Another way has to be found. I dare myself more and more each time; further away and higher up. Catlike I stick to vertical rocks. I pull myself up with the last of my strength, only to be immediately on the lookout for my next victim. The goal is not to get wet feet, to stay on top and to arrive at the top of the saddle without using the trail.
Somehow I seemed to be too spoiled. The many beautiful stages seem to have dulled me. I’m still hiking through some of the most beautiful scenery I can imagine, and yet my baseline seems to have been raised to the point where I haven’t really been able to enjoy the last few days, and so I’ve been more or less dragging my feet. I’m apparently not the only one feeling this way. I have meanwhile talked to some other hikers who have fallen into the same hole.
The greater part of my trip in New Zealand is already behind me and so slowly the thoughts are spreading, what should come after that. I know where my journey should go physically, but I don’t know yet what will happen then. We have now brought two thirds behind us, more than 2000 km. The days are starting to be counted. I can hardly imagine what it will be like when I no longer walk an average of 25 kilometers every day.
The Richmonds are known to be particularly tough. From the beginning we are driven into its dense forests of birch and fir like trees. Our path stretches on and on along the turquoise waters that indispensably carry themselves down the rock-strewn riverbed, towards us on the way up.
How interesting it is to observe in which environment the mud we all love manifests itself. Where it makes the ascent to the Tararuas difficult, we find enchanted forests, with trees that seem to have died, clothed in a mantle of moss. In the shadow of the clouds towering over us, we get the impression that behind every corner a forest gnome could jump out, making us his prisoners and turning us into soup.
