At this exact point I am very much lost, but am also equally not too miffed by my unknown whereabouts. Not because of all the mind boggling/numbing nature spectacular before me and that whole "he who is without destination can never be lost" hippie stuff; but simply because he who hikes the Te Araroa gets lost at least fifteen times a day and must chose his battles, and by chose his battles, I mean must chose to regulate how many time he yells "What the actual fuck?!" at the magically vanishing trail, or else the trail gods won't take him seriously and change nothing.
PS the trail gods are actually volunteers or government employees working for the Department of Conservation who are most likely dealing with three Italian gap year-ers who haven't paid for their stay at a backcountry hut, instead of dealing with the actual trail.
Start of South Island
These lil guys were my gay beacons of hope I used to guide me through areas where the trail markers weren't too visible (ie, not there). They didn't really lead anywhere, but flowers are weirdly scarce here, like gays, and trail markers. A lot to think about while hiking, *instead of thinking, listens to Focus by Ariana Grande on repeat with several flowers in hair*