Carkeek SK - A Tararua Traverse
The Tararua S-K Traverse has a rich history dating back to the early 1960's, first with intrepid trampers as a 48 hour challenge and later with mountain runners looking to crack the 24 hour mark. Over the years I have been very lucky to be in the position to run the three established routes of the Main Range, Tarn and Valleys, in both directions. In the process of planning for these adventures there was the inevitable pouring over of maps. One feature stood out to me above all else. Conspicuous due to its isolation, deep in the middle of the range, is Carkeek Hut. A deer cullers hut built around the same time as whispers of the S-K began to circulate within the mountain community, Carkeek stands alone. No official tracks are marked on the map. Approach is from the north, along the untracked tops, or south from Park Forks using an old deer cullers track. It’s at this confluence that the crystal waters of the Park River and the mighty Waiohine mix before making their long journey through the range and out to the sea. Anyone who has visited Park Forks will tell you the same thing, it’s a very special place.
My first visit was with my mate Greg Clarke in the winter of 2018 when we completed a snowy “Carkeek Picnic” , a challenge in which you cross the range in a day, with a picnic stop at Carkeek. This trip left an impression on me and it wasn’t long before I returned by myself on a 48 hour hut bagging mission, really just an excuse to revisit this magic part of the range. It was while travelling solo through Park Forks on this adventure that I really felt a deeper spiritual connection with this magic spot. I have never felt more free and removed from the relentless bustle of modern life, as I have during the brief moments of time I have spent watching these two waters mix. The sense of isolation is exquisite.
With the ability to look back over the different S-K routes, the Tarn remained my firm favourite. It incorporated the northern tops, arguably the best part of the Main Range, with the wild untracked eastern range, it then dove into the southern valleys, allowing runners to open up their legs with some “fast” running, if there was anything left in the tank. What the Main Range and the Tarn both lacked was the untracked river travel of the Valleys route and off trail bush navigation for which the Tararua is so suited to. On both of these tops routes you get views into this innermost part of the range and it whispered of a future challenge…
With this in mind it had long been a dream of mine to establish a new S-K route. A route with river travel, open tops, bush travel and off trail navigation. One that takes in Carkeek and the spiritual heart of the range, Park Forks, but is still achievable within 24 hours for the adventurer who has worked to gain the necessary skills and fitness to take on the challenge. The only problem was it had been three years since my last big run and the years were starting to take their toll on my body. Would I even be capable of completing such a challenge? There was only one way to find out.
So it was that I found myself again at the dusty Putara road end, preparing to throw myself at the range once more. To add to the many unanswered questions in my head, I’d tweaked my back on an adventure the previous weekend so had no idea how it was going to respond to close to 24 hours on the move. I’d chosen the slightly unorthodox start time of 7:30am with the reasoning that it would give me a decent night sleep in my own bed with a leisurely alarm of 4am and hopefully allow me to get the off-trail section done before nightfall. My good mate Greg had offered to drive me up and he, along with Samuel Hansby, were planning their own big adventure of a Bannister loop.
Hugs with the lads and an obligatory photo done, I point myself down the track and get running, it’s 7:37am. It’s great to be running this section in the light for a change and despite a forecast of cold southerlies, a t-shirt is all that is needed. Soon I’m away from the burble of the Mangatainoka river and a brief climb up through the bush has me up the spur and arriving at Herepai Hut with 57 minutes on the clock.
I top up my water for the next long dry section, the next reliable water source four hours away at Arete Biv. Now it is up through the thinning bush before popping out above the treeline onto the golden tussocky tops. The pleasant surprise here is that despite a forecast for the windchill to be in the negatives, what wind there is, is gentle and the t-shirt is still plenty. There is also none of the dreaded Tararua clag to obscure the terrain, so I can pick my waypoints out in the distance. The peaks of Herepai and Ruapae come and go and I am soon climbing the scree to the top of East Peak. Here I plunge into the deep saddle separating East and West Peaks, navigating the dense leatherwood and thankful of my orienteering gaiters saving my shins. On gaining West Peak I then steer myself south down Dundas Ridge, enjoying the opportunity to run again. Walker and Pukemoremore pass and I am soon passing the drop to Dundas Hut clinging to the eastern flank. The 1500 metre peak of Logan is next and then the inevitable dip before a steep clamber up the bulk of Dundas.
