When I talk about the trail in retrospect, I usually say two things: I was lucky with the weather, and I was trying to plan everything well. I constantly checked weather forecasts and adjusted my pace so I could tackle potentially dangerous sections in good conditions. This was one of those moments. It was Saturday afternoon, one of the trickiest sections of the trail was still 110 km ahead, and bad weather was forecast to roll in on Tuesday. I didn’t want to get stuck, so I decided to push harder and make it through before things turned ugly. Deception Valley and Goat Pass are among the more challenging parts of the TA. Hikers follow the riverbed of the Deception River (yes, the name is suspicious), often with no visible trail at all—just walking straight through the water like that’s a totally normal thing to do.

I switched on my “rocket legs” and covered 30 km on Saturday afternoon, followed by 51 km on Sunday (my first 50+ km day on the trail). By Monday morning, I was standing at the start of the Deception Valley section, just one day ahead of the incoming bad weather. I started very early, not because the section was especially long, but because I desperately needed water. I hadn’t camped near a water source, and one liter wasn’t enough for cooking dinner, breakfast, and surviving the morning without feeling like a raisin. For a moment, I considered hitching to Arthur’s Pass to pick up my resupply package, which I had mailed to myself from Auckland. But by the time I finished my thirsty morning routine, I had already walked about 500 meters toward Goat Pass. And since turning back the same way is for losers, and I had enough food to get through Deception Valley, I stuck to the original plan and pushed on.

The trail was wet, and soon a light drizzle set in. By the time I reached the hut at Goat Pass, it was properly raining. This hut had one special feature: a radio that allowed to call directly to the Arthur’s Pass Information Centre. From there, hikers could check whether the Deception River was safe for hiking. I already knew it was fine because I’d met other hikers coming the opposite way but I was still tempted to try the radio. Because honestly, how often do you get to casually radio a mountain information center from the middle of nowhere?

“Bzzzz… This is the hiker at Goat Pass. I repeat, the hiker at Goat Pass. Over. Bzzzz.”
“Bzz bzz… This is the Arthur’s Pass Information Centre. Over. Bzzz.”
“Bzzz… I’m just testing this radio. Over.”
“BZZZZ—bzzz—???—OVER—BZZZzz bzz—”

This is the exact transcript of a conversation that never happened. I resisted the urge to try the radio and kept walking.

The Deception River turned out to be fine. Mostly. I still had to cross a few deep sections, and the trail often literally ran straight through the river. That meant getting wet whether I liked it or not, or attempting some mildly questionable bouldering on slippery, wet rocks. Progress was slow but steady, and I eventually made it to the end of the section.

But it didn’t come for free.

My feet were completely soaked, the skin started peeling, and I developed a problem I later identified as trench foot (if you know, you know; if you don’t know, look it up, but not while eating). It didn’t look too terrible, but more importantly, it became genuinely painful. Every step hurt, and just to keep things interesting, the rain started coming down properly.

That’s when the experience officially upgraded itself to Type II fun (if you don’t know what that means, check the explanatory box below).

After passing through Deception Valley, I reached the road and hitched into Arthur’s Pass. Lucy, who picked me up, worked as a scenic painter on movies like The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. Casual. I collected my resupply box and then discovered that both accommodations in the tiny village were fully booked. So, naturally, I pitched my tent at the campsite.

This night was not fun.

It was raining, and I couldn’t sleep because my feet soaked feet hurt.

I decided to take a rest day the following day. As the weather forecast had promised (threatened?), it rained nonstop, and I desperately needed time off to let the skin on my feet recover. I spent the day eating, resting, and filling my handwritten journal with stories from the past few days. I also ran into Hannah, Netta, and Oriel, whom I’d met near the Rangitata River about a week earlier.

I thought that one rest day would be enough for my feet to recover, but I was wrong. I continued on the trail the next day, and after crossing a few more rivers, my feet were soaked again and the skin started complaining immediately. By the time I crossed Harper Pass, I was really looking forward to staying in the small cabin called Harper Bivi. I knew Hannah would be there because I had seen her name in the hut books earlier that day, and I was excited to share stories from the trail.

When I knocked on the door of the bivi, I was greeted by two arrogant hikers, while Hannah was outside behind the cabin setting up her tent. I joined her, and with a bit of tarp building gymnastics, I managed to squeeze my tarp onto a patch of grass that was somehow smaller than the tarp itself.

That night was the coldest night of the trail so far, and I woke up to icy bits covering my tarp. From the very start of the day, I knew the skin on my feet was in bad shape, and every step was genuinely painful. I spent the day limping along. When I realized I was covering only about 1.5 kilometers in an hour, on terrain that should have allowed me to walk at least three times faster, I knew I needed to stop and rest.

Thanks to the resupply in Arthur’s Pass and my faster pace during the previous week, I had more than enough food. I stayed in the hut for two full zero days.

I was doing absolutely nothing. Just eating peanut butter, reading, writing in my journal, eating extra lollies, and chatting with hikers whenever they passed by. I also watched a movie called Nowhere that I had randomly downloaded from Netflix to my phone before starting the trail. If you want to be traumatized, I highly recommend looking it up and watching it. I had absolutely no idea what it was about before pressing play. 😂

On my third night in the hut, I decided that my feet were finally feeling much better and that I would be able to walk one more day to reach Hanmer Springs. It is a small town where I planned to resupply, do laundry, and buy some cream for my soaked and angry feet. Just before going to sleep, two hikers arrived at the hut. Netta and Oriel, whom I already knew from earlier on the trail.

Oriel was dealing with the same foot issues as me, except for him it was only one of his first days with the problem. We realized that more hikers in the area were suffering from the same thing, which made us suspicious. Our best theory was that something in the Deception River, possibly algae, had helped speed up the whole miserable process.

After two zero days in the hut, I walked 35 km to the road, where I could hitch to Hanmer Springs. Hanmer Springs is not on the trail, but many hikers go there to resupply or take a proper rest, so I did the same. My feet felt better, but they still needed more time to fully recover before being soaked again in wet shoes. Because of that, I took two more zero days in Hanmer Springs.

I visited restaurants, ate a lot, and washed my clothes. I also had a few interesting encounters there.

The first was Kjel from Germany, whom I had briefly seen a few days earlier while I was taking zero days in the hut. He was a nineteen year old guy from Germany who had set himself the ambitious goal of finishing the trail in under 100 days.

An even more surprising encounter was with Claire, who was originally from Canada and was bikepacking the Sounds to Sounds route. We talked for a while, and then came the plot twist. She mentioned that she lived in Geneva, was also a particle physicist, and we later realized that we even shared some common friends. That was already a pretty big coincidence, but it was still nothing compared to the third encounter.

A few weeks earlier, I noticed a Czech guy traveling the world on a scooter—yes, a push scooter, not a motorbike—started following me on Instagram. The scooter community is small, and since I had done some big scooter adventures myself, like traveling from the Czech Republic to the northernmost point of Europe, I was curious about his journey.

After a while, I realized he had landed in Christchurch and planned to travel around New Zealand. But nothing prepared me for my surprise when this exact guy, Michal, randomly showed up at the same accommodation I was staying at! I knew it was him because his scooter was parked outside, and it was unmistakably his.

When I approached him and asked, “Aren’t you Michal?” he looked a bit confused at first. Then it clicked, and we both laughed at how incredibly small the world can be.

If you want to find out how I tackled one of the most difficult and also most scenic parts of the trail, you can continue reading here.

The Night Adventure

The hiking plan for the next day was a bit unusual. Unlike a normal day, I planned to start hiking in the middle of the afternoon instead of the morning. The next section was 60 km to Lake Tekapo, following a water canal with absolutely no shade, and some hikers prefer doing it at night. At first, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about hiking in the dark, but then I realised the area is a Dark Sky Reserve with almost zero light pollution. That sealed the deal and I decided to embrace the night challenge.

