Hi guys, sorry it’s been so long. Though I have a computer with wireless, the internet can be a very illusive thing around here. Between the monastery and my brief moments in town, I never know when I’ll be swimming in a digital bath or wandering the incommunicado desert. But I’m here now!
The good news is, I’ve found it: I have found New Zealand! The monastery is great, I love the lifestyle, open spaces, and the slices of native bush that it offers; Auckland city is okay too, it has its interesting pockets of life and culture. But when it comes down to it, the area surrounding the monastery is a replica of the English countryside, and Auckland city reminds me way too much of downtown San Jose, a town close to my heart but not what I flew 13 hours to see. The cover of my guide book was more mind blowing than anything I had seen for myself. I was beginning to think all these amazing images of the land down under was a big marketing scheme. Luckily, the real NZ is hidden just at the fringe of all these sheep pastures, round abouts, overpriced pubs, Guy Fawks Day, and other incessant British patriotism. Just a short 20 minute bus ride west of Auckland city is the Waitakere Range, a 16,000 hectare block of (nearly) pure New Zealand. While it’s not completely “wild” as it would have been a few hundred years ago, the Waitakere wilderness offers massive hills, natural groves of strong and stout Kauri trees, prehistoric flora, majestic rivers and falls, epic ocean cliffs, and the always peaceful and benign wild bird life. I heard about this place, bought myself a map, and immediately started planning a trip.
Less than a year ago, the Auckland Regional Council established the Hillary Trail as an ode to the adventurous spirit of Sir Edmund Hillary. There are plenty of day hikes within the Waitaks, but the Hillary trail is a 4 day, 70 km hike around the western perimeter of the park and gives a real taste of what the west coast has to offer. As the caretaker of the monastery, 4 days off is not the easiest thing to arrange, but Ajahn Chandako happened to be hosting a 9 day meditation retreat in late November and my presence was not required. “Perfect!” I thought, “This is my chance. I’ll just throw on a backpack, lace down my boots, and have Ajahn perform a false knighting to become Sir Edgar, hiking in honor of Sir Hillary.” I made a few efforts to rope other fools into this 70 km march, but everybody I asked either pointed to their work schedule or looked at me perplexed, wondering why I might want to carry my personal belongings on a 4 day tour through the mountains. For about 2 minutes I was doubtful about backpacking alone without a cellphone or any real idea of what I was getting into…. But then I heard the neighbor’s sheep bleet my name like I’ve been hearing for over a month and I knew I had to get away from this madness.
I chucked a few things in my backpack, put on my bucket hat, alerted Ajahn to send out the search pidgins if I hadn’t returned in 7days time, and caught a ride into the city. I crashed at a friend’s place for the night and departed early the next morning. I still hadn’t made reservations for the campsites yet (woops), so the first step was to walk clear across town to the reservation office and book up. I arrived at 7:45am to find they don’t open until 9am, so I sat. What seemed like days later, I finally got everything booked and headed toward the bus station, yet another 30 minute hike through town. Stumbled my way on and off a few different bus lines to reach Titirangi Village, the closest town to the trailhead: a simple 6 km uphill. Along the dirt road to the trailhead, there was a road closure with aggressive warnings of prosecution upon trespassing and absolutely no suggestion of detour. I really had no idea what to do…I was beat tired and apparently stopped in my tracks before I even started. So I figured, “Forget the Hillary trail, I’ll just wander around for 4 days” and began walking up an unnamed dirt road. This lead to a paved road, which in turn miraculously lead to the Arataki Visitor Center, which offered an alternate trailhead. I marched upstairs and gave the visitor center people a real piece of my mind about the unbeknownst road closure, pointing out the absence of an alternative route, and made clear that I only happened to find my way there. After a short rant, I demanded they fill up my water bottle for my trouble (I think they would have done it regardless…), bumbled around ‘til I found the first Hillary Trail post, and took my first step by 3pm.
