What Does Enough Look Like?
A walk through the Marlborough Sounds … and the questions I sit with.
A friend asked a question that I struggled to shake.
I was reliving the Queen Charlotte Track in New Zealand's magnificent Marlborough Sounds. Hiking 83.1 kilometres with 2,384 metres of elevation. Four long days of hiking. Navigating regular rain, puddles and mud.
The conditions caused me to adjust my goals. Sensible… but that left me feeling unfulfilled.
Angela listened. Then she asked:
“What does enough look like?”
I didn't have an answer.
For over 4 years I dreamed of completing this track. I fell short.
Legitimate reasons don’t seem to sway my feelings.
For a start, there is the spinal injury impacting leg function, strength and balance. My neurologist likens my flat-ground walking as the equivalent to other people climbing a set of stairs. She also told me to stop walking up hills because of the extent of my damage, but that is another story.
Then there was the steady rain. The slippery track.
What does enough look like?
This article is my attempt to work out why completing my hike – whilst both a relief and a proud achievement— feels less than enough. And to share insights on what that says about the stories we tell ourselves when we finish something genuinely hard.
What is the Queen Charlotte Track?
Opened in 1991 as an extension and upgrade of the Kenepuru track, The Queen Charlotte Track (QCT) traverses the headland separating the Queen Charlotte and Keneperu Sounds, on the north coast of New Zealand’s South Island. Most people – including us – walk the track from Ship Cove to Anakiwa. Some hardy souls, like my friend Laura Waters walk the track as part of the 3,000km Te Araroa trail that runs the full length of Aotearoa New Zealand. Amazing.
The QCT signage shows the original distance of 71km. However, these days the track is about 78.5 kilometres, extended as the route evolved. Just think about it as a 10% bonus of stunning South Island scenery.
My wife, Lucy, and I hiked it over five days, guided by Wilderness Guides NZ. For our first 3 days we were grouped with ten other Aussies who hiked straight through - four consecutive days.
Lucy and I booked a rest day on Day 4 to allow us time to recover and to savour the remote locations we had reached.
My hiking details:
*Our booking included a Day 1 tour of the charming and historic Motuara Island — a predator-free bird sanctuary. That hike provided a bonus 1.5km – suitably steep – to get us warmed up before we ferried over to Ship Cove and the track proper.
Why the Queen Charlotte Track?
After I completed Tasmania’s Three Capes Track in December 2021, I kept hearing recommendations that I should consider the QCT.
But it was a significant step up.
Those four days tackling Three Capes Track had taken everything I had.
I calculated the QCT to be ~1.6 times the distance and ~25% more elevation, hiked over the same number of days.
It took a fair slice of courage for me to book this walk at all.
The QCT is not some casual stroll. The ridgeline trail provides a genuine challenge for most people — let alone someone who is rated as having ~50% functional walking capability. I rely heavily on hiking poles for walks like this – my arms driving me forward with every step, to ease the burden on my legs.
But two things reassured me:
These options provided a safety valve. Though - as people who know me well might attest - I would have to be in a world of hurt before I resorted to the ferry.
I dreamed. I booked. I trained.
I desperately wanted to complete this walk.
Day 0 — the night before
Even with experience gained from my previous hikes, getting ready for the first day always tests my nerves. I face so many little fears. How badly will I fall behind the group? Will they be compassionate about my challenges or wish there wasn’t a caboose holding the train up – causing it to stop longer or more often?
Will my hiking boots be the right choice? They are tried and tested, but not without some blisters. They are also relatively heavy - will my legs cope with lifting that weight over the extra distance?
Which layers of clothing? How much water? What snacks will I need?
One non-negotiable, thanks to my physiotherapist, is to carry ~500gms of specific sports gels to help my body cope with the demands of each day. Stored in my most accessible pouches. I consume one each hour – without stopping. I have very limited “surge” capacity to catch up time lost to any delay.
