Authors: Lonely Planet
‘That’s why they call you Running Boots?’
‘Yeah.’ He laughs self-consciously and lifts one of his gumboots to show us the sole. The original patterned tread has worn away.
‘Did you meet an Englishman walking up from Invercargill? He’s walking the length of New Zealand too.’
Running Boots shakes his head. ‘Ain’t seen no one else.’
‘You just sleep out all the time?’ Lisa asks.
‘Yeah. Came up Spirits Bay on the other side, then slept out at Tapotupotu beach.’
He takes his leave, climbing the steep path leading from the beach to the top of the rock promontory of Cape Reinga. Lisa and I dump our packs in the shade of the overhanging rocks at the edge of the beach. The tide is ebbing. We strip and wade into the sea, occasionally looking for Wayne Running Boots as he climbs the hillside.
There is no rip-tide here and the shelf of beach reaches far into the long line of waves coming in from the sea. We dare go further out and body-surf, catching the rollers that return us to shallow water. We swim out repeatedly, ducking under the incoming waves. Each time we dive, it is as if we are being ritually cleansed. Waves topple over us as we submerge under them, to swim back out to deeper water and body-surf in again. The sun is brilliant and warm, the sea a bright turquoise. A dozen dolphins ride the swells briefly before disappearing. Their presence is a reminder of all that is wonderful about New Zealand.
We leave the beach and follow in the footsteps of Wayne Running Boots. At the top of the peninsula are several concrete block buildings. One is a tiny shop selling souvenirs, postcards, ice creams and soft drinks. Several coaches are parked in the parking lot, and more turn up as we watch. Tourists congregate at the bottleneck of the only door to the shop, most with name tags on their chests. I am tempted to greet them all by name. ‘Hey Joe!’ or ‘
Sayonara
Hashimoto!’ Many seem to have picnic boxes; they munch through their contents while sitting on benches. Others wander around taking photographs, or buying souvenirs. A Japanese man strolls about quietly, commenting aloud to his video camera, recording both his voice and the view of his wife as he carefully studies a built-in miniature screen. They look so
clean and colourful. Lisa and I seem out of place as we stroll among them with our dirty clothing, heavy backpacks and hiking boots.
We follow the crowd of tourists the short distance along a smooth asphalt path to a small lighthouse. A signpost points in different directions with the distance to cities marked: Tokyo, Los Angeles, Sydney, Vancouver and London. Three tourists stand by the signpost happily mugging it up for the photographer.
I look around for the English publican, almost expecting to see him sitting there quietly on his own, contemplating whatever it is that instigated his walk up the length of New Zealand. He is nowhere to be seen.
Far out to sea, a cruise ship slowly passes by the northern tip of New Zealand, its sleek hull silhouetted dark against the sun reflecting off the shimmering ocean. Closer in, the waves of the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea clash and dance dramatically. Immediately below is Cape Reinga, but the tourists do not seem to notice. While the lighthouse has an information plaque on it, there is no marker describing this most sacred of Maori sites.
Staring down at the craggy crevices, I make out the pohutukawa tree clinging miraculously to the bare rocks. Waves surge and foam about its roots. It does not seem possible that an unprotected tree could survive amidst these exposed rocks, which are relentlessly hammered by the sea. Yet it has survived, not for a day, but for hundreds of years. Then I notice amongst the twisted tangle of rocks and roots the figure of Wayne Running Boots. He is bent on his knees, humbly proffering shells and feathers and cat’s-eyes to the spirit tree.