By mid-April, hiking the Te Araroa Trail in New Zealand, autumn was gradually setting in.
By day 97 on the trail, some days were uneventful and ordinary, some were thrilling and unforgettable, some filled with emotion, some enriched by conversations with fellow travelers that left lasting memories, and some shaped by fear and a sense of confronting my own mortality—there were moments when I broke down in tears, shouting “God knows what I’ve been through!” All these moments layered together to form my TA journey.
The day I climbed Stag Saddle was, in that moment, a particularly defining day for me:
‘I crossed the highest point on the trail, blessed by fortunate clear weather.’
Warm sunshine lit up the dark mood from days when the weather had thrown my plans into disarray, even though that stretch of trail wasn’t particularly easy…
Two days before, just to reach the remote trailhead, I first had to make arrangements with the local postman. Then came fording a rushing river that reached my waist—the fear from the memory and the physical reality nearly made me want to give up, and I was already plotting out a Plan B in case I had to turn back. After barely making it through to the mountain hut, I even heard from fellow hikers that a German guy had been swept away by the stream earlier that morning on his way to the trailhead. On the final push to the summit, I picked my way along unclear trail markers while climbing to 1,800 meters up the barren peak. Looking at the scattered fragments of snow lingering beside the trail, my stomach twisted with nerves as I worried about the unknown conditions at the summit.
1,800 meters isn’t particularly high, honestly, especially compared to Taiwan where you can rattle off a list of hundred peaks. But stepping onto Stag Saddle carrying nearly 100 days of journey and seeing that TA marker at the highest point, I didn’t care about the weight on my shoulders or the searing ache in my thighs—I ran forward and wrapped my arms tightly around it. My heart pounded wildly, trembling with emotion and gratification for making it this far after such a long trek. Having climbed so high and covered such distance, the remaining 1/5 of the trail suddenly seemed manageable.
In that moment, on top of my world, each and every kilometer wasn’t just a number piling up—it was step after step building confidence, adding a protective shell around my genuinely timid self.
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Just beyond the highest point, the trail guide offered a choice: walk through the river valley on flat ground, or, on calm clear days like this, walk along the ridge line.
With my heart soaring and such rare good weather, ‘of course it was the ridge!’
Every step across the tilted, crumbly scree slope was nerve-wracking and dampened my earlier confidence, until I reached the ridge line where an expansive and breathtaking 270-degree panorama unfurled before me. It was stunning! Mt. Cook, New Zealand’s highest mountain, towered on my right alongside the Southern Alps stretching into the distance, and ahead I could see my next destination—Lake Tekapo.
Gazing at such beauty, my mood soared even higher. Every few steps I stopped to snap countless photos, wanting to capture my feelings in each frame and preserve them forever.
In my journal that day I wrote, ‘Thank you for choosing this path,’ because even though the trail brought hardship, difficulty, and things beyond my control, it deepened my love of hiking itself, letting my feet gradually teach me about the world.
(Revisiting the journal entry from April 22, 2017)
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