2007
Jyrki
Queen Charlotte Track was day-tourist material. To reach the start of the trail at Ship Cove, the bay where James Cook first set foot on this land, all you needed to do was take a water taxi from Picton. After a leisurely fifteen-kilometre stroll, if you wanted you could take another boat back to Picton from Forneaux Lodge.
In places this path was so well groomed that you’d have been fine if the sum total of your equipment was a pair of high heels. The route was cut to follow the ridges between two large fjords and to dip back and forth between miniature passes. The best thing was watching her expression every time a really breath-taking view opened up around another bend in the ridge.
We had reached Forneaux Lodge by four in the afternoon. Because we hadn’t booked any accommodation, there was no point staying there. Punga Cove at Camp Bay was a four-hour hike away. It was on the opposite shore from Endeavour Inlet, so close you could almost see it. Having said that, the journey along the coastline would take almost as long as what we’d already done today.
There was no point having a big debate about it, because it was clear she had no idea of her own stamina. I felt almost claustrophobic at the thought of a long afternoon slouching around doing nothing in a bungalow hotel where, after having a shower, there’d be nothing else to do except hang around in the bar and wait for dinner.
We each munched a handful of mixed nuts and set off.
Towards the end the path became narrow and muddy. We had a tent, a cooker, a water filter and food, so in theory we could have spent the night almost anywhere. But at the beginning of our trip, and travelling with a novice, it was probably best to aim for some form of indoor accommodation.
She was pretty quiet on the final stretch towards Punga Cove. Twenty-seven kilometres. Not a bad initiation for a first-timer with a full pack on her back.
Heidi
The longer the evening went on, the deeper my rucksack dug into my shoulders.
My feet ached.
Why can’t we just stop while it still feels good, I remember muttering to myself — not out loud, though, as Jyrki was striding onwards in long bounding steps, mud splashing up around his shins and caking the tops of his hiking socks.
It was already eight o’clock by the time we arrived at Punga Cove. The reception desk was closed — in remote places like this I doubt people turn up out of the blue at this time of night.
We went into the restaurant, where we were told that there was room at the inn after all but that we couldn’t get into our room until the shift manager turned up. Somebody called the shift manager. We learnt that the hotel’s restaurant would be closing in half an hour but that the hotel complex had a communal kitchen where guests could cook their own food. We were already sweaty and muddy and exhausted, and now we were going to have to make do with a bowl of packet soup? But eventually the manager turned up and apologetically started checking the reservation book.
The only room available in the main building was a luxury suite of some sort. The rooms in another building a couple of hundred metres away were slightly cheaper, although the price difference was minimal.
I looked at Jyrki. His expression gave nothing away.
‘I’ll pay.’ I took out my traveller’s cheques, Jyrki had paid the backpackers’ hostel in Picton on his credit card, so this was only fair. I had quite a wad of traveller’s cheques; they should last a good while. I’d found someone to sublet my flat on the quiet, and she’d agreed to pay six months' rent up front if she could live there significantly cheaper than the going rate. Still, I knew this money wouldn’t go far. The rent money had only just covered my flights, and the cost of Jyrki’s list of expensive top-of-the-range hiking equipment that I was supposed to buy was enough to make your eyes water. His guiding principle was that if you bought
Jyrki
Queen Charlotte Track was day-tourist material. To reach the start of the trail at Ship Cove, the bay where James Cook first set foot on this land, all you needed to do was take a water taxi from Picton. After a leisurely fifteen-kilometre stroll, if you wanted you could take another boat back to Picton from Forneaux Lodge.
In places this path was so well groomed that you’d have been fine if the sum total of your equipment was a pair of high heels. The route was cut to follow the ridges between two large fjords and to dip back and forth between miniature passes. The best thing was watching her expression every time a really breath-taking view opened up around another bend in the ridge.
We had reached Forneaux Lodge by four in the afternoon. Because we hadn’t booked any accommodation, there was no point staying there. Punga Cove at Camp Bay was a four-hour hike away. It was on the opposite shore from Endeavour Inlet, so close you could almost see it. Having said that, the journey along the coastline would take almost as long as what we’d already done today.
There was no point having a big debate about it, because it was clear she had no idea of her own stamina. I felt almost claustrophobic at the thought of a long afternoon slouching around doing nothing in a bungalow hotel where, after having a shower, there’d be nothing else to do except hang around in the bar and wait for dinner.
We each munched a handful of mixed nuts and set off.
Towards the end the path became narrow and muddy. We had a tent, a cooker, a water filter and food, so in theory we could have spent the night almost anywhere. But at the beginning of our trip, and travelling with a novice, it was probably best to aim for some form of indoor accommodation.
She was pretty quiet on the final stretch towards Punga Cove. Twenty-seven kilometres. Not a bad initiation for a first-timer with a full pack on her back.
Heidi
The longer the evening went on, the deeper my rucksack dug into my shoulders.
My feet ached.
Why can’t we just stop while it still feels good, I remember muttering to myself — not out loud, though, as Jyrki was striding onwards in long bounding steps, mud splashing up around his shins and caking the tops of his hiking socks.
It was already eight o’clock by the time we arrived at Punga Cove. The reception desk was closed — in remote places like this I doubt people turn up out of the blue at this time of night.
We went into the restaurant, where we were told that there was room at the inn after all but that we couldn’t get into our room until the shift manager turned up. Somebody called the shift manager. We learnt that the hotel’s restaurant would be closing in half an hour but that the hotel complex had a communal kitchen where guests could cook their own food. We were already sweaty and muddy and exhausted, and now we were going to have to make do with a bowl of packet soup? But eventually the manager turned up and apologetically started checking the reservation book.
The only room available in the main building was a luxury suite of some sort. The rooms in another building a couple of hundred metres away were slightly cheaper, although the price difference was minimal.
I looked at Jyrki. His expression gave nothing away.
‘I’ll pay.’ I took out my traveller’s cheques, Jyrki had paid the backpackers’ hostel in Picton on his credit card, so this was only fair. I had quite a wad of traveller’s cheques; they should last a good while. I’d found someone to sublet my flat on the quiet, and she’d agreed to pay six months' rent up front if she could live there significantly cheaper than the going rate. Still, I knew this money wouldn’t go far. The rent money had only just covered my flights, and the cost of Jyrki’s list of expensive top-of-the-range hiking equipment that I was supposed to buy was enough to make your eyes water. His guiding principle was that if you bought
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