Trip Report
April, 2025
Soon, on an autumn date in late April when pre-dawn cold is really flexing its devilish charm, a rogue throng will be massing in an otherwise empty carpark.
Comprising students to retirees to ultra-running human cannonballs, the mass will form ranks as a free brigade of outdoor frolickers–or terminal optimists–convened at the University of Canterbury to undertake one far-out bush marathon.
Specifics are few. But the core concept is confirmed. The next twenty-four hours are for ‘Rogaine,’ a seemingly harmless, hairy term. But certain circles understand a Rogaine to, in fact, refer to a feat of tactical endurance, one with tenacious cult appeal. Its draw is an inherent mystery–and dare of discomfort.
CHOICE CUTS:
- Who: University of Canterbury Tramping Club (CUTC)
- What: TWALK; the 24-hr rogaine walk
- When: Late April, coinciding w/a full moon
- Where: A best-kept secret
- Why: a query only the start line can answer
University of Canterbury Tramping Club President Nick Slegers is at home in this unknown.
“It’s just you, your feet and kilometres till your destination,” he says. “In a world of work, deadlines, commitments, and pressures, being able to be alone with your thoughts (and aching body) is real pleasure.”
Canterbury’s curious Rogaine is led by its university tramping club, which titles the event “TWALK” (soft ‘t,’ as in ‘twas’). The name (as well as tradition) is a pan-Tasman Sea import. And as spectacles go, it smacks delightfully of ‘Labyrinth’ for its marriage of Puzzling with Costume-play–there’s even a coloring contest to fill ‘down’ time.
Participation has been record-setting for the past two years. But there’s a doozy of a catch: none except TWALK organizers know what’s actually in store.
The build-up to the start gate is like being blindfolded to receive a surprise. Intrigue (and doubt) swell until something bursts. In this case, it’s sunlight pouring over the Canterbury campus carpark to reveal a vibrantly-clad horde of five hundred or more, all hungry as only competitors can be.
*Special Note: A fantastical costume play is a hallmark idiosyncrasy of a Rogaine.
Dressed to the nines and ready to Rogaine, all eyes turn to a long line of buses arriving as if cued. Nerves buzz. Feet fidget. And any doubts, like the competitors themselves, are shuffled to the back.
Leap through time to the bleak hour of zero two-hundred and complete immersion within the far wilds of historic Mesopatamia Station. Night has dropped like an anchor. And the novelty of the whole Rogaine enterprise is under strain. Scores of head torches sparkle across velvet darkness that has swallowed this year’s 64,000-acre host venue. The race is two-fifths finished by now, but everybody’s still far from home.
Fortunately, there is at least one fixed point amidst the uncertainty.
A ‘Hash House’ is what TWALKers know to be a ruddy field HQ. Respite, Leaderboard, or stick-to-the-ribs Grub are only available here.
Relative to scale, the transit volume at this Hash House rivals any airport on Earth. And its very next arrival is inbound hot.
The competitor stomps inside at a pace as brisk as the hour. Her tussock-wild hair frames a vivid display of mascara. A seafoam tutu is cinched at the waist. But trail rash has claimed her zebra-print pant. Half the seat is shredded, and a dark stain paints the length of the leg.
Medical attention seems logical (TWALK retains several first responders on site), yet it’s plain that this competitor cares naught for the bare cheek or loss of clarity. Her brow is fixed only upon a map and the prospects of tackling this rogaine’s next segment. Evidently, Pluck and Panache are key elements to navigating TWALK.
To be clear, it’s not all bush-bashing in darkness. There’s no less than a half-century of prior press to primer this peculiar TWALK beast.
Bits and pieces of Rogaine’s history coalesce to depict a patchwork marathon of five distinct, ‘Legs.’
A given Leg may stretch anywhere from eleven to nineteen miles in length. And while there is no “track,” the vast terrain covered by each Leg is peppered with cheeky Controls hinting at where the trail-less course next aims. To Rogainers, elevation, climate, or even the sun’s position are deemed secondary. What matters is to plant one boot ahead of the other.
Like Pickle Ball would to Tennis, to Rogaine maintains a kooky distinction from its cousin activity to Orienteer. For starters, ‘Rogaine’ is neither a proper verb nor a hair product. It’s an acronym glued together using select letters from the namesakes of its three founding fathers.
And like those forebears, pell-mell vigor still propels today’s Rogaine teams. Now, they tackle a breadcrumb odyssey of Controls in no particular sequence, led by largely blank maps. But while history sets its stage, Rogaine’s enduro format sets its hook. That marathon element interjects a quirky self-test, a metric, for the elasticity of willpower.
With such a legacy on the line, who else but nimble-spirited University students would take up the baton? And though participation must come with a monetary cost, this zesty day is far from a fundraising ploy; rather, it’s an intricate achievement in volunteering that has self-sustained for an impressive five decades.
But for youthful go-get-em and the grace of Aotearoa, the whole brain trust could easily have gone the way of the Moa but instead has evolved its own national body. The nonprofit New Zealand Rogaining Association is out there to navigate legalities, promote innovation, and optimistically dream up race “rules” destined to be treated more like guidelines.
Everybody can breathe easily because the core mandates of ‘simple’ and ‘fun’ pair fairly readily with any angle pursuing fun outdoors.
And as for the bonhomie individuals enamored with recreation alfresco, hardship seems a dish best shared among company, so it’s only logical that they should form a club.
The mettle of a tramping club is revealed in its cultivation of belonging via nourishment of purpose. An individual may quietly chip away at a passion. Still, as a club member, their focus merges with birds of similar feathers–amplifies even–until what manifests is something of a regimented flock. And if ever there is an antediluvian stronghold for birds (whether on wing or foot), it’s Aotearoa, New Zealand, a wellspring to the bracing majesty of Mesopotamia.
TWALK organizers praise Location as a lynchpin to TWALK’s success. And they’ve done a mint job of it to date. Tramping clubs from universities nationwide are head over heels after having wandered the storied station’s hectares. But by the dawn of the second day, Mesopotamia felt like it was on the verge of an ice age. And more participants are lying prone than on course, bagging Controls. Prior TWALK registers may have included national team alpinists, captains of science, and even a parliamentary commissioner. Still, once mutually locked within the deep freeze of pre-dawn, every Manjack is 100% the same in seeing the sunrise as their only salvation.
For some, daybreak signifies a congratulated marker to bow out. For others, it’s a flare fired over a marathon that is still one-fifth unfinished. There are trophies to earn, after all. But deeper than an award, the sun’s first beams penetrate to highlight the uncanny gauntlet everyone here had dared to accept.
“People approach tramping and TWALK in different ways. There’s personal challenge, physical challenge, connecting with whenua or escapism; nature enthusiasts, geology enthusiasts, or those just keen to socialize. I am endlessly impressed with the passion people bring to the outdoors,” explains Nick Slegers.
Pushing beyond bounds of comfort, enthusiasts sign up for TWALK in numbers enough to populate a village, only nobody’s dead set on defeating their neighbor. There are challenges, alright, but they’re with the land, the elements, or the mirror. For some, the gaze is inward. Others look to lose themselves outside. Still more wish to free their Weird. And by the tick of the final second of the final minute of the twenty-fourth hour, everyone who turned up has won.
You can learn more at twalk.nz