3 hours 53 minutes.
It’s running down the ridge separating Dundas from Arete that the only clag of the day rolls in, bringing with it a hint of rain. On gaining the unnamed peak, 1437, the mist gets so dense that I have to take a quick bearing to ensure I have the correct spur to keep me on the ridge. Thankfully as I am nearing Arete, the clouds part and the views down the range open up again. The sun even makes a fleeting appearance, instantly turning a furnace on, before retreating again behind its veil of cloud. It’s a relief to arrive at the little two bunk Biv and its water tank, as my supply has just run dry.
4 hours 44 minutes.
Using this spot for a decent break I put in a call to my family back in Wellington. It’s great to talk to my wife Emma and daughter Ruby and I think I am able to convey the fizz that I’m feeling to be out here doing something which for so long now had been just a dream. My back is fine and most importantly my legs felt like they could run all day, the question was would they last the night. I make myself a cold brew coffee, a new trick I’m trying out (definitely recommend!) top up my water and say goodbye to the main range, my next focus shifting to the 1500 metre bulk of Lancaster. As I begin the climb up the leading ridge, the view over Park Valley opens up. It’s a view I’ll never tire of and one guaranteed to fill you with awe. Unlike the other deep V valleys in the range, Parks immense span bears the unmistakable U shape of one formed by ice. It’s this stunning contrast with the rest of the range that captures the imagination. With this view reminding me how lucky I am to be here, I turn off the Tarn route and began the Carkeek one. Time to test the dream.
Lancaster is pretty cool as the easy eastern approach belies the steepness that awaits on the western flank. From here the route gets a lot less travel, so worn footpads all but disappear. All around, you are treated to amazing views. The hanging valley at the head of the Park, the spine of the Main Range dipping into the bush as it drops from Pukematawai, the jagged back of the Waiohine Pinnacles, the deep basin forming the headwaters of the Waiohine, it’s hard to know where to look. Soon I’m down the steep drop and climbing the tussocky flank of Thompson, reaching the top as the clock ticks over 6 hours. Here I update Emma at home, as going off my estimates it’s likely to be at least five hours before I’ll be back out the other side of the range, the rugged gorge section of river below Park Forks front and centre in my mind…
A short drop and I’m again climbing, to the peak that gives this ridge its name, Carkeek. William Carkeek drew the first map of the Tararua Range in 1875, naming the ridge after himself for his troubles. I could relate with his attraction to the wild remoteness of this place. Travelling south off Carkeek things start getting spicy with the contours closing up as the world falls away, with the ridge edge in a state of active slip into the Waiohine far below, Thankfully the spiciness only extends as far as the views and travel under foot remains relatively sedate. From here it’s one more small bump and the hut I’ve been working towards all morning comes into view, a tiny blaze of orange peeking out from the treeline. Before too long I’m out of the tussock and the bushline swallows me up. Sitting in a grassy clearing, bathed in sunlight and surrounded by mossy goblin forest, the little 6 bunk hut is a welcoming sight. I dump my bag and pop in to sign the hut book. 7 hours 20 minutes have elapsed.
Reading through the entries it's been almost a month since the last visitors to this lonely part of the range and then another two whole months before that. It speaks to the isolation and adds to the sense of adventure. The hut is in great nick, lovingly maintained by ex cullers from the NZ Forest Service, a real asset to people wanting to venture deep into the range. I pop back outside to sort my gear and top up with water for the next section, treating myself to a Pics Peanut Butter Slug as I do. The fatty saltiness is a great antidote to the sweetness of the carbohydrate drink mix I use to fuel my adventures. It's easy to envisage parking up here for the night but I have places to be so I farewell this little sanctuary and delve back into the bush.
The goblin forest here is amazing, with the alpine beech trees forming wild, contorted shapes, softened by a thick blanket of moss. At first the trail is good as I switch back into run mode, but as the going gets steeper the bush closes in and I'm in full concentration mode making sure that I'm not getting drawn off track by a false spur. Making the job of staying on track easier is the impressive marking of "permolat", chopped up pieces of white aluminium venetian blinds. Ex NZ Forest Service worker, Derrick Field has done a fantastic job, recently re-marking the spur down to Park Forks, all that is needed if the route is lost is a quick scout around to find a marker and you're on your way again. It makes this section quick and as the terrain gets ever more steep, the roar of water grows from below. The further I drop the wetter the conditions under foot and the pace drops off accordingly as I lower myself down root system ladders, being careful not to slip. Soon the roar from below is coming from both sides of the spur and the anticipation builds. I catch a glimpse of water to my right, the Waiohine, and before I know it the terrain levels off and I clamber onto a rocky beach popping out next to the glistening Park River, I’ve reached the Forks.