It took me several hours until I got to the canal. I could appreciate views of Mt. Cook (the highest peak of New Zealand) in the setting sun and then dramatic red sky over the Lake Pūkaki as the darkness was setting in. When I finally reached the asphalt road (closed to cars) that runs beside the Tekapo Canal, I switched off my headlamp and followed the white line down the middle of the road, gazing up at a sky full of stars, with the Milky Way starring in the main role and the Large and Small Magellanic Clouds as supporting actors.

At 2:45 a.m., with 49 km already in my legs, I finally hit that special level of exhaustion where even my exhaustion felt exhausted. I still had 8 km to go before Lake Tekapo, but it dawned on me (well, figuratively—actual dawn was hours away) that arriving in the middle of the night would make finding accommodation… tricky. Instead, I took shelter in a tiny forest near Patersons Ponds, grabbed a few hours of sleep, and decided to finish the last stretch in daylight—like a rational, functioning member of society.

When I rolled into town the next day, I caught up with a few hikers I’d met earlier. One of them was Roee from Israel, who’d rescued me at Top Timaru Hut by donating an emergency roll of toilet paper when I was, quite literally, shitting my pants. Trail angels come in many forms. Feeling fully recharged, I happily invited him for a beer as thanks for preventing a small-scale humanitarian crisis.

South Pole Chef

The section after Lake Tekapo climbs over Stag Saddle (1925 m a.s.l.), the highest point of the TA. It began with a mind-numbing road walk along the lake—no shade, no mercy—before the trail finally tilted upwards into the mountains. Luckily, something happened that made this part slightly less boring.

I was trudging along the roadside when a woman on a mountain bike rolled past me. She was moving slowly, basking in the scorching sun like a lizard celebrating the end of hibernation. Moments later, I understood why.

Woman: “Aren’t you walking Te Araroa trail?”
Me: “Yes.”
Woman: “I hiked PCT and I would like to hike Te Araroa one day as well. My trail name is Wyoming.”
Woman: “Wow, the sun is perfect! So warm.”
Me: “It is a bit too hot for me.”
Woman: “I just returned from the South Pole after almost half a year.”
Me: 😲

It’s not every day that I meet someone who worked as a cook at the Amundsen–Scott South Pole Station, and this encounter made an otherwise boring road walk a little more interesting. Then I finally started heading up into the mountains and got beautiful views of Lake Tekapo. Originally, I wanted to reach the hut, but when I saw a beautiful camping spot, I decided to call it a day and pitch my tarp in the setting sun with views of Lake Tekapo.

Beware of Parrots

The next morning, the sun was hiding behind thick clouds. The hike up to Stag Saddle was livened up by an unexpected wallaby sighting and a ridiculously windy ridge walk. Luckily, I didn’t get blown off the mountain like a budget Mary Poppins and managed to reach the highest point of the trail in one piece.

From there, I continued to Crooked Spur Hut—a place I’d been warned about by other hikers. Apparently, it’s the kind of hut you must sleep in, because the local keas (cheeky, highly intelligent alpine parrots) love to investigate tents. And by “investigate,” I mean “land on them and rip them to shreds with great enthusiasm.” So getting to the hut early felt like a smart choice. Even so, I arrived to find I was already the third person sleeping on the floor. We ended up with 12 hikers squeezed into an 8-bunk hut, but someone told me they’d been there once with 20 people inside. Cozy? Yes. Comfortable? Questionable. Better than watching a kea dismantle your tarp? Absolutely.

The next day was important. I needed to either cross or bypass the Rangitata River. It’s a huge braided river with a 3 km–wide bed split into many channels. Crossing can be dangerous: high water creates strong currents, and sudden rain in the mountains can cause a rapid rise, leaving hikers stranded on tiny gravel islands like confused castaways. Because of this, the river is only passable under the right conditions. Otherwise, you have to detour to a bridge 60 km away—the official bypass—turning a 3 km crossing into a 120 km ordeal. That’s why many hikers rely on a shuttle or try to hitchhike.

My plan was to ask a few SOBOs who had just crossed whether the river was safe or if I should take a shuttle. Unfortunately, there was no cell reception on my side, so I couldn’t check the water flow and had to rely on other hikers. When I reached the crossing, no one had gone through that morning, but a shuttle was waiting for hikers—including a group of SOBOs who had taken it earlier. Since I was alone and didn’t want to risk a dangerous river crossing, I took the shuttle as a sign to play it safe.

It turned out to be an excellent decision: during the ride I met Hannah, Netta, and Oriel, whom I ended up bumping into several more times on the trail—and even later back in Europe.

In Between the Rivers

After a short resupply stop in Geraldine (which included a surprisingly delicious Subway sandwich), I continued on the other side of the river. Some hikers chose to stay in town, so it ended up being just Hannah and me heading out that day. She decided to take a shortcut and hop off the bus a bit earlier because of her tight visa timeline, while I stayed on until the proper trail start after the river bypass.

My plan from there was to walk two more days to the Rakaia River—the second major river on the trail. Unlike the Rangitata, this one isn’t safely crossable at all. I’d heard stories of people drowning or almost drowning, and that was enough for me. Here, the bypass isn’t just recommended—it’s mandatory, and almost everyone takes it without argument.

The section between rivers was pretty. I met few hikers, and the ones I met were some of the last SOBOs from the main SOBO group of that year. The second day between the rivers was one of the bigger days on the trail, and I did 46 km in difficult terrain, including a few kilometers in the bed of the North Branch of the Ashburton River, which involved a lot of boulder hopping and crossing the same river about 30 times because the banks were steep and it wasn’t possible to walk on just one side. At the end of this day, I got to the beautiful tiny hut called Frame Hut, where I caught up with Hannah. It was nice to talk to someone and share a few moments from the trail together.

Hannah was from the UK. She was a teacher, rowed competitively and she was also a Badass with capital “B”! Because when we talked about other adventures we’d done, she casually told me that she had rowed across the Atlantic Ocean with two other women! That adventure was part of a race, and the whole journey took them 52 days. This moment made me feel like walking the length of New Zealand was not such a big deal after all.

The next day, just a few kilometres after Frame Hut, I reached the Rakaia River. There was no shuttle service running and almost no traffic, so I assumed I’d be waiting a long time for a ride. But after about half an hour of walking along the road, the first car appeared. I stuck out my thumb with low expectations; it was a truck, after all, and truck drivers usually don’t stop for random, dusty hikers.

To my surprise, the truck actually slowed down. The driver, a woman named Rachel, leaned out and told me to hop in. A few minutes into the ride, she admitted she had never picked up a hitchhiker before. She became a truck driver a few years earlier after her partner (who was a truck driver) passed away. She told me she loved the job and was excited to show me her “office view,” which, to be fair, was much better than any office I’ve ever worked in.

After a while, we spotted Hannah, who had started hiking earlier that morning, walking along the road. Unfortunately, the truck only had two seats, so we couldn’t pick her up. When she saw me riding comfortably in the cab, she burst out laughing and swore at me at the same time, which I took as a sign of friendship. Meanwhile, I just waved from my VIP seat in Rachel’s mobile skyscraper, feeling only slightly guilty.

Rachel took me all the way to Methven, where I decided to stay overnight. I got a great burger at the local restaurant and met with Hannah, who arrived about one hour after me.

If you want to know how my journey continued and how I dealt with trench feet, you can keep reading here.

With my backpack now stuffed with supplies (and probably 40% sugar), I hiked to Arrowtown, where I found a perfect spot above the town to set up my tarp. I cooked dinner and waited for Emily, who was catching the bus from Queenstown so we could meet up later. The place was perfect — great view of Arrowtown, nicely hidden, and, most importantly, flat enough to sleep without sliding downhill.

Meeting a Legend

The next morning, I set an early alarm — and by early, I mean why-is-this-even-legal early. I started hiking around 6 a.m., hoping to bump into Karel Sabbe, the Belgian ultrarunner attempting the fastest known time on the trail.

