Day 2 – Rotorua: Hell’s Gate
Cloud, Provisions, and the First Breath of the Earth
We woke to a quiet morning. The rain had stopped overnight, leaving behind a heavy sky — clouded but still, as if the land itself was catching its breath. Rotorua felt muted, expectant.
The first task of the day was practical rather than poetic: breakfast. The young adults were still asleep, untroubled by jet lag or itinerary. Mon and I slipped out early to Woolworths, which had just reopened after Boxing Day. Shelves were being restocked, staff easing back into routine, the gentle hum of a town restarting itself.
We bought generously — breakfast supplies, lunch provisions, enough to avoid unnecessary decisions later in the day. Prices felt higher than back home, though that may have been the familiar trick of New Zealand dollars playing with perspective rather than reality. Either way, we returned well-stocked and quietly satisfied.
By the time everyone was up, fed, and moving, it was already edging towards late morning. We didn’t leave for Hell’s Gate until around 11am — late by our usual standards, but deliberately unhurried. The 10.30 guided tour had already departed; the next wouldn’t be until 2.30. That left us with time — and space — to walk the reserve ourselves.
We had opted for the full experience at Hell’s Gate Geothermal Reserve, a $115 ticket per person. For four adults, the cost landed heavily — $460 — a reminder that wonder sometimes comes with a price tag. Whether it proves worth it is often something only time decides.
The reserve invites you in not with spectacle, but with threshold.
Hell’s Gate Walk
1. The Waharoa — The Crossing In
The journey begins at the Waharoa — the carved gateway marking entry into the geothermal reserve. It is more than an entrance; it is a statement of lineage and power.
The carving represents the ancestral chief Rangitaorete and Ruamoko, the Māori god of volcanic activity — the restless force believed to dwell beneath the earth. Passing through it feels symbolic rather than ceremonial, as though you are being reminded that what lies ahead is not passive scenery, but living ground.
You are entering a place where the earth still speaks.
2. The Geothermal Footpool — Absent, but Not Forgotten
Just beyond the entrance lies the geothermal footpool, designed as a place of rest — warm mineral water meant to soothe tired feet after the walk.
On this day, it was closed.
Even so, its presence lingered. Steam rose faintly nearby, and signage spoke of comfort deferred. In Rotorua, absence still carries meaning. Not everything is available on demand; some experiences wait for another time, another season.
3. Devil’s Path — Where Power Was Borrowed
At 45°C, Devil’s Path is deceptive — a small, shallow pool, roughly six metres deep, with water that appears calm enough until you learn its story.
With a pH of 3.5, the water is acidic, sulphur-laced, and once used by a Tohunga — a Māori high priest — who believed the pool granted foresight. Whether metaphorical or literal, the idea is compelling: insight drawn not from distance, but from immersion in discomfort.
This was not a place of leisure. It was a place of transformation.
4. The Ink Pots — Earth at Boil
The temperature rises sharply here — 98°C — and suddenly the earth sheds any pretence of calm.
The Ink Pots appear as a dramatic black rupture in the ground, water actively boiling, churning with intent. The darkness comes from sulphides and suspended carbon, giving the surface a graphite-like sheen, as though the earth itself were writing.
These pools descend around 20 metres and carry a pH of 2.0 — highly acidic, volatile, alive. Standing nearby, you don’t linger long. This is not a place for reflection so much as respect.
5. Hurutini — Grief in the Ground
At 42°C, the pool named Hurutini carries a quieter, heavier story.
Named after a local Māori princess who tragically took her own life, the surrounding area came to be known as Tikitere, after her mother discovered her body. The pool is approximately 15 metres deep, with a pH of 3.5, and its sulphurous waters are now used in the Sulphur Spa.
There is something sobering about grief becoming geography — sorrow absorbed into land, memory preserved not in words but in heat and water. It is impossible to stand here without lowering one’s voice, even internally.
