All about accessibility and ambling.
A BACKCOUNTRY TRAMP TAKES CAREFUL PLANNING. EVEN MORESO IF, LIKE ME, YOU ARE DISABLED. I HAVE AN ACQUIRED BRAIN INJURY, SUSTAINED IN MY LATE 20S.
It’s not just the headaches, or the brain fog, the memory loss, or the fatigue; it’s the way I feel like I have to justify my presence. When I move through spaces with very active people, I feel the loss of what my body used to be able to do. I am wary of the way other people judge and respond to me and my disability. Sometimes that judgement takes the form of pity. Sometimes, disgust or anger. I have experienced being excluded from spaces, being disbelieved because I don’t “look” disabled, and being expected to do things I don’t have the capacity to achieve. We won’t get into the slurs, though I’ve heard those too.
This is a bummer of a way to start a story. Let’s try again.
I am not a birdwatcher in the sense that I keep a list of birds I want to see. I am a birdwatcher in that I can sit at my window in Ōtepoti Dunedin and watch the tauhou for hours. They are cute and fluttery, and as you watch, the complexity of their interactions becomes clear. Little dramas play out: rivals chase each other back and forth, lovers preen in the pear tree, younglings follow the adults yelling, “feed me, I’m still a baby, I swear!” As much as I love my nectar feeders and the multitude of tauhou, korimako, and tūī who visit, whenever I get the chance, I go to other birdwatching spots. I frequent Orokonui to hang out with the takahē and kākā. I have been to visit kororā and hoiho and toroa and kea. I saw kiwi for the first time at the bird park in Queenstown. But of course, what I really wanted was to see kiwi in the wild. They are the charismatic megafauna of Aotearoa, after all.
I have a friend who does the North West Circuit of Rakiura almost every year. We got together with a third friend, an experienced tramper, who had never been to Rakiura. We started planning a trip in a shared spreadsheet. Dates, prices for ferries, pros and cons of staying in Oban versus attempting a backcountry hut. Originally, we thought Mason Bay to Freshwater River Hut would be a doable route: a four-hour walk through relatively flat tussock wetland and mānuka forest. But the timing of the tides unspooled that plan, and we had to figure out a way to make the most out of our four days of travel.
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We found the perfect compromise: two nights at Freshwater Hut. We would use Freshwater as the base from which to explore. Freshwater Hut sits right along the river, and at the time of year we were visiting, a water taxi arrives once a day to drop off and pick up travellers. From Freshwater you can walk west towards Mason Bay, east towards North Arm Hut, or south towards Freds Camp. Most importantly, there’s a good chance of spotting kiwi around Freshwater. It is as accessible as backcountry gets.
Or at least, it is accessible for me, in my body. From the dock, you have to cross a swing bridge to get to the hut. It is a steep, wobbly climb. I was a bit worried that it might trigger my dizziness, but it didn’t. I love heights, and before my injury I was a huge fan of rollercoasters. I can’t handle those anymore. The swing bridge is about as close as I can get to that feeling of weightless ascension these days. I took every chance to clamber over that bridge over the three days we were there; but I acknowledge that experience would be a full stop for many people.
Anxiety marked the whole process of preparation. Along with my brain injury, I also have coeliac disease, which means even a little trace of gluten can cause remarkable pain in my gut. The kind of pain that doubles you over and makes any activity impossible. It is just as debilitating as my headaches. I was concerned: what if I got sick on the trip? What if a headache struck, or dizziness? Would I put anyone in danger? Would I slow my friends down?
Did I really belong in a hut?
The backcountry is remote, inaccessible, sparsely populated. Travelling around a city means having options. Public transit, personal vehicles, rideshares, bicycles, walking. Before my injury, I had what felt like infinite possibilities. When I wanted to move, my body would respond. If I wanted to stay out dancing all night, I could. I might pay for it a little the next day, but I would be fine. Since my injury, my options are more limited, my internal energy supply more finite. I used to be a city hub; now I am a walking track with single bridge access.
So I prepared for the headaches. I packed pain medication, but also made sure I had plenty of well-balanced food and earplugs to ensure good sleep. Keeping my nutrition in balance and getting good rest helps stave off the worst headaches. The only way for me to approach a tramp is with vigilance and gentleness. The ideal thing about using a hut as a basecamp was that my friends could have adventures at their respective paces and ability levels, while I meandered away from the hut and back again, as if tethered.
Having grown up in Canada, I know how dangerous the wilderness can be. Putting yourself in a situation where you are likely to need assistance or rescue is unfair because it can put other people at risk. I practised walking uphill to make sure my dizziness was under control. I practised carrying my pack to make sure the weight wouldn’t trigger a headache. I made sure that medication and sugary bite-sized snacks were in every pocket of my pack, my jacket, and my pants so I would never be caught without.
Our trip to Freshwater is on a glorious sunny day. The water taxi slaloms around the bends of the river, dense with reeds, flax, ferns and mānuka. The air is heavy with the smell of wet foliage and petrichor. I understand you can see the Ruggedy Mountains to one side, but I keep my eyes forward to see the turns as they come to mitigate the chance of dizziness. It works.
The hut itself sleeps 16 people on bunk-style beds. The first night, the hut is nearly full. Serious trampers and trail runners swap stories. This is my first time staying in a hut in Aotearoa, my first time doing an overnight tramp since my brain injury. And after an awkward encounter in Oban where a group of hunters criticised my plan to stay in the same hut for multiple nights without doing a proper tramp, I am prepared to explain my presence and justify our plan.
But of course, I don’t have to. Everyone is lovely. Although a few people express surprise at our gentle approach, there is a sense of general approval. Good-on-ya-ness. We talk about our desire to see the wildlife, and that is a point of connection.
As it turns out, sometimes ambling works in your favour. When we arrived, my friends quickly set out in different directions to get a lay of the land. I take a bit longer, debating whether I want a nap, but the weather is too good to pass up. I cross the swing bridge and walk out towards the mānuka forest. I meander for a handful of minutes, then I hear movement off to my left. A brown blob rustles in the bush. Surely a weka, I think. Kiwi come out at night. Then I hear the distinctive sneeze.
I stand in disbelief as the kiwi potters along the bush off the side of the track. It’s small — a juvenile or a male perhaps? I get a few good glimpses, but mostly I hear him in the undergrowth, the slight pause when he probes the ground, then the wee nostril-clearing sneeze.
Eventually, he moves away from the track. I wait a bit longer and head back to camp for a cup of tea. During the day, I spend a lot of time picking different spots to sit with my camera. I am enchanted by the toutouwai / black robins that pipe alarm calls then flit down to see if maybe my shoelaces are delicious. Miromiro flirt in the branches. And when I go back to camp, the river is a delightful shivery swim.
At night, the stars above Rakiura fill the sky. When I take off my glasses, they form a lace ceiling. Each night of our trip, we walk from the hut into the bush to wait for kiwi. We wrap up warm and sit at the trail edge. At full dark, the kiwi call out, deep pulsing sounds. I imagine I feel the pulse in the ground. I imagine they feel my heart pulsing back.
Claire Lacey
