Pizza, Pools and Parmigianas

Graham offered us a lift into Hanmer Springs if we could make it to Boyle Village by one o'clock. It was the kind of offer that turns a wet morning's walk into something with purpose and urgency, a deadline that the trail rarely imposes but that transforms the rhythm of hiking entirely when it arrives.

He left before us, as was his way, and we set a fast pace in the hopes of catching him. The rain was still falling, the forest dripping and grey around us, the trail winding through beech woodland that offered shelter from the worst of it but could not prevent the steady accumulation of damp that had become our constant companion over the past two days. We moved quickly, packs bouncing, poles striking the mud with a tempo that spoke of motivation rather than leisure, and we caught Graham at a swing bridge, the three of us converging on that swaying structure over the river with grins and the shared satisfaction of a plan coming together.

We passed a couple of hunters heading in and a few nobo hikers along the way, those brief trail encounters that were becoming rarer as the season wound down, each one a reminder that the window for walking was slowly closing.

We arrived at Boyle Village just in time to meet Graham's wife, Jan, who was waiting with the car and the particular warmth of someone who has spent enough years married to a mountain lover to understand exactly what tired hikers need. But before we climbed in, there was the matter of the Boyle Outdoor Centre and its pizza. We filled up with the single-minded focus of bodies that had been running on dehydrated meals and rationed trail food for over a week, the hot cheese and dough tasting like the finest meal either of us had eaten in days, because it was.

Then the drive to Hanmer Springs, that beloved alpine spa town nestled in its valley, where hot water rises from the earth and tired bodies go to be restored. There was some event on in town, and finding accommodation proved unexpectedly difficult, the usual ease of walking in and booking a room replaced by phone calls and searching and the mild panic of hikers who have been dreaming of a real bed for days and are now being told there are none available. We managed eventually, one night at one place and two nights at another, a patchwork of lodging that served its purpose even if it lacked the simplicity we craved.

We bought a two-day pass to the hot springs and made the most of it, visiting the warm waters on several occasions, sinking into the thermal pools with the slow, groaning gratitude of bodies that had been battered by alpine passes and soaked by rain and pushed further than they had ever been pushed before. The heat seeped into muscles and joints and the deep, aching places that rest alone cannot reach, and for long stretches we simply sat in the water and said nothing, letting the springs do their ancient work. We even hit the water slides, the two of us hurtling down chutes and splashing into pools with the breathless, laughing abandon of children, and it struck us both that this was the first time we had done that together in over fifteen years. Father and son on a water slide, the years between then and now dissolved as completely as the aches in our legs.

Torrin had been on a quest since arriving in New Zealand to find a chicken parmigiana, that beloved Australian pub classic that he had been craving with an intensity only distance and deprivation can produce. The local pub, packed to the walls with whatever event had descended on the town, had chicken schnitzel on the menu. Close, but not quite the same. And not quite as good as the Australian ones, Torrin noted with the gentle disappointment of a man whose standards in this particular matter were non-negotiable. The search would continue.

We stocked up on food for the next section, repacked our packs with the improved efficiency of hikers who now understood exactly what they needed and what was dead weight, and bought possum merino beanies for the cooler weather ahead. The days were getting shorter, the temperatures dropping, and the trail south would ask us to be better prepared for the cold than this first section had required.

On the last morning, we awoke, checked our packs one final time, and set off to hitch back to Boyle Village and the waiting trail. Hanmer Springs had given us rest and hot water and pizza and water slides and the simple luxury of clean clothes and dry beds. Now it was time to walk again.Read more