A WEE WALK
IN THE
WILDERNESS
WALKING THE LENGTH OF NEW ZEALAND THROUGH THE BUSH 1983/84
REX HENDRY
FOREWORD:
From 19,000 feet, Tibet, August 1985
Dear Rex,
This may be the highest foreword ever written! (I’m writing it in the
form of a letter because I think it will be more in keeping with the style
of the book).
I’m sitting here on the Rongbuk Glacier on the north side of Everest
amidst a sea of moraine debris and ice pinnacles. Above me the
atmosphere has been whipped into a maelstrom of vapour ripping in all
directions as it is hurled over the west ridge from Nepal. God help
anyone high on Everest today!
As I saunter down from Camp 1 I’ve been thinking about your trip
through the hills of New Zealand and realising how wonderful it was.
Our hills are amongst the most beautiful in the world (and dreaming of
them afar perhaps makes them seem even more superb).
Your trip symbolises three things to me:
 Firstly, of course, it was for you a huge physical and mental
undertaking. That people should force themselves into these
difficult and dangerous adventures, both alone and with others,
is very important to the development of the human race – to
those who say such things are dangerous and a waste of time I
say “Phooey”! They are the people who dream of their old age
benefit and are suddenly too old to appreciate it.
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness


Secondly, as I’ve touched on, New Zealand is one of the most
beautiful countries on earth and, while people everywhere are
destroying the wild places of the world, we must be more
determined to protect ours. Your journey will help focus
attention on the need to protect.
Finally, your journey has a message of hope for international
cooperation and understanding. While relationships between
New Zealand and France are at their lowest ebb, you fall in love
with, and marry, the beautiful French woman, Joëlle. This is a
wonderful new adventure.
Warmest regards
Graeme Dingle
With a sore backside from sitting on the rocks and ice of the Rongbuk
Glacier.
ISBN No: 978-0-473-15780-7
© Rex Hendry, 1984, 2009
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
3
HOOPER POINT TO KAIKOHE.
“You’re Bloody Crazy!”
I could see the look in his eye as I limped away from the bus. I’d run in
the Wiri Marathon two days previously to ‘get fit’ for this lunacy —
worn a couple of decent holes in my feet and wrung a few muscles up
really tight, so I was starting to agree with the silent tolerance I’d
observed over the last few weeks while planning this trip.
‘Walk the length of New Zealand’, sure why not? Been done plenty of
times before. ‘Off road!’ Thousands had thought about it. The
Federated Mountain Clubs, with the Lands and Survey Department,
instigated the New Zealand Walkways Commission with an idea of
4
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
setting up a North/South track. Since I’d heard about it some eight
years ago the idea had appealed. Then, while doing an Outdoor
Education Course in Britain a few years ago, it was rekindled as a fairly
logical continuation of where I thought I was trying to go.
Anyway, back in New Zealand in September 1983, I started pouring
over maps, leafing through mounds of books, corresponding with as
many people as possible in the shortest time, trying to get organised by
the end of November so I could walk into Auckland for Christmas with
my family (the first for many years) and make the most of the spring in
Northland.
By mid-November I had got things pretty well sussed. The bulk of my
food was sorted and boxed ready for distribution, through the postal
system, at pre-arranged date, along with the swag of inch to the mile
maps. My equipment was on the way from Macpac Wilderness in
Christchurch, and the Lydiard Shoe Company in Auckland were
making some ‘specials’ for me — prototype lightweight walking boots.
Things were shaping up. My route was pretty well sorted with the
information I’d collected, but I was trying to keep a fairly open mind
about it, as it was sure to change with weather conditions and local
information. Also, I didn’t want to fall into the trap of committed
arrogance. In some of the country I would be travelling that could spell
disaster. If I could keep to Walkways where possible and keep the rest
to that standard, maybe it would help the Walkways Commission in
their task and fire up a bit more public interest in that area.
So here I was, hobbling out of Waitiki Landing towards Hooper Point
at the northern end of Spirits Bay, the start of the Walkway system. It
was the 22nd of November, warm, humid with some thunderheads
rolling through, west to east. The sun was invigorating but I was feeling
some anxiety with over 2500 kilometres of walking to come and
wondering what I had overlooked in planning.
The colours of the country were rich and the smell of the land
magnificent after the bustle and carbon-monoxide of Auckland.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
5
Luckily, I hitched a lift to the campsite at Hooper Point in one of the
few cars on the road and then wandered out to the Point itself looking
for an arrow pointing to Bluff. I didn’t find one, so after some lunch
and panoramic snaps, returned to the campsite and set up my 3 metre
by 2 metre polythene sheet over an open fireplace. Spartan digs for the
first night.
A lot of the intention behind this trip was to learn as much as possible
about the real nature of New Zealand; the geology, flora, fauna,
meteorology and as many other ologys as I could cope with. The weight
of my rucksac was testifying to this, with no less than nine reference
books crammed between my spare clothes and food. Here at Hooper
Point was the first opportunity for me to start rubbing my chin and
scratching my cranium. On the beach towards the Point were some
splendid conglomerate boulders. Sections of ancient, rounded, riverbed
rocks with a coarse sandy matrix, compressed over the years into a solid
lump then exposed by erosion or land movement, to stand as a
statement of what happened right here all those thousands of years ago.
In fact, I believe, some 20 million years.
Back at the campsite there were some intriguing people in abode. A
group of intellectually handicapped youths were getting to grips with
the environment and thoroughly enjoying it. A loner from Whangarei,
Bill, had ‘dropped out’ and was looking about for a horse to do a
similar trip to that I was about to attempt.
The morrow dawned clear and cool, with the hint of a promise for
warm sun and clear skies for a few days. I crammed down my breakfast
and packed up, trying to get an orderly camp routine sorted out as soon
as possible. Bill stated that, if he could catch one of the nags in the
paddock next door, he would catch up with me on the ninety-mile
beach. With that thought in mind I headed down Spirits Bay,
accompanied by some white fronted terns and the occasional shrill
squawk of oystercatchers. It was wonderful shuffling along Spirits Bay,
barefooted, contemplating the adventure to come. My diary noted:
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
‘Felt better to be “out amongst it” in comparison to the awe I
had felt yesterday from actually getting it together.’
The western end of Spirits Bay is a spit and, in seemingly no time at all,
I was wading waist deep, at high tide, across the mouth of the
Waitahora Stream. A brief exchange with a couple of European girls
waiting for the tide to ebb, shoes on, up and over the headland and
onto Pandora for lunch. There are curious volcanic intruded rooks on
the shore here but I was too busy contending with the local inhabitants
to get enthused — bloody sandflies!
A bit of a grunt up the hill towards Te Paki then along Darkies Ridge to
Tapotupotu Bay. There are some nice views all round from along here.
An open track, but greying cumulus (large cottonwool clouds) were
starting to build up in the west so I pressed on. Up and down along the
northern coast to Cape Reinga. I stopped briefly at the Point, took a
couple of posy pix and strolled off across Te Werahi Beach trying to
make Twilight Beach and, hopefully, fresh water for the night. On
arriving at Twilight Beach I cut back up the first gully, looking for what
was supposed to be the best chance of fresh water. Shit! Two hundred
metres up and still no water. I dropped my sac at a likely camping spot,
absolutely knackered, and limped further up the gully, digging here and
there. In one of the side branches I found a trickle, enough to get by
on. Somewhat relieved I set up a bivouac in the lupins and settled in for
the night - an entomologist’s dream.
