My Big Kiwi Day Out, Part 4: Return From Mordor

Photo Credit: Phillip Capper

Last month I travelled to Wellington to speak at Webstock Mini conference and to volunteer behind-the-scenes at the FullCodePress international website-in-a-day event. Between the conference and the geek-a-thon I had a day to myself. Rather than visit museums and city sites, I wanted to get out to see some of the countryside.
This is my story of how I got lost in the jungle, and survived. Just. (Read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3)

To Loop Or Not To Loop

After everything I’d been through with my first attempt at following a hiking trail—the rain, the mud, the disorientation, the bruises and grazes and cuts and falls and general despair—you may well ask why on earth I would want to open myself up for ridicule by Mother Nature one more time.

The reason I just had to explore the track in front of me was because it offered the one thing I would crave if I didn’t climb this one last (metaphoric) hill: closure. If I’d returned to Australia without having conquered this walking trail, then I’d forever feel like Nikau Forest had gotten the better of me.

I left the comfort of the sunshine, grit my teeth and plunged into the darkness.

All Your Walking Trails Are Belong To Us

As it turns out, the Nikau Forest Loop Track is, well, a bit of a joke.

Less of a hiking trail, it was more like a carefully architected artificial stroll through the countryside. The path itself was a smooth, safe concrete walkway with occasional strategically placed pebbles and handrails. This was walking at its most comfortable. It struck me as making a suitable rest stop for old people on a bus tour.

Less than three minutes later I emerged into sunlight. I was back at the entrance. That was it—I had walked the entire length of the walk in under three minutes. I scoffed at the signpost in front of me.

Ha! That’s not a track. I made my own track!

Feeling back on top of the world, I practically skipped back to the train station in Paraparaumu (being extra careful not to take any tumbles on the slippery footpath this time). I snuck onto the carriage just as it was about to depart, found a seat at the back, and warmed myself on the heating rail. Within seconds of the train lurching away from the platform, I’d fallen asleep.

The conductor woke me as we pulled into Wellington station. While my body felt groggy and fatigued, inside I was bursting with excitement—I was extremely proud of myself for cramming so much adventure into one day, and was eager to share the details of my journey with my colleagues. There was a small chance that I could still meet them in time for dinner. The only problem: what would I wear? I was wearing the only jeans and shoes that I’d brought with me, and they were completely caked in mud.

The MacGyver Guide To Speed Hygiene

While I filled the hot tub in my hotel room, I scrubbed myself clean in the shower. Once the tub was full, I eased into the lovely hot water—the side of my leg ached, and the graze was worse than I’d expected. The cuts on my arms and hands stung too, but the healing power of the hot water was immediate and welcome.

After 15 or 20 minutes of hovering between wake and sleep states, my entire body submerged with my nose poking out the top to breathe, I realised that I would really have to motor if I wanted to catch my colleagues for dinner (eating alone is never as much fun—plus any longer in the bath and I’d turn into a prune). I dug deep into my energy reserves to wrench myself from the hot tub, and donned a very fashionable hotel bathrobe.

I still wasn’t sure what I should wear, but I had a brainwave: while my hotel room lacked a washing machine, I had a ready reservoir of (mostly) clean hot water in the bath from which I’d just exited.

I dumped my jeans in the bath tub, and went at them with the hotel soap. And you know what? It worked. And to dry them? Armed with a hair dryer in one hand and an iron in the other, I managed to coerce the water from my previously mud-soaked jeans such that after another 20 minutes or so, they had become wearable. The ends were perhaps still a little damp, but they would pass.

The Perfect Finish To A Perfect Day

I bumped into the Australian FullCodePress team in the hotel lobby; we found a nearby eatery and stuffed ourselves with delicious Asian cuisine. Over dinner, I gave a full account to my friends of the events of the day: my desire to see the real New Zealand jungle, my difficulties with finding the trail, my various injuries sustained through my own stupidity, my following what I thought was a trail and getting completely lost, and finally conquering the elements and emerging victorious from the jungle.

Before visiting New Zealand, I’d heard someone liken the country to a Tonka toy. They’d joked that NZ was “My First Country”—the perfect country for beginner travellers. Unlike Australia, there were no deadly spiders, snakes or other critters of which one could fall foul; everything was shiny and safe.

As it turns out, New Zealand kind of owned me today. Sure, I’d come out of the ordeal alive, but as I inhaled my pork curry and relayed an exaggerated version of my brave dalliance with death, I knew that I’d been let off easy. Exploring on your own in the wilderness without preparation or planning is stupid, no matter which country you’re in. When you’re in a new country, with no telecommunications, no map, and no-one who knows where you are, the consequences can be very dire and very real.

My dilemma is this: if I’d done anything differently, I wouldn’t have this story to tell you. The excitement of my discoveries, the humour in my mistakes, the peril due to my lack of, well, common sense … without these elements, this story is nothing.

So while I don’t recommend you deliberately put your life in danger by embarking on an adventure without adequate planning, there’s a lot to be said for being adventurous and spontaneous in life.

Just remember to pack a second pair of jeans.