A Lord of the Rings-Themed Long Weekend on the North Island (March 21-23)

It would not be an exaggeration to say that I’ve never been a worse student than I am proving to be this semester. A perfect illustration of this is the week that I have just completed, in which I  nearly spent all weekend into Monday in Dunedin, drove home on Tuesday, attended two classes on Wednesday, then flew to the North Island for the rest of the week. Instead, in a well-timed change of plans, I returned home from Dunedin late Sunday night, found myself very ill with a cold Monday, attended my classes for two and a half days, and then skipped out on the last half of the week to go north. Oh well, it was for pretty darn good reasons.

Way back in November, sitting at Mike’s bar in Ushongo and doing some sort-of research about New Zealand, I stumbled upon the Hobbiton “Halfling Marathon”, a 21.1km run through the movie set of Hobbiton and surrounding farm and hills, set for Saturday, March 22, 2025. “But you guys, what if I don’t make any friends by then?”, I asked my companions as we ate our daily fare of terrible pizza and fries. “You will, Riley, don’t worry. You should definitely sign up”, they responded. 

So I signed up and crossed my fingers that I’d find friend-making in New Zealand easy-peasy, that I’d make friends for whom this sounded like an awesome adventure and a great reason to fly to Auckland for a random weekend in March. 

I’d say it worked out 75% as expected–I do in fact have friends, they do in fact think that that sounds like a good time, but alas, by the time we’d met the race was very much sold out. However, as the race date approached, I realized that I might as well take advantage of my flight north and see if I could tack on another adventure I was excited about for the semester–the Tongariro Northern Circuit, one of the three Great Walks on the North island, and one located in a totally new landscape full of volcanism and huge craters. Incidentally, the Tongariro Circuit includes walking around Mt. Ruapehu, or Mt. Doom from Lord of the Rings. When I presented this plan to my friends a couple of weeks ago, with a Wednesday departure, Thursday-Friday hike, and Saturday return, Dylan was the only one who bit. 

Which is how we found ourselves rushing to the airport after our noon class on Wednesday, driven by Lily in Sal, hiking packs plane-proofed and ready for action. After arriving at the airport less than an hour before takeoff (Erin, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry about that time in Vienna that I got mad at you for this very thing, this country has changed me), we boarded our flight and settled in for probably my final adventure on the North Island. 

Arriving in Auckland around 2pm, we hoofed it to pick up our rental car, which took a weirdly long time, and started heading south. Our route for this trip was quite nonsensical, in that we flew into Auckland and then had to drive five hours south, into the territory of multiple other regional airports, then reverse the process following our hike. I justified the decision based on the low price of both the flight and the rental car, and the fact that neither Dylan nor I mind a little road trip. 

We headed down in the pouring rain, stopping in a town I do not know the name of for a delicious dinner at a book-themed restaurant and a provisioning run at a Woolworth’s, then kept heading towards National Park. I had only one good lead for a place to sleep that night, a Department of Conservation campsite where I figured we could sleep in the car (conveniently, as although I’d brought my tent, I packed it in my carry-on and had my tent stakes confiscated–Connor, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry and I’ll replace them). With immense flashbacks to that long-ago-feeling month in a minivan, Dylan and I crammed into the back of our Suzuki Corolla and conked out around 11. 

We woke to a misty morning at 7, made our sneaky exit from the campground, and perused the tiny settlement of National Park, a place I felt I had orbited during my time on the North Island but wasn’t sure I’d ever actually go to. We ordered coffees and pies, bought fuel, and ate in the car as the mist rose over the almost-savannah landscape. Our hike started at a huge hotel that looked like the Overland hotel from The Shining, perched at the base of the sometimes-ski slopes, and headed uphill, into the gentle slopes of the area surrounding the two giant mountains that stare at each other in this odd, spiky landscape. 

After only an hour and a half of winding up and down these small rises and dips, we arrived at the first hut, where we intended to eat lunch. Instead we forged ahead, stopping to check the weather on the way, just for kicks. As it turned out, the weather report was a bright red, stating that the alpine crossing we were now joining was “not recommended” based on high winds and low visibility. The shape of our circuit included the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a popular big day-hike recommended to me all the way back to when I was bumping around in the back of a van on my way to the Whanganui with Tiger. Sort of fitting, this being (likely) my last Great Walk, right back where I started my first. 

