Greenstone Track, 61 km, 4 days

For this story, which will probably run a little long, I need to dig a bit deeper into my past and start there. 1996, the dorm at Haus Lindenhof. What a time. What a glorious time. Legendary, for those who were there, to this day. We lived in a dorm, 5 shared flats with 4 rooms each. And one of the residents was Matthias, Matze. I cannot quite piece it together anymore, but I think he had already been there for about a year, while the rest of us were still relatively new to Lindenhof.

And Matze had spent a few weeks in New Zealand, and when he came back, there was a slide show. I still remember that. All of us crammed into my 12 square metre room, 20 or 25 people, listening to him and following the images. Yes, it was a different time back then. Ninety-six. He told us about his hikes, how he had to wade through rivers, climb some steep rock face by moonlight on a mountainside, throw his backpack across ravines. At least that is how I remember it. Whether it really happened that way, well, it has been 30 years now. But somehow it all sounded wonderfully unhinged, and now the opportunity had finally come up for me as well.

That evening I was still sitting on my bed in a hotel in Queenstown, trying to work out how this whole hut booking thing even worked, which hike was actually an option, and how the hell I was supposed to get there in the first place. At some point I had at least more or less understood how it might work and which route I could do without walking myself into certain death. I settled on the Greenstone Tour, 4 days, 3 nights. For the last night I would probably have to camp. No more space in the hut, said the online booking system.

The next morning I bought a few more essentials, Swiss Army knife, plasters and, most importantly, food, then went to DOC, the Department of Conservation, and got myself properly briefed. What are the dos, what are the don’ts, what about drones, maps and all that. One thing up front, they told me drones were no problem at all, you just apply on the website, it gets decided on Monday, all very easy. Since I did not own a drone yet, but had been wanting to buy one ever since Australia, specifically for this tour here in New Zealand, because I was not sure how strictly they handled things in conservation areas, I had kept hesitating. The drone I wanted cost around 1700 dollars in the shop. Easy. I had actually planned to head straight out after DOC and finally buy one, but first I checked the website. In the area I wanted to go to, the application fee alone was 2300 dollars, with no guarantee it would even be approved. Fine then. Saved myself money and weight.

The rest of the day in Queenstown passed somehow, and I packed everything into zip bags and stuffed it all into my backpack. In terms of volume, no problem at all, even with the food. Only the weight. In total I had 30 kilos on my back. Thirty kilos is weight. Serious weight. But to be honest, I did not care. The whole point of this trip, and of this hike, was to push myself to the edge. When do I break, mentally, when physically under the load, and how do I keep going after that. I needed to understand how, and whether, I still functioned.

That is why my food did not consist of dried instant meals that you pour hot water into, I cannot tolerate those anyway, but instead I did things the old-fashioned way and found a bakery in town, really good bread, properly wrapped so it would still be edible after 4 days, plus 3 litres of milk and protein-enriched oats, which are still manageable even with water, electrolyte mix, genuinely useful, and, much to my annoyance, the local sausage and cheese selection to make the whole trail lunch complete.

To be fair, it may say imported salami from Italy or Gouda from Holland on the label, but there is no way they would actually make that stuff there and then ship it out here. Although, now that I think about it? Never mind. Here in Oceania I have made a habit of buying exactly the kind of food I would never buy in Europe, cheeses like cheddar, for example. I mean, I do not know the stuff, so I cannot be disappointed by the first bite either. And there had already been plenty of disappointments here.

For water, instead of bringing a stove, I simply do not like those things, I had bought a clever little filter system where you squeeze water through a filter. That meant that at any water source, all right, I am picky, so in my case only flowing water, I could produce 500 millilitres of clean water fairly easily. I did of course have a 2 litre bladder in my backpack as well, but I never used it. Training weight.

The next morning I set off at 7, with a beautiful sunrise for company, heading towards the shuttle departure point. It was 1.5 kilometres on foot, and I covered those at a decent pace. Quite pleasant, I thought, nice bit of training weight. I arrived exactly on time, at the counter. In front of me stood a woman. I always call these types Katharinas. Not because of the way they look, in this case short, greasy blonde hair, glasses, blue jacket, green backpack, but because of the way they talk and the things they ask.

Where exactly would the shuttle leave from? She was told to wait outside at the front, the driver would come and get her. Yes, but where exactly does it leave from then? They did not know, maybe the front, maybe the back, how long would the drive take? It turned into a full conversation. The woman at the desk was visibly relieved when it was over and I was finally next. She looked at me, then at my backpack, and asked whether I might want to leave a bag behind. I lied to her and said I would think about it. Let us be honest, I did not need 75 percent of what I was carrying, and I even had a bag with me, one that weighs quite a bit on its own, in which I could have packed everything and left it there. But I had a different objective.

We waited outside, the driver showed up, checked everyone’s details once more, and then we were off. Naturally Katharina got into the van first, then there were four fairly round Australians and Helen, an older woman. The shuttle ride, first to Glenorchy, then on to the Greenstone car park, how do I even describe it? The four Australians were cheerful at first, chatting away loudly. That changed after five minutes. The bloke at the wheel, whenever he actually had his hands on it, flew down the road with absolutely no regard for anything, and the minibus, Japanese make, seemed to have lost its shock absorbers a very long time ago. Bend, drop to the left, the man showed no mercy.

