Hello, Cape Farewell!
The time had come to give this South Island packraft lark a try.
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.
太棒了！真好！