ONCE A THRU-HIKER, ALWAYS A THRU-HIKER
It was weird being on a bus without a backpack and walking poles, without smelling like some rotting piece of fruit. It was a new experience after four and a bit months of walking along the squiggle of Te Araroa Trail.
Through the window, I could see two men stopped by someone in the street. I could tell in an instant they were TA thru-trampers: dishevelled hair, beards long and scraggly. Their clothes ripped and grubby, hanging off their stick-like bodies, two sizes too big.
Yet their unkempt and emaciated figures were full of