Another cracker dawn and the
magnificent spectacle of a
group of porpoises fishing in
the surf, leaping, catching
waves and going for the
tunnel. Up and over Scott
Point, and then ‘wow!’ slack
jaw time. There was Ninety
Mile Beach stretching south
into the morning haze for
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
7
about ninety kilometres.
For three days I walked the golden sands trying to avoid sunburn,
blisters, and dehydration. The solitude was only broken for about half
an hour a day, just short of the full ebb, when a handful of tourist buses
would go whooshing past, and the occasional chuff of a landrover. The
second day on the beach I walked forty-eight kilometres trying to
prevent ending up next to pine forest for the night.
There are campsites at the northern end of the beach, the Bluff,
Hukatere lookout towers, Waipapakauri Beach, and Ahipara, and a
picnic site behind the dunes about three kilometres north of
Waipapakauri.
On reaching Ahipara I took off my boots to expose soggy sore feet.
Dejectedly, and not enjoying walking on tarseal, I plodded inland into
the first rain and onto Kaitaia, starting to have doubts about the
continuity of the trip. I managed to talk Aureen and Peter Mason into
giving me a bed at the Youth Hostel for two nights and spent the
interim period liberally applying meths to my feet and gleaning
information from my friendly hosts on the next section of the trip.
On Monday morning I picked up my food parcel from the Post Office,
stuffed my sac full of a few extra ‘goodies’, headed out onto State
Highway One and south into the Herekino State Forest. At the road
end I found shelter from a shower and read the letters I’d picked up in
Kaitaia. Good communication from nice people. Along with my
emotions, my senses were running high - my nostrils almost causing
salivation at the fertile aroma of the bush. I picked some immature,
green nikau berries to supplement my lunch and almost skipped on,
jovially talking to the trees.
The track contours gently round and slowly up and over a saddle,
through the podocarp-hardwood forest with young, austere Rimu, and
on down to Diggers Valley Road. An inviting-looking farm track carried
on over the scrubby hills towards Takahue, so hoping to come across
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
the farmer to explain my presence but risking trespass, I guiltily sneaked
on. When the cows and calves started bleating unmercifully, my heart
thumped in my ears and bulged my eyes. Shortly the track emerged at
the back of a farmhouse and I sped toward it hoping to meet my fate
and be relieved, of some of the anguish. Nobody home! My first public
relations confrontation on the trip and it hadn’t even got off the
ground. Wait - here’s a ute. A well built, blond, good-looking guy gets
out (if he hits me, I’m done for).
In a squeaky voice I explained the situation.
“Oh, sure. No problem. Where are you heading?” and then gave me
directions to Takahue.
The area has a strong Dalmatian connexion and wandering down the
gravel road to Takahue, passing original homesteads, I felt for these
early settlers. Crossing half a world and carving an existence out of
these wild but beautiful hills. A romantic notion yet, even without an
established commercial and communication system, it must have been a
daunting task.
Through a few warm, frontal showers I arrived at ‘tiger country’ farm
where I came across the farmer bringing down some sheep, with a
huntaway dog, from some of the steep country up the river.
“Hi, do you mind if I crash in ya woolshed for the night?”
“Nope, help yourself.”
In the bright, glistening morning I followed the river up to where the
Walkway rises fairly steeply out of the valley and on old logging roads
into the Raetea State Forest on an open, well marked track, the route
soon reached the ridge which it follows round to Raetea Summit itself,
breaking out into a small clearing giving a spectacular panorama of
Northland’s forests and well north to Ninety Mile Beach, disgorging a
premature sense of achievement.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
9
Following the ridge track along I popped out on the road at the
Mangamuka Summit for lunch - bush crashing off the road a bit in
search of water. Then back in, along the ridge, going hard.. I had to try
to get along the Maungataniwha Range and into the valley by nightfall.
The track to the Radio Tower was well marked and cut, but between
there and the T.V. Translater there is 4½ kilometres of untracked bush.
I got out the compass and headed into the clouds and bush. The sky
opened and down the rain poured, throwing the gyros well off. A small
degree of confusion later and trying to keep a soggy map from
disintegrating I emerged at the Translater. It was seven p.m. Off down
the track, at an awkward gait, I spooked a large boar and we carried on
our respective paths at a faster pace. I arrived in the valley just on dusk
to collapse in a roadside shack for the night.
Tracking down the farmer first thing, we shot the breeze for a while.
He seemed very reluctant to let me cross four kilometres of his land to
get into the next forest and back onto the Walkway System. I was in no
position to argue and had to resolve myself to a thirty one kilometre
trudge on a gravel road to get around. Fortunately, at the next farm, I
got a warm reception from Russell Porter, the manager of the Takakuri
Lands and Survey Block that I wanted to cross. His wife, Julie, gave me
cups of tea and some cakes. Russell handed me fresh fruit and off I
went again to make Mangapa for the night.
I awoke several times thinking I was near a M.A.S.H. unit or Heliport.
Bloody mosquitoes! My diary notes - “I should have brought a saddle I could have ridden one out!” Up and away next morning into a clear
spring day, on the Nikauponiponu Track. Ascending to the ridge on an
open path, then along undulating ground on the tops. The view from
Point 1440 ft (now 439 metres) shows the twisting and contorting of
the mesozoic sediments, part of the New Zealand geo-syncline,
stretching away from the main alpine fault towards the Norfolk Ridge.
The scene certainly changed my preconceived idea of gently rolling
Northland farmland.
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Dropping into the Waipapa River at midday I stripped off and doused
myself in the refreshing water. Eating my lunch in the sun, I also took
the opportunity to do some laundry, interrupted with bursts up and
down the bank to try and capture the elusive parakeet on film. The area
is beautiful and is being tastefully developed to provide recreation
facilities for those who wish to make the effort to get there.
Out on the road, plodding uphill to Okaihau, a friendly Scotsman
stopped his car and asked if I’d like a lift. I declined and on inquiring
about accommodation he said to meet him at the Pub at the top of the
hill and I could spend the night with him and his family. Wonderful. I
was, in this adventure, becoming privileged to the warmth and
hospitality which is very much a part of this country and, seemingly,
afforded by those with simpler means and ideals.
After a very cordial night in the humble home of Eamonn and Jenny I
walked the disused railway track to Kaikohe, much relieved of the
solitude I was beginning to feel.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
11
KAIKOHE TO AUCKLAND
The resupply in Kaikohe went off a treat. My food parcel was waiting at
the Post Office as pre arranged and the people there were inquisitive
about the trip. I managed to glean some local information from Bruce
Gillies, the chemist, a keen tramper.
Wending my way to Taheke on the road, in the afternoon sun, I kept
going over in my mind the small semantic I had picked up in the
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
German language. The word ‘alone’ in German is ‘Allein’ the syllables
reversed are ‘ein all’ or one universe, interesting! I got to wondering
that maybe there was a little message here, a basic premise for all the
great religions of this world.
In arriving in Taheke, to a damp evening, I looked about for a way
down to the spectacular waterfall that I’d been told about, and possibly
camp there for the night. I chanced upon a family playing tennis at the
old school. Tim and Emma said they would show me the waterfall and
Miriam, who was going home to prepare a meal, suggested I camp
closer to the house away from the Taniwhas by the river. Sounded like
good sense to me.
