Racing to complete my planned distance before nightfall, my quick steps betraying the panic churning inside, I was determined to reach the end of the Te Araroa Trail by month’s end.
So I opened my eyes, quickly packed my gear, and set off.
On flat, open grassland my feet flew; on uphill mountain trails, breathless as I was, I wouldn’t stop.
When I hit challenging broken paths and mud, I’d furrow my brow and complain about what a terrible route this was, hoping it wouldn’t throw off my schedule.
My trekking poles swung and struck the ground in rhythm, my body advancing with mechanical regularity.
My aching feet dragged at my thoughts with every step. Six months of wandering had stirred up a deep homesickness. I kept my head down and pushed hard toward the finish line, just wanting it all to be over.
Countless diary entries were scrawled with complaints, and that night was no different—until three hunters entered the mountain hut and interrupted my writing.
“This place is beautiful, isn’t it? We come here at least once a month for a week, enjoy the scenery, and bring back a week’s worth of food.”
“There are lots of wild deer in this area. If you’d been paying attention on your way here, you’d have seen them on the hillside.”
I stared at him in bewilderment, words failing me. Where were these deer? I’d only passed through that spot hours ago—how could I have missed them? Had I even looked up at the landscape around me?
When had I changed from the girl who six months ago was excited about everything and anticipated each new day, to someone who just wanted to get off this trail?
When life becomes mere survival, and we count days just to get through them, do we end up hating life and our days, and the person we’ve become in the process?
The next morning, I still briskly packed my gear and shouldered my pack, but that day, I lifted my head and waited for something fresh.
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(Reflections from May 17, 2017 diary entry)
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