Where every step feels like a conversation with life.

A muddy, winding trail — but every slip, every breath felt like life itself teaching me how to keep walking.

The third day began with a short drive past Little River and Lee Bay,
where I stopped near Māori Beach carpark to see the island’s symbolic sculpture.
From there, I chose the Garden Mound Track —
a modest three-hour loop through forest and coastal air.

The rain from the past two nights had left the trail soft and muddy,
each step a quiet reminder to move carefully.
At times the path was slippery,
but the beauty of the forest — the dense canopy, the earthy scent —
made every climb worth the effort.

The trail rose and dipped like a pulse,
and as I caught my breath on the steeper slopes,
I felt the full rhythm of life — joy and solitude walking beside me.
It wasn’t an easy trail, but it was real,
and in that reality, I found a strange peace.

Halfway through, I reached Māori Beach.
The tide was low, and I crossed the wide sand,
hopping across dark rocks like stepping stones toward the open sea.
Seaweed clung to the stones,
and I imagined abalone shells hidden somewhere beneath the water —
quiet lives unfolding out of sight.

The path curved back into the forest,
and near the middle of the climb, I found a single wooden bench.
It felt like a small gift —
as if the mountain itself was saying,
“You’ve come far enough. Sit. Rest for a while.”

I sat, breathing in the view —
the sky and sea blending in still harmony,
as if peace had quietly reached the height of my heart.

(Where silence learns to breathe again)

In the hush of Ulva Island, I listened not with my ears — but with my heart.

The air of the second morning was wrapped in stillness.
Originally, I planned to walk one of Stewart Island’s long trails,
but the weather shifted — and so did I.

Instead, I joined a small group of six for the Ulva Island Wildlife Tour,
riding across silver water in a little water taxi toward a sanctuary of birds and ancient trees.

Our guide named each bird, one after another —
but their songs stayed with me more than their names.
I wanted to remember everything the guide said,
yet my imagination wandered: soon I was lost in the sound of wings,
the scent of the forest after rain,
and the quiet heartbeat of life beneath the ferns.

Every rustle, every shimmer of light through the leaves
felt like the earth breathing — reminding me to listen, not think.

Perhaps the world doesn’t need us to understand it.
It only needs us to listen.