Hotel DeBrett to Tongariro National Park private car — Laurent's conference trip

The rain was just starting to patter on the windows of the Hotel DeBrett as I pulled up that Thursday morning in mid-October. A good sign, I thought; autumn showers often sweep through Auckland and clear out to fine spells. My passenger, Laurent D., was already waiting in the lobby, a quiet man with a neat beard and a slightly anxious air, clutching a sleek travel bag. He’d flown in from Nouméa, New Caledonia, for a tech conference in Auckland and was now heading south, deep into the North Island, to escape the city for a few days of hiking around Tongariro National Park before his flight home.

We had a clear run out of the city, considering it was a Thursday. The Bombay Hills were its usual bottleneck, a slow crawl before we opened up onto the Waikato Expressway. Laurent was headed for the conference, he explained, but he wasn't really a city person. He preferred open spaces, the kind he remembered from childhood trips inland from the coast back home. He spoke a little about New Caledonia, the way the humidity clung to everything in the tropics, and how he was looking forward to crisp, cool air and mountain views. He hadn't brought any heavy walking gear, just his conference suit bag and a small daypack. I mentioned he might want to pack some warmer layers for the mountains, even in spring, and he just gave a small, polite nod. I suspect he thought he'd be staying at a comfortable lodge with room service, not quite grasping how wild Tongariro can feel.

We stopped for a quick coffee and a stretch at the BP in Pokeno. The rain had stopped, and the sky was a bruised grey, but with hints of sunlight breaking through in the distance. He bought a surprisingly large chocolate muffin. I could tell he was processing the change of scenery, the sweeping green pastures giving way to rolling hills as we pushed south. We passed through Hamilton, a city that always feels a bit more spread out than it looks on a map, and then turned towards Tirau, the corrugated iron sheep town.

As the landscape began to undulate more dramatically, Laurent started to relax. He pointed out the first signs of tussock and scrub appearing on the hillsides. He told me he worked in IT back in Nouméa, a sector that was growing rapidly but still felt very small-scale compared to what was happening in places like Auckland. He was hoping to find some solitude in the national park, a chance to decompress after the intensity of the conference and the constant connectivity of his work. We drove through the rolling hills towards Taupō, the light beginning to improve as we skirted the vast lake. He seemed a bit wistful then, talking about how he missed the clear, deep blue of the Pacific, so different from the pale, muted tones of the sky that day.

We bypassed Taupō as he wanted to get straight to the national park. The road climbed steadily, the vegetation changing to hardy beech forests. The air grew noticeably cooler, and the smell of damp earth and pine needles filled the car when I’d occasionally open a window for a breath. As we neared the Chateau Tongariro, the dramatic peaks of the volcanoes, Mount Ruapehu and Mount Ngauruhoe, began to emerge from the low-lying cloud. It was a breathtaking sight, even for me, and I could see Laurent’s gaze fixed on them, a definite sense of awe replacing his earlier anxiety.

I dropped him at the entrance to the Chateau. He thanked me, and I noticed he looked far more composed now than when I’d picked him up. He paid using his card, and as I watched him stride towards the grand hotel, I thought about how different our worlds were, yet how a quiet stretch of road and some imposing mountains could offer a similar kind of balm. He'd come for a conference, but I suspected his real journey was unfolding right there, in the shadow of fiery, ancient peaks. I turned the car, heading back north towards Taupō, the late afternoon sun finally breaking through, painting the western sky in shades of orange and gold.