As the sun came up, the entire landscape lit up in fiery shades of orange and red. I climbed over Big Hill — one of the bigger climbs for me so far, though I’d later learn the trail had far nastier surprises in store. From the top, I could see the mountains above Macetown, carved into dramatic shapes that looked straight out of a fantasy movie.

Macetown itself is an abandoned gold-mining settlement, but walking through it felt like stepping into a Western. I half-expected a bunch of dusty gold miners to appear from behind the ruins — or maybe some bloody bandits waiting to rob them. Thankfully, I didn’t meet bandits but tons of sandflies which forced me to leave the place quickly.

After passing through Macetown, the trail continued for a few kilometers in the river. And when I say “in the river,” I literally mean in the river. Steep valley banks hemmed me in on both sides, leaving only one way forward: wading through the knee-deep stream.

And that’s when I met the legend himself — Karel Sabbe. He was heading the opposite direction, moving at a speed that can only be described as slightly supersonic. Somehow, we managed a very brief, very time-efficient conversation:

Me: “Wow, dude, you are super fast! Keep smashing the record!”
Karel: smiles
Me: “Would you mind if I take a picture with you?”
Karel: “Sure.”
Me: “Thank you! And where are you heading today?”
Karel: “Somewhere after Queenstown.” (which was still about 70 km away)
Karel: disappears into the distance 😶‍🌫️

Even though it wasn’t much of a conversation, I was thrilled to meet him. He finished the trail just a few days later, covering the entire 3,000 km in 31 days and 19 hours — something I can only describe as humanly insane. Having walked the trail myself, I knew that averaging almost 100 km per day over this terrain is basically an alien-level effort.

At the end of the river, I climbed to Roses Saddle and then descended to Roses Hut for a quick lunch. There, I met another cool SOBO hiker with the trail name Juicy Fruit. He was wearing sporting pineapple-covered shorts — hence the nickname. Juicy Fruit had impressive trails under his belt, including the PCT and the Jordan Trail. He casually mentioned that he had a New Zealand visa for only three months and was aiming to finish the TA in 90 days. Nothing compared to Karel Sabbe, of course, but as a “normal” self-supported hiker, that was still insanely impressive.

That day, I crossed two more hills with steep climbs and some exposed aerial sections before reaching a hut crowded with fellow SOBO hikers. The next day, I left the Motatapu Track and reached Wanaka, famous for its tree in the lake but I didn’t linger. I pushed further, logging my longest day on the trail so far: 48 km. Exhausted, I crashed at a very sketchy-looking campsite in Albert Town and didn’t care one bit.

I woke up late the next day and took it easy, making my way to Lake Hawea. There, I met a group of seasoned SOBO hikers, including Rascal. She looked like a very experienced thru-hiker — and for good reason. It turned out Rascal was fairly well-known in the thru-hiking community and had been the chief of the support team that helped Tara Dower beat the Appalachian Trail FKT — the same FKT previously held by Karel Sabbe, who I’d just met a few days earlier.

The Scarriest Section on the Whole Trail

The trail from Lake Hawea climbed up Brest Hill, where I was treated to a spectacular view of the lake below. On the way up, I stopped to chat with other SOBO hikers, trying to gather as much intel as possible about the next section. I was a little worried. Some hikers were skipping this part entirely. Others described it as traumatizing or downright terrifying. Only a few said it was “alright.”

This section had very narrow paths above the river with huge vertical drops, leaving absolutely no room for error. Just two weeks before my passage, there had been a deadly accident.

There was, however, an alternate route. Instead of following the trail clinging to the cliffs, you could descend to the river and follow the riverbed for about 12 km — longer, but far less heart-stopping.

While scouting my options, I met one hiker who said the upper path was truly scary. Not long after, I ran into another SOBO with a bandaged forehead. A rock had fallen on him while he was navigating the dangerous section. That was enough for me: I decided to take the safer river route.

Even getting to the river wasn’t easy. I had to slide down a steep, sketchy slope to reach the bottom of the valley. From there, I spent about four hours mostly in the water or hopping across stones. It was surprisingly fun — and a perfect way to stay cool on a hot day.

The river itself wasn’t very deep, but a few sections came almost up to my waist. What made it trickier was the water’s grey color; even at normal water levels, you couldn’t see the bottom. I ran into one hiking couple along the way, but otherwise, I was alone with the river and my thoughts.

Following the instructions of SOBO hikers I had met earlier, I eventually deviated from the main river to follow a side stream, which later reconnect with the original trail. The trail continued to be tricky, with some scrambly sections where a single wrong step could be disastrous.

Finally, after navigating the sketchy bits, I reached Top Timaru Hut — the end of the dangerous section. I survived!

From Gut-Wrenching Disaster to Glorified Petrol Station

The small hut was full, so I had to set up my tarp outside. While eating dinner, I realized something was very wrong. I didn’t feel like eating at all — and then it hit me. Let’s just say I had an intense bout of diarrhea that night. And the fact that getting to the long-drop toilet next to the hut required walking about 200 meters and climbing two steep hills, made the whole situation even trickier. Sleep was minimal, and I decided to stay in the hut the next day to recover. I heard about a few other NOBO hikers who faced the same problem in this section and so it is likely that I drank contaminated water (even I was always using my water filter).

Despite my misery, I met some wonderful hikers who helped me out. Eline, a young Belgian hiker, spent a few hours at the hut, and we had a great deep conversation about life - a much-needed distraction for both of us. Eline had previously some rough days on the trail, so she was happy to take a little rest and talk. Then Roee from Israel appeared with extra toilet paper, which eased my worries a bit. Kodiak from the U.S. gave me a bread bun and some instant noodles perfect for an easy-to-digest meal. This was a good lesson. From then on, I always carried food that I could eat if I wasn’t feeling well. Being sick in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest civilization more than a day’s walk away over rugged terrain, is not fun. I was really grateful for these encounters and started feeling better.

Then came a surprise. About four hours after leaving, Eline returned — not smiling this time. She was limping, her shirt torn and stained with small patches of blood. I was shocked and other hikers in the hut too. She had fallen off a cliff not far from the hut and spent the next few hours trying to get back on trail. Her description was terrifying: sliding down the slope, catching a tree, then sliding again, injuring her knee in the process. This was exactly the section I had just finished, and I was silently grateful it was behind me.

After spending a day recovering in the hut, it took me three more days to reach Twizel, where I could buy food and truly relax. The first day was tough — my legs felt like empty noodles — but over the next couple of days, I regained my strength and took in some spectacular landscapes. When I finally reached Twizel, I wasn’t literally shitting my pants anymore, and I felt ready to tackle the trail again.

There wasn’t much to see in Twizel — just a few shops, a school, a couple of houses, and a petrol station. One hiker I met on the trail jokingly told me that the South Island towns I’d be passing through are basically just glorified petrol stations. Twizel fit that description perfectly (I hope no one from Twizel reads this 😁)! Not much to see, but I was genuinely happy it existed. I could resupply, take a much-needed zero day, and recharge my batteries before continuing on the trail.

If you want to keep reading about my Te Araroa journey, you can continue to the next article here.

During my scooter expeditions, I never needed to carry food for more than two days, since I could cover almost 300 km in these two days and always come across a shop. This time, that wasn’t an option. I quickly hitched a ride from the trail to a nearby town to resupply, then back to where I had stopped, so I wouldn’t skip any part of the route. The hitching was easy, and I had a good chat both ways — even though, on the way to town, I was picked up by a deer farmer driving a car that looked suspiciously like a hearse.

Crossing “Area 51”

After the resupply break, I continued for the rest of the day through mostly easy terrain until Birchwood Station, where I spent the night. There I met Francesca (a SOBO), and Emily and David — two other NOBO hikers I’d end up hiking parts of the trail with over the next few days.

The following day, the trail crossed farmlands around Mt. Linton, which I quickly nicknamed New Zealand’s Area 51. The only logical explanation for the ominous signs reading, “Te Araroa walkers STOP! If you go beyond this point, police will be called immediately!” was that the locals were secretly studying aliens there. That’s definitely not how I’d mark an area for sheep and cows — and I had to pass through a few of those fields.