As it turned out, few people seemed to follow the no-go recommendation, and we were not about to be swayed from our big day ahead. We did stop and eat lunch at the start of the valley and big climb, suspecting (correctly) that the tops would be inhospitable. We munched on our bagels, with cream cheese and salami and tuna, respectively, then started out on a long wander towards the ridge we’d be climbing up. Like the other Great Walks I’ve done, the infrastructure on this hike was top notch, with a very long boardwalk bringing us up to the snaking switchbacks. The climb was broken into several sections with plateaus in between. There were many signs stating “that was the easy part!” and other such encouraging verbiage, to discourage ill-prepared people from trying to make it all the way up and over. 

After the initial climb, we found ourselves in a wild Mars-scape of red rocks and beast-shaped rock protrusions, and then in a flat saddle reminiscent of the saddle on Kilimanjaro, in which the perspective of actually being on a mountain is completely lost because it’s so flat.

We wandered across the flat section with low visibility and fog almost completely filling the bowl. Then another misleading section of climbing, which looked like only a hundred feet or so up to a ridge but was actually just the beginning, and we began a long slog up a thin ridge with people streaming down the peak past us. The visibility was, in fact, pretty much zero, and the winds were fierce, reaching, as we later learned, up to 50 mph gusts. We made it to the top of Red Crater without too much trouble, knowing that, much like my experience on the Routeburn, if there hadn’t been fog we would have had a spectacular view of the wild landscape around us. Instead, we spread our arms out in the wind and shouted at each other over the loud rush, not spending too much time in one place for fear of getting cold. 

The descent was in many ways wilder than the ascent, in that I was essentially following Dylan into the abyss, into grey nothing that surrounded us on all sides. The ridge itself got even narrower, and was completely loose dirt and scree, which made for harrowing slips and slides.

Before long, we were at a series of wild volcanic lakes, rising out of the mist like something from a horror movie and making their own hot steam rising upwards and sideways in the wind. After some missguided minutes following a trail that didn’t exist, we parted ways from the alpine crossing and started our last descent just as the sky cleared. Suddenly we could see the whole bowl stretching away below us, complete with wild geothermal vents, a hundred different colors of the rocks, and the ridge we had just walked far above us. It was spectacular and well-earned, and I was almost grateful for the lack of visibility so we could have that moment of gratitude and clarity on our way down.

The way down from there was much easier, and we moved fast across the otherworldly landscape, knowing we were close to the hut. After navigating more wild rock sculptures we rounded a small rise to the hut.

This was my first time staying in a hut on a Great Walk, but thankfully this one was pretty small and just as homey as the others I’ve been in. We arrived at 3:30, having absolutely crushed our mileage, and just as a light rain started, we stretched and changed outside, made a cup of tea, and engaged in my all-time favorite activity: being in my sleeping bag at 4 in the afternoon. We had a nice lofted spot in the main room of the hut, perfect for eavesdropping on people getting to know each other but out of the way enough to do our own thing. We snacked, read, did Sudoku, and flashed notes at each other about the conversations we heard. 

After a bit, I got restless, and we braved the cold, gray drizzle to check out the nearby waterfall. Located just off the flats where the hut was placed, it looked once more like we were going to step off the edge of the world, and when we caught sight of the waterfall I couldn’t help but gasp. I’ve seen quite a few waterfalls since I got here, but this one was particularly stunning, with a small stream catapulting off a ledge down probably 100 feet. We contoured sideways along the valley wall towards it, then arrived at several deep pools at the top above the ledge. It’s not every day you get to swim at the top of a waterfall! Despite the cool temperature, I instantly stripped and jumped in, lying flat to feel the chill seep in amidst the drizzle. 