I had a song by Pain of Salvation in my ears, Mrs Modern Mother Mary, and I think there is a line in the chorus that goes, “since I found God”. Hallelujah. What a ride. At some point, rattling along a narrow gravel road and splashing through creeks, I understood exactly why the vehicle no longer had any suspension worth mentioning.

Eventually he let us out, and that was when the actual adventure began. I had booked it so I would start the Greenstone Track via the Caples. The sign said something like 2.5 to 3.5 hours to Mid Caples Hut, and off I went. After about an hour there was the turnoff towards Greenstone Hut across a little bridge. If all went well, I was supposed to come back out here four days later. My internet connection had already died by then.

At that point my entire travel group had already overtaken me. I was moving very slowly. Only Helen, the older woman, seemed to be approaching the whole thing roughly the same way I was, just a great deal faster. And the path kept rising and falling, narrow and wide, roots, rocks, branches everywhere. This was no normal hiking trail. It was simply a worn-down track through the bush.

After maybe 2.5 hours or so I needed a break. I was finished. Sweating, shaking, apparently two bananas for breakfast are simply not enough for this sort of thing. I made myself a milkshake with oats, sucked it down greedily, and carried on, only to get overtaken yet again by a couple who later introduced themselves as Brian and Carol.

You have to give it that, the scenery was beautiful, but I was wrecked. At some point I sat down in a meadow, drank more water and took another little break, completely spent. Then a young man came strolling past, cheerful as anything, heading for the car park, and asked how far it was. I said maybe 8 kilometres or so, and asked him how far it still was to the hut. Maybe 20 or 30 minutes, he said. I braced myself, put on a 5 minute song and thought, after seven repeats I will be there, and started walking again. After the third repeat the hut came into view, and there I was.

I went in, greeted Helen, Carol and Brian and went straight to bed. I lay on my mattress for two hours before moving again. We got talking. The people here really are rather lovely. Helen explained the terrain ahead in detail using a map. It was genuinely useful to have that all fresh in my mind again. It helped a lot with what was coming next.

Another tip from Helen: if your pack is too heavy, eat, eat, eat.

Then two more groups trickled in, younger people. They cooked, meaning they boiled water and poured it into instant meal pouches. I unpacked my bread and cheese, to everyone’s surprise. Last of all another group of three older hikers came in. One of the women looked exactly how I felt. They promptly poured themselves a whisky, loudly. I was already back in bed by the time the ranger came through counting heads to make sure everyone who had booked was there and nobody was sneaking into the hut for the night. I had a quick chat with him and asked how many kilometres today had actually been. Nine. And tomorrow? Twenty-two over the pass. I started having doubts.

He just said, ah, the first day is always like that. Once you get used to the pack, it gets easier. Nine kilometres, signposted as 2.5 to 3.5 hours, and it had taken me a full 4 hours. I did the maths. Ten hours.

The next morning, shortly after sunrise, around 7, I set off. Brian and Carol started around the same time, but they soon became dots on the horizon. First across open meadow, then slowly but steadily uphill. At one point, while I was taking a break on the climb, Helen overtook me. The woman is a grandmother with 5 grandchildren.

I dragged myself higher and higher. At the top I stopped again and ate something just as another group caught up with me. I took a few photos. The saddle was genuinely beautiful. Raised bog, crossed by boardwalks. Then came the truly unpleasant descent, a slippery scree trail in switchbacks. Tricky, demanding, painful. I do not think my toenail survived it and in the coming days it will probably part ways with my toe. It bled underneath a few times over the course of the hike and is now blue and presumably offended that I am about to lose it.

Once I finally reached the bottom, I lay down for ten minutes. Just a little rest. I ate my last apple, and then the next group from the previous night came through, the last ones to overtake me. I never saw the older whisky drinkers again on the trail.

In my head I had imagined the path to McKellar Hut, past the lake of the same name, as some broad, easy trail. Not even close. It was another narrow path along a steep slope, roots, scree, all the rest of it. Three kilometres of pure hardcore. I crept my way forward. Then the first runner passed me, then the second. I do not know how people can move at that speed. I spoke to them later. They were doing 38 kilometres that day in 7 hours. I needed exactly 10 hours and 30 minutes for the full 22.

When I got to the hut, of course Helen and Brian and Carol were already there. The hut was full. I met two German girls who were doing the track in the opposite direction. They told me they had camped by a lake, which turned out to be illegal, and had been fined 500 dollars, and they were due to fly home again soon. Bad luck. They should have read the fine print, which is actually written in large letters everywhere: do not camp near water, keep 50 metres away, otherwise you could die.

There was also an older tramp who had already been out for five days and was camping outside. For that night he had pitched his tent in a wooden shed. Why? Because bad weather was moving in. And sure enough, exactly five minutes after I arrived, it started raining. Properly. All night long. I had got lucky.