Although I didn’t get to have a close look at the waterfall it seems to be
tumbling over some faulted, columnular basalt; volcanics that have
cooled slowly in a crystalline form.
Away early the next morning, trying to make the coast for a rest, I was
once again glowing from good company. Jim and Miriam had been
working in Papua New Guinea for about 15 years where Tim and
Emma were born, and had returned to New Zealand to grow avocados
and walnuts, running close to subsistence level. I’d slept the night on
the tray of the tractor and, as I left, Miriam gave me a handful of
comfrey to help cure some festering blisters.
On Ramseys Road I hunted for the track that was supposed to link up
with the old Waoku coach road, skulking past a hall that looked liked
Tapu Maori land, trying not to offend anybody, unaware of the
protocol for the situation. After unsuccessful inquires at a homestead,
concluding that the manuka and blackberry had reclaimed the track, I
returned to the tarseal for the five kilometres to the old Waoku coach
road.
The coach road is the original line between the Hokianga and Kaipara
Harbours. Built towards the end of the previous century, it was only
used for a few decades before being superseded by the road through
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
13
Opononi. Nowadays it is part of the walkway system.
Contouring up the northern escarpment through farmland into a
beautiful native forest, encroaching back onto the track. Over
magnificent hand-laid viaducts, the road reaches the edge of a high
plateau of tertiary volcanic origin and onto the aptly named
Honeymoon clearing. The clearing is complete with a lounge suite,
albeit rather dilapidated. The road continues to follow the gentle strike
of the plateau, through a majestic garden of ferns and spleenworts, a
symphony of birds, eventually dropping down to the Parkers
homestead at Tutamoe.
I stopped in to let Mrs Parker know I was passing then wandered on a
few hundred meters to the campsite and set up for the night in an old
bobby calf pen, as the rain teemed down.
While I was packing to leave next morning, a striking character came
down the road towards me. I thought it was the man of the season
himself three weeks early but I couldn’t see any reindeer. It was Tom
Parker, come to see if I’d like some breakfast. Regretfully I declined, as
I’d just stuffed myself with food. We chatted a while and I headed off
into the day, leaving this gentle man to his toil.
On down to Tutamoe, over the
Marlborough track, back to Donnelly’s
crossing into Trounsons Kauri Park,
where Ken Hamilton, the Ranger, let me
use the staff bunkroom to rest up while
it lashed buckets of rain horizontally for
three days. The Kauris in the park are
grand-daddys, magnificent trees and a
wonderful spectacle together with the
Podocarps and hardwoods in the stand.
Rain, rain, rain, as I rested and read,
encouraging foot repairs, revelling in ‘pit
days’.
14
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
On the 8th of December, refreshed, cleaner, and with almost new feet, I
left the sanctuary of the Kauri park and ventured out into the still
dubious elements. Skirting the southern perimeter of the park, crossing
farmland, intersecting the railway incline, less tracks, from Donnellys
Crossing to Dargaville (the original continuation of the Waoku coach
road). I emerged at the coast on the northern side of Maunganui Bluff.
The track now, since I was there, comes from South Head Hokianga
Harbour to this point. I joined it and grunted up and over Maunganui
Bluff, through the wheretheshitarewe grass, down to Aranga beach, and
along the coast, past seams of peat. The coal of tomorrow — or is it
yesterday? Inland around the picturesque Kaiiwi Lakes and onto
Omamari for the night.
The weather was warmish and fair weather cumulus (white cotton-wool
clouds alone in the sky) were scuttling in from the Tasman: promise of
a good sunset. As I set up my bivvy in the haze of midges, near the
creek, a guy on a grocers bike stopped and enquired what I was up to
then said come up to his place for the night. Trev, from Hamilton, had
been cycling around New Zealand seven years earlier, arrived at
Omamari, had been invited to stay a night or two in somebody’s bach
and had fallen in love with the place. He was now just putting the
finishing touches to a home of his own with his wife Twig and
daughter. We ate fresh vegetables and delved into some deep
conversation, finding we had a lot in common and solving a few of the
world’s problems as well.
Off into the sea mist in the morning I was pursued for some distance
by Trev on a windsurfer on wheels! Into Dargaville for re supply and
out to Glinkes Gully. Down the coast again and through the Poutu
exotic forests to Kaipara head and on to Poutu itself. As with the area
up around Ninety Mile Beach, the forest service on north Kaipara
Peninsula are reclaiming some of the dunes. Originally this land, I
believe, was lush podocarp forest. Burnt over last century by the gum
diggers, a lot of it was taken over by the moving sand dunes. Now the
forest service are planting marum grass, then over planting with lupins,
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
15
to feed nitrogen into the soil, and
eventually, when the ground is arable,
plant pine trees.
I had walked hard to try and make Poutu
by midday Sunday before the tide started
ebbing, hoping to chance a lift with a
fisherman heading over to South Head.
When I got to Poutu Beach there was
nobody about so I looked up a contact
there, Brian Woodcock.
Unfortunately he didn’t know of any
boats going across. Brian and his wife,
Rosemary, an outward bounder like
myself, put me up for the night and first
thing next day I hitched a ride on the
sand barge to Helensville after some
frantic paddling by Brian in his dinghy.
A classic – NZ Tui feeding
on Flax flowers
From Helensville I crossed farmland to Riverhead state forest, with the
permission of the farmers concerned: the Hollands, McFetridges and
Bells. Setting up my evening chattels by the old Riverhead forest
headquarters I started getting straffed by camouflaged helicopters.
After some anxious deliberation and astute observation, I realized they
were practicing landing and taking off in a small clearing in the pines
about eighty meters away, unaffected by my proximity.
The damp dawn started with a brief session with Wayne Munro and a
photographer in galoshes from the “8 O’clock” newspaper. Then I
climbed up along the tracks between the, somehow depressing, pines
with a limited glimpse of Auckland, dropping down to Riverhead
township for lunch.
Just on full tide John Lane and Ann Shepherd arrived, as pre arranged,
16
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
with two canoes. When I was planning the trip and contacted John for
local information he was only too pleased to be involved and suggested
we canoe the section between Riverhead and Albany, which I promptly
agreed to, as a far more adventurous alternative to the back roads.
Leaving Ann to take the car and trailer back, John and I set off down
the Rangitopuni stream to the north arm of the Waitemata Harbour.
Along and up Lucas creek, with a favourable wind, we made good time
to the back of the outdoor education centre John runs for the
Education Department.
A hot shower (yum) and a very pleasant evening, eating good food
washed down with fine wine. Ann had lived in Turangi for a number of
years, the last few of which I was also living there, so we had quite a bit
to catch up on. John was fascinated by some of the gear I was carrying.
We are both ‘natural-fibres people’ who, after much consideration, are
now using synthetics in the form of a fibre pile clothing and poly
propylene underclothing. I also had with me an alloy fuel bottle and a
Trangia meths burning stove, both of which I’d brought back from
Europe and were not in general use over here yet. The stove is
foolproof and a pleasure to use; the only disadvantage is, due to its
efficiency, it doesn’t heat the tent too well.
I was joined in the morning by Barry Thomas, district sales manager for
the Post Office Savings Bank. Barry had arranged the sponsorship of
my food distribution through the post office and was quite enthused by
the trip but, being a busy man, could only spend a day walking with me.
