The Hiking Honeymoon Chronicles

February 19, 2019

The Hiking Honeymoon Chronicles - Part 1

Part 1:

~A Rocky beginning~

We stuck our thumbs out for the first time in Auckland.

It was late afternoon and the sun beat fiercely on our pale arms.

Welcome to New Zealand—the sun seemed to say—where there is no ozone layer or mercy for UV-prone tourists.

It was the fourth day of our honeymoon in New Zealand.

I had barely slept since the flight—a brutal combination of a jet lag and excitement. After all, we were at the start of a 3-month journey into the wilderness to kick-start a lifetime journey of marriage.

The plan: hike most of the South Island on the Te Araroa trail, a thru-hike that spans the entire length of the county. Our hope was to recreate the sense of utter immersion and connection in nature that we shared while hiking--and meeting one another--on the national Israel trail.

The problem: snowy, icy storms raged through the South Island.

The tentative solution: hitchhike southbound on the North Island until the weather calms down, then begin the trail.

Back at the bus stop—about thirty minutes into our first hitchhiking attempt—I was feeling restless.

“Let’s just go back to the Chabad house.” I suggested to Alon, feeling uneasy about this whole hitchhiking business.

“Why don’t we give it a few more minutes,” he replied, still hopeful.

And at that very moment, a station wagon pulled over.

“Where are you folks going?” said the older man who looked well into his seventies, his wife beside him.

Alon and I exchanged glances that said I’m not prepared for this question and blurted out the only destination we were certain of:

“South.”

They chuckled with a sympathetic undertone, like parents watching their 18-year-old-kid trying to operate a washing machine.

They proceeded to tell us that it’s “late in the day” to be hitchhiking, that its impossible to find rides in the city, and that we better take a train.

“No worries, hop in,” they said, “we’ll take you to the train.”

As I climbed into the car, I smiled, acknowledging our first act of grace in New Zealand.

Off we went with our new adopted Kiwi grandparents, who gave us some much–needed advice about “tramping” (hiking) through the New Zealand backcountry.

Meanwhile, from the backseat, I perused google maps for the closest, biggest patch of green where we could hike and set up camp for the night.

“Were headed to Hunua Ranges,” I said with feigned confidence, “what’s the best way to get there?”

Indeed, in our first hitchhiking encounter we learned quite a few things about Kiwis:

1. They appreciate tourists and care about their wellbeing

2. They will judge you for being unprepared or “untidy”

3. They are overly apologetic about the weather

4. They all have connections to the Department of Conservation

5. They will go far out of their way to help

At the end of the ride, we thanked our trip angels, bid them farewell, and hopped on a train heading south.

Forty minutes later we got off at the destination we couldn’t pronounce.

(That’s when we learned that most cities in New Zealand have Maori names, which have far too many syllables and vowels and variations for the average tourist.)

After a short hike through town, we reached the main road. I was startled by the blaring rap music coming from cars that sped by and the curious, squinting glances from the passengers.

“Alon, I think we’re in the slums,” I said with a nervous laugh.

Though I felt safe beside Alon, I was ready to get out of that neighborhood, fast.

And so we stuck our thumbs out again, optimistic after our first ride with our adopted grandparents.

About one minute passed before a cop car pulled over next to us.

“Do you guys know where you are?” asked the female cop, bluntly, “and where you’re headed?”

Taken aback, I wondered: Is hitchhiking illegal here?

“We’re headed to the Hunua Ranges,” we replied, “for camping.”

“Well, you guys are in a dangerous area. Especially for tourists. Hop in, I’ll take you to the Ranges.”

Amazed, I wished to myself that police in Israel, too, would be less busy fighting terror and busier picking up lost tourists.

Only in New Zealand.

And so we rode with Allie the cop for about 30 minutes, watching the scenery turn from urban jungle to actual jungle.

We peered out at the endless shades of green.

On both sides of the road, cows and sheep dotted the hills like brown and white sprinkles.

Footbridges shot out of mountains, as if magically suspended over rapidly flowing rivers. And spiky ferns—that resembled flat, umbrella-shaped palm trees with fuzzy curly fries spiralling out of the tip—were something out of this world. Like Dr. Seuss walked onto the set of Jurassic Park.

And as the bars of cell service went down, our spirits went up.

Alon and I smiled, exchanging looks that said:

Darlin’, we’re not in Auckland anymore.

~ ~ ~

The sounds of a crashing waterfall was nice background music for our first dinner out in nature.

We cooked the meal that would become our go-to dinner recipe: mushroom soup powder, cous cous, and red lentils. Hearty, easy, and warms the belly on a cold night.

It was 7:30 pm. Though we still had three good hours of sunlight, it was time to set up camp.

So we walked to the information signpost and were met with some surprising news.

The sign read:

Camping for self-contained vehicles only. No tent camping at this site.

“Oh, that’s good,” I said disappointedly, “Guess we’re hiking out of here.”

That’s when we learned that not all campsites were created equally. In fact, the department of conservation is very particular about their campsites: who and what can camp, for how long, and for what fee.

