Naomi Arnold, 44, Nelson, NZ, shares her story below…
With every page I tore through, my heart yearned more and more.
“I’m going to do that one day,” I said aloud, a sudden, undeniable certainty settling in my chest.
It was December 2003, and I’d just graduated from University of Otago with an English literature degree.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I was reading Te Araroa The New Zealand Trail: One Man Walks His Dream by journalist Geoff Chapple.
He described walking 3000km from Cape Reinga to Bluff, through forests, beaches, mountains, rivers and gorges.
As I read, something deep inside me shifted.
I didn’t just want to read about New Zealand – I wanted to walk it.
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The trail wasn’t open yet, but I promised myself I’d do it when it was.
Growing up in Te Puke, my family had raised me to love the outdoors, and I already knew the quiet thrill of being alone in the bush – putting one foot in front of the other with nothing but time and the landscape for company.
Life, however, had other ideas.
In 2008, after freelancing and teaching English in South Korea, I returned to university to study journalism.
I went on to work across health, science and nature publications, travelling widely.
When Te Araroa officially opened in 2011, I thought again of that promise.
I’ll do it before I’m 40, I kept telling myself.
In 2012, I met Douglas, a science and drama teacher, through friends. We bonded instantly over tramping trips and wild places.
When I told him I wanted to walk Te Araroa solo, he didn’t hesitate.
“It sounds like an awesome adventure,” he said with a grin.
We married in 2017, and Douglas knew the trail would one day call me away.
In 2021, I turned 40 – and the journey I’d dreamed of still hadn’t begun.
So I stopped waiting.
I set a date: Boxing Day 2023. My friends and family were thrilled.
“You always said you wanted to do it,” Mum told me.
She and Douglas even offered to walk sections with me.
I prepared carefully. I was already hiking, horseriding and mountain biking, so my fitness was strong.
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I dehydrated meals and mailed them ahead to accommodation stops, planning to stay where I could and camp the rest of the time. The logistics felt manageable.
On Boxing Day, Douglas and I flew to Invercargill, then drove to Bluff.
Along the way, he pointed to a distant summit.
“That’s your first real test,” he said.
At the starting point, excitement vanished, replaced by fear.
What if I break a leg? What if something happens out here alone?
Douglas kissed me goodbye, tears in his eyes.
“Be safe,” he said.
I drew a steadying breath and stepped forward. On my first day, I walked 10km.
I passed another tramper near Bluff Hill, watched the city fade behind me and spotted Stewart Island across Foveaux Strait.
On the shoreline, I stopped at a memorial for people killed in a 1998 plane crash and left a flower.
That first night alone, I felt excited rather than scared.
A few days in, I stayed with a friend at Curio Bay.
After camping, a hot shower and a soft bed felt blissful.
Then came the Longwood Ranges. Within minutes, I was wading through deep, sucking mud. Each step was a battle.
“This is a nightmare,” I muttered.
My mood swung wildly – joy one day, loneliness the next.
Sometimes I went several days without even seeing another person.
To keep fear at bay, I recorded voice notes and shared Instagram stories.
Messages of encouragement poured in and kept me moving.
In February, while crossing Mount Martha Saddle, blue skies vanished in seconds. A lightning storm erupted.
“Oh no,” I groaned, throwing my poles aside.
I crouched between boulders, pulling my tent fly over myself as thunder cracked so close it felt like it was sitting on my skull.
One night, after taking a wrong turn, panic set in and I called Douglas in tears.
“I’m scared,” I sobbed.
“I can see where you are on GPS,” he said calmly, talking me down.
I was never going to quit, but some days were brutally hard.
In March, Douglas joined me for five days from Otira to Hanmer Springs.
Saying goodbye, and facing the silence again, was harder than I expected.
By June, 1850km in, I reached the Alpine Crossing.
Volcanic craters and surreal green-and-blue lakes stretched before me.
“I feel like I’m standing at the throat of the Earth,” I told my Instagram followers.
Not every night was magical.
Near Waitomo, I slept in a woolshed surrounded by sheep poo and filtered water from muddy ditches.
In July, disaster struck.
My foot slipped on wet grass near Te Kuiti and suddenly the ground vanished beneath me.
I tumbled off a cliff, crashing into bush below.
Shaking and bruised, I somehow hauled myself out and, on pure adrenaline, walked 10km to safety.
The next day, a doctor delivered the verdict: I’d torn a knee ligament.
“You need to rest it,” he told me.
After five days resting in Auckland, I bought a knee brace and continued.
In September, nine months after I began, I finally reached my finish line – the lighthouse at Cape Reinga.
I cried through the final steps. I’d carried this dream for 20 years.
When I flew home, Douglas met me at the airport.
“Well done, I knew you’d do it,” he said, scooping me into his arms.
We drove to Mum’s house, where I ate her chicken sandwiches, slipped into clean clothes and pulled on fresh socks. I was home.
The trail transformed me – body and mind. I became disciplined, organised and fiercely fit. I felt 16 again.
If you truly commit, you can do anything.
Out there, I became my own best friend and I’m proud of who I am today.
Northbound: Four Seasons of Solitude on Te Araroa, by Naomi Arnold, published by HarperCollins Aotearoa NZ.
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