By Ryan Woolley
In February, I returned to New Zealand to visit family and reacquaint myself with home. One acquaintance stood at the top of my list – The Tararua Range. As the mountainous backbone of the southern part of the North Island, the range towers above the west and east coasts. To the west – the Kapiti Coast, green and lush. New Zealand’s oceanic climate keeps this side of the country nourished. To the east – the Wairarapa region: respite for those blown from the tops in weather that only seemed to be a whisper some hours before. Such is the nature of the Tararua Range – its decisions are swift and deliberate, however unprecedented. The Schormann to Kaitoke (S-K) Trail spans the distance of the Main Range of these mountains – 15,500 feet of elevation across 46 miles of singletrack. The S-K Trail’s Fastest Known Time (at a tick over 18 hours) was a challenge that I had set my heart on upon returning to New Zealand.
The Main Range
Driving between Greytown and Masterton, on our way to the trailhead, my father moves his left hand across the Main Range. He has an eye for the weather – its language and how it moves, its patterns from year-to-year. His hand was following the movement of clouds across the tops where I would soon be running. I could tell that he was sifting through the various elements of risk attached to such a trip, and for good reason - I would be running through the night, traveling light across acreage that I never traversed before.
My father has always been a touchstone to my running bubble. When I was a teenager, beginning to sense what it would take to become entrenched in the local competitive cross country and track scene, he would ask me questions to confirm that I wasn’t unwillingly being dragged into the depths of a cult. “And, you’re still enjoying your running, right?” he would ask carefully as I left to join another Saturday afternoon run with my harrier club. At that point in my life, running was clearly a safer alternative to throwing my body across the rugby field. Though supportive as he was of my commitment to the sport, he always seemed curious about what it was to be a runner.
As a teenager, running was not as much a way to stay healthy and active as it was a way for me to say that I was someone to be reckoned with on the track. My coach throughout high school and university was one of Arthur Lydiard’s biggest advocates. During the 1960s, Arthur became world-renowned for adding the “100” to every marathon runner’s token 100-mile week – a distance that he considered crucial to the success of his 1960 Rome Summer Olympics athletes (Murray Halberg, 5000m gold; Peter Snell, 800m gold; Barry Magee, marathon bronze). My coach took on a similar tone to his approach – run the miles, build a big motor, and (most of) the rest will look after itself. Through the influence of Lydiard, as I grew older, a part of running began to feel like a heroic undertaking. Covering long distances became self-affirming – running for hours on foot in the middle of summer was a way for me to express feelings of bravery and triumph.
The evening before leaving for my FKT attempt of the S-K Trail, as I laid out my kit and prepared to study the map, my sister spoke for the sense of confusion that most people would naturally experience in hearing about such a trip.
“I cannot fathom doing anything like that,” she claimed.
Her thought speaks to a part of myself that also wonders why I would choose to walk toward pain, sleep deprivation, and a range of emotions that I would be embarrassed to share with the closest of friends and family. There will be brief periods of elation. But, what about the other 17 of the 18 hours that I would be out there?
The clouds clear from the northern side of the Tararua Range as my father and I pull into the Putara Road end, marking the entrance to the S-K Trail. Equipped with an emergency blanket and beacon, a shell jacket, twelve gels, a quart of water, rice balls, and poles, I start the clock, moving in a direction upstream to the Mangatainoka River toward my first checkpoint, Herepai Hut. From the valley, indigenous tawa and miro trees open to dense leatherwood and snow tussock as I climb toward Pukemoremore peak. The view is vast. Being on a Top offers a perspective of the land that can be so grounding and empowering. Reason for being out there, isolated, seems clear in that moment – every trail runner must revel in feeling so connected to the land in moments such as these. After pressing on for six hours, a beautiful sunset soaks the Kapiti Coast. And, as night falls, feelings of elation begin to fade.
Kapiti Coast, sunset
How should I fathom running through the night across a mountainscape with limited food, volunteering myself to a venture attached to so much risk? My relationship with running has changed as I have grown older. Days as a young harrier runner saw me express myself as being someone who is driven by competition. As I became able to run longer distances, I discovered a way to express bravery and tenacity. These remain as ways for me to interact with the world. Though, as I continue to reflect on myself as a runner, I continue to discover new ways to use it as a form of self-expression. On the tops of the Tararua Range, I can express gratitude for being able to run in such a captivating part of New Zealand; and, by simply joining a friend for an easy 10 miles, I can express how much I value being a member of the running community. Seeing running as a form of self-expression allows me to muddle through the vague and intangible reasons as to why I choose to lace up each day. It neutralizes any conversation centered around health and fitness, about splits, FKTs, and personal bests. Running as a unique form of self-expression is yours, and only yours – it is a way for you to connect with parts of your life that you most value. It can also be a way for you to practice the expression of parts of yourself that may need a little work.
In the dark, four-foot-high metal poles with an orange cap, and the odd cairn, are a hiker’s only way of knowing that they are still on a marked trail. For hours, the view of my headlamp across the trail in the pitch black keeps my mind separate from the boundless surroundings. The wind has picked up since nightfall, forcing me to tighten my grip on the trail. I begin to hurry, somehow trying to reduce the amount of time I spend in the cold and dark. I snap out of my trance after noticing that I have not seen an orange cap in a while. Shrugging, I turn around and retrace my steps. Still - no marker. I begin to panic as I move back and forth over the same stretch of the map, scribbling my frustration across the same contours over-and-over-again. Hundreds of ridges radiate out from the Main Tararua Range, making it easy to drift from the marked route in poor visibility – such is the situation I find myself in. I withhold my panic, climb under my emergency blanket, and wait for the sun to rise.
How you show up while training and racing can be an extension of how you show up in other areas of your life. Track or cross country, 5 kilometers or 100 miles - we all use running as a way to express how determined we can be in life. But, what else do you put out into the world every time you lace up? That night, on top of my wayward ridgeline, I chose to practice patience and acceptance. Knowing that the S-K Trail FKT was out of my reach at that point, I changed my plans to shorten the route, telling family to expect me at a different trailhead the next day. The tenacity that I found as a young harrier allowed me to lift myself up and keep moving to eventually find the trail again.
Mount Crawford, covered in cloud
As the sun rises, I move over Mount Crawford – the final big climb of my new route. Lingering clouds clear from the western part of the range and reveal the same view that had struck me the day before. Kapiti Island lies flat across the horizon. Moving from my map to the landscape below me, I move my index finger across my route down to the end of my venture – Otaki Forks.
What do you express through running? Are you bold and a little brash? Or do you express a part of yourself that is careful and diligent? Perhaps, you’re a risk taker or an explorer - curious and wandering. Running can be an outlet for the best parts of ourselves. Venturing across the Tararua Range was my opportunity to express the ultimate version of my love for the mountains.
About the Author
Raised in Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, Ryan Woolley is a distance runner with a passion for ultra and mountain events. He also has a love for guitar, banjo, drawing, and Quentin Tarantino films. He currently resides in Rhode Island with his partner, Roni, and dog, Henry.