Day one was only 11km, the shortest of all the days and supposedly the least strenuous. I was bright eyed and bushy tailed to finally be on the trail, but my enthusiasm quickly drained with the first hill climb. I was told this trail may be a bit unmaintained, rooty, muddy, or otherwise rough, but I was straight scrambling up this trail from root to root, clinging to trees as to not collapse under the weight of my backpack. At the crest of the first hill started the mud. At first it was little puddles, easy enough to hop over. Then they got bigger, but I was still able to skirt around the edge without completely plunging in. Finally I reached a point where the trail was just completely mud: no little pools of water, no dry edges to teeter along, not even a fallen tree to balance on, just mud for yards. Back at the monastery, I had debated whether or not to bring my rubber boots, as they add about 3 pounds and ridiculous bulk to my bag. At this point on the trail, I was glad I was a tough guy and had decided to throw on the extra lbs. I pulled my gumboots on and started tromping directly through the mire, determined to make it to camp before sundown. Imagine this for a second: a guy with a 25(+/-) lb bag, up since 6am, having wandered all over hill and dale just to get to this point, now beyond ankle deep and sinking in bottomless mud, racing to an unknown campground. Don’t get me wrong, the bush was amazing: twisted vines crawling up fern trees, palms scattered next to massive thick-barked trees with colorful flowers, and every once in a while a grove of fat kauris, where I could feel the power and spirit of the forest reside. The forest was so thick, I couldn’t see deeper than 10 feet on either side. Some people go to nature to stretch out and feel open, but this nature is so dense one might start to feel a bit claustrophobic. Though my eyes were constantly darting about this twisted jungle, I had completely focus my physical effort first to find a spot in the mud that would hold my weight, then make sure I didn’t slip out completely (which happened twice anyway), then pull my back foot out of the mud, but not lose my boot in the process (which happened frequently), all with the swiftness of the setting sun. It was just the comedy hour. I eventually had to grab two sticks to use like ski poles to keep me balanced with forward motion. Finally, I reached a paved road next to a reservoir, which lead to a very nice beach. I turned around to look at the hill I had just ascended and descended and my jaw completely dropped…it’s hard to see the forest for the trees, but looking at the forest from the beach makes it all worth it. This was my first view of the New Zealand I was looking for, and it was good. I felt like I had just descended into the land of the lost; some place I could have only dreamed about. I snapped a few pics and hustled to the Karamatura campsite just in time to see the sun dip below the mountain peaks, which still seemed too picturesque to be real…
As I triumphantly tromped into the camp site, a stick in each hand and a pound of mud stuck to each boot, I was surprised to find 3 other campers: 2 Kiwi women and a German woman. They were some real tramps, if you know what I mean… and what I mean is that they hike a lot. They call backpacking tramping out here. Just to clarify, they were complete tramps, but morally pure. Anyway, the German, Marion, thought I was a total genius for bringing gumboots, while the Kiwis, Margret and Dianne, couldn’t stop laughing at me for bringing gumboots. “You haven’t been tramping NZ much have you? Gumboots are for the farm… boots with laces are for the trail!” Well, call me a genius or call me a fool, my feet were dry. I hustled to set up my tent and get my sleeping bag situated, then cranked up my stove to cook. Unfortunately (majorly unfortunately), open fires are not permitted anywhere in New Zealand, so I had to invest in and carry around a tiny stove and fuel to cook with rather than simply rely on sticks and brush, like a real explorer; not to mention missing out on the mystical campfire talk that every camper from the States knows is the best part of the day. It may have been for the better though, because I had a long next day ahead of me, so I simply ate and rolled into the sleeping bag.
Woke up re-energized at 7 the next day and cooked up some breakfast: brown rice and peanut butter. I’ve never thought to combine these two things before, but with a strike of Buddhist simplicity, I decided to bring it as my primary sustenance for the 4 day hike. Sure, I had a freeze dried backpacking MRE for each night, but breakfast, lunch, snack time, and my energy goo were all made of varying ratios of rice to peanut butter. It really wasn’t too bad, but I would have been happy to have a little fructose somewhere in there… a bit of a sugar high would have gone a long way. After I gulped down my peanut butter porridge, I hit the trail: a 14.5 km day, but the most challenging of all the days according to the guidebook. If I saw the easiest day yesterday, I had no idea what to expect from the most challenging.
The guidebook said “Exit the campground and follow the trail uphill. At the top of the hill turn left and continue along until you reach the outlook…” They made it all seem so simple. Oh yeah, just go uphill and turn left. An hour later I wondered what kind of hill I was heading up here. By the second hour I was beginning to worry about the fact that I had committed so much of my time and energy into THE FIRST SENTENCE. I still had 2.5 pages worth of directions to follow! Near the top I took a detour to a waterfall, not so much because I was interested in the waterfall, but just because the trail was flat in that direction. It was a decent waterfall, but I didn’t have much time to spare, I knew I still had a heck of a day to go. I finally reached the top, turned left and found the lookout and whoaaaaaaaaaaaaa. I had reached Mt. Donald McLean, at 389 meters tall, one of the highest peaks in the range. I had a 360 degree panorama of the Waitaks to the east, the massive Manukau harbor to the south with the powerful and dangerous Manukau bar at its mouth, the rich blue Tasman sea to the west, and days worth of cliffs, bays, and beaches to the north. I took a seat and spooned up some peanut butter porridgethat I had saved from earlier to take in the view. I located Whatipu, the beach where I was planning on breaking for lunch, and scoped out the valley leading into it, trying to decipher exactly where I was headed. I also noticed 3 very beautiful, very dramatic cliff faces along the ocean’s edge and took a few artsy pictures of them, thinking to myself “Man I’m glad I don’t have to climb up those!”
