Queen Charlotte and My Tramily

I left on an early morning Beachcomber ferry, the water calm and glasslike under a baby blue sky. As we moved steadily toward Ship Cove, where the Queen Charlotte Track began, I found myself in the company of other hikers: Daisy, Thomas, and Frasier. Names and faces that would, in time, take on the comfort of familiarity. For now, though, I sat by the window in silence, watching the islands drift past, their green slopes vanishing and reappearing with the movement of the boat. I tried, without much success, to name the seabirds that cut through the air beyond the glass. The only one I could identify with confidence was an Australasian Gannet. Its sleek, white form unmistakable, its wingtips inked in black. The rest eluded me. 

At Ship Cove, I stepped onto the dock with a quiet certainty, as though the trail were an old acquaintance rather than something I had never set foot on before. The first climb began almost at once, rising sharply into the bush. Within minutes, I discovered that a New Zealand switchback was an altogether different creature from its American counterpart. In the States, switchbacks are deliberate and measured, their zigzagging paths designed to make ascents manageable. Here, they were tight and sinuous, more suggestion than structure, and forced a sharp burn into my calves.

The Queen Charlotte was more structured than I had anticipated. Some hikers moved from resort to resort, stepping onto the trail in the morning wrapped in the scent of fresh laundry and coffee. Others, walking only this section, had little knowledge of trail etiquette, not out of carelessness but simply because it was unfamiliar to them.

I walked alone, content in my solitude, my breath settling into the rhythm of the climb. The others passed me in the first stretch, but once the trail evened out, I felt no urgency to catch up. No one was counting my steps or measuring my pace. The only real goal was to reach camp before the sun melted behind the ridgelines, and that left ample time to observe, to listen, to simply exist within the landscape. I watched the slow, deliberate flight of a wood pigeon, the iridescence of its feathers catching in the light. I lingered at the shore where a Weka crept onto the beach, determined to steal a snack or two. The hours unfolded in quiet increments, unhurried and unaccounted for.

The trail wound through the hills. The earth was springy beneath my Lone Peaks, the air thick with the mingled scents of salt and eucalyptus. Through the trees, insects hummed ceaselessly, their collective drone settling into the background like something elemental.

From the canopy above, a bellbird called, a single crystalline note that did not interrupt the silence so much as elongate it. A fantail flickered in my peripheral vision, its restless wings carrying it in quick, darting movements. The track climbed and fell in sweeping arcs, revealing, at unexpected moments, the distant gleam of water far below. The ridges unrolled ahead of me, their dense, shadowed forests stretching toward some unseen vanishing point. How far I had come, how far I had left to go, these were preoccupations of my own making, irrelevant to the land itself. The trail did not measure distance in steps or aching limbs. It moved forward, indifferent, unchanging.

From left to right: John, Me, Theresa, Sasja, and Gina. Tea Time at Havelock!

That night, I stayed at Camp Bay, where I met John, Theresa, Gina,  and Sasja. Hikers who, like me, were walking only the South Island. Those who had already completed the North passed us by with conditioned strides and quiet intensity. We, by contrast, moved with something closer to ease, adopting the name “Walkie-Walkie-Talkie-Talkies” in light of our meandering pace and willingness to be distracted by conversation. As well as our resemblance to the children’s show “Teletubbies” as seen below. 

John had finished his career mere days before stepping onto the trail. Retirement for him was not an ending but a transition, an invitation to something unstructured, something vast. Originally from New Zealand, he had lived in Australia for decades, drawn there by love. He spoke with the effortless warmth of someone accustomed to meeting strangers, and every evening he would recount the conversations he had gathered throughout the day, remembering not only names and hometowns but small, incidental details, the kind most people let slip through their minds.

Theresa had quit her job in Berlin to walk the entire length of the trail. Though she had tackled sections before, this time she was determined to see it through in one continuous push. She was the strongest hiker among us, moving with an economy of motion that suggested both experience and quiet resolve.

Gina possessed a rare kind of warmth, the kind that softened the air around her, that made space feel lighter. She and her husband, Sasja, shared stories one could only dream of accomplishing; bikepacking across Europe, a home in Chiang Mai, and of years spent working as outdoor educators. Gina hardly ever complained, even when deep blisters left her limping through the Queen Charlotte. She took to calling herself G-Blister, accepting the pain with an easy humor. She was also, to my great fortune, a remarkable cook, showing me how to craft lightweight yet nourishing trail meals. I have followed her recipes ever since we parted ways in Nelson.

Though I had found a kind of family in this small group, I still relished solitude. Yet every evening, I found myself returning to the same faces, the same quiet companionship. We would cook, talk, and slowly make our way to the next site, unbothered by the passing of time. There was no rush. We were still finding our legs, and the trail, unhurried as it was, would wait for us.

After leaving the Queen Charlotte Track, I hitchhiked and road-walked my way to Havelock. I was dropped off next to this unbelievably picturesque homestay with a white horse in front of the property. Talk about a fairytale ending.