2025 Outdoor Photo Story Competition Winners
1st Place: Tales from the Tararuas
Author: Emily Heath
It’s funny how life works, the irony is almost laughable.
How when the invisible burdens of day to day life weigh you down, the cure isn’t to unload but instead to pick up something real and heavy. Something like a tramping pack; a tangible load freeing you from the intangible, shapeless anxieties of daily life. Grounding you. Reminding you to simply be where your feet are.
As we made our way through the foothills of Tararuas, our packs dug in a little deeper and our breaths became a little more laboured. Yet with each step, our souls become lighter as the piles of unanswered emails and endless to-do lists melted into beech forest. Unrelenting notifications were replaced by the song of Tui; the hum of the bustling world resembling only the sound of the graceless Keruru taking flight through the branches.
The Tararuas surprised us with every turn of the winding track that took us closer to Field Hut. The farmland of the foothills quickly gave way to thick bush, it’s dense and untamed vines easily masking the vast beauty that lay beyond. The red walls of Field Hut felt like a warm embrace as we stepped inside, the scent of old wood and musty mattresses a familiar comfort. Cream cheese was lathered generously on to dry pita breads, and easy chatter was shared amongst close friends. But as the glow of the afternoon sun began to slip through the old hut windows, we were reminded of our packs waiting for us outside, and our journey not yet finished. As we climbed up onto the ridge above Field Hut, I began to feel every cell in my body coming alive once again. As if the cold mountain air sent out a calling, summoning my inner child to come out and play in nature's playground of jagged ridge lines and golden tussocks. I felt small and infinite all at once, like I belonged to this wild and breathtaking place as much as it belonged to me. We raised our arms in gratitude against the burning sky, as though saluting the days end and it’s golden gifts — the companionship, the freedom, and the fiery beauty.
A night wrapped in down sleeping bags left us ready to see the rebirth of the sun. As boots were tightened and packs were remounted, early rays of morning sun danced over the distant peaks, teasing us to come closer. Wisps of cloud hugged rolling ridge lines as if not ready to break from their morning embrace, and a gentle but crisp breeze gently breathed life back into the sea of tussock. The heart of the Tararuas was alive once again.
The Main Range of the Tararuas lived up to it’s legacy; every incline, rock obstacle or steel ladder reminding us that we were simply a meager playing piece on a wide and wild Snakes & Ladder board. Although on this board, one couldn't help but feel that the snakes far outnumbered the ladders, with the ridge line leading to Maungahuka Hut seemingly never coming to an end. But when the jagged ridge line finally gave in, the oasis of Maungahuka Hut embraced our tired bodies with refuge and warmth. Perched next to a glistening tarn, the hut book told tales of the Spaghetti Monster who lived in it’s depths, providing the smiles and laughs that would carry us the five hours back over the ridgeline to Kime Hut. Under a starry lit sky, it was three pairs of weary legs that trooped back into the hut that night. And over a bowl of hot curry, laughs and smiles told of the days adventures; a spectacle of headlamps illuminating tired but sparkling faces.
With boots tightened and packs remounted for the last time, it came time to bid our farewell to a place that had given us so much. No words or photos or stories will ever be able to encapsulate the gifts that Mother Nature imparts with you when you spend time in her presence. The friendship, the freedom, the feeling of being alive.
Step by step, the call of the Tui faded away, and the crash of a clumsy Kereru morphed slowly into the hum of the modern, bustling world. The life of notifications and unanswered emails and endless todo lists waited patiently for our return at Otaki Forks car parks. But as the heavy weight of our packs were set down for the last time, the fatigue and the burnout and the apathy for day-to-day life was set down too.
It’s funny how life works, the irony is perfect.
2nd Place: Conquering the Chasm
Author: Will King
Sometimes I find the most difficult thing about hiking with friends is not the walking itself but making the commitment to do it and asking them if they will too. Whether this be through fear of the unknown or fear of rejection I do not know. Like swimming you can splash around the edges dipping your toes in by doing the research or trying to account for all possibilities or thinking of all the reasons not to go but sometimes you just have to take the plunge and they will too. Leap into the chasm, don't dance around the edges. And although the water will sting your skin and cool your bones it is worth it, a mighty adventure. The most difficult thing is not the discomfort of the trail but in making that first step. These things can be scary, but that's ok, the fear is good, embrace it, as without fear there is no courage and to live your life with courage, courage to adventure, this can only be a good thing.
I looked back at Joe and Darcy, ‘this is us’. We were turning off the gravel highway of the Routeburn track to Sugarloaf pass, the Rockburn river and the dark of the Rockburn chasm, our camp for the night. This trip had been planned for a few weeks and it would be our first overnight adventure together. I had briefly visited the Rockburn before and what I saw that day made me yearn to return and this time my friends Joe and Darcy would be joining. We would complete our journey the following day walking out past Lake Sylvan. But it was the chasm that I longed for as what lay in between its shivering walls I had merely glimpsed and that just could not do.
We strode onto our new path, a far more lonely one compared to the Routeburn, onto snaring roots and mires of thick brown mud and the growing unknown, climbing, climbing, climbing we went. The top of the treeline was reached in good time, stopping only to remove Darcy from a bog, make tree moss-taches and photograph the shades of wild beauty peering through the veil of trees.