By this point, the walk had already shifted in tone. What began as a tourist visit was quietly becoming something else — an encounter with narrative, power, loss, and endurance, written directly into the earth.
And we were only six points in.
When the Earth Refuses to Be Still
If the earlier sections of the walk introduced us to heat and history, the next stretch made one thing unmistakably clear: this land is not dormant. It is restless.
7. Hell’s Gate — The Name That Stuck
At 45°C, Hell’s Gate itself is a large, roiling pool with no visible inlet. The water moves constantly, agitated by gases rising from below, as though the surface cannot quite settle into agreement with what lies beneath it.
The name was bestowed in the early 1900s by George Bernard Shaw, whose visit left him sufficiently impressed — or unsettled — to give the place a title that endured. Standing there now, watching thick fumes rise and disperse into the cool air, it is easy to see why.
The pool drops to around 25 metres, with a pH of 3.2 — acidic enough to command respect, but not so extreme as to feel alien. What strikes you most is not danger, but motion. Nothing here is static. The earth is breathing, shifting, refusing stillness.
8. Baby Adam — Playfulness in Heat
At 68°C, Baby Adam could not be mistaken for gentle — yet its energy is oddly playful.
This cluster of small pools, each about one metre deep, bubbles and pulses with constantly changing activity. Shaw, again reaching for metaphor, named it after bouncing his nephew Adam on his knee. The comparison feels surprisingly apt. There is something childlike about the way the pools refuse predictability — fizzing, pausing, then erupting again.
With a pH of 6.0, these waters are far less acidic than many we had already passed. Chemically milder, visually lively — a reminder that geothermal does not only express itself as menace. Sometimes it plays.
9. Sulphur Bath — Medicine, Not Comfort
At 98°C, the Sulphur Bath announces itself before you even read the sign.
Its vivid yellow colour comes from an extremely high sulphur content, and despite the inviting name, this is no place for soaking. The water is both too hot and too acidic, with a pH of 1.8 — among the harshest conditions on the walk.
Historically, Māori collected water from this pool for practical, even medicinal purposes: treating skin conditions, insect bites, and diluting it for use as an insecticide. Standing there, you begin to appreciate how survival once required not avoidance of such places, but intimate understanding of them.
This was not recreation. This was chemistry harnessed through observation.
10. Inferno Pool — Earth in the Act of Becoming
At 60.5°C, the Inferno Pool feels like a process rather than a place.
Composed of several main springs, it offers a clear demonstration of how hot, acidic waters break down solid rock, producing geothermal mud. Here, creation and destruction are the same act. With a pH of 2.5, the pool actively reshapes its surroundings.
Watching it, you realise that landscapes are not always carved by time alone. Sometimes they are dissolved, softened, and reformed — moment by moment.
11. Incense — A Thin Boundary
The Incense pools continue the theme of unpredictable motion. Shaw again likened their activity to young children — restless, animated, incapable of remaining still for long.
What makes this section unsettling is not the bubbling itself, but the realisation of how thin the earth’s crust is here. In places, it feels almost imagined — a skin rather than a surface. Signage gently but firmly reminds visitors to stay on the marked path.
This is not metaphorical danger. It is literal.
12. Spraying Pools — The Frying Pan Effect
At 88–100°C, the Spraying Pools are not pools at all.
Instead, they are moments — surface water meeting intense subterranean heat and flashing instantly into steam. The effect is like dropping water onto a hot frying pan, a phenomenon known in geothermal terms as the frying pan effect.
With a pH of 2.5, these interactions are brief, violent, and compelling. There is something mesmerising about watching water fail to remain liquid — transformed instantly by forces beyond its control.
By the time we reached the next large gate — the one leading towards the bush walk — something had shifted.
This was our first true exposure to geothermal activity. We had never stood on land that boiled beneath our feet, never watched rock dissolve into mud, never smelt sulphur as evidence of ongoing creation. We had not been to Yellowstone or Iceland or other volcanic landscapes.
