I am on the edge of Lake Waikaremoana in a basic wooden cabin. My cabin, shared with five others, overlooks the black waters of Opourau Bay. Groceries are being piled onto a round table and organised into daily portions. It’s mid-January and a mild 17 degrees outside. Black swans honk as they paddle across the lake. Thunder rumbles. Rain courses down the window.
Back in my Wellington city apartment, I dreamed of getting away to this isolated pocket of Te Urewera walking among giant podocarps. What I hadn’t banked on was the insight I’d get into the cultural shift taking place here as I wandered along the lake’s 46km trail.
Before heading north, I read about Tūhoe’s Treaty settlement in 2013 that granted Te Urewera personhood and ended Lake Waikaremoana’s status as a DOC-managed park. But I couldn’t really make out what it meant in practise. As a tramper, how should I act when I get there? Would it be different to other Great Walks? How would I know if I needed to do or think about things differently?
But I felt excited and started boning up on the history of Tūhoe and Lake Waikaremoana. Tūhoe, I learned, were now recognised in New Zealand law as kaitiaki (caregivers) of Te Urewera. Over time, DOC’s presence would taper away and Tūhoe would become full-time guardians of the Great Walk. Other things would change. Tūhoe would encourage people to start seeing Te Urewera less as a recreation estate managed by the government and more as a much-loved family member we’d all need to care for.
My plan for walking the track was simple. I would reflect on this world view as I traversed the landscape.
After an early morning boat ride on the lake, we make it to Onepoto to begin the gruelling climb through dense forest up to Panekire Bluff for lunch. Standing on the sheer rock escarpment with the sun on my face and my 12kg pack gleefully discarded, I take in the panorama, eat my cheese and crackers and try to make out the tragic shape of Haumapuhia in the distance. According to iwi, it is the body of their ancestor preserved in the rocks below. Defying her father’s wishes, she created the lake and hillsides first by thwarting his attempt to drown her, then by transforming into a taniwha, and finally by struggling to flee to the ocean as she turned to stone. I imagine how it feels to have such a visceral connection to the landscape.
By late afternoon, we made it to Panekire Hut. All 36 bunks are booked. Happy campers and their gear are strewn across the lawn as the sun begins to fade.
We start early the next day, taking in the fresh smell of the bush, the frilly shape of podcarp leaves underfoot and the flashes of brilliant blue sky above us. It doesn’t take much to free my mind of work and to simply enjoy putting one foot in front of the other. Passing a Tūhoe ranger in a high-vis jacket, we call out “kia ora” and ask about tomorrow’s weather. The sun’s still out when we reach Waiopaoa Hut so I strip off and take a dip in the lake.
We head up Waiopaoa Stream, cross grasslands and walk through a changing landscape of kānuka and rimu forest. Before we reach Marauiti Hut, we shuck our packs and take the hour-long walk to Korokoro Falls. There’s an otherworldliness about this river valley – even on a clear summer’s day. Surrounded by the gossamer spray of the waterfall, the Tūhoe creation story of the mist maiden Hinepukoho-rangi coupling with Te Maunga, the mountain, makes perfect sense.
Our final day is picturesque. Wandering the lake’s edge, we climb over the Pukehou Ridge and down through the forest, past the kiwi enclosure, eventually arriving at Hopuruahine Landing. We take off our boots and sprawl out on the slipway to wait for the water taxi. My pack is light but my heart is full.
– Jacqui Gibson is a freelance writer living in Wellington