The whole place is bathed in warm mid-afternoon sunshine and I pause for a moment to watch as the two rivers meet. This is rough country, both valleys choked with big boulders, but right here at the meeting of the waters there is an innate sense of peace. I soak it all in, then plunge into the Park, the swift water breaking against my legs. The force of the water is strong, considered foot placement vital, and I remind myself that all the crossings below this point will have double the flow. Clambering over big boulders, covered in moss and lichen, I pause atop a particularly large one to take one last look at this magic place. In this moment, the dream could never seem more real.
Now it is down to business. The section of river between Park Forks and Dorset Creek is less than a kilometre as the tui flies but in my mind this was always going to be the crux of the trip. Below the forks the valley walls close in to form a section of gorge where route choice is largely controlled by the river. I believe it is possible to sidle this section high on the true left but this would require a long slow bush bash in steep country. With this in mind I bag all my loose gear in dry bags, a precaution for if I take an unplanned swim. Travelling solo in this unforgiving country is focusing and I remind myself just how far away help is if things go pear shaped. I'm thankful for the packfull of warm, dry emergency gear on my back, even if I hope not to need it. People have often commented on the large amount of kit I carry on these missions, but out here, in the back of beyond, hypothermia is a very real risk. One wrong foot placement and a busted ankle, or a swim down a rapid and everything can change in an instant. Self sufficiency is critical. With this front of mind I focus on picking a good line across the fast flowing Waiohine to the far bank. To add to the challenge the river is higher than on previous trips. The bottom is slippery, with big holes between even larger boulders and I make good use of my poles to form a tripod, as I make sure that each foot placement has purchase on the riverbed. The crossing peaks at waist level and I’m happy to reach the rocky bank. This begins a series of slippery boulder clambers before the rocky sides again bluff me out, necessitating another well considered crossing. After this the whole process is repeated again. And again. There are around six crossings in all and I can feel adrenaline focussing my attention. It’s a relief when, on scouting yet another line, I spot the unmistakable shimmer of a tributary entering on the true left, Dorset Creek. I cross this waterway just above its confluence with the Waiohine and dump my gear onto the narrow beach, letting out a breath with more than a little sense of relief to be through the gorge without a swim. The crux is behind me.
8 hours 55 minutes.
Sitting on this little beach in the sun is bliss and I take a moment for some foot care before topping up with water from the clear pools of Dorset. It's a beautiful spot for a break and I soak it all in, the water, the sound, the hundreds of shades of green. I’m cold from my time spent in the river and keen to get moving. The next section involves a steep 800 metre climb, from deep in the valleys to the lofty eastern tops. Hauling myself up into the bush it really is a climb, using tree roots and branches to go almost straight up, the sound of water fading quickly as I get stuck in. There's no real trail with the occasional piece of permolat nailed to a tree confirming I'm on the right spur. It's hot work, travel is slow with dense undergrowth and regular windfall making it a fun challenge. The bush here is amazing though with every shade of green you could imagine and I use the occasional breather to look around me and take it all in. A levelling off and light coming through the canopy where once there had been a hill, indicates my arrival at pt. 1000, my signal to turn southeast towards the tops. There's no noticeable trail here so I take a quick bearing to orientate myself and set off along the broad top of McGregor Spur. You've got to be on your game through this section, as it's pretty overgrown and there's no real discernable ridgetop. There are sporadic bits of trail but these would come and go and my compass is never far from hand and what markers there were, were a welcome confirmation of my route choices. I begin to get glimpses of golden ridges as the canopy starts to thin and it is a welcome relief to break through a short band of leatherwood and into the late afternoon sunlight. Travel is about to become infinitely easier.
