Aoteroa
Day 3 of Bank’s Peninsula Track
South Island, Aoteroa
Last evening was comforting, warming, like a hot cup of tea that softens your senses inside and out. I got to know all our fellow hikers a bit more, breaking past the brisk niceties into heartfelt exchanges. The close quarters of our cottage kitchen was the grounds for getting closer than we had been before.
After dinner we all strolled over to the property owner's dwelling, a modest homestead likened by two animal lovers. Dog doors were placed beneath each doorknob and birdhouses adorned each tree. Charleen and Francis, the landowners, took us for a guided walk to the Blue Penguin Reserve.
Actively in the process of re-stabilizing the population of blue penguins, Charleen and Francis took it upon themselves to build and maintain a safe breeding ground. Tiny little penguin houses peppered the near-vertical slope that stretched hundreds of meters up and plunged deep down into the ocean. A treacherous climb for my outfitted feet, it was hard to imagine wobbly penguins scaling the same scree.
I drifted into bed shortly after returning to the cottage, commending the penguin's pursuit of survival as I slid into a pillowed paradise. After a solid night's sleep, I awoke to the muddled sound of chattering kiwis through the wall. I immediately jumped on the trail, excited to be on my own and take in the coastline at a personal pace.
The past few days of hiking had allowed me to find a confidence in my own stride. During the evenings I enjoyed cross-cultural exchanges, but during the day I sought an intimacy possible only through the sole's of ones own feet. All too soon, right as I synchronized my steps to the rhythm of the day's winds, signs for Stoney Bay appeared. It was the shortest day on the track— a few hours too short of desiring a destination.
Winding around a bend in the path, the clouded crescent bay peeled into layers of detail. The beach was comprised of large, round stones and washed by turquoise blue waters. Two seals lounged along the polished rock bed. Past the beach, I walked over a set of rickety bridges and through a marshland that paralleled a dainty stream with two noisy ducks. The white trail markers led me through a little valley with fruit trees, prehistoric looking ferns and, of course, sheep. After following the stream, the trail meandered uphill to a brittle wooden fence. I stopped. All morning I had pursued an open path and now I found myself at a closed gate. A silky breeze danced through the trees. Sheep bells and bird calls coasted along the wavering air. My fingertips floated over the weathered ridge of the wooden gate, fiddling with the idea of unlatching the lock.
The hinges creaked as it opened, sending chills down my spine as if it were whispering sweet secrets.The first thing I saw was a swing that dangled from an old growth stump about 25 ft. tall. So, I swung. Up the hill there were multiple cottages, some with two beds, one with ten, all with earthen roofs and unique, squeaky gates. There was an old fashioned washboard in an oak barrel, a makeshift pool table, spindly rose bushes, a tree house, a rustic hot tub sheltered by bamboo and a campfire pit— all set perfectly in place like a fairytale for grownups.
The clouds rolled in with the rest of the trekkers. A swoosh of brisk winds shook the rose petals from their bushes and carried hints of rain. I followed my sole’s intuition down to the stream regardless, its ice cold contents the desire of my boot-ridden feet. Once I accessed the path, however, the foreboding clouds dissolved. I rested upon a sun-speckled, moss-cushioned rock and dipped my toes in soothing stream water. With each silky breeze, I noticed a tiny flower floating down from the terrace of trees, decorating the rocks and grass. The petals that sprinkled into the stream drifted along the surface, weaving through the rocks and grazing past my toes.
After dinner Aunt Jayne and I made a fire. John perfected it. Most of the others joined us once the daylight started to fade from the sky. We talked mostly about the outdoors, trekking, various wildlife and plants— pinpointing commonalities that spread beyond political borders. The day's hike had been mellow, allowing for more energy in fire-lit exchanges. Savory scents of smoke and crackling coals softened intermediate silences. The spectacle of orange-amber glows glittered across twelve pairs of tranquil eyes.