In the warm sunshine we wandered around the bridal path onto the
motorway section in its construction stage and onto my parents place at
Mairangi Bay, over a week early for Christmas.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
17
AUCKLAND TO ROTORUA
On Boxing Day, stuffed full of food and Christmas cheer, I waddled
down to the beach at Mairangi Bay, following Gary, Dave and Ken who
had kindly carried my canoe and some provisions down for me. On the
beach we were joined by some more Takapuna harriers, my immediate
family and some friends. I packed the canoe and pushed off to sea, with
a chorus of well wishes and accompanied for a bit by Gary, Dave and
Paul swimming.
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
The day was warm with a touch of cloud as I paddled out into the
Hauraki Gulf and across the shipping lane to Rangitoto Island. Keeping
in the north side I skirted Rangitoto, through the causeway to Islington
Bay and around the south side of Motutapu Island to Home Bay,
escorted by penguins. I had a leisurely lunch at Home Bay, stretching
the legs, and a bit of a snooze, before casting off due east into a
freshening northerly.
Rowing consistently with long, even strokes, I was trying to keep to sea
as long as possible, wiggling my toes as I went to ward off cramps. At
the eastern end of Onetangi Bay I reluctantly had to surf ashore to
relieve some of the tension in my legs (and bladder) - not used to the
sitting down business. Crashing back out through the waves, away from
the shore harmonics, into a short chop, I was reminded of the
seriousness of this venture, but quickly settled back into a rhythm.
Around Thumb Point into Hooks Bay, a haven for yachties and
fisherman.
After spending the night in the shelter of an old shed, I headed off into
a bleak morning grey with a steady wind about force four from the
nor’nor’west and a corresponding long swell of about a metre. The
wind was supposed to swing more westerly later which would help me,
but I was away early in case it didn’t and I had to thrash my way across
the firth of Thames.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
19
A couple of hours out the weather deteriorated further, with fairly
constant squalls and the wind swinging more northerly, bringing the
swell more on the beam of the boat. There were copious jellyfish in the
water and, the more tired I got the more dorsal fins I saw, basking on
the surface.
Thwack! Shit! My paddles’ just hit something. “Don’t look now, pal,
just keep paddling.”
Four hours of constant compass checks and scanning the horizon, I
was within reach of what I reckoned was Moturua Island. My sciatic
nerve was starting to scream from being sat on for so long, so I headed
for shore, crash landing on a storm beach, I chastised myself for being
so foolhardy in the conditions - a fairly dangerous thing to do alone. In
the lee of the eastern shore I rested before setting off for Frenchmans
Cap and Colville Bay, by compass, as the visibility was less than two
kilometres. Some of the waves broke over the foredeck as I battled
north
east.
Reaching Otautu in
Colville Bay I
pulled ashore. I
had
originally
planned to paddle
all the way up to
Port Jackson but,
as my mother and
my uncle Ral, my
support team at
this stage, were
attending a funeral
of their brother,
Moehau looking south - some 2500 kilometres to go!
the logistics had to
change.
20
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
The Goldrings, friends from Turangi, were on holiday in Coromandel
and, miraculously, pulled up as I shook the drips from my head. We
had a delightful evening together and the following day I hitched up to
Port Jackson and started walking south again, via Fletchers Bay, the
new walkway to Stoney Bay and up over mystical Moehau to Hope
Stream. Here I spent a pleasant night with a group of Christian
canoeists before trekking off down the road and back to Little Bay for
the New Year with Ray, Marie, Callen and Frith Goldring. Ray dragged
me off to the depths of the sea in Marie’s wetsuit to spear our supper
then, crammed full of fish, he put me on the sharp end of a rope and
pointed me at some ‘hard severish’ looking rock. The first day of the
New Year I headed south to Kennedy Bay, heartened to see the
regenerating Kauri.
There is an alternative from Waikawau Bay, up the Matamataharakere
River, over a gentle saddle and on to Kennedy Bay, but, as I was
uncertain of the right of way, I kept to the road. At Kennedy Bay I
looked up the Thwaites and Windy Harrison and obtained permission
to cross some Maori land to the back of the Whangapoua Forest,
cutting down through the fire breaks to the road at Te Rerenga. Passing
the forestry headquarters I checked with Ian Woodhouse on my
permission then carried on into the forest, over the tracks to Whitianga.
After setting up my fly in the campsite I sauntered off down to the
beach thinking of sunning myself and giving my eyes some exercise.
Within seconds of hitting the sand some smooth looking dude said:
‘Hey, Hendry!’ - it was Rock (Mark) Hudson, one of the blokes I’d
done my apprenticeship with. He had bought a section in Whitianga
and his back boundary was not thirty metres from where I’d camped. I
had a wonderful night with Rock and his family. Next morning, the 3rd
of January, I went into town to pick up my supplies and go back into
the hills but alas I’d miscalculated: the Post Office wasn’t open until the
next day, so back to Rock’s I went with my tail firmly between my legs.
Luckily the band ‘DD Smash’ were in town that night and we had a
great rave-up.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
21
On the fourth I resupplied without a hitch and walked the road to
Kaimarama in the glorious morning sun. After a snack, headed up the
Kaimarama River, warily through a bull paddock and into the secondary
growth of gorse, manuka and blackberry. The track ascends rapidly
from the river and it’s a fair grunt up to Mt Papakai. Time was running
thin; it was 5 pm and there were no huts along the tops. I decided to
give it heaps and try to make the Coroglen-Tapu Road by nightfall. The
track is well marked but I wandered off a couple of times into the
overgrowth.
The ridge becomes more precipitous and undulating after two
kilometres, with Maumaupaki looking tantalisingly close. Around seven
o’clock my thighs started to cramp. I was swagging eleven days food
with me and the
exertion was taking
its toll. I set up a
shelter on the ridge
and dropped off
looking for water.
There wasn’t any
within
reasonable
distance of the top so
I satisfied myself with
some water from a
pig wallow, boiled
and flavoured with
Home sweet home – from Hooper Point until I
‘tang’ powdered drink
reached the hut system
for my supper.
I found Maumaupaki in the murk the following morning and was out
on the road for brunch at a lovely crystal clear creek. The path south
from here is an old cattle drivers’ track through some grassy patches
and onto Crosbies Clearing, the site of an early farmstead. The dray
track continued through a confetti of Manuka flowers and on to Green
Hill, before dropping down to the Kawaeranga Valley on old miners
routes; benched and scenic. There are numerous campsites in the valley.
22
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Shortly after settling in, I was cordially invited to share the campfire of
my immediate neighbours and help them sample some homemade Irish
cream. I woke, another year older, to some threatening cumulonimbus large, towering, fluffy grey clouds, generally shaped like an inverted
cone, with the rain at the base. I strode up the valley to the bottom of
the Trestle Track and climbed the incline hewn out of the rock, while
the rain lashed down. As the slope eased I started looking for shelter,
reviewing my plans for the day. The downpour persisted as I crossed
the main trestle, originally used for hauling Kauri off the hill. Marked
on the map were some huts but these were not to be found on the
ground, having long been dismantled. On I plodded and squelched
until I realised I was committed to crossing the range.