I was cautious (and a little scared) walking straight through the middle of a herd of cows, but I tried to calm myself with Francesca’s wise words from the evening before:

“Sheep will run away and cows will just stare and pee agresively.”

Little did I know that a few thousand kilometer further I will learn that it’s not entirely true and that three agry bulls are no joke.

I spent the night in a small hut full of sandflies, where I met Emily and David again. The hut wasn’t on any map. I’d learned about its existence from a SOBO hiker earlier that day. She drew a map in the sand with her trekking pole and said, “You have to leave the trail and follow a little track. Keep going until you stop believing there’s a hut — and that’s when you’ll find it.”

If this were in Europe, I probably would’ve ended up in another country. Luckily, New Zealand is surrounded by ocean, so I knew that if I missed the hut, I’d eventually just run out of land. To my surprise, her description was spot-on. Right when I started doubting there was any hut at all, it appeared.

From there, the trail entered the Tākitimu Forest, which I battled through for the next two days. It wasn’t as muddy as Longwood, but it was definitely far from dry. The path twisted over roots and fallen trees. Nothing like the forest trails I am used to in Central Europe, but I was getting the hang of it.

At Aparima Hut, roughly halfway through the forest, I caught up with two more NOBOs — Eleanor and Jake. From there, together with Eleanor, Jake and Emily, we hiked as a group all the way to Te Anau, where we finally took a well-deserved rest day.

From hero to na idiot in 1 second

We decided to spend the rest day together before continuing at our own paces. I did a quick search on Booking.com and found what looked like an amazing deal. A room for four people, cheaper than the campsite we’d just passed! I booked it instantly and felt like a hero. I’d “saved” four tired hikers! One night in real beds, clean clothes, charged electronics. It sounded perfect. And the price? Unbelievable.

We were already picturing our cozy cabin at the campsite… until we arrived at reception.
“So, where’s your car?” the receptionist asked.
“We don’t have a car, we’re hiking,” I replied, slightly confused.
She replied, “Ah… this booking is for a camper van.”

And just like that, I went from hero to idiot in record time. Sure enough, when I checked Booking again and scrolled a little further down, it clearly said the “room” was actually just a patch of grass for parking a camper van (for four people, apparently).

Excitement turned to disappointment, but we decided to stay anyway. To their credit, Emily, Eleanor, and Jake didn’t even blame me, they just laughed and accepted our fate. One thing was still true, though: it was ridiculously cheap.

We went out for dinner and spent the next day relaxing, finishing it off with homemade burgers on the campsite grill. Honestly? Even without beds, it was a great rest day.

The next day, our little “Fellowship of the Ring” split up, and I continued alone toward Mavora Lakes — one of the filming locations from The Lord of the Rings. The trail led me next to the river, through tall grass and spiky bushes, and at times, the easiest way forward was simply to walk in the river itself.

Tuna in a water bladder = ultralight ❤️

It was cloudy and foggy when I reached Mavora Lakes in the morning, but the sky cleared later in the day, letting me fully appreciate the spectacular landscape around me. Around midday, I arrived at a small DOC (Department of Conservation) hut where I decided to have lunch. My typical hiker’s menu: tortilla wraps with tuna. While I was eating, another hiker came in — a young teacher from the Netherlands. I couldn’t help but notice the replica of the Lord of the Rings ring hanging from his neck.

He told me he’d been to New Zealand several times and always brought the ring with him, though it’s never the same ring, because he keeps losing it and having to buy a new one. (What a terrible hobbit!) Let’s just pretend he didn’t say that and that he actually destroys the ring every time he visits New Zealand.

While we were chatting, the door opened again, and another hiker stepped in - a guy from Hong Kong. What surprised us most wasn’t his nationality, but his tiny backpack. He said he’d been walking almost the entire Te Araroa, and his base weight (gear without food or water) was just 3.8 kg! It was his first hike ever, and he’d learned everything about ultralight backpacking from YouTube. I couldn’t help but think of the classic stereotype — the diligent Asian student who studies theory for hours, then shows up and absolutely nails the execution. We were impressed.

He explained how he achieved such a low weight while eating his “weight-optimized” lunch, which seemed to consist entirely of peanut butter squeezed into a plastic bag from a dehydrated meal. Between sticky bites, he said, “My dream is to buy a water bladder, but not for water. I want to fill it with tuna in oil — because greasy tuna has a great calories-to-weight ratio, and I wouldn’t have to carry the extra weight of cans.”

We all have different dreams, I thought to myself, laughing quietly, but I had to respect his commitment to optimization.

After that peculiar encounter, I continued my journey into a wide valley filled with yellow grass, surrounded by mountains. I started feeling like a hobbit on a mission again. By evening, I reached the beautiful Taipo Hut, where I was completely alone. When darkness fell, I lay in front of the hut in my sleeping bag, watching the unfamiliar constellations of the southern hemisphere spread across the night sky.

Hitchhiker’s guide to New Zealand

The next morning, I continued about 20 km to the Greenstone car park, from where I needed to hitch a ride around the lake to Queenstown. The Te Araroa trail is interrupted by the lake in this section, and walking the road around it isn’t really an option. Too many sharp turns, cliffs, and dense traffic makes the section dangerous and so it is not in the official itinerary of the TA. My mission was simple: hitchhike to Queenstown, where I planned to stay overnight.

I managed to do it in three hitches. The first one looked like it would be the hardest since I was starting from a dead-end road where only a handful of hikers had cars. But surprisingly, it turned out to be the easiest. As I was approaching the car park, I spotted a group of three seniors ahead of me and got a plan. I decided to strike up some small talk as I passed them, and the conversation quickly took off. It turned out one of the women had visited Český Krumlov — the UNESCO-listed town near where I’m from in the Czech Republic.

As we chatted, I casually asked if they might be willing to give me a lift from the car park. And it worked! One friend of mine once described this approach as “stepping out of your comfort zone straight into someone else’s” — because it’s much harder to refuse a hitchhiker in person than it is to just drive past one on the road.

The first hitch was followed by a shorter ride with an older couple from the area. The third hitch was with a young French woman who lived in Australia and had come to New Zealand for a half-Ironman race nearby. Finally, I arrived in Queenstown, checked into a backpacker’s, and went to meet Emily and Jake, who had done a short side trip off the TA but were back on trail in Queenstown.

We grabbed a kebab plate for dinner, finished it off with a delicious ice cream cone covered in colorful sprinkles (called hundreds and thousands here), and watched the sunset over the lake. Eventually, it was time to say goodbye and head to bed, ready for the next day’s adventures.

If you want to know how my journey continued and how I tackled one of the sketchiest sections of the trail, keep reading here.

After a short ride, I was there—standing at Stirling Point, the southern tip of the South Island and the beginning of the Te Araroa Trail. I took a few pictures and then went to set up my tarp at the nearby campsite. It felt like the end of the world. It was a bit surreal to think that I was going to live only with the things in my backpack for the next four months. I was also really happy to be there, knowing that my planned adventure was finally becoming real. My main mission was hiking 3000 km from Bluff to Cape Reinga, but my brother decided to give me some side “side quests” that I had to complete during the trail to make it more fun. Some of them were location specific, some of them were silly, and some of them were crucial for the world peace and order - such as throwing the ring to Mordor (which I am going to write about later in this series).

With a mix of excitement and uncertainty about what awaited me, I went to sleep.

Mai i te punga ki te hiku

The title in Māori means “from the anchor to the tail.” According to Māori legend, the South Island of New Zealand is a canoe, and the North Island is a fish. Since I was heading northbound, I was going from the anchor of this canoe to the head of the giant fish. Hikers call this direction NOBO, while the southbound direction is SOBO.