When your legs are under-powered, every 100gm matters. And all these things – including water – increase pack weight. But to keep going I need fuel and water – and running out of water on the track would be a high consequence mistake. It’s hard for me to pack light.
I know that I am about to push myself into my “red-line” areas for the next five days, with at least six weeks for my body to fully recover post walk. I’ve prepared sensibly – building track and pack fitness without injuring or exhausting myself through training.
Will it be enough? So many thoughts invade my sleep.
Day 1 — into the unknown
We are up early, boarding our morning ferry from Picton to the far end of the Queen Charlotte Sound – about a 90-minute trip. It’s mild and windy, with rain looming. We snap some photos but mainly we remain inside, staying dry and warm before our hike.
We visit Motuara Island and learn about its significance to Maori iwi, and the role it played during Captain Cook’s first visit in 1770. After exploring the island – now a bird sanctuary – we wait for our ferry to take us across to the mainland. To Ship Cove and the start of our walk.
The first marker reads 71km. An outdated figure that tickles my sense of fun – even the signage underestimates what you're in for.
We walk. We talk. We start to get to know each other.
We pass waterfalls and glimpse moody views that might have taken our breath away on a clearer day. Still picturesque, but not exactly what we had imagined.
It is a long day – I cover 18.58 kilometres with 643 metres of elevation. As my muscles cool, the pain in my feet and legs becomes intense. I rub in recovery cream and trigger-point aching muscles. I spend twenty minutes in the lodge's jacuzzi. Chest high and accessed by a step ladder, getting in and out safely on exhausted muscles – with my spinal cord injury constraints – took great care and concentration. But I did it.
Even then, walking that final 100 metres of the day to and from dinner was a nightmare. If anyone was watching, they must have thought “Gee that bloke has made a terrible mistake by choosing this hike. Good luck tomorrow mate”.
Day 2 — getting it done
I pause for a photo as we leave the beautiful Furneaux Lodge. Something special to share with my kiwi mates. A simple message: “Loving the New Zealand scenery”.
Grey skies. Grey seas. Rain. A delightful view well and truly dampened.
Does that photo tell the story of the day? No. It’s not nearly wet enough in that photo. For much of the day the rain was harder. The views were damper.
They were also occasionally breath-taking. Initially just scenic glimpses through the mist, but later in our walk the stillness of conditions showcasing captivating colours in the shallow bays. Exquisite shades of turquoise and deep green, with wispy clouds wrapping over the ridgelines - the landscape feeling like something from another world.
But I wasn’t in another world. I was on weary legs trudging through New Zealand puddles. Ticking off the kilometres one by one.
There were precious moments to pause in delight. I love – and have a talent for – spotting wildlife. The crystal-clear water encourages us to count the stingrays lying quietly - or gliding effortlessly - across the shallow sandy bays.
This was our short hike day, and relatively flat. I still clocked up 12.83 kilometres with 278m elevation.
We arrive Punga Cove mid-afternoon, damp and relieved, grateful to place our muddy boots in the drying room. The view from our villa was panoramic, even with the steady rain. I find another jacuzzi – fortunately no step-ladder to navigate this time. I admire the serenity of the view as I nurse my aching muscles.
The rain lightens over dinner creating mystical views across Endeavour Inlet. Sailboats perfectly mirrored in dark water, mist on the hills, a lavender light that frames a truly timeless scene. Nature in its finest. I take shots from the restaurant deck – the highest viewpoint at Punga Cove and then I gingerly walk with my poles down to the jetty to snap more photos in the drizzle. All totally worth it.
Day 3 — the big day … that I made bigger
With the heavy overnight rain expected to continue for at least the morning, Lucy makes the decision to take the water taxi from lodge to lodge. More accurately her knees and ankles choose for her, inflamed by the slippery track of the day before. With Day 3 featuring a number of ridgeline climbs the track ahead is expected to be at least as challenging as what we had faced.