Up onto a flat ridge and into hook grass (Uncinia — hereafter referred
to as bastard grass), pulling and tugging at the hairs on my legs and
clinging to the wool of my sox. I shortly reached the trig of Hihi, still in
the pelting rain and carried on toward Motutapere, past the turn off
east to the Broken Hills. My diary notes: I had lunch at the bivvy at the
helipad. Been following elusive boot marks from junction, confirmed
by direction of cutty grass and no cobwebs, couldn’t decide whether
they were pre monsoon or post!
Over Motutapere and down, past a good campsite at the turnoff to
Junction stream and Park Headquarters, around and up Kaitarakihi,
scrambling hand over hand up grassy roots and walking gingerly along
bog suspended on the ridge. Descending abruptly off the top, down
fixed rope (giving it a bit of Clint Eastwood ‘eat-ya-heart-out’) and
along lovely open track to the summit of highway 25. On the
Neavesville track on the other side of the road it was getting dark so I
made a bivouac in the bush, trying to water proof it several times.
Slipping back into my saturated clothing in the morning, sun was
oozing through the damp undergrowth. Along the track I went, over
some old logging roads and fire breaks and out onto the Neavesville
road. The weather had improved, exposing the main Coromandel tops
to the north. It’s amazing how bush from a distance looks like a bluey,
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
23
greenish mass but, on closer inspection, is so lush and bright. Strolling
down the road I passed some volcanic plugs. These are the remains of
old volcanic vents, where magma has flowed up from the depths and
solidified. Over the years the softer sedimentary soils and rocks about
the vent have eroded from around it, exposing the igneous plug.
I made a stop at the shop in Puriri to pig out on food and dry out,
spreading my gear on the roadside in the sunlight. I was happy at my
understanding of nature and glad of a respite in the weather to allow me
to carry on, refreshed, and heartened from the warmth of the sun.
Road bashing to Hikutaia and up the Maratoto valley back into the
lashing cumulonimbus. I found shelter up Wires Road at Christmas
Camp in the old Paeroa jail. This jail was used quite a bit at the turn of
the century to contain some of the passionate miners in these parts, the
graffiti testifies:
“Three months in jail never again this is my last time here. I (hope) to
keep out forever J.H. Bownan, Paparaka Bay, Coromandel.”
“J.AO Coad arrested for being a deserter, spent 36 hours in this cell
October 25th, 1917.”
It comes complete with cockroaches!
Bounding up the valley in the brilliant morning, everything was
sparkling green and glistening as though somebody had scrubbed it up
overnight and put every thing back in order. Nature certainly had. I was
met on the road by a bloke who instantly asked me up for breakfast. I
met David and Margaret who are caretaking a public hut at the head of
the valley. They prepared a sumptuous meal, we shared a lot of
thoughts then David showed me up past the mining company’s
buildings and pointed me in the direction of Golden Cross. We parted
here and I carried on up beside the creek going by old mining drives
and onto the saddle between Maratoto and Golden Cross. Keeping to
the right of way over the farmland I shortly joined the road and
mowsied on down the valley to Waitekauri, ghost town of the gold
rush, and into Waikino. I was to change footwear here and, as it was
24
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Sunday afternoon, I had the night to kill before the post office opened.
I came across a local, John E. Sunshine, who told me there wasn’t a
shop in Waikino but if I wanted a lift to Waihi he was going in. So in
we went to get some food and back again. I wandered on down to the
market opposite the pub and asked the vender if he knew of a campsite
there-abouts that I could use. He invited me to spend the night at his
place and sent me off down to the waterfall for a swim while he
finished his day. After a refreshing dip I sat on the bank and had an
intense ‘zen-eye’ view of a clover head - have you ever noticed the
intricate petals of the clover? Back at Alex’s Emporium (the Waikino
market) I helped Alex pack up for the day, and we went up the valley to
his place, stopping in on some friendly friends en route, having a
magnificent meal of wokked veges before crashing.
Reshod and resupplied I left Waikino and headed up Waitawheta valley.
Alex was going home to pick up some things and I’d got a lift with him,
justifying it with the extra walking I’d done backwards and forwards to
the post office but before we’d even left Waikino I was doing battle
with my ethics and got out of the car by the waterfall, determined that I
was going to walk every footstep south. I picked up my rucksac and
carried on up the track by the river, pleased at having had the conflict
with the moral principles of the trip and resolving them.
Walking beside the river, on the tramway that was built in the first
decade of the 1900’s is magnificent. I made an early stop at the
Waitawheta hut and in the morning carried on up the Waitawheta
River, passing an old Kauri saw mill. Up the hill to Cashmores Clearing,
I turned west to join the main ridge track from Te Aroha, then south
again along the ridge on a nice open, cut and well marked track, past
the proud Wahine rock and onto Te Rereatukahia hut for lunch. Back
on the track there was more bastard grass, giving me the humour test,
until I reached Tuahu track.
From here the forest service guide provides the best account of the
track: ‘this section of the track is the most difficult and in parts is a
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
25
“marked route” only. South from the Tuahu track, the route traverses
rocky outcrops and bluffs of the range crest to reach a series of rock
pinnacles known as “Queen Victoria’s Head”. Here the route descends
the eastern side of the main ridge to a headwater of the Waitekohe
stream. The track then climbs to a saddle west of Mount Eliza and
sidles south to rejoin the main ridge. There are fixed ropes on some of
the bluffs and outcrops. The views east and west are delightful.’
I camped early on Thomson’s Track and next day, about an hour and a
quarter south of Thompson’s on the main ridge, came across a tin hut
that I’d had no info about. A pity as if I’d known about the hut it would
have made my objectives today so much easier. The ridge between
Ngatamahinerua and the Kaimai summit contains a few ‘hippo wallows’
- human eating mud holes. South of the summit I had the pleasure of
more bastard grass interspersed with bush lawyer (a member of the rose
family that loves to tear human flesh) just to make sure that I was
paying attention.
Three quarters of an hour south of the
Kaimai trig I came across another hut
whose existence I was unaware of. It
was still too early for my lunch and, as
one of the first colonial donations to
this country, the rat, was firmly in
residence, I pushed on. Dropping into
the Tawa-podocarp forest, through the
tangle of supplejack to Wairere stream,
where I put on my nosebag.
Walking through the forest on the
good tracks here is lovely. Over to Te
Tuhi track and onto the campsite I
went, steaming on through to the old
Leyland—O’Brien tramline. I was
going to carry on to the Kaimai road
summit when a name on the map stuck
26
Fantastic tramlines built to extract
gold and trees
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
in my mind. It was the Ngamuwahine River and, on scratching my head
a bit, I realised it ran down to the farm of a friend’s father, which is
where I was heading anyway. To save myself an hour or two and a
grind on the tarseal, I left the ridge and dropped down east on the old
tramway, absorbing the atmospherics of the bush railway on the way.
I arrived at Max Brown’s just as he was about to take off in his car. We
had a brew and he made me comfortable for the night, rang a few
people for me, to jack up permission to cross the Mamakus tomorrow,
then left me to it to return to Hinuera for the night. George, who looks
after the farm from time to time for Max, was in and we chatted merrily
away and drank buckets of tea.
I rendezvoused with Roddy Scott next morning, about 10, and he
accompanied me up the back of his place and put me on the road south
to Mamaku. The rest of the day I walked through the rain showers on
forestry roads that had been built for the rape and bastardisation of the
native bush.
The day after, I reached Rotorua.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
27
ROTORUA TO TURANGI
Outside the Rotorua post office was a large mountaineering rucksac.