45 minutes later I was on top of the first cliff, looking back saying “Yep, pretty much the same view… still pretty nice though.” Snapped a few more pics, just because I had invested so much energy in arriving there, and continued along the trail, confident I would simply dip into the valley and cruse down to Whatipu. An hour later I was throwing rocks off the peak of the second cliff, trying to maim the view which I had once cherished but was now just taunting me. I couldn’t even make eye contact with the third peak, I could just tell it had a dirty smurk on its face. Mind you, going up these ridges is difficult, but going down is a whole ‘nother game. Going up is pushing against gravity, but going down is like allowing gravity to punch you in the kneecaps over and over. Luckily, the trail was dry as a bone so I wasn’t having the slippin’ slidin’ experience of yesterday, but I was really using my sticks like ski poles now. Plant the left stick, pivot around left, plant the right stick, pivot around right… that is until my left stick broke and sent me sliding down the gravel path, and suddenly I was snowboarding. That was pretty… exciting.
I didn’t even stop to look out from the top of the third cliff, I just had my eyes set on Whatipu. I finally reached the beach and gratefully unloaded my pack from my shoulders and just sat for a long time. Gulped down some peanut butter porridge and let my feet rest a while; took a look at the guidebook to see how much further I had and was not surprised to find “From Whatipu, head uphill and turn left at the top of the hill.” I was beginning to understand a theme to this hike. Except at this point, the guidebook seemed to have that annoying, falsely friendly tone of the unhelpful lady at the DMV who tells you you’ve spent the last 2 hours filling out the first form, here’s the second one, NEXT. After I finished eating, the two Kiwis and the German were arriving to Whatipu with the same bedraggled look that I had on upon arrival. I was happy to see the Kiwis, these tough Kiwi trampers who’ve been there done that just about all over NZ, just as pooped as I was. Just like me, they were being beaten into exertion-based self-reflection by that bastard Sir Hillary. There’s Buddhist vipassana wisdom, then there’s Kiwi sweat wisdom.
Up up up, then finally a bit more downhill towards the Pararaha Valley, which cradled our campsite for the night. Half way down, the bush broke open and offered a view of the valley. This image is burned in my mind as my favorite moment of the entire hike. I had been amazed by some things previously, but this view transcends all. Hundreds of meters tall on both sides, the valley is made up of step volcanic rock slicing into the sky with patches of bush barely clinging on. This place felt prehistoric, like a giant terradactal could have swooped out from nowhere and it would have been completely natural. I tried to take a picture, but I looked through the viewfinder and the magic was lost. I couldn’t take a picture of this, I could hardly comprehend it in real life. I knew there was some existence going on in that valley that was beyond anything I could begin to understand. The pixels of my digital camera only made tiny colored squares out of something that was REAL, man, do you know what I mean? They paid no homage or justice to the true existence of Pararaha, I just had to know that there is such a place in the world, and respect it and let my eyeballs bask in its glory for a while.
I finished walking down to the campground and dumped my stuff immediately. I was way done with that backpack, those boots, and those sticks for the day, I just walked into the stream until I was knee deep and sat down for a long time. Have you heard of stream entry? It’s a pretty figurative term, but in that valley, at that time, after that hike, I can only assume it’s a similar feeling. The three tramps cruised in a little while later and found me spacing out in the stream, but they were too tired to judge. We all set up our tents very slowly as the sun was setting and cranked up our stoves as we settled into comfortable clothes and clean socks. Everybody was beat tired, but the spirits were high as we poked fun at our death march and congratulated each other on survival. We drifted off to bed shortly after dinner to dream of our adventures to come.
I still have TWO DAYS of ups, downs, trials, trails and victories to recreate, but this entry is TOO LONG so STAY TUNED and I will post another SOON! Hope everybody is great, I spent a lot of time thinking about home and friends while I was on the trail and I really wish you could have all been there with me! I hear the snow season is great, so get out there and take a few rides for me while I sweat through the humid New Zealand summer. Talk to ya’ll soon
PS: In other news, we got a goat on the monastery. His name is Lucky and he's a real cool guy. I'll have some pics of him, as well as my hike and other stuff up when I get a better internet feed... this connection is draggin' and its a real drag.
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