The Cape Reinga Trek

Day 1

The man with the SUV drops us off at Te Paki Stream. He's a lot like Sean Connery with a hearing aid, a Tilly hat, and binoculars. He wishes us luck and leaves a cloud of dust behind him; we hardly notice. Instead we take stock of our surroundings. There are enormous sand dunes on all sides of us, with a wide delta carved into the sand to create a valley floor like a scar. We splash through the river for awhile, getting our boots wet, before deciding to head up over the dunes instead. It is exciting. I feel like a Gertrude Bell, forging a path through the desert.

After about half an hour, we can see the ocean, separated from us by a belt of scrub bush and grass. We make our way in.

It's not as it appears. The grass, easy enough at first, proves deceptive: it becomes a stronger type very like copper wire, and grows too thick to wade through. John begins to push clumps of it down to walk over, avoiding the prickles and spiders' nests. I follow. Then, to my dismay, our footing gives way to marsh. The water smells awful, and is soon ankle-deep. I feel that this is not what I signed up for. We wander in a wide circle, trying to find some drier way. We have no luck. After half an hour, we're forced to turn back. The swamp has defeated us. I follow my own footsteps back over the dunes, to the river where we began. We've used an hour and I am hot, tired, and cross-- but we've learned not to take shortcuts away from the path.

It's hard to stay cranky out here. The river takes about forty minutes to hike, remaining, for the most part, shallow and sandy. We can hear the ocean's roar long before it's visible. By the time I catch a glimpse of blue it's already upon us: the Tasman Sea, giant turquoise waves curling and crashing over the hard sand. There is no one in sight for miles. This is 90-Mile Beach, but we'll only be walking the last three kilometers of it. After a well-deserved break, we turn our steps north-west, towards the Cape. I take off my boots and walk barefoot, in my underwear, in the long surf. The distant bluffs, at first indistinct gray-green shapes, gain remote detail as we walk.

I don't hear them coming over the deafening surf. They're suddenly beside me and then past: a group of guys in an SUV, driving on the beach. I have just enough time to blush and put my pants back on before we're among them at the foot of Cape Scott. We make small-talk; they offer us a beer. I accept. Then the boys wish us the best day ever, and head off to go fishing. We sit on the sand and eat lunch. The beer is cold and tastes like celebration. But there are no garbage bins on this empty beach, and John will end up carrying our empty bottles for the better part of two days.

We climb the summit of Scott Point, a near-vertical slope. There is no wind up here, and the sun is like a hot fist beating down on me as I toil up the cliffs with thirty pounds on my back. My shirt is soaked through in no time. My thirst amazes me. I stop often to rehydrate and catch my breath. After several hours, the hills finally peter downwards, and the trek evens out to Twilight Beach. It's another stunning, empty beach, complete with huge, curling waves, a strong undertow, and the refuse of the ocean. I see lots of dead coral, spiral shells, kelp, and even a dolphin-- small, black, maybe a baby, recently dead. Its fins are perfectly formed, and it smiles still, even in death.

When we reach our camp, we're nearly out of water. The nearest stream is a one-hour round-trip away, so we drop our packs and head east, over sand dunes, this time following orange markers. Each time we reach one, we see another on the horizon. We point out animal tracks to each other, and try to guess their origin. Sheep? Possum? We see no animals. By the time we make the return trip, with a day's worth of fresh water, the sun is setting and the wind has already obscured our footprints.

That night, the roar of the ocean becomes deafening white noise. I sleep like the dead.

Day 2

John makes pancakes for breakfast, and then we head back over the dunes to Te Werahi beach. It's another hot day, and although I've been applying sunscreen, I realize that I've forgotten my ears. They've blistered.

The beach is a welcome sight, not least because it includes a wide, deep, cold river. Without hesitation, I grab some soap, strip, and jump in to bathe. The water is clear and icy, and I yell and blow and shiver as I splash water on myself, washing away two days' worth of sweat and grime before lying in the sun to dry off and warm up, completely content.

In the Maori language, Reinga means "place of leaping." Traditionally, it is the point of departure for Maori souls as they leave this life, and return to the homeland of their Polynesian ancestors.

But the Cape is not particularly impressive compared with the scenery we've seen already. Really, it's just a lighthouse. More beautiful to me is Cape Maria van Diemen, New Zealand's westernmost point, and the Three King Islands, faintly visible offshore. Still, people drive all day to see this lighthouse, and crowds of tourists get out of their cars to take token photographs. I guess they have no idea that, if they walked for an hour, they would see the breathtaking private beach I've just come from. It makes me glad we've decided to do this tramp. It makes me wonder what I've missed already from a vehicle window.

We finish our day's hike at Pandora Beach, two and a half hours from the Cape. This is the Pacific Ocean side, and there is something decidedly familiar about the kelp and shells that have washed up here. Our camp is a formal DOC campground full of RVs and painted vans, and the crowd seems surreal after so much time spent in isolation.

I wake in the night to the splatter of raindrops. There is also a roaring sound that could be waves nearby, but turns out to be wind coming up through the trees. The wind picks up, billowing the tent inward, shaking the walls. John wakes also. We lie in silence, listening to the scream of the storm and the watching the tent heave and pitch under the weight of the wind. At one point the ceiling of the tent lays down on me completely. I try to push it back and hope that the tarp doesn't fly away.

Day 3

The rain stops just after daybreak, but the wind storm continues. We have to yell over the incredible noise as we pack up camp and head into an estuary, where we wade through the river and slosh through a strange landscape of crunchy mangroves and thick mud.

Finally, we reach an old rutted road and hunker down for breakfast. John puts on The Beatles and the sun comes out. The weather is very changeable, though, because the wind is blowing the clouds across the sky so fast. Over the course of the day, we climb three mountains and experience every kind of weather, from rain to sun to hail. The wind is constant. In the mountain passes we walk warily, conscious of the ridge, straining against the strength of the wind. At one point, we huddle under a bush, laughing incredulously, as horizontal hail comes stinging from the sky. I notice that someone has posted orange signs scribbled with sayings like, "you are the master of this moment," or, "joy shared is doubled, sorrow shared is halved," and some which have been erased by the elements.

Our last night on the trail is spent in a lagoon in Spirit's Bay, reached by negotiating rocks full of tidal pools and deep, dripping caves. We get into dry clothes, get warm, and fall asleep before it is fully dark.

Day 4

An old Maori chief once said that, after his death, his spirit would remain in this bay. I can see why. Spirit's Bay is one of the most interesting places I have yet seen in New Zealand. The sand we walk on is actually a mosaic of glassy shell-fragments, and what appears pink from afar turns out to include every pastel colour imaginable. But the shell-rubble is very deep and soft, and it's knee-bending work to reach the other side of the 8 km-long, crescent-shaped beach. John runs around, discovering empty glass bottles, coconuts, and bits of rubbish. We also see two beached Pilot whales, long dead, surrounded by gulls. They smell awful.

Sean Connery comes to pick us up in the early afternoon, and he drives us back to the tiny town of Waitiki Landing, where we treat ourselves to a pizza each, a couple of glasses of strong beer, and a game of pool. Every muscle hurts.

I think this is the best thing I've ever done.