The sun warms my back as I push my way up through the golden tussock and soon I am looking down on the tiny McGregor Biv, nestled at the treeline off the side of the ridge. As I make my way towards the termination of the spur above, movement on the skyline catches my attention. A nimble footed runner dances along the ridge from the north having just dropped off the bulk of McGregor, one of the fifteen 1500 metre peaks in the range. Something about them looks very familiar and I call out a greeting. As they reach the point where we’ll intersect the figure plonks themselves down in the tussock above me. I draw near and the grin of a good mate, Kyle Malone, mirrors mine. We share a sweaty embrace and exchange war stories. Kyle is currently fourteen hours deep into an attempt at summiting all of the 1500m peaks in a single push. If that’s not enough, he’s doing it as an S-K, a good reminder that there’s always someone doing something bigger than you. He’s looking bloody chipper considering the country he’s already covered! I’ve got a scheduled call to put through to Emma, to tell her I’m safely through the river section, so Kyle and I wish each other the best of luck and Kyle heads off towards his second to last 1500. Angle knob waits just to the south of us, calling. Thus begins a game of leapfrog that will take us all the way to Cone Hut in the Tauherenikau Valley. I fire off some photos, one of which I’ll later find perfectly framing the work he has yet to do, hills stretching out to the horizon, all between him and his last 1500m summit, Mt Hector, half a range away… I make my call to Emma, I’m on the eastern tops!
11 hours 12 minutes.
It’s as I near Angle Knob that a wave of fatigue suddenly hits me and I slow considerably, head feeling light. I’ve “bonked”, which is basically a state where your glycogen stores are drained and you start burning fat. In my haste to get McGregor spur out of the way I’ve neglected to put enough carbohydrate in. Recognising the signs I throw back a gel and drain the last of my water, trying to play catchup. As I approach Jumbo a tarn appears just off the side of the ridge and I scramble down the scree to its bank. I top up my bottle along with a purification tablet and treat myself to a gel, a peanut butter slug, a caffeine tablet and a couple of paracetamol, a veritable feast and one that will hopefully kick me back into gear. The views north up the range are beautiful, with peaks as far as the eye can see and I take a moment before moving on. I reach the top of Jumbo and steer myself towards Mt Holdsworth at the other end of this piece of ridge. Marker poles appear and I celebrate that from now until I reach Kaitoke I’ll be back on marked tracks. I love the unmarked tops, but they also make you appreciate a good trail. As I make my way over the bumps between Jumbo and Holdsworth the sun drops in the sky, and as it starts to dip below the pyramid shaped bulk of Isabelle, she casts a triangle shadow all the way to the farmlets way below on the Wairarapa plains, it’s the golden hour. Climbing the steep, rutted flanks of Holdsworth all of a sudden I notice that my energy has returned, and just below the summit I hit full fizz again as I turn to start the short descent to Powell Hut.
I make short work of this section and not long before the final drop to the hut I catch Kyle and we enjoy the last golden rays of sun together as they set the tussock on fire. The large open deck of the hut is a welcome sanctuary and we sprawl, our gear strewn across it as we prepare to run through the night. Kyle again gets going while I pop on a wind top and put in a final call to Emma to say goodnight. There'll be no more coverage between here and my goal, a long dark night away. I’m pretty relaxed though, hence my lack of urgency to get going. I’ve been ahead or on my splits for most of the day, with a four hour buffer built in to ensure I have the best chance of going under 24 hours. The big climb back out of the Waiohine has definitely slowed my legs, but If I’m efficient down the Tauherenikau and keep running, things shouldn’t get too tight. Nothing is a given on these things, with plenty of rugged country still to traverse, but right now things are tracking well. Water topped up and head torch donned, I farewell the hut and point myself down the hill.
13 hours.
From a rocky outcrop I get a view of my next waypoint. Totara Flats sits at my feet a cut of silver, calling from the valley far below. I take one last look at the world spread out before me, a green sea of bush laid out under a velvet sky. Saying farewell to the tops, the bush swallows me up and before too long I'm triggering my head torch, I let the night envelop me. My poles are away and I relish the open running and my first groomed trail of the day. Before too long, I spot movement ahead and I'm soon running with Kyle. The last time we were here together was an adventure involving ropes and waterfalls and it's great to yarn to a kindred spirit, while the rest of the world gets ready for bed. Kyle is wisely looking after his legs so at Mountain House we give our farewells, knowing we may well meet again and I surrender to the urge to open up the legs and push on ahead.