Before long the shelter of the beech forest gave way to tussock and dracophyllum spiked with speargrass, the path gave way to the flow of water and our t-shirts gave way to the warmth of our jackets. The bad weather was closing in. Dumping our overnight bags we detoured up towards the tarns that lay above the pass. Rain clouds raced across a darkening sky and the wind seemed to thrash in a vortex around us. We fought against its attack until our skin broke red and our ears forgot the sound of silence. But at the top it all no longer mattered. The sky briefly cleared and the beauty of the land rolled out in every direction before us. Tree covered valleys carved through forests of dark evergreen, mist clung to their sides and snow capped peaks punched out into the schist grey sky. The Rockburn river flowed from the gloomy northwest draining into the Dart which was soon joined by the Routeburn and all flowed out to Lake Wakatipu under a squall of wind blown dust. Truly a sight to behold.
Full of wonder we continued back to our bags then back on track, descending through gnarled fingers of mountain beech clawing the clouds, our destination the chasm. Over creeping slips, under fallen trees, through sodden creeks with Horopito and Koromiko clinging to their banks we clambered until we reached the river below. We followed its course until we arrived at the crescendo and were staring down into the screaming chasm from above. Deep and dark it was, like the mind of a monster. ‘To late for a swim tonight’ it would have to wait until tomorrow. We set up camp at Rockburn shelter, just the three of us, a heated game of scattergories, a million sandflies and the soft chorus of birdsong. Tomorrow the chasm awaited.
The allure was insatiable. When morning broke we approached, excited but cautious, scrambling over jagged rocks and grasping branches of beech around its creviced edges towards its shadowy heart. Then paused… I was suddenly aware that it was getting very cold, like the heat was being sucked out of me, a chill dancing on an ice cold wind. The chasm seemed to laugh, frigid air spilled out, like the last light of winter falling from a frozen sky. Not a kind laugh or a humorous one but a rumbling one deep and cold, plunging, falling, breaking out of the gloom. Joe and I peered into the ominous dark at the head of the canyon like the gateway between two worlds, the point in which you lose your warmth and can never get it back again. ‘Still keen for a swim?’ we weren't so certain now, ‘should we?’
The water around the edges was ice, cruel and unforgiving. It was so bone chillingly cold it gnawed at your feet, almost burning them. Darcy was making her way back to the safety of the bags. Joe was shivering. There was only one thing for it, it had to be done. ‘Come on, lets go for it, now or never’. We shared a glance and a wry devilish smile and the three of us breathed in the comfort of the warm morning air one last time. One last deep breath before the plunge, one last breath of courage ‘Hhhhhuuuuuhhhhhh’ and we leapt in.
Sugarloaf had it all. Mountain views, crashing rivers, water so unimaginably blue. It's a place you can feel, through the coarse bark of ancient trees, the clattering call of kaka in the canopy above or the peppery taste of horopito on your tongue. You can really feel it and what joy it brings to share it. We conquered our chasm that trip and what a mighty adventure it was.
3rd Place: Stargazing at Te Henga
Author: Julie Machado
It’s 10pm at night in the middle of autumn, the weather looks horrible, it’s cloudy and, oh, was that a little drop of rain? My partner looks anxiously at me as we’re about to get in the car. Are you sure? He said. I think so? I promise it’s going to clear after 11pm. I try to be more confident than I actually feel, overwhelmed with anxiety.
We had tried this trip a few days before, but the weather hadn’t cleared. We ended up drenched, tired and driving back home in the middle of the night disappointed. But this time I hoped it would be different.
As soon as we cross the Waitākere Ranges we start spotting the stars that we so greatly miss in the middle of the city lights, and just as I knew it, the sky cleared completely. I had been thinking about photographing the Milky Way panorama over the surf club at Te Henga for over a year, and it was finally here!
My partner and I love nature, love going on hikes and New Zealand is so amazing for that. I come originally from Brazil, a place where nature is not as accessible, and often dangerous. It was only when I moved to New Zealand many years ago that I was able to connect with nature. In late 2023 I decided I wanted to learn more about the stars and have a go at astrophotography. I’ve bought many books and watched many YouTubers, and yet, I’d never manage to go out and try it myself. I have intense anxiety and panic attacks since when I was a teenager, and the anxiety of going out at night has been very difficult to overcome. So many thoughts and feelings stop me from doing so much, and I really didn’t want this to be one more thing on the list.
The Milky Way season came and went, and the depression that always comes after my many unreached goals was kicking in. But it was still the last month of the core season, and I could still do it.
Truth is we’ve been to Te Henga many times before, swimming, hiking, it feels so comforting, almost like home. Being here at night has a sense of completion, of really knowing a place, of home.
The sky was so amazing to look at, it makes you not want to leave. We walked all over the beach. We were like children running from waves while trying to photograph the stars with reflection on the water. We jumped over many large pieces of driftwood. And we watched the kiwi running after Antares and finally setting on the western sky.
This was for me an unforgettable trip. Not very far away from my home in Auckland, and yet such a large step in my life. I can only hope that this next year will be easier, that I’ll be a little bit better, and take another step.