Rotorua was our introduction.
And it was humbling.
From Fire to Forest, and Back Again
13. The Bush Walk — Where Life Takes Hold
The bush walk marked a shift.
After so much exposed heat and raw earth, the path led us into native greenery — living, layered, and unexpectedly lush. The bush here has always been more than scenery for Māori: it has been food source, medicine cabinet, clothing store, shelter, and spiritual anchor. You feel that history even if you don’t know the names of the plants.
The colours were striking. Sulphur rising from the ground seems to fertilise the landscape, intensifying greens and amplifying blooms. Blue hydrangeas dotted the slopes — improbably vivid against steaming earth — quietly beautiful in a way that felt almost deliberate.
We saw birds too. One in particular caught my attention — tiny, quick, with a delicate fan-shaped tail. I raised my camera just as a group of tourists came through, voices carrying, footsteps careless. The bird vanished instantly. A small reminder that some moments resist capture and belong only to presence.
Tree trunks were mottled with strange lichens — golden, textured, almost metallic — turning bark into something ornamental. The bushwalk was calm, alive, and restorative. It felt like the land healing itself in real time.
14. Kakahi Falls — Cleansing After Battle
At 40°C, Kakahi Falls are the largest hot waterfalls in the Southern Hemisphere.
Historically, Māori warriors bathed here after battle — not just to wash away blood, but to cleanse themselves spiritually. Sulphur’s antiseptic properties gave the ritual a practical foundation, but the meaning went deeper than hygiene.
The full name — Te Mimi o te Kakahi — carries that weight. Standing there, watching warm water cascade continuously, you could imagine the exhaustion, relief, and quiet reckoning that must have taken place here centuries ago.
15. Crystal Valley — When Fire Catches Fire
Crystal Valley felt otherworldly.
This area is coated in deposited sulphur condensed from geothermal steam. The ground carries pale yellows, whites, and blacks — but the blackened patches tell a more dramatic story. When sulphur deposits reach 120°C, they can ignite spontaneously. Once burning, temperatures soar to 380°C, hot enough to melt silica rock, causing it to flow like lava.
What we were seeing was not residue — it was aftermath.
The land here bears scars not from erosion, but from combustion.
16. Devil’s Cauldron — Silence That Heals
At 98–100°C, Devil’s Cauldron looked almost… inactive.
A cracked surface of black mud lay mostly still, releasing only occasional wisps of steam. But the stillness was deceptive. This mud is one of three geothermal types found in the reserve — black, grey, and white — each with different healing properties. Black mud, in particular, has long been associated with relief from arthritis and rheumatism.
Nothing dramatic happened here. And yet it held attention — a reminder that not all power announces itself loudly.
17. The Mud Volcano — A Slow Eruption
This was the largest mud volcano in any geothermal reserve in New Zealand.
Where most mud formations reach around a metre in height, this one stood approximately 3.2 metres tall, still growing. Like its lava-based counterparts, it produces eruptions and mud lahars — slow-moving flows of earth rather than fire.
A narrow footpath brought us close enough to see into the crater itself. Steam escaped from within, giving the sense of something restrained rather than dormant. It was oddly beautiful — a sculpture shaped by pressure rather than intention.
18 & 19. Detours and Cooking Pools
The path to the Steaming Cliffs was closed for repairs, forcing a detour that altered the rhythm of the walk.
Along the way we encountered the historic cooking pools — 88°C, dark water, sulphur-heavy air. Despite appearances, food cooked here was not tainted. Heat-loving bacteria formed coral-like land structures around the pools, coated in silica over time.
Two pools were deep black. One was pale green — unexpectedly so — and no explanation fully satisfied the eye. The pH of 6.2 made these pools relatively gentle compared to what we had already seen, though nothing here could be called benign.
18 (Revisited). Steaming Cliffs — Maximum Energy
At 110–120°C, the Steaming Cliffs are the hottest feature in the reserve.