Full dark now, I come to the Totara Creek Track intersection steering myself right and into the inevitable Tararua mud. The rutted track soon drops into a steep descent and gravity takes over. As the sound of water builds the new track veers left and I'm once again climbing. This area has seen a bit of weather since I was last here and so begins a series of windfalls to negotiate, leaving the track to detour around the massive hulks of dead trees and then going through the process of regaining it again in the dark, on the far side. I drop down towards the sound of water and sidle above the unseen creek until I reach the swing bridge which conveys me to the far bank. More running over fairly flat terrain and my next bridge appears. A feat of engineering, this is the first time I have used the new Totara Flats swing bridge. Spanning a broad, often windswept valley it's a big step up from its predecessor and I pause in the middle to admire the majestic expanse of the Waiohine as it sparkles under the light of a waxing moon. It's a big river now and it seems a world away from its origins at Park Forks and my time spent negotiating its wild headwaters. A sign on the far side tells me I'm ten minutes from the Totara Flats Hut, two minutes later my torch casts its beam across the sleepy looking refuge. The grassy lawn around it is strewn with tents, it's a busy night. It's almost 11pm and deathly still, so I quietly make my way around to the tanks and top my water up.
15 hours 13 minutes.
The next section is pretty easy going and after a short bit of bush I pop out onto the grassy flats that lend this spot its name. I make the most of the easy terrain and switch into run mode again. My legs are beginning to feel the effects of the relentless ups and downs of the day and I'm now in business mode, it's time to get the job done. Here and there tents ghost their way out of the mist that hangs over the ground and I'm thankful for my wind top, keeping the chill air off me. The river comes and goes, a noisy spectre off my left shoulder, as the trail climbs in and out of the bush and the higher river terrace. Glancing back a light intermittently flickers in the bush, seeming to track my progress down the valley. Just prior to the turnoff for Cone Saddle I cross the bridge spanning Makaka Creek. At the far side I clamber down through the bush to top my bottle up from its burbling waters. Climbing back up onto the track the following light materialises and makes its way across the bridge, with Kyle attached beneath it. He's making good progress.
It seems fitting that we hit the climb to Cone Saddle together. One of the less glamorous pieces of the range it has more than its fair share of windfall and has thrown a spanner in the works of many an S-K with people losing the rough track in the dark. However, along with Derrick Field, Kyle had recently been busy, re-marking all of the worst bits, while Derrick tidied it up with a chainsaw. The result is impressive. We're evenly matched uphill and false summit aside we're at the saddle in what seems like no time, the space in between filled with banter of adventures past. Here once again, I go ahead of Kyle, happy to open my legs up on the tree-rooty drop into the Tauherenikau Valley, my system of hard efforts interspersed by breaks at watering holes working well for me. I catch a whiff of ancient woodsmoke and as the ground levels out, the rustic form of Cone Hut looms out of the darkness. I carry on down to the river and dump my pack on the rocky bed to sort my gear for the last long push down the valley and out of the hills.
18 hours 7 minutes.
As I'm topping up my water bladder and slapping down the hordes of mosquitoes that start feasting on me, Kyle makes his way out of the bush and down to the water's edge. The fatigue is starting to show on his face and I can read in his eyes that the full realisation of the enormity of the job left before him has started to sink in. I can relate as I think back to my 1500's a few years back, it's all heart from here. There will be no more meetings like this on our respective adventures, so we wish each other safe travel. Kyle steels himself and crosses the river before throwing himself back into the mountains with a mental fortitude not many get to learn they possess.
Gear sorted, I regain the track and steer myself down the valley. It's approaching two o’clock in the morning and my body clock is telling me I should have been asleep hours ago, however there's still work to be done. I've seen people's times blow out through the night, down this long valley, as they succumb to what Graeme Dingle called “The dreaded staggers”, and I will myself to push through the fatigue as I once again switch into run mode. Tutuwai hut comes and goes and soon I plunge back into the bush on the river terrace. This section has really suffered from a long wet winter with large sections of track lying under standing water. New windfall slows my progress and more than once I find myself bashing around in the bush trying to refind the track on the far side of massive hulks of tall timber, lying like sleeping giants. It's shortly after negotiating one of these roadblocks that I pass a pair of chainsaws and work helmets left next to the track. From here the travel becomes much easier, someone has been tidying up the forest. I later learn that Dave Eaton and Don French, two men who have written their names into New Zealand backcountry history, had donated five days of their time and sweat to make this magic valley passable once again, for the many trampers and runners who call it their playground. If you happen to be reading this gentlemen, your mahi is much appreciated.
