Day 107 - 109| Km 2907 - 3006! | a Home run; Colac Bay to Bluff
As the final 99km ticked down, the finish line was finally within our grasp. The Colac Bay Tavern however, where our hopes and dreams had been idled for the last 48 hours, lay between us and that sweet yellow sign post at Stirling Point. Predicting our arrival time to be around lunch, chatter seemed to purely revolve around menu and beverage choices. After one last muddy, shin bleeding half marathon we would be entirely deserving of the chips and beer we were drooling over. In spite of my accelerated forward momentum, a message from my parents quickly halted progress. Their request to phone home meant something was up. My grandfather (Nanda) of 96 had died, only a week after his beautiful partner Anne (99) had passed also. So homeward bound yes, but I suddenly felt incredibly far from home at the same time.
The boys passed me one by one, not quite sure what to do when unexpectedly finding their tough (I like to think I am) girl friend sat on the forest floor crying down the phone. But they did what they could do best in a situation like this; messaged to say they were keeping a seat warm for me at the pub. With eyes wiped dry, I raised a glass to Nanda & Anne’s wonderful life together, known as the ‘the kids on the hill’ in their little Welsh cottage.
After that my last 90km became bitter sweet. Knowing their lives should be celebrated, yet allowing reality to settle in, and disheartened by the thought that I’d never be able to relay my trail stories in person to them.
The boys were a good bunch to put a smile back on my face however, and Colac Bay was a beautiful beach to walk and reflect on good times spent holidaying in Wales.
The route to Riverton hugged the coastline and with the incoming tide breaking over the rocks below, all I could think about was how the trail felt very much like an inflection of where I had began up in Northland. A long beach led to muddy bush and now muddy bush to beach; quite fitting for my journey’s end.
That night we chose to regroup and camp on the beach. Not quite the picturesque sunset we had in mind though. By the time we reached a suitable camping spot the light was dimming, the winds were building and dark rain clouds sat on the horizon. We pitched our tents in grassy sand that I knew wouldn’t hold if a storm truely did blow through. Which of course it did.
The guys were dead set on reaching Bluff by sunset the following day, meaning 60km of beach and road. Me, I wanted to saviour my final few kilometres and have Nanda walk with me. They woke well before dawn when the wind and rain were still howling. I yelled my goodbyes from the comfort of my dry tent and thanked them as they kindly pegged my tent back up. Two coffees later and with the rain sounding softer on my tent, I ventured out to finish the final sandy half marathon and the road run into Invercargill.
Colac Bay - a great surf spot
Land of the Long White Cloud
Looking back down a windswept beach to Riverton. Stewart Island lay to my left.
Running away from the storm clouds
Arriving into Invercargill I didn’t expect a surprise cow stampede, especially on the main road outside the airport. And yet, what do you know, cows came charging out of a farm track with the farmer nowhere to be seen. Scared by the cars pulling over to a stop from both directions, I was left standing bemused amongst the cow madness as they weaved around me on the side walk. Leaving me standing in their wake and unsure of what to do, I gave them the same treatment and continued into downtown Invercargill. Aside from vowing I wouldn’t eat those beautiful beasts again, I was totally over cow related shenanigans.
I couldn’t of scripted that evenings entertainment if I had tired... it involved one bottle of deworming ‘juice’, a makeshift pen and two black and white, four-legged young escape artists named Ethyl & Myrtle. Staying with my awesome friends mum in Invercargill for the night, I was knocking off sand from my tent which seemed to of invaded every nook and cranny imaginable, and asked if I could join them in the garden as an extra pair of hands. Before I knew it I was helping administer deworming mix down the throat of two cows, with multiple failed attempts and lessons in the art of cow herding back down the road from the escapees! Horses are rather more elegant in jumping fences than cows, cows seem to just use brute force in busting their way over or through the quite sturdy looking fences! Anne and her partner were not finding this as amusing as I was. Personally I had a fantastically enlightening evening and have new found sympathy for small hold farming, learning as you go and if you don’t at first succeed then try, try again!