I started my big journey on the morning of January 31, 2025, and I was curious how long it would take me to meet the first hikers going my way. I didn’t have to wait long—only a few hundred meters from the beginning of the trail, I met Chintamani (or Chintz) and Nick. Chintz was a young girl from New Zealand who had just finished high school and wanted to get to know her country better. Nick was her aunt, who decided to accompany her for the first few days on the trail. It was great to spend my first day with other hikers. The boring road section from Bluff to Invercargill passed quickly, and we even met some hikers going in the opposite direction—those just finishing the trail after several months of effort. Something that was still far ahead of us.

My time with Nick and Chintz was also a great introduction to Kiwi lingo. I quickly learned there were some quirks. For example, when Nick talked about hiking thousands of kilometers and developing trail leeks, she wasn’t referring to growing vegetables but actually meant trail legs—a term hikers use when their legs turn into something like kilometer-eating machines. However, this idea (have a look here) of leeks haunted me for the rest of the trail. Don’t you think it’s a bit scary?!

Mud, mud, mud… mud everywhere

On the third day of the trail, I was about to face the final boss of all SOBO hikers - the Longwood Forest. Unfortunately for me, I had to fight this boss right at the beginning of my quest, with almost zero trail XP. Longwood is famous for its ridiculous amount of mud. Like most of New Zealand’s forests, it resembles a rainforest — lush, green, and dense, making it almost impossible to go off-trail. So when there’s mud on the narrow path, you either need to grow long legs to step over it or embrace the mud and get dirty. The first option isn’t something most people can achieve on the spot, but I’ve been working on it my whole life - and at 194 cm, I was able to pull off some decent anti-mud gymnastics.

I quickly learned that you can meet some very interesting people on the trail. Everyone has a unique story and their own motivation for hiking it. One particularly memorable encounter was with a SOBO hiker who looked a bit like a monk. A talisman around his neck and a huge branch as a walking stick gave him some serious Gandalf vibes — but his bare feet made him look more like Frodo Baggins. We talked for a few minutes, and he told me he had walked most of the TA barefoot! His positive energy was absolutely contagious, and the “stick bump” he offered as a goodbye (me with my lightweight carbon trekking poles, him with his heavy wooden branch) gave me a good boost for the rest of the day. Only later did I hear from other hikers who had walked with him that he occasionally “did mushrooms” — so maybe that positivity wasn’t entirely thanks to the magic talisman around his neck.

Crossing the forest took me almost a day and a half, even though it was only 36 km — and I was still going faster than most people! That’s when I realized this trail was going to be no joke. The thought that kept my spirits up was, “2 km/h isn’t fast, but if I keep it up for 10 hours, I’ll be 20 km further”. The second thought was, “embrace the mud”. And that’s exactly how I kept going and got over this muddy beast.

Little did I know that this was only the top of the iceberg and more tricky sections were supposed to come. If you want to know how it continued, you can keep reading here.

The book was released during the COVID pandemic, and Michael even sent us a copy with a personal dedication.

It was a wonderful feeling to hold the book in my hands. By pure luck, our story ended up alongside those of other crazy travellers, and it felt great to have this little souvenir from our 2019 journey. If the story had ended there, we would have been happy. But it didn’t.

At the beginning of September this year, we unexpectedly received an email from Michael. I was glad to see that he still remembered us, so I quickly opened it. By the time I finished reading, I was feeling a bit emotional. He wanted to know how we were doing, but the main reason he wrote to us was to share another email he had received. It came from a man who was grateful for the inspiring book and, in particular, mentioned our story as the one that helped his friend regain a little bit of autonomy after suffering a serious injury.

This is the email:

Hi Michael,

I wanted to let you know that your book “Nordkapp Stories” is particularly inspiring. Not only because of the quality of the text and photos, but it also helped my friend significantly.

Just to clarify: my friend fell off his bike almost 5 (!) years ago and suffered a double pubic bone fracture. Unfortunately, the diagnosis wasn’t made until 7 weeks after the fall, and he’s still in terrible pain to this day (probably due to internal adhesions involving nerves). The pain is overwhelming, incurable, and prevents him from sitting. He was an avid cyclist, and the fact that he can no longer do that is hard.

Now, back to your book. I saw the photo of the duo with the kickbike. That led us to test an electric version in the Netherlands—the cycle paths are just a tad better there than in Flanders. That was a revelation. For him, it was the first time in five years that he could drive something, and also the most spectacular thing he’d done in five years. He’s now going to buy an e-kickbike himself so he can regain a little of his autonomy. I just wanted to let you know.

Best regards,
…

I have to say, this message made me incredibly happy. I love adventures, but I’m also aware that being able to do things like this is a privilege, and I try to keep that in mind. I’m healthy, I have the time, and I’m at a stage of life where I can allow myself to do these things. It’s not always easy, and it takes dedication, but it’s my choice. I choose to do it, while many people can’t, even if they want to. That’s why knowing our story had a positive impact on someone’s life (even if it’s just one person) is extremely fulfilling. It makes me realize that a seemingly silly activity, like riding a scooter, can actually make the world just a little bit better.

PS: If you want to read the interview (in English) Michael made with us, you can have a look at the book sample at his webpage and our interview starts at document page number 17. Link here.

So, what is the TMB (besides a potential buffet route for wolves)? It’s a closed loop around Mont Blanc with plenty of variations. The main trail is about 160 km long with roughly 10,000 meters of elevation gain, crossing France, Italy, and Switzerland. I had originally planned to hike hut-to-hut with as little gear as possible, but the huts were hopelessly booked out. Luckily, with plenty of backcountry experience from New Zealand, I decided to hike with my tarp instead, which, in hindsight, probably made me look like an even tastier snack for any curious wolves.

Starting in Chamonix

I decided to start on September 2, 2025. The reason was simple - it wasn’t too hot anymore, the UTMB weekend had passed, so the Chamonix valley wasn’t too busy, and the weather for the next four days looked reasonably good: some rain, but not most of the time. Even though the Tour du Mont Blanc officially starts in Les Houches, I wanted to begin in Chamonix because the town has a certain magic that I really like.

I arrived in Chamonix on the first possible train, around 9 a.m. After grabbing a second breakfast, I didn’t wait long and set off on the journey, following the counterclockwise direction of the loop. I continued along the easy gravel paths and roads to Les Houches, which marks the starting point for most hikers. Just after the village, the trail began climbing toward Col de Voza, where I got my first rain shower of the day. Luckily, also the last.

Hiking alone gave me plenty of time to observe gear trends. Usually, I notice shoes or backpacks, but this time umbrellas stole the show. At first, I couldn’t take them seriously: in a mountain storm, an umbrella is either a Mary Poppins ticket to flight or a DIY lightning rod. But the more I saw them (strapped to packs or proudly carried) the more I wondered if I was missing a genius idea. I have to admit, even after four days on the trail, I still hadn’t cracked the umbrella mystery.

After Col de Voza, I detoured from the TMB IP (IP = Itinéraire Principal; the main route in French) and headed toward one of the detours to Col de Tricot, where I started meeting crowds of people going in the same direction as me. After that, I descended to Les Contamines, where I bought some snacks because the next shop was supposed to be 50 km away in Courmayeur, Italy. I carried food, but it’s always nice to walk into a shop and buy whatever I want, rather than being limited to whatever my backpack holds.

Full of energy after a quick stop at the supermarket in Les Contamines, I started the long climb to Col de la Croix du Bonhomme, the highest point of the TMB IP. I was still seeing plenty of hikers until the middle of the climb, where the crowds thinned out. I continued almost alone until the top, where I caught up with a young couple. I greeted them with a “bonjour,” as people usually do in the French mountains. Instead of a “bonjour” in return, I heard “ahoj.” “Did she just say ‘ahoj’ — hi in Czech?” I thought. I turned and asked, “Did you say ahoj?” — which probably sounded a bit confrontational. She looked confused for a moment, then said yes. We both laughed, realizing we hadn’t met any other Czechs that day. We chatted for a bit. While they were thinking of pitching their tent near the hut, I wanted to go a little higher to Col des Fours (2,665 m a.s.l.) before descending to the valley toward La Ville des Glaciers, where I planned to spend the night

Right after crossing the saddle, I was rewarded with a beautiful view of the mountains glowing in the setting sun. For the first time that day, I even managed to spot a glacier in the Mont Blanc massif. As I descended into the much warmer valley below, I started looking for a spot to pitch my tarp. I wanted to camp as low as possible to avoid a cold night.

