the journey, getting from A to B, or Z. The untangling of our mangled lives. It’s extreme simplification: wake, eat, move, eat, sleep. To add the complication of a second party and the associated human logistics abruptly ties a several knots in this. That said, it’s better than being a duffer.

Still, I clocked 17 days from Cape Farewell to Coldwater Hut, in relative solo safety. I paddled my raft across the Whanganui Inlet, down Golden Bay, hiked myself and it over the Pikirunga Range and into Tasman Bay. Once at Monaco, I hauled the boat out the water and… took five days off with my mate Scoot in Nelson.

Back on the trail, I took on the Richmond Alpine Track - said to be one of the toughest parts of Te Araroa. For seven days, six nights, I wandered around that circuit, marvelling at the scenes. (To say they are unique is an understatement: 95% of what I saw was unique in NZ terms alone!). I struggled. My gear had put on weight against my 2022 stripped-back pack and I just couldn’t work out why! I also felt that this extended hiking section went against the original spirit of this journey: my North Island traverse never saw more than two days back-to-back hiking before I found water again. By the time I reached St Arnaud, I had my answer: I would hit pause.

Watch my playlist of video logs, vlogs, shorts, reels and Tiktoks from this trip:

It was a difficult decision, but on balance the right one. If there’s one thing I know about all of this bounding about the outdoors it’s this: if it doesn’t feel 100% right, then it’s 0% right.

The next section after Nelson Lakes would’ve seen me clamber up Waiau Pass, then have to stare into the Waiau River, only imagining what it would be like to paddle, as I walked alongside it. Far more rewarding to return another day, with a paddle partner, right?

To be continued…