On closer inspection I saw the name ‘Paul Schmidt’ on it. I dashed
inside to see if he was there, and back out again and there he was, this
great strapping, blonde, curly headed German.
“Grüss gott, junge. Wie gehts?”
We hugged each other and slapped our mate on the back. It was bloody
28
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
good to see him. Paul and I had worked together at one of the Outward
Bound schools in Germany seven years earlier and had caught up again
at the beginning of 1981 when I was hitching through Europe. He had
been mountaineering and trekking in the Himalayas for the last six
months, during which time he had sent me a postcard to say he might
be out this way. He’d been in New Zealand for four days, found out
where I was from my parents and here he was, complete with three
kilos of muesli, one and half kilos of rice and two clumps of garlic,
ready for a trek.
I was knackered after hard days in the Coromandel and Kaimais so we
booked into a motor camp for a rest day, soaked in natural hot pools
and caught up on correspondence and old times, laced with plenty of
food. On the 15th January we were ready to head off. We left a lot of
Paul’s gear with our friendly campsite neighbours, Danny and Claire, to
post on for him, and strode off in the sun for Whakarewarewa State
Forest Park. Through the redwoods we went up to the Maori pa site at
the top. I could only embarrass myself at my lack of knowledge of local
culture, so I told Paul the little I knew on fortification.
We had lunch by the jetty at Lake Okareka then, with the farmers
permission, crossed the paddocks to Lake Tarawera. When I was
planning the trip, I had received some information on a new track being
cut from the outfall of Lake Tarawera along the northern shore to
Humphries Bay. To get to this track we had to cross some more
farmland and, although there is no actual right of way, the farmer gave
us directions and permission. We climbed over the hill and crashed
through some dry manuka to reach the path coming south from Lake
Okataina. Arriving at Humphries Bay we came across a family camped
there. They didn’t know of the existence of the new track but had heard
of some hunting trails. We went back up a bit and bashed about in the
manuka and bush lawyer to try and find a way through. After an hour
or so we had got no where. Paul had become quite familiar with the
trampers friend, bush lawyer, loosing quite a bit of skin in the process,
so we opted for an alternative and trudged off north, up the eastern
Okataina walkway.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
29
A movement in the bush halted us just as we were coming down to
Waikereru. It was a wallaby. It was the first I had seen in the wild and
quite a bonus for Paul. Up the track further we came across three
Austrian people camping in a delightful little bay. Paul had met them in
Rotorua while waiting for me, and we spent the night with them in this
idyllic spot. On the 16th January we cut up through some more native
bush heavily laced with lawyer (rubis), onto the Tasman Pulp & Paper
tracks which we followed around past the subterranean outfall of Lake
Tarawera, and up to the campsite. Paul was weary, still recovering from
an Asian stomach infection. After tying our shelter to the only tree in
the paddock, we found Jim and his family. Jim and his daughter,
Margaret, I’d met on the Coromandel Peninsula after coming off
Moehau. They shared some coffee and Christmas cake with us - a real
treat. During the night two opossums came out of the bush to
investigate the smell of some yoghurt I’d made up for the morning and
placed between our heads. Then, given the bums rush from us, they
shot up the tree our tent fly was tied to, waited until we nodded off
again, only to repeat the procedure which continued almost until dawn
when the rain took over.
After breaking camp in
a clearing sky, we
walked through the
pines and contoured up
to the northern crater
of Mt Tarawera. Then
took a scree run down
one side and grunted
up the other, only to be
met by an aeroplane
landing on the airstrip
not
two
hundred
metres away. We felt
cheated, and dropped
off down the ridge.
30
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
For the next two days we trudged the roads of pines through the
northern Kaingaroa forest, gulped down some chocolate milk at
Kopuriki, to the Horomanga river on the western side of the Rangitaiki
plains. Paul’s feet were swollen so he decided to wear his boots, rather
than trainers, and suggested I carried on up to the hut at Mangawhero
Forks, so off I went. At the hut I was scrubbing up in the river when
two hunters, on horseback, turned up and informed me that Paul was
traversing the pumice banks trying to avoid getting his boots wet. I
kicked myself for not saying anything to Paul before leaving him. The
European concept of hill walking doesn’t include wet feet, where Kiwis
rarely know what dry ones are! None the less, Paul arrived in high
spirits, assuring me that the water was doing his aching feet the world
of good. We swanned about in the hut in the evening, drinking copious
cups of tea and reading, happy in the knowledge that we were now into
the hut system which should extend virtually all the way to Stewart
Island. In the morning we went up the Mangawhero (Red Creek), over
the tops and down to the Manaohou stream. Paul takes up the story:
“For a while we had to cross the river every few minutes and after two
hours it started raining. First during a climb, up to a ridge, the rain was
more of a refreshment. But as the rain got stronger and the ground
slippery, it was hard to find the right way. It seems that not many
people are using this track. Sometimes I though this could be green
hell. So I asked myself, why am I doing things like this; walking through
bush, dirt and wet forest? Maybe this helps for my personality
development.”
“But even with these conditions I stayed calm during the whole day. At
about two o’clock we got to a hut, which seems to be a base for a
possum hunter. The whole pack is soaked with water. We lit a fire, had
a good meal and enjoyed the warm and dry hut.”
The personality development/changes, whys and wherefore of the trip
were of great interest to us. Paul had trained and worked as a social
therapist, and I had studied outdoor education and had worked quite a
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
31
bit in that area, so the metaphysical, emotional side of the trip was an
intellectual pet for both of us.
We had breakfast of bread
which was baked in the
coals of the fire last night,
made from some mouldy
flour we found in the hut.
Stomachs full, we sloshed
off down the river,
dodging stinging nettle
where we could. The sun
was striking down into the
river bed, meeting the
morning mist billowing up
from the dewy bush. We
stopped
at
the
Hanamahihi hut to dry
out our gear, scoff down
the rest of the bread and
Paul gets to grips with the ‘wet highways’ of the
have a quick game of
Urewera National Park
chess. Then south up the
Whakatane track, chuffed
at being on an open, straightforward, well defined path, able to ease the
concentration of footfalls and gaze at the magnificent scenery. We
marvelled at the hard work that had gone into breaking the bush into
farmland, then left, with relics of the labour, to revert to bush. I believe
the farmer had worked until his children were old enough to require
education, then moved into a community to allow his children that
education and equal opportunity. Meeting Julena Hickey from Urewara
National Park at Ngahiramai hut, we extracted plenty of good
information and a few brews of tea from her and trotted off to
Tawhiwhi hut for the night.
I was really enjoying Paul’s company. We have a lot of life experiences
in common, as well as similar philosophy, which we were only too
32
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
readily to expand on. Another vital factor in his company was that we
were maintaining a better pace, whereas, when I was alone, I was more
apt to put my head down, concentrate too much on the walking and
ignore the surroundings.
On the 21st January we shot into Ruatahuna, picked up some supplies,
verified track info with the forest service blokes, then grunted up the
dusty road to Huiarou summit, towards Waikaremoana. Leaving the
saddle at four pm we faced a walk of six hours but gave it absolutely
heaps, on a newly formed track which had been recut through the
windfall damage of cyclone Bernie in Easter 1982. It is a beautiful track,
cut through the first major stand of beech forest we’d come across.
