A section of New Zealand’s ‘Te Araroa’ that almost claimed my dignity. Maybe the almost is being a tad hopeful.

When I set off up the Wairoa Valley little did I know what I was getting myself in for. It was a crisp morning on the 27th of December, blue sky above and only a slight hum of aggressive insects being emitted from the forest. Waving goodbye to my parents we made our way up the valley on a forestry road. So began my long and torturous journey into the German language. My tramping accomplice and torturer was the lovely Cara, who you might know from my adventures on Stewart Island. We began with perhaps the two most important words in any German speakers arsenal. ‘Noch mal bitte’ — Useful when I cannot decipher the enigma, ‘again please’ in English. Followed by ‘frühstücken’ — Useful for when I am distracted by my rumbly tummy and decide it is time to have my morning porridge, ‘to have breakfast’ in English.

By the time I had learnt these two important German phrases we were well on our way to Mid Wairoa Hut. The track winds up along the river, occasionally being reclaimed in parts by the bubbling waters below. Alas the further we penetrated into the wilds of the Forest Park the louder the hum of aggressive insects became. This climaxed in an unappreciative yell of pain from Cara, courtesy of a friendly wasp. Not far from this unhappy encounter I stumbled upon a curious collection of white marbles tucked under the leaf litter. On closer investigation, the marbles turned out to be large hail stones much to my disappointment as I had hoped they were the eggs of some alien species. The frequency of the icy marbles increased so much as we went along that we had to employ our skiing abilities to descend the sloping sections of the track.

Mid Wairoa Hut

Our best carving got us safely down to the clearing that housed the hut. A standard six bunk forest service design it was cosy enough. The interior was baking hot, with the huts metal sides absorbing the hot afternoon sun. On opening the windows a trickle of sandflies entered the hut. This trickle soon became more of a flood so we resorted to plan B, setting up the tent inner in the clearing to have some peace while we chilled out for the afternoon. From this sanctuary we witnessed a brutal and grisly slaughter of sandflies from none other than our friends the wasps. Eventually our stomachs got the better of us and we returned to the hut for dinner.