After, we dried off and trudged back to the hut and back to our cozy spot, drinking more tea and watching the afternoon fade away. For dinner, we housed two full containers of ravioli in red sauce, content and sleepy. We called it an early night, as did the rest of the hut, and settled in for another night of listening to a dozen people breathe and shuffle around, woodsmoke filling the air with sweet warmth.

The next morning we were some of the last to rise, around 7, and quickly gathered our things, watched a stunning sunrise, and ate a rushed (and gross…. I need to stop falling for fancy oatmeal) breakfast before setting out around 8:30.

This day I anticipated to be another short one, with more of the gradual rise and fall of the beginning of the first day as we completed our loop around Mt. Doom. The morning actually started with some cool climbing up and over the spits of land that come off the mountain like spokes on a wheel, then a descent into a beech forest before a steep climb out of it. The rest of the morning was spent with gentle elevation gains and losses, the mountain on our right, and I was feeling my weariness. Something about the constant undulations across a non-changing landscape felt existentially exhausting, and I was thrilled to make it to our lunch spot, where I thought we’d get to swim, but instead just gazed down at a crater lake far below us and swatted at sandflies. 

With only an hour to go, we reached a crossroads, where we could choose either to hike an upper route around a waterfall and river or a lower route alongside the river. Seeing the beauty of the waterfall, we chose the lower route so we could wind our way along the river–one of my single best decisions of my time in New Zealand. After another twenty minutes of walking or so, the bright blue, gorged-in river looked far too enticing, and we hunted for a place to clamber down and swim. Finding the only suitable spot for clambering and swimming, at the top of a steep waterfall beneath a bridge, we dropped our packs and headed down for probably my favorite swim in New Zealand yet. The rocks themselves were smooth and curved, creating a deep and narrow pool with almost no current, despite the huge drop mere feet away. With incredible views up- and down-river, we dunked and splashed, stood at the top of the waterfall, and marveled at our incredible luck. 

Non-swimming waterfall

Swimming waterfall

After far too short a time, we packed up and kept it moving, entering a forest section that included the crossroads where our loop had started the day before. The track ended just like it started, with us climbing up and over small, shrubby ridges, and we were back at the car before 4pm. 

But the fun was only just beginning: I had 22 hours to shape up before my half marathon, and plenty to accomplish. We headed north, deciding to make a short detour to the town of Taupo for dinner, where we had a delicious pub meal and a beer before booking it to Matamata. I had high hopes that Dylan would be able to sleep on the floor of my Airbnb, but the host said no, so we had a chaotic handoff of items in the driveway as Dylan kept heading north to Hamilton. An unceremonious goodbye, but we were both happily in our separate beds by 11 that night, me freshly showered in a bed so comfortable I nearly wept.

The next morning I slept in until 8:30, and woke to the smells of breakfast being cooked for me and the house’s other guest, who turned out to be a lovely guy named Brad from New Hampshire also running the race. We shared a huge feast prepared by our hosts and chatted for a while, during which time Brad kindly offered me a ride in his rental car to the race, before parting ways to prep. After a bit more lounging in my fantastic bed, I walked into downtown Matamata to get a weird smattering of groceries. Before long it was time to head to the race, which I soon realized I was in complete denial about. My training had been less-than-optimal, in which I often prioritized having fresh legs for backpacking over going for long runs during the week, meaning the furthest I’d run was 7 miles about a month before the race. In addition, Brad was going on and on about how famously hilly the race was, with 2,000+ feet of elevation gain. Gulp. 

We got in the car around 1 and arrived to a super exciting scene, with lots of people in awesome costumes, live music, food trucks, and general excitement. It was fun to be back in a place that had been part of my early days in New Zealand, especially with all the added hubbub. And how humane to be at a race start at lunch time!, I thought, before the hell that was to come. 

My denial only mounted as the start time drew closer and people flooded across the road to the movie set side of the street. Around 2:15pm, Gandalf counted us off and we flew, the crowd of 950 runners funneling through an on-brand arch and immediately reaching a choke point, that being an actual sheep path the race was set on. I walked for a bit, unable to move through the rush and desperately trying to make my running app and music work. Before long the race spread out, and I found the people I’d chase for the next 13 miles. 

