The heaving Heaphy was about as fun in parts for me as bamboo being rammed up my fingernails, but, to be fair, that was due more to my own capabilities than the track.

 I can now look back though and be glad I did it (and finished it) as the amazing and special place that it is.

 I think one of the highlights for me, apart from the stunning scenery, was seeing the wildlife along the track - the bolshy wekas, and plentiful giant native snails (Powelliphanta) and the largest worm I’ve ever seen.

 And when we gained altitude and stopped for a break, friendly little bush robins came to visit. One landed on my boot to have a peck. It’s usually rare to see the snails alive but we saw loads of them and were often picking them up off the trail and putting them to the side to make sure no-one inadvertently stood on one.

 Unfortunately we also saw three live ferrets, Rodger had a rat or two visit him in the night when he chose to sleep under the stars and I had a stand-off with a possum. Along the track DOC has planted many traps, but that’s an ongoing war with the wily wee pests.

 The Heaphy Track, in Kahurangi National Park, is by no means considered a tough track.

 There are no steep inclines or bush bashing to do, but it is long. Over 80km of often stony track is waiting to be tackled and while people have been known to do it in a day of running, most attempt it in three to five days.

 Our team of six – cousins Roger Fenwick (Blenheim), Dal and Prue Fea (Auckland), my sister Kym Fenwick and my 16-year-old nephew Beau Fenwick (Kaikoura) and myself – went for the middle ground of four days, so we were averaging 20km a day.

 We started at the Karamea end, from the Kohaihai carpark, and followed the roaring coastline the whole day. The first day was not so bad; fresh as daisies we took off full of enthusiasm, clean-smelling and striding out along the coastal section.

 It was a bit of a wet start but was probably the only day we encountered much rain. Nikau palms are a feature of this part of the track. The whole day was bush and coastal and not arduous on our fresh feet.

 Our first hut was the Heaphy Hut, at the Heaphy Rivermouth, an impressive river. The hut was great, and even had flushing toilets … luxury! But the man-eating sandflies meant shutting the door at all times. It was hard to know whether to brave the killer sandflies for some fresh air and do the Heaphy dance or sit in the stifling heat of a full-up hut (28 beds).

 A friend of my Karamea sister Marg Brownlie carried my sleeping bag and some food into the track for me to give me a fighting chance of survival. I will love Richard forever. It wasn’t cheating, it was from guilt. There were many things I cursed my fit sister about on the track, like failing to mention one LOOOONG day of going totally uphill with no let-up, or telling me the track was easy (yes, from a fit person’s perspective who did the track in two nights once, it would be easy), and failing to inform me that we would climb to 880m.

 I’m not sure at what point a hill becomes a mountain, but by the end of the day that sucker sure felt like Mt Cook.

 I thought I was in the twilight zone and there was no hut … that we would walk uphill forever … and I might have made my feelings plain on this once or twice. However, I had to forgive my gorgeous sister when I arrived home to find cold Radler waiting for me.

 Day two was our grunty day. By this stage I was already starting to get munched up, blistered feet and most of it was uphill bush walking. We passed some incredible forest of kahikatea, rimu and rata, and many little waterfall and pool oasis. We left the roar of the sea behind to follow the Heaphy River until we came to the Lewis Hut for an early lunch.

 In all my wisdom and directed by sore feet, when we came to a crossroads I went for the short option. The sign said, bridge 750m, ford 100m. I couldn’t figure out why the others were heading the long way, so I convinced cousin Prue that we needed to take the short option.

 Moral of the story? The quicker route is not always the best.

 We forded one stream with little difficulty and the Lewis Hut was close enough to through a rock at. What we didn’t see was the deeper, wider branch just over the rise. Prue whipped her boots off and waded across in quick time. I, on the other hand, tentatively and precariously tried my luck with boots in my hands. Have you ever stumbed on rocks with munched feet? And do a wee duck run with arms flapping to stop overloading with your pack, only to find your boots took a dunking and your feet are on ‘fire’? Well, yip, I managed that to the glee of my team who were already at the hut on the balcony watching my performance and hearing some fairly spicy language.

 Cousin Dal came to my rescue, whipped his boots off and guided me across the stream. Bless him … and he even managed not to laugh.

 After another dose of dehydrated food for lunch, while Dal tucked into his tin of creamed rice, we started the long uphill part of the second day in earnest. In all honesty, it’s a gentle uphill section … just long. As more of the uphill continued, the worse my feet got and arriving at the James Mackay Hut shrouded in mist was like winning Lotto. It is interesting to note that the hut is named after the explorer who first pressed for a bridle track to be established between Collingwood and the West Coast.

 The hut slept 26 and was situated just above the track on an open terrace. The Tasman Sea and Heaphy River mouth can be seen from here, 15km to the west and 750 metres below, although we had to wait until the next morning when the mist or cloud had all lifted. An incredible view indeed …

 Day three we were up and off at around 8am, and while we had reached the altitude, it was undulating terrain with plenty of uphill sections to fill me with joy. We stopped at Saxon Hut for lunch and enjoyed viewing the changing landscape along the way. Tiny little alpine flowers, and sparse vegetation is alternately tussock field and shrub-fringed patches of beech forest. Small creeks dissect the landscape and the pink granite crunches beneath your feet. From Mackay Hut to the Saxon marks the boundary between Nelson and the West Coast.

