Rangitoto, Rated in Lunch Boxes

I've rated each part of the day out of seven lunch boxes. You'll see why.

The ferry: four out of seven.

Mr. Mummu turned up at my door at half past seven with a backpack that clinked when he set it down. "Islands are remote," he said, as if that settled it. Seven containers, it turned out. Lemon rice, curd rice, banana chips, tamarind chutney, a tub of vadas he called "just a snack", lime pickle, and one more he wouldn't discuss.

The ferry from the downtown terminal takes about 25 minutes. That was long enough for Mummu to open his notebook titled "Urgent" and add "ferry" to a page that already said "coriander" and "call plumber" in three languages. Halfway across he looked at the cone getting bigger, perfectly even on both sides like someone had iced it, and asked, very casually, where the cafe on the island was.

I told him there wasn't one.

He wrote "cafe?" under "ferry" and underlined it twice.

The shoe inspection: a full seven.

Before you board, your bags and shoes get checked for pests, seeds and soil. Rangitoto is a pest-free sanctuary, no animals allowed, and they mean it. Mummu had scrubbed his trainers the night before with an old toothbrush, a job he later described as "very calming". He held them up for inspection like a boy showing his homework.

Nothing found. Mummu beamed.

The chutney got a curious look, mostly because it had leaked onto its own label, so "chutney" now read "chuney" in English and something nobody could pronounce in the other two. "For emergencies," Mummu said. The man nodded slowly and let us on.

The track: five out of seven.

The Summit Track is about 2.3 km from the wharf and roughly an hour up, with around 260 metres of climbing over rough, uneven volcanic rock and loose scoria. There's very little shade. On a hot day the heat bounces back up off the dark rock, and this was a hot day. Wear proper shoes and a hat. Mummu's scrubbed trainers earned their keep.

The track goes through the world's largest pohutukawa forest, which sounds grand and is, though not in the way you'd picture. The trees are low and twisty and grow straight out of black lava, like they've decided to live there out of stubbornness. The island only rose out of the sea about 600 years ago, which makes it the youngest volcano in New Zealand. You can feel it underfoot. Nothing here has softened yet.

At a photo stop Mummu said, "One minute."

Twelve minutes later he was still photographing the same pohutukawa from four angles. I'd budgeted for it. A Mummu minute is a unit you learn the hard way, like converting cups to grams in your head.

The lava caves: six.

The caves are a signposted side track off the Summit Track, about fifteen minutes. They're natural tunnels left by the eruption, dark, with low ceilings and jagged rock. Bring a torch and mind your head.

Mummu had a torch. It was under container four. About twenty metres in he bumped his head, gently, said "Sorry, sorry" to the rock, and rubbed the spot while I pretended to study the ceiling.

We sat at the mouth afterwards to let our eyes adjust, and he opened the banana chips.

"When I was nine," he said, "I packed for the school picnic. Raincoat, cricket bat, a small dictionary in case we met someone famous. It was the hottest day of the year. Nobody wanted the bat. Nobody wanted the dictionary. Everyone wanted to sit under my raincoat, because it was the only shade." He crunched a chip. "I packed for rain and was useful in sun. By accident." He thought about it. "You pack for the trip in your head. The real one only checks your hands."

Then he snapped the lid shut. "This is why I brought seven lunches. You cannot know which lunch you will need."

The summit: six and a half.

From the top you get the whole lot: Auckland city, the Hauraki Gulf and its islands, the Waitakere Ranges, and on a clear day the Coromandel Range. It was a clear day. There's seating at the lookout, so we sat and unpacked. Lemon rice. Curd rice. The chuney. The vadas, which would have fed four people. The pickle went round twice.

Container seven stayed shut.

Halfway through, Mummu stopped chewing. He looked at his hands, then at me, then at the two bottles I'd pulled out of my own bag.

"I forgot water," he said.

It cost him something to say it. I handed him a bottle and he drank half in one go, then the rest slowly, like a man tasting something expensive. Here's the tip I'd underline: there are no shops, no food and no drinking water anywhere on the island. Toilets are only at the wharf and near the summit. Carry everything in, including the boring bits.

The shop: none.

There isn't one. That's the point.

The ferry home: six, easily.

Don't miss the last ferry. Day visitors can't just stay over, and any other way back to the mainland is expensive. Phone coverage is patchy in places too, so you can't count on ringing anyone to come and rescue your planning. We made the boat with time to spare, because I'd added Mummu minutes on top of Mummu minutes. He didn't say "one minute" once on the way down. I think he'd used up his allowance.

He spent the crossing writing in the Urgent notebook, pressing hard enough to dent the page underneath. I didn't ask what. I had a fair idea.

At my door he unpacked. Six containers, empty, stacked like a small tower. The seventh, still sealed, labelled "emergency" in three languages that didn't quite agree with each other. He put it on my kitchen bench. "For next time," he said, "when the trip is different."

Later I found the notebook beside it, left open to a fresh page. Right at the top, underlined once, in his careful hand: "Water."