With some steep scrambles, down through tree roots and concentration coming and going, I've had a few near falls and I remind myself that despite feeling the end approaching, I still need a working body to get the job done. It's with elation that, shortly after one of these downward scrambles, the Tauherenikau swing bridge materialises out of the dark. A ritualistic pause in the middle to gaze up at the blanket of stars is accompanied by the mournful call of the Ruru. But there's nothing sad about this moment, I can't suppress a grin, I'm on the home stretch. On the far side the travel is almost flat and having crossed Marchant Stream I make short work of the flats to Smith Creek Shelter.
20 hours 33 minutes
The efforts of the day have paid off and I'd be able to coast all the way home in cruise mode and still go under 24 hours, but I just want to get it done. A caffeinated gel goes in and I get stuck into the sidle track, up Smith Creek. Just after the shelter I pass some tents on the flat, and think I spot torchlight so I give a wave as I pass by, thinking this may be the owners of the chainsaws. Shortly after this I notice colour creeping back into the sky and a cool breeze stirs the trees. I cross the last little stream and hit the rutted clay which heralds my final climb, up to the fittingly named Puffer Saddle, I go hammer and tong to despatch it. The breeze builds, telling me I'm almost at the top and I have a quiet celebration as the ground levels off and the Toitoi at the saddle come into view. No time to stop, I steer myself down the clay track keeping an eye out to my left. I see what I've been scouting for, the piece of new trail cut straight down the spur to the Kiwi Ranch. In establishing a route I don't need to adhere to the traditional roundabout track and I throw myself into negotiating the many switchbacks leading down the spur. Across the flat at the bottom where my brother got married, through a stream and up over the final wee bump, I whoop out loud as the sleepy carpark comes into view. A dawn chorus of Korimako serenades me as I run it in, better than applause down any finishing chute, my shoes grind on gravel, my heart beats in my ears, my breath slows. These are the sounds of a dream realised.
21 hours 38 minutes, I stop the clock.
My car is waiting under a blanket of dew having been dropped here the previous day by Dad and Emma. So it is that in the dawn light, in the deserted Kaitoke carpark, surrounded by the waking sounds of birds and farm animals, I throw down a hot feed. It’s a surreal transition, at the end of such an all consuming adventure, back to normal life. I fold my aching body into the car and drive back home to Wellington. I’m home in time for a long shower, breakfast number two before taking my daughter to Surf Lifesaving. It’s going to be a beautiful day.
Postscript
Looking back now, this was a very special journey. At 44, with the ageing process really starting to have an effect, I had largely put a full stop after the S-K. It's as if I had packed it away in a box and put it up on a high shelf to forget about. But some things don't want to be forgotten... Time has a way of changing things. You start wondering about that box, high up there on its shelf. Sometimes that curiosity is strong enough to have you pull it down, blow off the dust and peek inside.
A heartfelt thanks to Andy Carruthers, for igniting that curiosity. Earlier in the year Andy had called, asking if I'd like to be a part of a film documenting the history of the S-K. At first I was hesitant, that box was right where I wanted it, things were simple with it tucked away. But the subsequent interview got me thinking about a long forgotten dream. A seed had been planted, it was time to dust off the box.
The Carkeek S-K really surprised me. Despite all the anxiety and self doubt leading up to it, it was by far the funnest of all my S-K's. It took me to the physical and spiritual heart of the range and there were no records to beat and no expectations, it was adventure in its purest form. Most importantly it reconnected me with a range I had fallen in love with long ago, the beautiful Tararua...
...only time will tell whether the Carkeek S-K will capture the imagination as it has mine and see people take up the challenge, but in my mind it has all the ingredients for the perfect Tararua adventure…
Massive thanks to my good mate Greg Clarke and also Sam Hansby, for the ride out to Putara, the brotherhood and the pre-adventure fizz. Kyle, for the shared stoke on the trails, well done for getting it done my bro. These were all very different adventures but a love for the Tararua unites us all, tumeke fellas! To the Wellington BSR community, keep pushing the boat out and inspiring team, you're such a rad group of humans. Last but not least, to my awesome family who unfailingly share in my dreams and help me find the courage to believe in them, I am nothing without you. Ruby, if you ever read this, follow your dreams my darling…
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