Richmond Ranges Reflection

Hello Richmonds, Goodbye John

The more time I’ve spent on trail, the more familiar certain names and faces become. I’m more accustomed to sharing my food, stories, and memories with strangers. And even then, they’re not truly strange. I’ve taken to the saying ”See you on trail!” instead of goodbye, because more often than not, I run into them again in the most unexpected places—a bustling city street, a run-down hut on a rainy night, or, most commonly, through a message sent from further down the path.

But some goodbyes are final.

At the start of the Richmond Ranges, I parted ways with Gina, Sasja, and Theresa in Nelson. They had their sights set on the Abel Tasman long walk. John and I were pressing on, continuing the Te Araroa. This intersection at the top of the South Island is a crossroads, a place where tramilies split, some to reunite, some to disappear into new friendships.

From Hacket Hut, John and I met our first of many river crossings. I tried using my Chacos at first but gave up after a few kilometers, wading in with my trail runners instead. A wise decision, saving time and effort, though it meant my socks would never be dry again. This is not an exaggeration. I wake with dry feet, but by mid-morning, they are soaked, and they stay that way until I sleep.

John, in his sturdy boots, had plenty of ankle support but not enough tread for the river rocks. He slipped. The fall was quick, a sharp breath sucked in, then a sickening crack. A heartbreakingly minor, trail-ending accident. A broken toe.

He limped his way back to Nelson and soon after flew home to Melbourne. He vows to return next year. I hope he does.

A New Cast of Characters

Alone now, I climbed to Starveall Hut, a 700-meter ascent into thick fog. The trees here have roots like gnarled hands, reaching, twisting. I am used to loose scree, to slopes that shift and slide, but here the mud is slick, the roots like bars on a ladder. My legs worked overtime, my pack heavy with food and an unnecessary amount of water. 

At the hut, I crouched by the water tank, filtering a fresh liter, when a bearded Englishman stepped out of the mist.

“You’ve come at a late hour! I’m afraid there aren’t any beds left in the hut, but if you ask politely, you can sleep on the floor.”

That was Tim Metcalf. Comically English, always muttering to himself in the third person, and a knack for dry humor. If I’m not hiking alone, I’m hiking with Tim. 

The Queen Charlotte had been camping-only, and this was my first experience with the huts along the TA—a uniquely Kiwi experience. Starveall was small, a simple wooden cottage with six bunks and a furnace. Some hikers had pitched their tents out back, preferring the wind and cold to the warmth inside. I chose the floor, grateful for the shelter, for Tim’s hospitality, for the accidental company that comes from walking in the same direction at the same time.

That night, I laid on the dusty wood floor, my body resting after the first of many climbs. Outside, the fog thickened, pressing against the windows. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp socks drying by the fire. My sleeping bag cocooned me, trapping the day’s remaining warmth against my skin. The heat from the stove seeped into the floorboards, into my stiff muscles, melting away the cold that had settled deep in my bones. I was wrapped in stillness, in the quiet relief of knowing that, for tonight at least, I was dry.

Starveall Hut in the mist when I arrived.

Onto the Ridgeline

The birds are quieter here, their calls brief, restrained to the mornings and evenings. The trees, too, seem different—shorter, hardier, as if they have learned not to expect much. The land is rough, stripped back. It does not invite. 

The long grasses ripple in waves, gold and purple under the shifting sky. The ridgelines stretch out in every direction, bare-backed and wind-scoured, the mountains rising like the knuckles of something ancient. The sky feels larger here, the land less concerned with whether you make it across or not.

Between the saddle of Little Rintoul and Mt. Rintoul, the ground loosens underfoot, shifting without permission. There is no trail, only the suggestion of one, a faint line in the scree. The wind, when it comes, arrives suddenly, as if someone has thrown open a door. It tests my footing, tugs at my pack, as if checking what is mine and what can be taken. Each step must be chosen carefully. Each decision has a consequence. I climb because climbing is better than the alternative.

Tim and I hiking the ridgeline towards Little Rintoul and Mt. Rintoul.

The Summit

From the top, the land is a series of folds, great pleats of earth cast across the horizon. Valleys and ridgelines tumble into one another, soft as fabric from this distance. Far below, a river threads silver through the valley. The mountains do not care whether I am here. They were here long before me, and they will remain long after.

Marie arrived not long after I did, grinning like she had just won something. I had met her in Nelson, at a post office of all places, then again at Starveall Hut. A strong French woman, tattooed, sharp-witted, always quick to laugh. We sat in the dirt together, packs off, boots loosened, taking in the view like it was a meal we had cooked ourselves.

I wanted a cigarette. Badly. I swear I’m not a smoker, but I am keen to the occasional nicotine boost after large triumphs or defeats. 

Marie must have read it on my face, because she reached into her pack, pulled one out, and lit it.

“I thought you quit?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I did. I vape now.”

I raised an eyebrow. She held the silence for a second longer, then broke into laughter. 

She exhaled smoke into the wind, then held the cigarette out to me without a word. I took it before she could change her mind.

The first drag felt like a reward, like something I had been owed after days of climbing, after endless miles of wet feet and hunger gnawing at my ribs. The wind carried the smoke away in ribbons. Marie leaned back on her elbows, eyes closed, letting the sun warm her face. “Not bad, eh?”

“Not bad at all” I replied quietly, trying not to disturb the delicate silence that lingered between our short exchanges.  

For a moment, there was nothing else. No blisters, no aching legs, no weight on our backs. Just the wind, the mountains, the taste of smoke in the air.

Then, with a sigh, we stood, shouldered our packs, and kept walking.

The view from Rintoul at sunrise. Photo Credits: Theresa

What the Richmonds Taught Me

I have never believed that humans conquer nature. We are visitors, trespassers, no matter how long we stay. The land does not yield to us, though sometimes, if we are lucky, it allows us to pass through.

The Richmonds gave me a new family and the feeling that I had earned the title of thru-hiker. Nearly a week on trail, limited food, broken sleep, long days that stretched from dawn until dusk. These mountains both humbled and exalted me, gifting me with breathtaking views and countless blunders.

I move forward, lighter now. Part of something much bigger than myself. 

Thanks for reading, 

Grace