Shagged, with hot feet, we arrived at the brand new hut at seven, for a
relaxing evening. Breakfast in the sun on the veranda then we headed
off down towards the lake. The path undulates for a bit and then drops
off giving magnificent panoramas of Lake Waikaremoana. Dropping
further on a good track we shortly joined the main track around the
lake.
We had lunch in the lovely warm sun at Hopuruahine landing, then
hitched into Tuai for the night to pick up another food dump,
hopefully sufficient to reach Tongariro National Park.
The resupplies were working well. My food parcels were coming
through without a hitch. Having enlisted the assistance and support of
the Post Office through Barry Thomas, each office was aware of my
pending arrival, giving me great moral support when I did front up.
Tuai Post Office was no exception. Pat Downes made sure I had
everything and even ran me up to her place to swap a novel. I’d left
Paul at the shop to sort out our supplementary rations. After stuffing
ourselves full of flavoured milk and cheesecakes we hitched to
Waikarernoana campsite and caught the launch back to Hopuruahine
landing. Every time we stopped at a shop somewhere I was now
wolfing down dairy products. This was an indication of things to come,
and a deficit in my diet that I hadn’t yet picked up on.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
33
We
had
some
unfamiliar country to
cross to get to the
Taupo-Napier road
and we wanted to
give ourselves a good
chance at it, in the
settled weather, so
we
put
the
carbohydrates
to
good use to reach
the Marauiti hut by
nightfall. We had
Pigging out on dairy products at Tuai…maybe a
some company in the
message here!
hut
which
was
pleasant. High clouds at dusk didn’t spell good fortune for the morrow.
Wispy cirrus (very high clouds like ‘mare’s tails’), alto floccus (high
fluffy clouds like a flock of sheep), lenticular cumulus (saucer shaped
clouds, sometimes stacked on top of each other, generally near high
ground, depicting strong winds) and others, all forecasting lousy
weather.
We worked hard on our compass and map work in the evening, for the
day after tomorrow, through untracked terrain. We were aware that
with a ten hour day to Te Waiotukapiti beforehand we would be too
shattered to give it the seriousness it warranted. I was nervous.
Away early, the day was washed clean by a pre dawn downpour. We
trudged merrily up to the first ridge then off down to Manganuiohou
stream and back up to the helo-pad in a large windfall area on the next
ridge. Lunching here, Paul produced from the depths of his rucksac, a
packet of raisins. A wonderful surprise, rapidly appreciated. Along the
ridge and down to the Te Waiotukapiti stream the track was suffering a
bit from the occasional dead tree. Once in the river we splashed onto
the hut to make it comfortably before the light faded. There are
34
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
established campsites at the track junctions with both the
Manganuiohou and Te Waitukapiti streams. The 25th of January
dawned fine. I was showing quite a bit of anxiety, worried at the
prospect of following a compass over hearty beech/podocarp covered
precipitous country. I’ll let our compass legs from the Mangakahika
stream tell the story: (M = Magnetic A = Ascent D = Descent)
1.
3.
5.
7.
1.5 km = 22 ½ min
390 m A = 60 mm
278° M 82 ½ min
1km = 15min
326 m A = 50 min
66 m D = 5 min
260° M 70 min
2.1 km = 32 min
66 m D = 5 min
66 m A = 10 min
180° M 47 min
0.8 km = 12 min flat
176°M
2.
4.
0.45 km = 6 min
163 m A = 20 min
245° M 26 min
0.75 km = 12 min
196 m A = 30 mm
213° M 42 min
6.
0.25 km = 4 min
66 m A = 10 min
144° M 14 min
8.
1.5 km = 22 min
457 m D = 35 min
192° M 57 min
“Tiger” country between Lake Waikaremoana and State Highway 5
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
35
These are slightly erroneous as we took the magnetic difference as 18°,
not 21°, as it should have been. Never the less, we got through without
hitch, with the aid of an occasional cullers blaze, to reach Camp Creek
bivy a little after five, where we called it quits for the day. The weather
had been kind.
In the morning, stumbling and splashing down Camp Creek,
scrambling around large boulders, it took us longer than we thought to
reach the main river of Te Hoe. We then turned upstream and waded
waist deep over the first two rapids, the second being in a ravine. When
we reached mid thigh and the depth was threatening utter discomfort in
the icy water, Paul muttered:
“Scheiss!’
I agreed and added:
“There must be another way ‘round, pal. The hunters I know tend to
keep this part of their anatomy dry and warm.”
Two hours after joining the river we were thawing our bits at the
Central Te Hoe hut over lunch. From here we had the option of
sticking to the river up an incomplete track, or putting it into low ratio
and slogging up the ridge. We opted for the latter, sweating up a track
freshly recut through more windfall. The forest service must have
trained goats with chainsaws for this. Upper Te Hoe hut was a brand
new hut, set back up a bit from the river in a striking stand of Beech,
and complete with kitchen sink.
The path out to Pukahunui hut is a dreamy benched track. After
zigzagging through the depressing exotics, with a couple of loops, we
eventually emerged on the continuation of Matea road, which wasn’t
marked on our map, leading to confusion. We inquired for directions at
the Otangimoana station where Eddie, the manager, generously offered
us the use of the shearer’s quarters for the night and set us straight for
tomorrow. As we’d walked nearly 3 kms in the wrong direction we
didn’t need any persuasion and set up camp in lovely comfortable digs.
36
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
In the morning over breakfast Paul started talking about his (academic)
interest in the reasons why people attempt extreme adventures;
physically and mentally demanding. Was it a love of nature, an ego trip,
a rebellion, pure challenge, escapism or what? In the discussion that
followed we recognised that everybody in our western life style needs
time out - away from the pressure of work, the high efficiency and
technology of modern living that strives ever on, gaining momentum,
pushing on, making products to create jobs or creating jobs to make
products, producing demand from marketing, then squeezing money to
buy the mass produced goods. Little wonder, but why go over the top?
We debated on, but didn’t reach any conclusions.
The day was a road bash. Paul managed to hitch to Rangitaiki with
Chicky, Eddie’s wife, then on again to Taharua Road, taking the
rucksacs, which lightened my load. We rendezvoused with Brian, Hine
and William Neill, friends of mine from Turangi, on Clements Road.
Brian was going to walk through the Kaimanawas with us. We stuffed
our rucksacs full of goodies, bid Hine and William farewell and headed
up the track to Te Iringa hut, coming across youths playing John Wayne
with loaded rifles on the track. Fair scared the shit out of me and Paul.
The six man hut was full, so we bivied outside. Our camp routine was
smooth. Paul and I could now set up a shelter and cook a meal with
hardly a murmur, which I’m sure left Brian wondering what to do,
bristling with excitement, ready to get to grips with it all. Paul and I
slept like logs having covered more than 30 and 50 kilometres
respectively. Following a hearty breakfast we trundled up and over Te
Iringa and down to the Tiki Tiki stream and onto the Kaipo river,
running into more cowboys en route. (In pursuit of deer — or self?).