Here, boiling water can erupt over three metres into the air. Two smaller pools flank the main one, each with differently coloured water — fed by separate underground reservoirs, born from a prior eruption.
This felt like the climax of the walk. Loud, volatile, unapologetic.
20. Medicine Lake — Care Taken Forward
Medicine Lake glowed pale green — 40–68°C — calm by comparison.
For centuries, Māori have used these waters and muds to treat aches, pains, and skin conditions. Today, the reserve continues to collect mud from here for spa use, intentionally designed to honour tradition while maintaining safety.
As we reached this point, rain began to return — light at first, then persistent. I wrapped my camera quickly, and we turned back towards the baths.
21. The Map of Australia — Almost Convincing
On the return path, we passed a naturally formed pool shaped remarkably like Australia — 36°C, pH 3.8.
A triangular stone at the bottom resembled Tasmania — a little too neatly. It felt placed rather than formed. A small human signature in an otherwise untamed landscape. I noticed it, questioned it, and moved on.
22. Sodom and Gomorrah — Judgement by Steam
At 100°C+, these pools boiled violently, erupting water up to two metres high.
George Bernard Shaw named them Sodom and Gomorrah, drawing on biblical imagery of excess and destruction. The comparison felt theatrical — but watching the water explode repeatedly into the air, it was hard to argue with the drama.
23. Steaming Fumaroles — The Breath of the Earth
The walk ended amid a field of steaming fumaroles, releasing sulphuric vapour that condensed into crystalline formations — stalactites and stalagmites formed not in caves, but in open air.
Fine crystals clung to surfaces, fragile and transient. As steam cooled, the land quietly built and dismantled itself all over again.
By the time we reached the carving house near the pools, rain was falling steadily. The camera stayed packed away. Shoes were muddy. The air smelt unmistakably of sulphur and wet earth.
We had walked through fire, water, grief, healing, playfulness, and power — all before lunch.
The carving house, and what it holds, deserves its own telling.
The Carving House — Learning by Doing
Just before the baths, tucked away almost modestly, sits the carving house — a small but thoughtful innovation that quietly completes the journey.
Here, visitors are introduced to the noble art of whakairo — Māori carving — not as spectacle, but as practice. Under the watchful guidance of the carvers at Tikitere Hell’s Gate, you are invited to take part, to feel the resistance of wood beneath tool and hand.
A staff member — Māori in appearance and manner — explained the process with calm clarity. Each of us was given a small piece of wood, pre-marked with a choice of symbolic designs. There were several options: motifs representing loyalty, nurture, strength — familiar values rendered in unfamiliar forms. Ferns, birds, and abstract shapes echoed patterns seen across marae, meeting houses, and carvings throughout Aotearoa.
Then came the tools: a chisel and a small hammer.
The instruction sounded simple enough. The V of the chisel must face down. Gentle taps, not force. Angle matters. Vertical gives depth; horizontal gives finesse.
Naturally, I got it wrong.
I turned the chisel upside down and immediately began splintering the wood rather than shaping it — a small but humbling lesson in how quickly intention and outcome can diverge when technique is ignored. The others fared better, coaxing clean lines from the grain, their designs slowly emerging with each careful tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
There was something quietly meditative about it. The rhythm slowed the mind. Each strike demanded attention. You couldn’t rush it. You couldn’t fake it. And in that small act, it became very clear just how extraordinary the intricate carvings seen across New Zealand truly are. What looks effortless in finished form is anything but.
Once finished, the pieces were lightly lacquered and set aside to dry — about twenty minutes — small, tangible reminders of time spent not just observing culture, but touching it, however briefly and imperfectly.
It was a fitting way to end the walk.
After heat and steam, sulphur and mud, grief and geology, the day closed with craft — with hands learning what eyes alone could never fully understand.
And then, with rain returning and the smell of sulphur lingering in our clothes, we moved on towards the baths — carrying with us not just photographs, but something made.