 After the Saxon (named after John Saxon, who surveyed the track in 1886) lunch-break we crossed the tussock country and riverbeds of Gouland Downs and stopped at the more traditional tramping hut, Gouland Downs Hut, for a rest and a chance to patch up some of our war wounds. We met two rangers there, one with a dog, and they informed us that the Kahurangi could have as many as 20,000 great spotted kiwis wandering about. We weren’t lucky enough to see any but we saw an awful lot of kiwi poo and it’s good to know the kiwis are holding their own.

 We were again lucky with the weather. It was getting warm that day, but apparently the downs make for good exploring. Although, when the mist lowers, the featureless terrain can be confusing and trampers can become disorientated.

 Stage three of the torturous third day we went from Gouland Downs Hut to the Perry Saddle through tussock clearings and patches of beech. You pass the famed pole which trampers have tied old boots over the years. Nearby, my team caught a glimpse of limestone caves to check out, one with a waterfall flowing over the entrance. Cousin Roger wanted to understand what the early settlers must have encountered and tried his hand at some bush-bashing to get to and from the cave. Kym and I had a break and heaved packs off while the others were off exploring the caves.

 This was definitely the day where I started to fall to bits. With about an hour-and-a-half to go to the Perry Saddle, walking was becoming a non-option. My muscles were fine, thank God for six weeks of gym work at Curves (I forgive all the staff for making me hurt), but my feet felt like they were screaming (I never exaggerate … ever). Muscle-man Dal took pity on me and took my pack, hooked it on the back of his and took off as if he was carrying a feather. And I took the tramping boots off and Prue tied them to her pack while I shoved my old-faithful Crocs on to ease the last bit of walking.

 Roger was never far away making sure he never left a man behind and trying to annoy me enough to keep me walking.

By this stage I had passed doing the Heaphy shuffle and was on to the Heaphy waddle. We made the Perry Saddle Hut and I was ready to expel whatever was in my stomach and, let me tell you, vomiting in a long drop was not an experience I’d like to repeat.

 I’m glad the next day was our last, because food was becoming the enemy and I wasn’t tolerating anything with sugar in it.

 The last day though was bliss. It was all downhill, shorter and mostly in bush cover. We made fairly short work of that day … while the fitter in the group hadn’t fared too badly, we were all glad to get our weary, rumpled selves down to Brown Hut.

 Along the way we passed a lot of fresh-looking people starting off on their Heaphy experience. They wafted past us foot-sore lot smelling like they’d just got out of a shower and I had to smile at the thought of what they got in return.

 Anyone who has done the Heaphy will tell you what a special place it is and while I might have called it some bad names when I was feeling sore and sorry for myself, it is a magical and diverse tramp that we are so lucky to have on our back doorstep.

 So many people will never experience the magic of the Heaphy ... so for that alone I feel privileged to have done it.

Down at base, Brown Hut, we made contact with our pilot for the return trip to Karamea and Kym and Beau had their car delivered to the nearby carpark.

 An man in his 70s drives the six hours from Karamea to the Brown Hut carpark and then RUNS the track home. Now that’s fit!

 The rest of us made our way to the carpark and were picked up by a hard-case by the name of Geoff – he refused to give me his last name, but made sure I got the spelling of Geoff right. He did his best to scare me about the flight back and even threatened to make me walk to the plane if my behaviour didn’t improve.

 We arrived at the take-off paddock to be greeted by Jim Larsen of Remote Adventures and his Cessna 185. Jim’s in his 70s, but he would put many of us to shame with his fitness. I was told me was one of the best bush pilots around. I took their word for it … little planes and me try to avoid each other, but it certainly beat a smelly, hot, six-hour drive back to Karamea.

 And I’m so glad I got the opportunity to fly – it was just breath-taking.

 Jim gave us a tiki tour over where we’d been and pointed out each hut. It wasn’t until seeing it from the air that I fully realised how far we’d walked and the vastness and beauty of the place we’d been privileged to traverse. He then travelled along the coastline to Karamea and flew over my sister Marg’s Riverstone Karamea restaurant and accommodation where she and my children were waving below.

 I felt like I’d been away for two weeks, so my children and sister waiting below was the best sight I could’ve seen.

 A smooth landing and we were back at home base ready and dying for a shower, real food, a cold drink and a bed without someone snoring right in your ear (isn’t that right Dal).

 This is a service I would recommend to anyone. It’s an amazing, quick and hassle-free way of getting back to your car after tramping the Heaphy. It was an awe-inspiring way to end our trip.

Pictured top: The tired looking team about to leave the Perry Saddle Hut ... homeward bound (from left) Prue Fea, Beau Fenwick, Dal Fea, Rodger Fenwick, Lisa Fenwick and Kym Fenwick.

Pictured left: Many of these wire swing bridges had to be crossed in the course of the tramp.