Te Araroa | 90-mile Beach
First things first — the beach is not 90 miles long. It’s 54 miles long, or 88km. That is still a long way when you are only one day into your hike; your pack is the heaviest it will ever be because it is full of luxury that you will dump later, and you have no friends yet.
I was wearing my full rain gear. The small droplets beaded off the brand new fabric of my coat and trousers as I walked through the drizzle, following some footprints in the sand. I had seen two figures in the haze, and I caught up when they stopped in the small wooden gazebo at Twilight Camp. The first thing that struck me was how massive their backpacks were. Jaysen is a tall and muscular guy, so it didn’t look ridiculous on him, but his friend Susan was struggling, and I could sense the frustration from both of them. Jaysen wanted to walk faster, but Susan was already going as fast as she could. Later, she had to stop hiking because she had a stress fracture. I can’t remember if it was in one foot or both.
My new friends were incredibly open and generous when I asked if they had any snacks to spare. I had already realised that I was burning through my food at an unsustainable rate and had underestimated how much I needed. They kindly gave me some provisions, no doubt thinking what an amateur I was.
The first two beaches on the Te Araroa trail seem quite long in themselves, but in fact, they only total six kilometres, and that gives you the false hope that the longest beach can’t be that hard. But then you see it. I crested a series of sand dunes and looked out over 90 mile beach for the first time. It was foggy, although no longer raining, so I could only see about two kilometres. It was enough to get intimidated nonetheless.
I descended a set of wooden steps and stepped onto 90-mile beach, refusing to let myself be daunted. On my left, there were sand dunes, higher than my head and dappled with grasses that swished in the breeze making eerie sounds. On my right was the ocean, relentlessly throwing waves at me and covering my right side in salt. And in between was a strip of sand about seven metres wide and straight and endless. I swapped between the firmer sand close to the sea, dodging the waves that came racing in, and the soft energy-sapping sand. The monotony of walking in a straight line with an unchanging view, all day, the sun circling me in slow motion and the tide coming and going, was a bit like meditation and a tough introduction to the trail. In the end, you simply need to trust your legs that you’ll get there.
The most exciting thing I saw on the first day was dead wildlife (a whale*, 2 sharks and a seagull) and a log covered in limpets, probably dead limpets. I had to invent games to stop myself from going insane. I tried to walk with my eyes closed for as long as possible, but I could only manage a maximum of ten steps before getting scared and disorientated. My favourite game was to stab seashells with my trekking poles. I felt a bit guilty, destroying the beautiful shells, but it was addictive and felt natural as I swung my arm through each stride. I wouldn’t get one for ten in a row and then pierce one right in the middle with a satisfying crunch.
At some point, a small lump appeared on the horizon, and that turned into my sole focus for half a day, but when I realised it was The Bluff I was crestfallen. I was barely a third of the way along the beach. I thought I had been making good progress. My dwindling food supply was becoming a real concern. I had been stuffing snacks into my gob since the start, and when I got to The Bluff, I realised I didn’t have enough.
Fortunately, there was a young French couple parked in the small campsite, so I asked them if I could have a lift to the nearest shop and back. They were very easy-going and thankfully agreed. I felt like an idiot: it was the end of day two, and I already needed to rely on strangers to get by, but I also felt relieved. The nearest shop was a service station on the main road to Cape Reinga, a typical ‘dairy’ as they are called in New Zealand. I bought some ramen, carefully counting out the meals I was still to eat, and a packet of jammy dodgers.
On the way back to the campsite, the sandy road was quiet, fringed with thin and sparse pine trees. Suddenly as we were rounding a bend, a dirtbike came speeding around on our side of the road and smashed into the front of the hire car. The rider had been gardening at his friend’s house and was carrying a strimmer under his arm like a lance. The metal end went straight through the windshield and sprayed glass all over the driver and passenger. The heavy-set biker was initially combative because he claimed that he had never met another vehicle on that particular road. Thankfully, he soon conceded and scribbled some details on a piece of paper for the driver. Luckily no one was hurt, even the rider who, unbelievably, fled the scene to get to church in time for the service.
In silence, we carried on with a huge hole in the windshield, and the unlucky tourists dropped me off on the beach. I hope that karma paid them back in the end.
The next two days were more bearable. I gave up on meditative presentness, put on an upbeat playlist and set about trying to catch up with the people who left the footprints in the sand. As a bit of a footwear nerd, I recognised from the tread that someone was wearing Salomon Speedcross and someone else Saucony Peregrine and I wanted to prove myself right. On day three, I managed 37km to reach Utea Park, where I met Max, Everett and Jeff for the first time. It was refreshing to be in the company of others for an extended period of time. Day four was easy then. We smashed shells all the way to Ahipara where we had our first taste of the satisfaction that comes with reaching town — fish and chips, a hot shower and a day off to plan the next section.
*I later heard from that the owners of Utea Park, on hearing of a dead whale, sped off with a chainsaw to plunder it for ambergris.
