THE MYSTERY OF MISS DOROTHY MCHAFFIE

I arrived at Arthur's Pass with a bagful of personal trauma and a list of tramping objectives. The list was split into two columns: on the left, the stuff I'd been too chicken to do; on the right, easy day walks that could form ‘active recovery’ should I succeed with a chicken objective and deserve a rest. Arthur's Pass is hostile country with hungry rugged landscapes, but the little village features a cluster of simple day trips frequented by tourists in impractical shoes carrying cloth supermarket bags. The location offered the perfect spot for both columns of my tramping objective.

Christchurch nurse Dorothy McHaffie arrived in Arthur's Pass in February 1929 with two suitcases, a black leather hatbox, a rug, a cushion and her own bagful of personal trauma. She checked in her extensive baggage at the train station, and was never seen again. McHaffie was training to be a midwife but it had all become too much; her nerves were shattered and she