With 2.5 hours to spare before sunset, we began making our way uphill out of the campsite, in hopes of finding any place to pitch our tent.

And so we began our first hike. Out of necessity.

Not yet in shape, we huffed and puffed our way uphill.

Even alongside the road, the epic scenery was right out of Alon’s plane book, The Hobbit. But this stuff was real. Tolkein couldn’t have imagined this up.

We continued, with the click-clack of hiking poles on pavement sounding like our ticking clock before sunset.

We were starting to get nervous.

We decided to linger outside of the first farmhouse we passed.

And after some debating, we made the bold move of waving to the woman inside, who peered at us curiously from her kitchen window.

“Can I help you guys?” She asked after opening her front door.

We explained our predicament: our campsite was a bust and no other nearby sites could take us…it’s our first time out of civilization in New Zealand…and now we’re pretty much stuck.

The woman introduced herself. Dianne. She wanted to help us.

“Let me ask my boss for permission” she said, “he manages the campsite down the road. Maybe you can pitch a tent there.”

Alon and I thanked Dianne and looked at one another, hopeful.

Five minutes later, we were in her car, heading back to the site from which we came.

But this time, we got inside the locked gate, pitched our tent, made dinner, and finally got a good night’s sleep.

~ ~ ~

We packed our things at sunrise the next day—as instructed—our tent still soaked with morning dew.

Yessss, a sunny day I thought to myself.

We were excited to start a 3-day hike in the Hunua ranges, which we planned the day prior using the map information board.

We called the Department of Conservation information center to check that all was clear, but heard only static on the other end.

“Well, guess we’ll have just go for it,” I said to Alon, as we made our way out.

We began hiking at 9 am, after some yoga, prayers, and a hearty breakfast of oatmeal, nuts, and dried berries.

It was our first encounter with the New Zealand bush. We quickly learned that most hikes in NZ begin under the bushline, before getting into alpine heights, where vegetation can’t survive. And most of the NZ bush looks similar, if not the same: muddy, mossy, covered in silver ferns, tall trees (the types vary) and filled with sing-songy local birds.

Soon into our hike, we encountered the Tui bird, who’s song sounds like a mix of a broken walky-talky and a printer malfunction.

Their song guided our hike, which lasted about 4 sweaty hours until we reached a fork in the trail.

We were expecting the fork—according to the map—but not the “no crossing” sign that blocked off one of the paths in front of us. The path we needed to take to continue our “3-day” hike.

Trail temporarily closed due to Kauri Dieback disease—a disease that was killing the local and sacred Kauri tree.

Once again, another obstacle.

We knew that the other path made the route circular, and would shave off an hour of turning back and retracing our steps. It was 12, and we still had to eat lunch, trek 3 hours back to the start of the hike, and find a place to sleep.

Again.

But this time, we didn’t let the disappointment kill our mood. We felt “lucky” that we’d arrive earlier to the campsite, increasing our chances of getting to a town or finding a legitimate place to camp.

We hiked on, arriving back to our starting point at around 3:30 pm.

We hung out around the parking lot, ready to “pounce” on people leaving the site in their cars.

Eventually, we spotted a nice couple enjoying a romantic afternoon at the falls.

They seemed harmless enough.

They were headed to the airport—which was not the direction we needed—but they offered to take us to the main road. Good enough—we decided, and hopped in.

We figured we’d get to the closest town on the map—Hunua. We didn’t know whether there’d be a place for us to crash, since we still didn’t have service, but we figured we’d give it a shot.

“Are you guys sure there’s something in that town?” The couple asked, skeptically, as we approached the main road.

“Looks like there’s a town hall” replied Alon, who was inspecting at the blurry, unloaded google maps from two days prior, when we still had some reception.

The couple let us off on the side of the road, about 8 Kilometers from town.

After a few solid hours of road walking, we reached the bustling town of Hunua, population 50 people and 500 cows.

First we passed a church. Then a tiny schoolhouse. Then one small grocery store. Then a closed coffeeshop. Then the town ended.

“That’s it?” I asked Alon, bewildered.

I thought my hometown of Rye, NY was small. But this town had redefined the word town.

We then learned that in New Zealand, five one-story houses, a tiny grocery store, a church, and cell service = town.

Naturally, we immediately turned on our phones, charged them at the grocery store behind the counter and devoured some ice cream on the grocery’s wooden porch.

The few people in the town gave us funny looks, seeing our grime, huge backpacks, and exhaustion plastered on our faces.

I guess they aren’t used to tourists in Hunua Village, I thought.

After regaining some strength, I mustered up some courage to talk with the cashier at the supermarket:

“Do you by any chance know of a place where we could camp tonight? Or a hostel nearby or something? We’re travelling around the north island and kind of got stuck here.”

The cashier thought for a while and said he’d get back to us. In the meantime, we did some shopping, buying ingredients for tomorrow’s breakfast: shakshuka.

We were about to leave when the shop owner came out after us.

“Hey, I spoke to my friend, he owns the farm next door. He said you guys can set up tent in his barn tonight.”

And so, on our second night in the wilderness, we slept amongst the haystacks in a barn in the middle of rural New Zealand.

And that was just the beginning.