Mud, Sulphur, and the Art of Letting the Body Sink
After the carving house, the day moved towards its quiet centre of gravity — the part everything else seemed to have been preparing us for.
The baths.
We were ushered first into the practicalities. Lockers assigned. Belongings secured. Jewellery off — not negotiable. Anything metallic would blacken in sulphur water, and once removed, jewellery shouldn’t go back on for at least 24 hours. Bodies, too, were checked in with: sulphur allergy, heart conditions, blood pressure, prior surgery. This was not casual wellness; it was supervised immersion.
The safety briefing followed. Sequence mattered. Time mattered. The mud bath was capped at twenty minutes — no more. I later read that people had fainted in the past by overstaying, most likely due to vasodilation and blood pooling in the lower limbs. The staff monitored temperature closely, attentive but calm.
Separate changing rooms for men and women, then we were guided out to the mud pools.
The mud bath itself is an unusual experience — hot, viscous water, earthy and opaque, with buckets of dense geothermal mud placed at each corner. You settle into the pool and coat yourself in mud, thick and grey, the idea being to sit out of the water so it dries on the skin. Drying, they say, makes it more effective.
In theory.
In practice, if there’s even the slightest breeze, staying submerged feels infinitely kinder. We compromised — emerging, drying a little, then slipping back into the warmth. Time slowed. Conversation dropped away. The world narrowed to heat, weight, and breath.
At the twenty-minute mark, staff gently called time. No whistles. No urgency. Just a reminder. We showered thoroughly to remove the mud — everything rinsed away before the next phase.
The sulphur pools came next.
Three of them: one at 38°C, family-friendly and gentle; another at 39°C; and a third at 40°C. The two warmer pools are connected, with water cooling as it flows and cascading gently down a small sulphur fall, creating a mild jacuzzi effect. Steam rose constantly, blurring edges and softening faces.
It was deeply relaxing — the kind that seeps rather than announces itself.
There is one rule that becomes immediately obvious: keep the water out of your eyes. Sulphur stings. I failed that test briefly and paid for it with irritated eyes for the rest of the day — a small but memorable lesson in attentiveness.
The kids and I added a cold plunge to the routine. A narrow artificial waterfall of icy water, shocking after the heat. Breath-stealing. Electric. We laughed, gasped, and fled back into the warmth of the sulphur pools, bodies recalibrating, circulation roaring back to life.
Eventually, reluctantly, we finished. Changed. Retrieved our things. And returned to the car — loose-limbed, slowed, quietly spent.
It was around 2.30pm by the time we got back to the apartment. We could have driven out to Ōkere Falls to watch the rafting, but hunger and fatigue won the negotiation. Lunch was simple and perfect — pizza bought earlier from Woolworths, eaten without ceremony.
The afternoon dissolved.
Rain returned. The sky closed in. We surrendered to it and slept — a long, heavy siesta that felt earned. Whether it was the sulphur, the heat, or simply accumulated travel fatigue, the body clearly needed stillness.
Evening arrived with rain still tapping the windows. We watched a film on Netflix — Godzilla x Kong: The New Empire, freshly released on Christmas Day — loud, absurd, and oddly soothing after a day immersed in elemental power.
When the rain eased, we ventured out once more to Woolworths to sort dinner. Pasta — which Mahi cooked — and skewers of hoisin chicken and satay chicken. Simple, generous, satisfying.
Somewhere between all of this — in a quiet pocket of time — I booked tickets for the next day. Te Puia, with the Te Rēhia Haka combo, scheduled from 10am to 12pm. The forecast suggested a window of clearer weather in the morning before turning again in the afternoon. It felt like the right decision.
Day 2 closed gently.
Not with spectacle, but with softened muscles, heavy eyelids, good food, and the sense that Rotorua was working on us — not just entertaining us, but altering our pace, our bodies, our attention.
Day 3 was already waiting.