The last leg of my 3000km (3006km to be precise) journey began with breathing in the sights and smells of Invercargill’s sewerage plant followed by 15km of highway. I was not thrilled at the thought of my lone grand finale. What alleviated the boredom and made the wind draft of the 100km/hr lorries slightly more bearable was the majority of drivers knew what you were up too. No one in their right mind would hike alongside Highway 1 if it weren’t for the TA purists (those TA hikers wishing to compete every step of the trail). Lorries honked their horns, motorists waved and cyclists finishing their Tour Aotearoa (the cycle touring equivalent to the TA) dinged their bells or slowed to chat and exchange words of congratulations. When I finally reached Bluff’s sign my eyes were welling up, namely due to the relief in knowing there would be no more killer cambered road sections! A cyclist had waited for me knowing I’d need a spare hand to capture the triumphant moment. He continued through the town as I waved goodbye and followed the trail over the headland. Seeing the rugged coastline with views across to Stewart Island it finally felt like I was there. My emotions were mixed; proud and elated. I was completing the journey I had dreamt about for years. Nourished to the soul in experiencing the beauty of trail life and enriched in meeting so many wonderful people, yet heavy hearted from my recent losses.
Thinking I’d arrive to Stirling Point as quietly as I had left Cape Reigna all those months ago, I was surprised to find it a hive of activity. Cyclists completing their Tour Aotearoa, some in only 19 days (!), were having photos taken with their bikes raised overhead whilst sniffling back tears. Devoting such a chunk of time to solely riding day in and day out or run/hiking for months on end, one emotion I am sure we both shared was partly a feeling of, so what now? A question I knew would be asked of me by many. My only focus in that moment was touching the sign… which was followed by gleefully climbing all over it. An American girl around my age still wearing her cycling sunnies stepped forward asking if I wanted a photo, she lifted them up to take the picture and asked through bleary red eyes why I wasn’t crying after such an awesome achievement. I chuckled telling her I’d had my fill of tears at the beach round the corner and invited her to join me in wine drinking celebrations that evening.
I was handed a beer by a cyclist who I’d chatted with on route that morning and was given a lift by him and his wife in their green time machine to the shops near my hostel. Magically my speed hiking cowboys came around the corner of the Four-Square only to find me lurking in the carpark finishing off the beer so I could then go inside to buy supplies for the evening! Hugs of congratulations were passed and I headed in to find some dinner. At this point, now under the influence of alcohol and an empty stomach, I ended up leaving the shop with humous and carrots for snacks, a punnet of blueberries and yogurt for the morning, a reduced box of sprouted salad beans and a bottle of red wine. Completely overlooking the fact that I may require more for dinner than simply salad beans and a bottle of wine! By the time I’d settled into the hostel, got clean and subsequently realised my lack of dinner, the Four-Square had closed. One last dehydrated Radix it was then!
The morning after the night before I hobbled out of bed, surprisingly not hungover! It was my ankles that had decidedly gone on strike! Kilometers of angled beaches and road camber are notoriously evil on the ankles, however I was determined to hike up to the view point of Bluff and KEEP MOVING. For I knew that stopping would likely result in an inability to move all together. But first I required a taste of Southland’s own delicacy, a cheese roll. Ok, so maybe I was mildly hungover to feel I needed to try this white bread, cheesy, reduced cream/onion soup mix in a roll. But Oh My, I should get mildly hungover in Southland more often! It was DELICIOUS! Satisfied by my greasy breakfast, I felt like trying another delicacy of oyster pie was off the cards, not that I couldn’t of eaten more in that moment but really, oysters in a pie?
One more hill to climb to reach the view point and who should save me yet again? The big green time machine :D. Pulling that thing to a halt on a very steep incline nearly backfired, almost requiring me to push-start it going again. Like an old reliable friend he eventually got us all to the top. The clouds closed in within ten minutes of arriving giving time for my thoughts to drift elsewhere. Maybe that oyster pie wouldn’t be so bad after all… I used the excuse that I shouldn’t judge it until I have experienced it for myself, so when in Bluff… Although I enjoyed it and I’ll crown it as the best oyster pie I have had and potentially ever will have, Bluff oysters are best eaten fresh with champagne in my opinion. The oyster fisherman who gave me a hitch back to Invercargill also agreed.