Great. This was already going to be the biggest hiking day I had attempted post-injury. And it was getting harder.
I was on edge. How difficult would it be? How slow would I be going the last ~10km? Could I even do it?
I believe I will find a way. But I know what a grind it will be.
I decide to leave about twenty minutes ahead of the group. The plan was simple: get a little bit ahead of them to reduce how much they will wait for me during the day.
I pump my way up the first hill – the road leading from Punga Cove back to the track … and the main road. I was determined to make my headstart count. I pause at the top to make a short video sharing my feelings about the walk and the day ahead.
Maybe it is the distraction of recording the video. More likely it is simply the steady rain and poor visibility from under my rain-hood. Whatever the reasons, I miss the track. I see the marker and decide it is directing me down the road. I think “that sign is poorly positioned”. Then set off.
Downhill. I know it isn’t supposed to be downhill, but it takes a while for my anxious mind to realise my mistake. Perhaps 500m.
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We are supposed to be walking along the ridgeline. Why hasn’t there been an ascending track to join? I become certain I have missed the turnoff. Phew. I have phone signal. I battle with the damp screen and my dodgy eyesight. I work out where I have gone wrong.
Now the race is on.
I simply must reach the track before the group. They are so much faster than me. If they expect me to be in front of them – and charge ahead thinking “gee Mark is powering along today” when I am in fact falling further behind, it will make a right old mess of our day.
I urge myself back up the road as fast as my arms and legs will allow.
I find the track just in time, hearing the group arrive barely a minute later.
That wrong turn only adds about a kilometre. Half of that at a desperate, exhausting pace. For any other person, a kilometre is simply that. But I am already burdened by the group's pace plus my own uncertainty about what my body can do — and now I am carrying the weight of that nasty voice that pops up for some of us… “you idiot, you couldn’t afford that mistake. You didn’t need to make this day harder.” I quieten it each time it speaks, redirecting those thoughts to drive myself on. I feel more determined than ever to get this done.
I walk most of Day 3 alone. I also enjoy spells of uplifting company. Mainly Jake, our extremely chatty and knowledgeable guide. Occasionally other generous members of the group drop back to check on me, chatting for a stretch. Those moments help keep me going more than they know.
We skip the highest peak of the day – a steep sidetrack to Eatwells Lookout. Not only will the track be dangerously slick, but it will be wasted effort. There will be nothing to see at the top except 360 degrees of rain and misty grey.
Jake’s decision is music to my ears – in a way it offsets my earlier accidental deviation. But later, that decision to skip Eatwells would cast a shadow I couldn't foresee.
The day brightens from late morning, leading to a glorious – almost hot – afternoon. The improving conditions provide the magical views we have been yearning to enjoy. They are often sublime.
Jake walks with me for the last part of the day. I am concentrating hard simply to sustain a viable walking action. To explain, I walk on manual these days – it’s no longer something my body just knows how to do, as it once was. With every stride, I am thinking about my technique and foot placement. And as I fatigue, the demands of this become more challenging.
As we reach the road to the resort, a few of our crew are waiting. They didn’t make a thing of it, but I am sure they had decided to rest there simply so I could complete the last bit of the walk with them, rather than alone. One of those special moments in life that touch you deeply.
We chat as we descend into The Portage where Lucy is waiting. The views are to die for.
I did it. I finished Day 3.
And I have two nights to recover.
Day 4 — the rest day, with a view
Our planned rest day was integral to me booking this walk. Without it, the track was unachievable. With it, I could visualise making it.
We say farewell to our new friends as they hike out with Jake. It’s sad to see them go, but we are very content with our choice to rest. I know I am in too much pain to walk today.
Our reward is a divine morning – the photos will stay with me always. Glassy water, perfect reflections; a place truly immersed in natural beauty.
I wade into the ocean and stand in the cold swimming pool. Neither comfortable, but both valuable to recovery.