Soon I reached cow fields, and after a too-close encounter with three bulls in New Zealand, I wasn’t eager to risk a repeat. I made sure not to set up anywhere cows might wander at night. Almost at the bottom of the valley, where I saw a few other tents, I passed an old abandoned barn. I checked to see if anyone was around, then tried the door. It was stuck, a good sign it wasn’t in use. Inside, it was empty — and even better, no cow droppings. Jackpot. The place was practically begging me: “Stay here tonight!” So I did.

One mouse ran across the floor, clearly checking if I had dropped food, which made me a bit nervous. I didn’t want rodents keeping me awake, so I hung all my gear on a pipe in the middle of the barn and made a deal with the mouse not to bother me. It worked! I slept well, and in the morning, I left a small piece of baguette as rent for my little French roommate.

Beware of wolfs

The night went well, and after packing up in the morning, I continued to the very bottom of the valley to a small settlement called La Ville des Glaciers, where I saw the first hikers of the day. I made a quick bathroom stop (a flushing toilet was a pleasant surprise out there) and then headed up toward Col de la Seigne. Along the way, I overtook what felt like a whole queue of TMB hikers, probably those who had camped somewhere near the valley where I had woken up.

At the top, the crowds disappeared, and for a moment I could enjoy the feeling of crossing into Italy almost alone. I snapped a few pictures, but the wind made it chilly, so I quickly descended into “bella Italia”.

I descended into the valley where I spotted an epic toilet placed right in the middle of this beautiful alpine scenery. Honestly, I almost regretted that I didn’t need to use it at that moment — a throne like that deserved more appreciation.

By now it was getting quite hot, and I still had one more climb before reaching Courmayeur — the Italian equivalent of Chamonix. Like its French cousin, it sits at the base of Mont Blanc, and the two towns are connected by a tunnel that goes straight under the massif. I was looking forward to reaching Courmayeur not only for lunch but also for a very specific mission: finding Cino, the bittersweet Italian soda I had recently talked about with friends and now couldn’t stop thinking about.

The climb before Courmayeur wasn’t too bad. 500 vertical meters that I managed to handle fairly quickly. But the descent was another story. Not because it was particularly hard, but because I was impatient. The trail was slow… or maybe I was slow. Either way, let’s just say the trail is easier to blame.

At last, I reached Courmayeur and immediately walked into the first restaurant I saw. It was a pizzeria. The pizza was huge, cheap, and delicious, ticking every single box I had at that point. With fresh energy, I was almost excited to start hiking again. But first, I had unfinished business: Mission Chinò.

I went to the supermarket, but of course, it was closed for the afternoon break. I tried other shops but it was the same story. And since I wasn’t about to hike 70 kilometers from Chamonix only to be defeated by Italian siesta culture, I waited almost an hour for the doors to open. Finally, when I walked out with a bottle of Cino in hand, I could declare Mission Chinò a success — and continue my journey around the mountain fully satisfied.

The climb out of Courmayeur to Rifugio Bertone was long-ish, but thanks to my pit stop in town, I felt great. It was still hot, but the sky was clear with no storms in sight, so I couldn’t complain. At the top, I took a short break to soak in the views of Mont Blanc and Col de la Seigne, which I had crossed just that morning. That’s one of my favorite feelings in the mountains: looking back at a place that seems impossibly far away and realizing it only took a few hours to get there on nothing but my own two feet, carrying everything I need on my back. Not everyone around me could say the same. I had just met a large guided group doing the TMB with no backpacks because they had a mule carrying everything for them. Now, the mule looked strong… but not particularly smart (sorry mule, no offense). It kept trying to wander off, only to be coaxed back by the guide waving a leafy branch like it was a carrot on a stick. Honestly though, if the mule knew how much weight it was hauling, it would probably feel way more badass than me.

After my encounter with the pack animal MVP, I continued along a beautiful single track toward Chalet Val Ferret, where I planned to camp. I hardly saw anyone, except for one biker, and otherwise I had the valley, and the dramatic Grandes Jorasses towering above all, to myself. Usually I hike in silence, but that evening I put on a podcast for company. I was listening, looking around, when I suddenly froze. Something was standing on the trail about 70 meters ahead of me. At first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, but then it clicked: a wolf.

It stood half-hidden in the bushes, staring straight at me. I had read that wolves live in this region, but I always assumed they’d bolt the moment they saw a person. This one didn’t. I took a few careful steps forward. It didn’t move. In fact, it didn’t look scared at all. That’s when I decided not to test whether I was scarier than a wolf (spoiler: I wasn’t). My own nerves kicking in, I slowly backed away, never turning my back, until I could scramble up the slope above the trail.

The wolf calmly walked onto the path where I had been standing just minutes before, still watching me. I quickly snapped a photo with my phone, then waited, hoping the wolf would continue minding its own business. Preferably business that didn’t involve me. After a few tense minutes, it wandered off, and I cautiously made my way back to the trail. I didn’t see it again, and by sunset I reached Chalet Val Ferret. I pitched my tarp in the forest near the Dora di Ferret river, cooked a quick dinner, and crawled into bed.

What a day — pizza, Chinò, mule and wolf. Now it was finally time to go to sleep.

A big thunderstorm

The next morning, I packed up my tarp and was happy to leave the spot behind. In daylight it became very clear I wasn’t the first person to camp there. The bushes decorated with toilet paper told the whole story. From there I began the climb to Grand Col Ferret, the mountain pass marking the trail’s entry into Switzerland. I overtook plenty of hikers who had stayed in the nearby hut, but by the time I reached the top, the crowds had thinned and I had the trail mostly to myself again. After snapping a few photos at the Swiss–Italian border, I started descending toward La Fouly.

No wolves this time (thankfully), but the sky made it obvious that rain was on the way. Luckily, it turned out less dramatic than it first appeared, and I managed to keep walking without much trouble. I passed through a few small villages at the bottom of the valley, and then began the climb toward Champex-Lac. To my surprise, I felt like I was flying uphill.

That’s when a random thought hit me: wasn’t the SwissPeaks 700k ultramarathon happening in this region? It’s a brutal race covering 700 kilometers with 48,000 meters of elevation gain, so I got curious and quickly checked an update from one of the runners. That lucky impulse probably saved me. Thanks to checking the update from the race I found out that the race had been temporarily paused because of a massive thunderstorm sweeping through the area. I knew to expect some rain later in the day, but I had no idea it was this serious.

Knowing this crucial piece of information, I had to rethink my plan. It was 3 p.m., and I figured I had two options: either stay put in Champex-Lac until the next day, or push a bit more to reach Col de la Forclaz and find shelter before the storm arrived.

Waiting around in Champex-Lac didn’t sound appealing, so I decided to “sprint” over the next hill, reach Col de la Forclaz, and ideally enjoy dinner at the restaurant while the storm passed. My timing was perfect! I’m still not sure if it was good planning or just the storm motivating me to move faster, but I ended up almost running some of the downhills. That would’ve been fine with fresh legs and a light running vest — but this was after nearly 120 km in three days, more than 8,000 meters of climbing, and a 10 kg backpack on my shoulders.

The important thing was: I made it. I reached the restaurant just as a massive thunderstorm rolled in, and I couldn’t have been happier to be inside, eating a burger while watching the chaos outside.

While waiting, I met a runner competing in the 400 km race of SwissPeaks. He was also stuck, waiting for the race to resume, so we had a really nice chat. By the time the storm moved on, it was about 10 p.m., and I went to pitch my tent at the small camping area next to the restaurant. I fell asleep to the sound of cowbells from a nearby herd, with the occasional flash of headlamps from runners competing in SwissPeaks making their way through the night.