The older man could not believe how many kilos I was carrying. He just shook his head and put his instant meal in front of me, lamb curry, while I sat there eating bread and cheese under the quietly envious gaze of others. I gave him some cheese and we got chatting. Really lovely people here in New Zealand. Carol brought me tea, black tea. I felt completely at ease. For tomorrow I thought only this: 18 kilometres, surely it cannot be quite as bad as today, it is mostly downhill after all.

I started at 9, shortly after giving the old tramp one last 250 gram chunk of cheese. The cheese here really is not very good and at that point it was just ballast. Then I set off through the wet grass. What came next was rough. The first 3 kilometres followed a damp, no, drenched rock face, up, higher, muddy, roots and actual waterfalls. The rain had swollen the creeks. It was hard. It took me a full 2 hours.

When I finally reached open grassland, Helen marched cheerfully past me. And because I already knew that still was not all of it, the rain had also turned the flats into a proper swamp, at some point I stopped trying to avoid puddles and creeks and just walked straight through them. My feet and socks were already wet and there was no chance they were drying out again.

So I marched, sloshed and stomped my way for 4 hours across the prairie, through a beautiful landscape. Cows, deer, birds, spider webs. It was stunning, and I found myself wondering why I had not met anyone coming the other way, until suddenly two young Japanese hikers appeared in front of me. I asked them how far it still was to the hut, and they said 2 to 3 hours. I asked whether the trail stayed like this and glanced at their feet. They were already wearing flip-flops. It was very bad where they had come from. I looked at the two of them again and did not want to discourage them entirely, but the trail does not improve.

After that short exchange, that small, slightly surreal encounter, I limped on. I slowly realised my left foot was giving out. Probably some cramp in some muscle I had never even known existed. Everything was starting to hurt, back, feet, legs, toes, and I kept going, taking the pack off once an hour for a few minutes, then carrying on through this classically beautiful landscape.

And then suddenly I found myself standing before my final boss. A sign said 1 to 2 hours to the hut, which for me meant more like 3, and in front of me hung a bridge over a creek. This bridge was a free-hanging suspension bridge with wire mesh as the floor. Exactly. One of those things. The kind with height. I clenched my teeth and stepped onto the bridge. There was quite a drop beneath it, and of course the whole thing swayed as well. I stood there weighing up alternatives. Turn back? Not possible. Find a way underneath? Probably, but it would take time.

I thought about it, the fear arrived, and I went across, eyes fixed upwards, and made it to the other side. Fear is good. It warns you. But having control over your fear at the right moment is worth gold. What has to be done has to be done.

But another thought had started creeping in. From Greenstone Hut to the car park the next day was 12 kilometres, my return shuttle was booked for 10.30 am, and I only had a camping spot, not a bed in the hut. By my calculations I would need to set off at 4 in the morning to make the shuttle. Phew. Difficult.

Then there was the sign, 10 minutes to the hut, off the main track, and I would have to walk that section again tomorrow, first down, then back up. I shouted some of my frustration into the air. It really had been exhausting. But after the tenth tree root I smashed my injured toe into, finally, the hut.

In total it had taken me 8.5 hours, and at last I was at Greenstone Hut. My mind was already spinning around tomorrow’s logistics. To my surprise everyone was sitting outside on the veranda, waiting. Waiting for me. Great joy. Someone had a black tea in my hand almost immediately. Everyone said the day had been really hard, everyone had had trouble with their shoes.

I told them about my problem for the next morning and had already spotted the solution standing in a doorway. The ranger in her hut. I went over and we had a chat on the steps outside her veranda. Was there by any chance still a bed free in the hut instead of camping, because I would need to leave early for the shuttle? And sure enough, there was exactly one bed left. I could upgrade. And as for leaving in the dark the next morning, absolutely not, she said, just wait a second, she would call them on the satellite phone. Five minutes later I had also been rebooked onto the 12.45 shuttle. Sometimes it really can be that simple.

That evening we all sat together in the hut again, chatting, the ranger included. At the next table an older man was getting worked up about how badly maintained the track to the car park was. Apparently it had all been much better in the old days. He complained loudly that he had had to walk over scree. We all looked at each other and already knew exactly what the story was. The trail was exactly as it had always been. The only thing that had not been maintained properly was the fat body of the old bastard. We all knew that by the next hut tomorrow he would no longer be complaining about today’s track. That much was obvious.

Despite my later departure time, I set off in the dark just before seven and walked through an enchanted fog forest by torchlight, first back to the main trail, then slowly onward through the darkness. The light stayed diffuse for a long time until eventually the sun broke through. The trail was far better than the one the day before, and I might even have made the 10.30 shuttle after all. I was finally moving faster, when Helen caught up with me and asked whether I would like to have a tea with her there. There would be too many sandflies at the car park, and if we arrived too early, we would simply get eaten alive.

Odd, making tea in the middle of the forest with water from a creek. But that British habit, I have to say, I absolutely love it. I wonder whether Matze ever did that too. In that spirit.