We decide to head back up the track, retracing my steps of the afternoon before. I want to show Lucy a picnic spot, so we can share the views she missed. It is barely a leg stretching hike – 3km and 119m of elevation. But that is all I can manage.
Hiking there is uncomfortable. Returning … well that is searing pain. Every heel strike jolting through me.
I doubt I could have suppressed that pain all day. Thankfully I didn’t have to.
Day 5 — the rain, the road, the relief
Around midnight, the rain sets in again, hard enough to wake us. By 6am it is chucking it down and we are concerned.
Lucy and I understand the implications. The final day passes QCT’s highest peak. The track is already dicey, and the downpour is making it worse. Given our respective physical concerns, it is a risky proposition to complete this walk.
We text Jake to explore his thoughts. He would soon be heading our way on the morning ferry, ready to hike out for the 2nd day in a row.
Jake was also concerned. He knew the track. He knew us.
Jake has a plan. He suggests we take the road for the first half of the day then rejoin the track for the last ~12km. It’s a couple of kilometres further but allows faster walking – and bypasses the danger of the ridge. Most importantly we will still complete the hike.
It was a tough decision. I desperately wanted to complete what I was so close to achieving. I would have gone for it if I was alone, despite the unreasonable risk. But I knew I had managed the track so far, being careful – and concentrating intently – on the slipperiest sections.
But most of all I wanted to complete the walk with Lucy. Safely and together. So as much as it deflated me, I knew the sensible was the way. This was our walk. I would never feel the same – and I would always regret it – if I finished it without her.
We texted Jake back. Game on for the new plan. Thank you.
Jake would later express his surprise that I agreed. He expected me to be too determined — that’s the diplomatic word — to take the sensible option.
We walk the road for the first section — delivering memorable views we would not have seen in the mist and rain above us. Bays of glassy green water, hills disappearing into the mist.
The road also gives Lucy the chance to notice which houses are for sale – one of her absolute loves is following real estate, no matter where we are in the world!
We rejoin the track as planned at Te Mahia Saddle / Misteltoe Bay. Jake spreads his time between the faster Lucy, and me, making sure we are both coping ok, as we rack up 22.50 km and 396m elevation for the day.
When we finally reach Anakiwa — and the Queen Charlotte Track marker signifying we have finished — my main feeling is relief. I’ve done it. 83.10km and 2,384m of elevation. For all the fear, the pain, the adjustments … I have made it to the end.
We pose for photos with the sign to celebrate. I am moved by the feeling I sense in Jake at that moment. Awe is too strong, but it seems like genuine, deep respect. I feel lifted by it.
As we slowly make our way down the jetty towards the approaching ferry, I am awash with emotion. Pride in my determination. Gratitude for Lucy’s love and the many, many people that have contributed to “me” – not just to my recovery, but more broadly to me as a person. I wouldn’t have reached here without them.
And as I sit exhausted in my ferry seat, crossing Queen Charlotte Sound towards Picton, I try to savour what we have done. That deep internal joy of completing something genuinely hard.
Problem is, it didn’t feel done. I made the end, but I hadn’t quite conquered the whole track. Specifically, I’d missed around 500m of elevation through skipping the peaks on Day 3 (Eatwells Lookout sidetrack) and our final day choices.
The message from Martyn
As we recovered from our walk, amidst the peaceful beauty of Whatamango Bay, I struggled to process my feelings.
Why do I feel satisfied about what I achieved AND feel hollow because I fell short?
I wrote to Wilderness Guides NZ. Mainly to reinforce our gratitude for all Jake had done for us. But I also wanted to show Jake footage of my attempt to walk 10 days after my spinal cord injury. I knew he appreciated my achievement, but I wanted to deepen his understanding of where I had come from. Of just what this meant to me.
