Hazel Phillips - Solo: Backcountry Adventuring in Aotearoa New Zealand

IN 2016, DISILLUSIONED WITH what Auckland had become, I left. I didnt know where I wanted to live, but I figured that packing up and going on the road would at least help me figure it out.

I was also disillusioned with the standard 40-hour-work-week approach of being chained to a desk, and I had switched jobs to a new gig where I was the only staff member in New Zealand. The rest of the company was based in Australia, so I was left on my own to get on with it. My work became entirely doable remotely, and flexibly everything was done with my 13-inch laptop, iPad and mobile phone and eventually it just seemed silly to stay in Auckland, with its housing and traffic challenges. (In the age of Covid-19, it now seems unthinkable, perhaps ridiculous, that we once demanded that people be tied to a specific desk, in a specific office, for a specific period of time each week.)

And so I left. I packed up my whole life except for a tramping pack, boots and ski gear and cut a fast track south.

For the next three years I was strategically homeless. Home became wherever Id chosen to be at that moment. Sometimes it was an alpine club lodge, sometimes a Department of Conservation (DoC) hut, sometimes camping out in the bush or bedding down in a bivvy bag if Id stuffed up and had nowhere to sleep. Sometimes it was a nice hotel in Sydney, when I had to travel for work, which always presented a bizarre contrast of lifestyles; I once spent the night at Rangiwahia Hut in the Ruahine Range, tramped out the next day, drove to Wellington Airport, flew to Sydney and went to bed in a hotel that night.

Strategic homelessness allowed me to be in the hills every weekend and sometimes on weeknights, too. A typical excursion would start on Friday afternoon, when Id haul on my pack, don my boots and walk into the wilderness until Monday morning. Id usually have until around midday before I needed to be back online; thats when my Aussie colleagues would begin to down their coffee and switch on their computers (and, possibly, wonder where I was).

To the casual social media observer, it looked like I was living a dream life always skiing, tramping, mountaineering, with beautiful photos to show for it. What wasnt quite so obvious in the dishonest social construct that is Facebook, was that it demanded more energy, enthusiasm, time management and work than ever. If I stole a chunk of Monday morning tramping out of the bush, it meant a late-night Monday. If I took off camping up a stream bed on Wednesday night, it meant a long Thursday workday. It was a constant juggling act but it was worth it.

Over those years, I tramped my way up and down the country, from the Hump Ridge to Ruapehu and across the Kaimanawa and Kaweka ranges. I destroyed three pairs of boots, two packs and four sets of gaiter straps. Countless packets of dehy food and tasty snacks were consumed. People were met. Land was traversed. Books were read.

During this time I watched my good friend and fellow journalist Rob Hosking fade from the earth after losing his battle with cancer and never getting to do all the things hed planned. His death and these years taught me that you only get one shot at this stuff. Make sure you give it heaps.

Taking in the stars and snow on a night-time traverse of the Tongariro Alpine Crossing. We started late in the evening under a full moon, which lights up the landscape as it reflects on the snow. It was cold. Very cold. MIKE HEYDON, JET PRODUCTIONS