’Twas the day of TWALK.
It’s late April, just before dawn and the autumnal cold is really flexing. Its bite is downright devilish. But that hasn’t deterred a throng from amassing in the turbid light.
From students to retirees to ultra-running human cannonballs, they form ranks as a free brigade of outdoor frolickers – or terminal optimists – and they’ve convened at the University of Canterbury to undertake an annual bush marathon of atypical ambition.
The next twenty-four hours are for “rogaining”. It’s a seemingly harmless term, but certain circles understand it to encompass a showcase of tactical endurance with cult appeal. The draw is its inherent mystery, and the dare of discomfort. As University of Canterbury Tramping Club president Nick Slegers explains, “it’s just you, your feet and kilometres till your destination. In a world of work, deadlines, commitments and pressures, being able to be alone with your thoughts (and aching body) is real pleasure.”
Like pickle ball to tennis, rogaining maintains a kooky distinction from its cousin-activity, orienteering. It’s kooky even in the naming. The word “rogaine”. is an acronym, pashed together using select letters from the namesakes of its three founders: Rod Phillips, Gail Davis Phillips and Neil Phillips (as in ROd, GAIl, and NEil). The sport, which evolved out of 24-hour walks run by the Melbourne University Tramping Club, is an exercise in long distance cross-country navigation in which teams find as many checkpoints, or “controls”, as they can within a time allotment. Route planning is key in maximising scores.
Canterbury’s take on this endeavour is led, and run on a volunteer basis, by its university tramping club. It has been held annually since 1967 and goes by the moniker TWALK (it’s a soft ‘t’, as in ‘t’was’). With its marriage of puzzling with costume-play, this version smacks of the film Labyrinth. There’s even a colouring competition. Over 24 hours, the TWALKers negotiate a patchwork marathon of five distinct legs. Each one usually stretches for 10 to 20 kilometres and has 10 to 20 controls, which consist of a paper plate with a word written on it. Teams may do as many or as few legs as they wish, and locate as many or as few of the controls as they wish. There is no “track”. The location of each control is described by a cryptic clue such as “follow the bees from the door to the coleslaw” (a clue which led rogainers from a farm-gate to a cabbage tree), with the usual tools of navigation – elevation, climate, position of the sun – secondary considerations.
We need your help
READ MORE
Prior to TWALK day, none save the organisers know what’s actually in store. Word ‘round the topo map is that the build-up to the day mimics being blindfolded to receive a surprise. Intrigue (and doubt) swell until, at long last, sudden sunlight pours over Canterbury’s campus to reveal a vibrantly-clad horde of five-hundred or more; all hungry as only competitors can be. The past two years have seen record-setting participation, with competitors dressed to the nines and ready to rogaine. Fantastical wardrobe plays a significant role in TWALK lore. Fancy dress is a hallmark idiosyncrasy of the outing, and costumes must be worn on at least the first leg. There is an unspoken rule that competitors with significant orienteering experience should wear outfits bulky enough to serve as a handicap.
All eyes turn next to a long line of buses arriving as if cued. Nerves buzz. Feet fidget. And doubts, like the competitors themselves, shuffle to the back.
Now lunge ahead to the bleak hour of zero two-hundred, and full immersion within the far wilds of historic Mesopotamia Station. Night has dropped like an anchor and the novelty of the whole enterprise is under strain. Scores of head torches sparkle across a darkness which has all but swallowed this year’s 26,000-hectare host venue. The race is two-fifths finished, but everybody’s still a long way from home. What matters most at this point is the simple grit and grin of planting one boot ahead of the other.
Fortunately, there is a fixed position within the shifting torchlight. For TWALKers, the ‘Hash House’ serves as a ruddy field HQ, and the end point for each of the five legs. Respite, the leaderboard and stick-to-the-ribs tucker are found here. Transit volume at this Hash House feels like it rivals any airport on Earth. And its most-recent arrival is hell bent. She materialises at a march as brisk as the hour. Tussock-wild hair frames a madcap display of mascara. A seafoam tutu remains cinched at the waist, but trail rash has claimed her zebra print pants. Half the seat is shredded and a dark stain paints the leg.
Medical attention seems logical (TWALK retains several first responders on site), yet it’s plain this tramper cares naught for the bare cheek nor loss of claret. Hers is a brow fixed upon a map and the prospects of this rogaine’s next leg.
TWALK organisers point to location as a lynchpin of TWALK’s success. Past venues have included Banks Peninsula, the Hakatere Conservation Park and Lake Coleridge. In exchange for access, the tramping club offers a donation to a charity of the landowner’s choice, or a working bee for the location, such as cutting wilding pines. They’ve done a mint job of it in 2024. Competitors are heartstrung after wandering Mesopotamia’s storied hectares. Though by dawn of the second day, the station feels to be on the verge of an ice age. There are more participants lying prone than bagging controls. Prior TWALK registrants may have included national team alpinists, world champions, captains of science, and even a parliamentary commissioner, but secluded inside this morning’s shared chilly bin everyone is equal in seeing sunrise as warming salvation.
For some, daybreak illuminates a congratulated marker to bow out. For others it’s a flare fired over a marathon still unfinished – there are trophies to gain, after all. But deeper than an award, the sun’s first beams penetrate to highlight the uncanny gauntlet everyone here had dared to accept. “People approach tramping and TWALK in different ways,” Nick says. “There’s personal challenge, physical challenge, connecting with whenua or escapism; nature enthusiasts, geology enthusiasts, or those just keen to socialise. I am endlessly impressed with the passion people bring to the outdoors.”
For the record, 2024’s winning team was Pack of Rafters, with Daddy Day Care taking best dressed, and Lost Jaffas triumphing in the colouring competition. But when it comes to TWALK enthusiasts, nobody’s dead set on defeating their neighbour. More important challenges are with the land, the elements, or the mirror. For some the gaze is inward. Others look to lose themselves outside. Still more wish to simply free their weird. And by the tick of the twenty-fourth hour, all five hundred or more have won.
Words: P.M. Fadden
Photos: Euan Robinson