As it turned out, the race was entirely hills, and my phone clocked almost 3,000 feet of elevation gain by its end. Also, 2pm is a terrible time to start a race!!! The course was entirely exposed, with absolutely no shade, and we were being blasted by the sun the entire time. Before long I was dripping with sweat, grumpy, and still in denial about the task ahead. Thankfully, the crowd I was around was very united in the unexpected difficulties of the course, so there was a lot of trudging the uphill and running the downhill, and lots of commiserating. It was definitely the most jovial crowd I’ve ever seen at a race, and people seemed genuinely psyched to be there. 

This couple surprised each other with these shirts for Christmas... trail parents for real

A few miles in we made it to Hobbiton itself, and I took my time walking through and seeing all of the hobbit holes and adorable gardens. Hobbiton was way cuter than I anticipated, a colorful, joyful spot in the midst of brown hills, and I found myself gasping at every new sight. Flowers bloomed, women in costume played the fiddle, the sun was shining, life was good. The trail rose up and away from the set and back into the hills. 

An oasis in the midst of a very dry farm

Just before the halfway point, after a few aid stations and random orcs scattered across the course, I encountered a woman shouting “swimmers this way, non-swimmers that way!”. Knowing my place, I beelined for a long line of runners stripping and waiting to jump off a platform into a pond. Hell yeah, I thought, this is my kind of race. At that moment, already well over an hour in, I realized that the stakes of this whole endeavor were very, very low, and that I needed to lean into the fun and the chaos and stop taking it so seriously. I waited in line for almost 40 minutes, meeting some Americans along the way, then was ushered forwards by a Kiwi man in very short shorts, who counted me down. The drop was way higher than anticipated, at least 25 feet, and I was grateful I had strapped down my loose items ahead of time as I heard echoes of lost Apple watches all around me. The water was cold and refreshing, and after clambering out, I climbed a nearby hill and went down a water slide. It was a blast. Every race should have a midway swim point.

After that was the biggest climb of the race, up to a spectacular viewpoint of the entire area. At the top a woman was throwing up, so I kept it cooking.

The second half of the race mostly flew by, as I resigned myself to a very slow time and kept telling myself “this is literally a marathon, not a sprint”. About a mile from the end, however, I was dragging, and happy to take a break at the Green Dragon Inn when we came back through Hobbiton. I drank a hard cider and ate a piece of cheese and a pickle, then looked out over the water, feeling lonely and tired. I hightailed it for the last mile, which was almost entirely uphill, feeling that I desperately needed to be done with this endeavor. 

The finish line was just as joyful as the start, and I happily accepted another free beer and sat on the top of the hill, feeling grateful for my body and for the beautiful evening sunlight.

I had some idea that my new buddy Brad would give me a ride home, but never got his texts about heading, so instead I loitered, ate a delicious burger, and met some lovely women from Alaska and Washington. 

Time slipped away until it was suddenly dark, and I was very cold and tired. I got on the last shuttle to Matamata with a dead phone and, thankfully, a good idea of how to get back to the house. After a sleepy ride back, I hobbled home to the Airbnb, aware that no one knew where I was and I’d promised to be back half an hour beforehand for dinner. I snuck in the back of the house to a very domestic dinner scene, chatted with Brad and my hosts, and passed out once again. 

Sunday was a long-ish travel day starting with a bus from Matamata to Hamilton and another bus from Hamilton to Auckland. Ah the Hamilton bus station, the Kennebunkport rest stop of New Zealand. I don’t mind the bus, and it felt like a major flashback to the beginning of my time here. I then spent a long while in the Auckland airport writing blog posts and reading, and flew back to Christchurch in the late afternoon. Heading south really felt like a homecoming, and it was gratifying to realize how much Christchurch, and my people, have started to feel like home. My buddies picked me up in our car with loud hoots and signs, and I felt very, very loved. 

It was a fitting, closing-of-the-loop trip to the North Island, and I’m glad I was able to fit it all in. Grateful to the friend who came, the new friends I made along the way, and the friends who welcomed me back. Grateful for strong legs and a big heart. And also, pretty darn glad it’s over. 

Onto the next!