Closing the loop

I woke up to the sound of gentle rain drumming on my tarp. I decided to stay in my sleeping bag a little longer and managed to pack up during a short break in the showers. Of course, as soon as I started hiking, the rain came back. Not ideal, but I only had 28 km left to close the loop, so worst-case scenario, I’d just be walking wet for part of the day.

The climb to Col de la Balme was entirely in the rain. Once I got above the clouds, it turned foggy, windy, and noticeably colder. That was all the motivation I needed to push faster and get over the pass toward La Tour. Uphill I still felt strong, but downhill my quads and knees were definitely starting to complain.

Luckily, the weather cleared by the time I reached La Tour, and I had just one final climb left. I wasn’t in a rush. The sun was out, the views were spectacular, and I had all the time I needed. Mont Blanc, Aiguille Verte, Aiguille du Midi, Grandes Jorasses… it felt like a greatest-hits album of the Alps spread out in front of me. Near La Flégère, I sat down by the path and just stared at the mountains for almost half an hour enjoying the moment.

Eventually, I began the final descent into Chamonix, where I had started less than four days earlier. My first steps in Chamonix lead to Poco Loco for a victory burger which was delicious. But the taste wasn’t so important because I was so hungry that I would probably eat even the cloth for cleanig the floor.

I’ve never liked the idea of a “bucket list”. A list of things you need to do before you die sounds too fatalistic for me. Instead, I keep a list of things I’d simply like to do in my free time. It doesn’t sound as cool, but it fits my approach better. Tour du Mont Blanc had been on that list for a few years, and now I can happily say I’ve completed it and discovered another corner of the mountains just beyond my doorstep.

Some numbers at the end

I am adding here the route I hiked and some numbers from my watch after I finished the loop.

Route: https://mapy.com/s/cabasehuce
Total distance: 162 km
Positive elevation gain: +9800 m
Number of days: 4
Total moving time: 38 hours
Fun on trails: ∞

We can probably agree that carrying a camping chair for evening comfort isn’t very practical and you don’t need to bring that. On the other hand, having a second set of dry clothes in case you have to walk in the rain is, in my opinion, important. Imagine walking all day in the rain, being cold, and having no dry clothes to change into for the night. A base weight around 7 kg is a good number to aim for — it doesn’t require huge trade-offs in your gear if you pack smart, but it’s still light enough not to bother you too much over a few months.

I don’t consider myself an expert on gear or packing. I’m aware that many things could be improved, but I didn’t carry any useless items, and I think I had everything I needed to survive four months in the wilderness of New Zealand. I’m posting my gear list below — don’t take it as advice, but rather as inspiration in case you need some.

Happy trails!

My gear list for the Te Araroa trail

Backpacks and bags

• backpack (Hyperlite - 55 liters, tall version - this backpack is rainproof!)
• dry bags (to organize my stuff inside the backpack and make sure everything stays dry even if some water gets inside the backpack)
• waterproof pocket for the phone (you never know when you might fall into a river during a river crossing, or get caught in heavy rain)

Hygiene

• toothbrush
• toothpaste
• sunscreen (I had to buy a few during the trail)
• Gillette (I didn’t shave, but it was useful in case I needed to use kinesio tape - body hair and tape don’t work well together)
• toilet paper
• poop shovel (to bury your poop and make sure animals don’t spread feces to water sources)
• little soap
• paper tissues
• small towel (very light Sea to Summit towel)

Clothes

• small puffy jacket (Patagonia)
• shoes (I had three pairs - the second and third were waiting for me on the trail)
• thin gloves
• Buff (can be used as a beanie or protection against the sun)
• rainproof jacket (three-layer PERTEX)
• rainproof pants
• shorts
• long running leggings
• Merino shirt with long sleeves (two)
• T-shirt with short sleeves (for most of the hiking)
• Merino underwear (two pairs - you wear one and can wash the other. Merino doesn’t smell and keeps you warm even if it gets wet from rain or river crossings.)
• socks (three pairs at the beginning, but I had to buy a few more as they developed holes)
• trail cap with 🚀 (my secret weapon, source of energy and protection against the sun)

Electronics

• headlamp
• red light (I bought it in the second half of the trail when there was a lot of road walking, and I sometimes had to walk in low visibility or in the dark)
• power banks (I had two, 10,000 mAh and 20,000 mAh, just to have one for my watch and the other for the phone. Keeping the watch charged was important for navigation; the phone was mostly for photos.)
• solar panel (Goal Zero - I wouldn’t bring it next time for this trail. New Zealand is wild but I always had opportunities to recharge power banks almost every week.)
• phone
• GPS watch (Garmin Forerunner 945 - I used it for tracking and navigation)
• various charging cables
• power adaptor with two USB sockets (very useful when you are at a hostel and need to recharge multiple devices)
• headphones (it’s sometimes nice to listen to some music)
• satellite phone (Garmin inReach Mini - a must in case of potential rescue, because New Zealand has poor mobile network coverage)
• Kindle (I didn’t use it much but it’s good to have the option of doing something other than hiking all day)
• power socket adaptor (New Zealand to European)

Sleeping

• tarp (Six Moon Designs - Deschutes)
• Tyvek (as a floor for the tarp)
• sleeping mat (Therm-a-Rest NeoAir XLite - regular length, wide version)
• sleeping bag (Cumulus - comfort around 2°C)

Others

• diary (I kept a physical journal on the trail)
• pen
• first aid kit (plasters, activated charcoal and other basic medications, scissors, needles, thread)
• survival blanket
• hiking poles (also used as supports for the tarp)
• water bladder (2 liters)
• water squeeze filter (Sawyer)
• syringe for cleaning the water filter (there’s nothing worse than a clogged filter)
• water bottle (Nalgene 1.5 l)
• sunglasses
• knife
• cooker
• pot
• gas bottle for cooking (you can’t take it on a plane, so I bought one just before starting the trail)
• spoon
• lighter
• ziplock bags (can be useful for various things - for example, storing food)
• passport
• thin cord (for hanging wet clothes or minor repairs)
• trash bag (makes it easier to keep trash in one place)

If you want to read about the beginning of my journey on the trail, continue reading.

The big planning… or not?

Speaking of physical preparation, I didn’t do anything special because I usually hike and run all year long, so fitness wasn’t my concern. And even if I weren’t perfectly fit, insufficient fitness wouldn’t stop me from starting this adventure. But there were a few crucial things that could. Namely, visas for New Zealand and flight tickets. I started to realize that I might be doing these things a bit late because getting a visa could take a few weeks, and it was just three weeks before Christmas, so I thought that things might take even longer.

There are several types of visas, and they can be requested through the website of the New Zealand Immigration Department. They even have a guide to help you pick the best visa option for you. The easiest to obtain are electronic visas for three months. They don’t cost much, but I knew that three months probably wouldn’t be enough to finish the trail, so I looked at other options.

The second option was a tourist visa for six months. These are more expensive, but the problem is that you need to have a ticket out of the country, or you need to provide proof that you have sufficient funds to buy the ticket later. This would have worked for me, but it could take several weeks to get, and I didn’t know what kind of documents they would require as proof of funds. If I had done this earlier, I’d be fine, but time wasn’t on my side. Christmas was approaching, which meant possible delays in communication.

The third option was a working holiday visa. These are more expensive, but I knew I should be able to get one since there’s a yearly quota per country, and the Czech Republic hadn’t filled its quota. You also don’t need a return ticket. So I applied for the working holiday visa and received it in my email in about five days, which was much faster than they claimed. Unfortunately, my name wasn’t written correctly – viva la “ř”! They specifically asked to write my name exactly as in my passport, which is Ondřej. However, the font they use in the visa form doesn’t support “ř”, so my name became “Ondej”. That could be a problem. I emailed the visa office and prepared to wait who knows how long, but I was surprised by how quickly they reacted. I had a new visa, this time with my name spelled as Ondrej, in just a few days.

