OFF the Beaten TRACK
We turn off the West Coast Highway towards the mountains, passing rural homes on the outskirts of Hokitika, and then we're into lush dairy country. After a summer in Christchurch, I had forgotten how green the grass can be. As we cross the coastal plain, the land has a frontier feel. Retired farm machinery rusts. Moss and lichen overtake an old bus. Close to the sea, the skies were clear, but cloud is still low on the ranges ahead warning of rain. Moody. I'd prefer sunshine.
The farmland ends abruptly as it butts up against the steep forested relief of the mountains. The road end is unfussy: there's space to park by the farm road and a weathered DOC sign with some optimistic track times. An orange triangle, nailed to a fence post, ushers us towards the bush. The water from the grass beads and rolls off my freshly treated boots, but I know that won't last long. We're tramping finally, the routine of past weeks left behind for simpler priorities.
The first four hours pass quickly, and the sight of the swingbridge to Cedar Flat Hut takes me by surprise. We eat lunch inside the hut, out of the drizzle, catching upnership built over time and founded on friendship and trust. Much is implicit.