Some days later I received a message from Martyn, the manager of Wilderness Guides NZ. His reply included this:
“Your determination on the trail was truly inspiring, and Jake spoke very warmly about your time together. Your achievement out there was extraordinary. Choosing the road option on the final day was absolutely the right call in those conditions, even if it felt disappointing at the time. What you accomplished across the week was significant by any measure, and there is no doubt you did conquer the QCT — you simply left one beautiful section waiting for your return.”
I almost had a little cry.
I forwarded it to a friend, revealing my quandary: “Still feel like I fell slightly short though. Something to cover with the psych!”
There it is. That’s the thing I’m trying to understand.
What does enough look like?
I know I am not alone in this.
Picture the person who finishes something genuinely hard — a marathon, a difficult project, a recovery, a walk that their body wasn't supposed to be capable of — and immediately calculates the fraction they didn't quite achieve. The time that wasn't fast enough. The parts that failed. The deviation along road instead of ridgeline. The peak they didn’t quite summit.
That calculation is not nothing. That drive to achieve motivates us. It is why we seek aspirational goals. It is our willpower to pursue the extraordinary – to test and extend our limits. It’s not a flaw.
But its edges can feel too rough, if we let the shortfall become the dominant part of the story. When we don’t give ourselves permission to celebrate.
We dilute appreciating what we achieved. We overlook all the great things that we gained.
I all but fell into a jacuzzi. Limping on feet that could barely carry me to dinner. But I knew I needed to do the things that helped me recover. I set out alone, 20 minutes early on the hardest day to offset my limited pace. A wrong turn in the rain could have broken my spirit, but I steadied my resolve. I skipped peaks that held more risk than benefit. I walked 3 kilometres on a rest day – in significant pain – for the fulfilment of sharing a view I loved with Lucy. I completed 83.1 kilometres of track by walking a section of road, because choosing the road was the right call.
And because I was not finishing this without Lucy.
That is not a story of falling short.
I just left a little of the track to be discovered next time. And an achievement gap that reminds me why aiming high matters.
The photo that matters most
For all the postcard-worthy scenery, the moments of fun with our walking crew, the anticipation of starting, the relief of finishing, you might ask which is my most treasured photograph from the whole trip.
It comes from Day 2.
Lucy and I. Jackets dripping. Rain on our faces. Clouds on the hills. Both smiling.
Not performing happiness for a camera. Just smiling because we were doing something together that was worth doing. A sacred moment, somewhere in the middle of something hard.
A precious moment kept just for us.
That is exactly what enough looks like.
I am a resilience speaker and author of the multi-award winning memoir, A Fraction Stronger. I write and speak about what it takes to keep going when the track is harder than expected. You can find me at markberridge.com.au.
We walked The Queen Charlotte Track with Wilderness Guides NZ (wildernessguidesnz.com). We cannot recommend them highly enough. (We paid full fare. This is a genuine, heartfelt recommendation).
If you want to read Laura Waters tales from the Te Araroa trail, grab her excellent book BeWILDered. She barely cracks a sweat on the QCT...
I loved this read Mark Berridge! As a long read, I saved it until I could sit with a cuppa - worth it. Long hikes sure are a wonderful test - done my share and look forward to sharing some stories. We stayed in a family batch on the other side of the sound last December - stunning! Love your work.
Thank you Mark. I love the resolution you had to enough. It is in the relationships....to ourselves, to nature, to God, and to others, where we find enough. It is not in the achievement itself. It is not the monument, the mile, the verticle meter, the title, the $...but in the relationships and magic memories we experience along the way. Thank you for that clarity and congratulations on the great experience!
You are incredible to have done this hike Mark Berridge - I am very inspired by you - what an exceptionally beautiful hike!
Awesome Mark. So many things in life are left 'nearly done' but in your case it is hardy nearly done mate. Maybe no gas left in the tank or a rusted chassis spluttering to get to the end, but not nearly done and fulfilled. Thank you for sharing - you really do inspire us.
Outstanding Mark Berridge…. the walk and your “note”. You’ve inspired us all!