Another reason for getting the working holiday visa, even though I didn’t plan to work, was that I didn’t need a return ticket and could hike the trail at my own pace, buying the return ticket only when I was approaching the end of the trail. Later I learned there’s a trick you can do with a cheaper tourist visa: you can buy a cheap flight to Australia, for example, and cancel it as soon as you pass border control. Then you can buy the real return ticket later when you know your exact plans.

Buying the flight tickets was straightforward. I didn’t have many options because I wanted to fly in the second half of January, so there weren’t many extra-cheap tickets like the ones you can find if you book far in advance; especially not around New Year. The plan was as follows: fly from Paris on January 22, 2024, go to Auckland, stay there for six days, and plan some logistics, namely resupply boxes for sections of the trail where it’s hard to buy food.

Even though resupply boxes aren’t strictly necessary, they can be useful in certain sections. There’s plenty of information online about this topic, so I won’t go into detail, but I decided to send two boxes to the trail – one to Arthur’s Pass Village and the other to St. Arnaud.

I also needed to buy some new gear that I didn’t have from previous adventures, but I’ll talk about my gear in the next post.

Navigation and how (not) to get lost?

The trail is marked, but not everywhere. Some people might disagree, but I think it’s marked well in the sense that potentially tricky or confusing sections usually have good marking. Going without a map, however, would be very difficult. Though not impossible. I met a couple on the trail who decided to go completely offline without phones or maps, but after hearing their stories about crazy bushwhacking, I don’t think that’s the way to go. There will be plenty of bushwhacking even with navigation and maps!

There’s also one catch: all trails in New Zealand use the same marking, usually an orange triangle. So if two trails cross, you really need to know where you’re going, or you might end up following the wrong orange triangles. You wouldn’t be the first one to do some bonus miles, but it’s more convenient to avoid that.

The official route (which can slightly change every year due to closures or the opening of new trail sections) is marked in the official Te Araroa trail app, which is free. It includes trail notes and directions, but I preferred another app — FarOut. It offers guides for many long thru-hikes, including the famous PCT and others. The app itself is free, but the guides must be purchased. I think it’s a good investment. I met people hiking without FarOut, so it’s not necessary, but I found it super useful because it shows not only the trail but also water sources, shops, accommodations, and even user comments under each waypoint — providing up-to-date information about huts or water quality. Different waypoint types (shops, water, huts, etc.) have different colors, so it’s easy to see, for example, where the next resupply point is. That saves a lot of time because you can easily plan how long each food section will be.

I was also using my all-time favorite map app Mapy.cz (now Mapy.com). It’s free, without ads, allows offline maps, and supports offline route planning. My usual workflow was to create a .gpx track for the next trail section, send it to my Garmin watch (which supports navigation), and then use that for hiking. Using watch navigation is my ultimate hack. You need to charge the watch every day, but its battery capacity is about 1/8 of a phone’s. So if your power bank can charge your phone four times, it can charge your watch 32 times — meaning you can navigate for a whole month using only your watch, while saving your phone battery for emergencies or photos. I’ve used watch navigation on all my previous big adventures, and it works even if you only have the line and no map! I think watch navigation is one of the most underrated features of modern sports watches.

What else?

Unlike some famous long trails in America, there is no permit required for hiking Te Araroa. However, it’s useful to buy the trail pass, which allows you to stay in the huts. You can hike without it if you don’t plan to stay in huts, or you can buy individual hut tickets, but the trail pass is generally cheaper and easier and you don’t need to worry about tickets. There are only a few huts on the trail (mainly in Nelson Lakes, as far as I remember) where you still need to pay separately, but the trail pass gives a discount. You’ll also be asked to donate to the Te Araroa Trust to support trail maintenance, though that’s not mandatory.

Other useful resources

There are plenty of resources online, but some that I found particularly useful were:

• Official Te Araroa website – the most reliable source of information, even though some details may not be there.
• Te Araroa Facebook group – where you can ask questions and search previous posts, since you’re probably not the first to deal with a given issue. There’s also a dedicated group for each hiking season where you can connect with others hiking at the same time.
• Trail Angels Facebook group – a very useful group I discovered thanks to another hiker toward the end of the trail. Trail Angels are people who help hikers, often offering a place to stay overnight for a small contribution (or for free, though a little tip, koha, is always appreciated). Their help is especially useful in the North Island, where it’s sometimes hard to wild camp.
• TA NOBO guide – particularly useful if you’re hiking NOBO like me, since most resources are written for SOBO hikers and it’s a pain to read trail notes from bottom to top. This page also contains a lot of useful information.
• WhatsApp group – when you start hiking, you can ask in the Facebook group or other hikers if you can be added to the WhatsApp group. I almost never used it, but it’s good to be there in case you need to ask something quickly.

If you’re interested in my gear list, continue reading the next post.

The first idea

Inspired by my previous adventures on a scooter — most of which happened before I started my studies in Geneva — I wanted to do something in a similar spirit. The only problem? I knew I’d finish my doctorate in October, and by that time Europe is already transforming into one big cold shower. Sure, a week or two of adventure would still be doable, but I wanted something properly big. The kind of adventure you can only do before you have a real job, responsibilities, and an HR department asking where you’ve disappeared.

Then it hit me: why not go big and go south? Somewhere far away, where it would actually be summer while Europe was freezing. That’s when New Zealand popped into my mind. I’d always wanted to visit — mountains, wild nature, friendly people, and just the right amount of sheep. A few of my friends had been there not long before, and their stories only made the idea more tempting. The only question left was: what exactly should I do there?

New Zealand isn’t that huge, really. If I decided to cross it on my scooter or by bike, it would actually be a shorter trip than the 3 800 km across Europe I’d done before, from the Czech Republic to Nordkapp. And since I wanted something even bigger, I started thinking: what if I just walk it?

The idea of a long thru-hike had been floating in my mind for years. I’d seen presentations about the big three American trails (the PCT, CDT, and Appalachian Trail) and always thought, “How on Earth can anyone hike for five months straight?” It sounded completely insane… and also a little amazing. So I did what everyone does when they have a crazy idea: I asked Google. I typed “New Zealand thru hiking,” and to my surprise, there it was — a trail called Te Araroa, stretching across the entire country.

I loved the idea instantly. I didn’t plan anything right away, but the thought stayed quietly in the back of my mind for months. So when I finally defended my thesis in October 2024, I didn’t have a backup plan — but Te Araroa was waiting. And that’s when I decided to make it real.

What is Te Araroa trail?

Te Araroa in Māori means “The Long Pathway” and it absolutely lives up to the name. It’s a 3,040 km trail stretching across both the North and South Islands, climbing and descending over 80,000 meters of elevation (yes, that’s like going up Mount Everest about nine times). According to the official trail website, roughly 2,000 hikers complete it every year in one go, while many others choose to tackle only sections. It’s not as world-famous as the American giants like the PCT or Appalachian Trail, but it’s quickly gaining popularity — and for good reason.

The trail officially starts at Cape Reinga, the northern tip of the North Island, and finishes at Bluff, down at the very bottom of the South Island. That’s the direction most hikers take, known as southbound, or in trail slang, SOBO. The main reason is simple: at one point, the trail turns into a river (literally!) and you spend about 150 kilometers floating in a canoe, so it’s a bit tricky to do that uphill.

That said, the other direction is totally possible too, though it requires a few tweaks to the route. This direction is called northbound, or NOBO if you want to sound like you belong in the thru-hiker club.

Timing, however, is everything. If you go SOBO, the ideal start is between October and December. Start too early, and you’ll get soaked by the North Island’s winter rains. Start too late, and you’ll hit the South Island mountains just in time for snow. If you go NOBO, the window shifts. You can usually begin around December to January, once the mountain snow has melted. Finishing in autumn up north isn’t a big deal, because the last 600 km, the area north of Auckland, is nicknamed the “winterless north.” It might rain, sure, but at least you won’t have to dig yourself out of a snowdrift.

Te Araroa trail - exactly the route I later did. The map was created by my friend Laura Pirovano from .gpx files from my Strava (thanks Laura!).

More about the preparation for the trail is in the next post.