Over the swing bridges we turned west up the Kaipo River into
beautiful country: beech forest, tumbling waterfalls, tranquil glades. On
we rambled, Brian chatting merrily on, a contrast to the mellow rapport
Paul and I had established. In the creek we followed the water right up
until it was a greasy smear between slippery rocks, then crossed over
the saddle and dropped down more startling bush to the stream and
snug Cascade hut.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
37
Up at a sparrows fart and away across the headwaters of the TaurangaTaupo River, emptying 457 meters lower in Lake Taupo. We squelched
up to the ridge and along, shortly being graced with our first view of
the lake, Turangi and Tongariro National Park. I yelped my delight at
seeing those warmly familiar sights. We broke out of the trees into a
stiff, cool breeze and sub alpine scrub, aptly characterised at the tree
line by a stunted mountain beech and a celmisia, side by side. We
tramped up over Ngapuketurua, hurried along by scuttling cumulus and
onto Ignimbrite saddle. I was glowing with intimate knowledge of the
land, my stamping ground from previous years. Up we went over
Junction top and into the Waipakihi watershed. The spectacle was
splendid, reminiscent of Himalayan scenery. We worked together with
ease, in the luxury of the hut, to produce a feast, quickly gobbled.
Paul was up early and made some delicious pancakes for breakfast and
into the river we cheerfully splashed. A lovely, clear, sunny day. Going
down the Waipakahi River involves fifty or more river crossings. At
one gorgy crossing where we’d missed the sidle track, Paul decided to
go for the river, giving it a test tickle for depth and temperature, and
ended up giving it two. Brian and I bush crashed around.
Brian drops down to the Waipakahi Valley
38
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
The Waipakihi has some good specimens of modern geology in its
banks. The immediate river bank showing the composition of
conglomerate masses of the future. Sections of rounded river stones
with a sandy, peaty, sedimentary cement. Further back are some
charcoaled remains encased in pumice, showing how a volcanic
eruption had overcome a forest. We maintained a steady pace all day,
trying to make the next hut by night fall. At an early lunch, on one of
the grassy, alluvial terraces, Brian produced a salami, a treat he’d
secreted away until now. Out of the river at 4, we shuffled along the
bulldozed tracks to the Desert Road, crossing from the Kaimanawa
State Forest Park to Tongariro National Park and onto Waihohonu hut,
and the beaten track, for the night. We’d covered thirty four kilometres
of good country, hard going even for fit people, and I was grateful to
my companions efforts to strive for goals I had set myself, through
discomfort, to help me realize a dream.
The second month in 1984 dawned beautifully. Brian sang to its glory.
Coming up the track to Tama Lakes he was off, like a runner from the
starting blocks, eager to return to loved ones. Without the same
motivation Paul and I plugged wearily on, across the open tundra and
dragged our tired bodies into Whakapapa Village to end a strenuous
stage in this long trek. We’d been hard at it for seventeen days
continuously and ached for a rest day.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
39
TURANGI TO PALMERSTON NORTH
Paul and I had a lovely rest day, soaking ourselves in the hot pools,
eating mountains of wonderful food and catching up with old friends in
town. Brian and Hine looked after us extremely well. Both of us were
becoming very fond of their children, Cheryl and William, and were
very envious of their happy, warm, loving home. Sometimes the life of
40
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
adventure can be very cold and hard, and here the contrast really bit
me.
Still, feeling a touch of urgency to carry on and not wanting to let my
emotional defences down, and lose concentration on the trip, I
suggested to Paul that we head back up the hill and get ready for the
next stage. He agreed and Brian ran us back up to Whakapapa Village.
We contacted Graeme Ayres, a compassionate comrade from the
Antarctic, who gave us a bed for the night.
We woke to lashing rain. Graeme and Lisa had gone to work. Paul and
I brewed tea and cowered behind books putting off the inevitable
moment of departure. About ten we got geared up and braved the
weather. Stopping in at H.Q. to thank Graeme for his and Lisa’s
hospitality we almost hesitated. We had been well spoilt over the last
two days, but we owned up to the task before us and headed off up the
Bruce Road, into the mist. When we turned off south onto the ‘Roundthe-mountain’ track it really started pissing down buckets. Cold and
sleety, we started walking faster trying to keep warm. Paul slipped over
in about a foot of slush and just about gave himself a mud enema. He
came up smiling.
Paul in the rain of Ruapehu – a taste of things to come!
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
41
About three hours from the road the weather started easing, just as we
were heading down the ridge to Lake Surprise (‘surprised’ it took so
long to get here). We arrived at the Mangatururu hut just before 4. We
dried gear off in the brief clearings of the skies, then down came the
rain again. We made ourselves cosy inside, hoping for a glimpse of what
must be one of the most beautiful kitchen views in the world, but alas,
no!
Paul notes for the 4th of February “in the morning we started walking
in the rain. We couldn’t see very far, so we paid more attention to the
plants and flowers close to the track. Those warm, brown, shining
colours of the mountains are something balsam for the soul in this
bloody wet and foggy weather.”
We walked and sloshed, with teeth chattering, around the southern side
of Mt. Ruapehu, spending the night at Rangipo Hut before cutting
across the Rangipo Desert, and back into the Kaimanawas via the
southern access (just south of where the Waikato River meets the
Desert Road). We trudged across the barren tussock tops into the
Moawhanga headwaters and found shelter on the edge of the bush for
the night. We were fortunate enough to come close to a group of wild
horses in the Moawhanga Valley.
Grunting up into the watery morning sun we got back onto the rolling
open tops, tussock covered indistinct summits. We started taking point
to point compass legs as the clouds dropped down around us. First
onto ‘L 1’ (a mountain top) then across to ‘G’ and onto an unmarked
bump on the ridge. We picked up some army tank tracks descending
out of the clouds, down to an airstrip.
I had rung the army training group at Waiouru, from Turangi, to get
permission and find out if there was any activity in the area. There
wasn’t but as we dropped off onto the airstrip we both thought we saw
somebody on the misty ridge opposite. Was it Big Brother!!? Plunging
down a burnt-off ridge into the Rangitikei River and along to the
Mangamaire we ate lunch at a well established campsite there before
42
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
heading up the Mangamaire River for a few hundred meters and bush
crashing uphill back into the murk 500 metres above. The bridle track
didn’t appear in the lousy visibility on the top but we found a 2 man Aframe bivouac on the edge of Haumingi bush. From here we took a
bearing for ‘Prominent Cone’ and then dropped off northeast along the
ridge, picking up bits and bobs of track, here and there.
Slipping into a creek east of the ridge we looked about for the Te
Apunga hut, at the junction of the track. Neither appeared and we set
up some shelter in the dank bush as dusk overtook. Next morning we
found the derelict hut eight hundred metres downstream of where it
was marked on the map. We hadn’t missed much.
Across the valley we went and followed an old fence line, still due east,
up onto the Tauwhekewhango range, over undulating hills to drop into
the Taruarau creek and the Golden Hills hut for lunch. Up through
Omarukoko bush, into the Ngaruroro valley and over to Tussock hut
for the night - into the Kawekas and about sixteen kilometres south of
where we were nine days earlier.
It was a relief to be back on the hut/track system again after bumbling
about in the mist in open country for a few days, and also to wake up
and head south again. Revamped Tussock Hut was pure luxury, to
boot. I lost Paul for a few minutes between markers in the Harkness
Valley. Having come accustomed to following any scrap of track he’d
gone in pursuit of a rabbit up a side creek.
We were getting on famously together; although our conversation was
pleasantly succinct most of the time, it could also expand into total
pontification. As we grunted up from Harkness Hut onto the ridge and,
in the sun, along to Te Pukeohikarua and the hut, we developed an
intense discussion on the human requirement of additional outside
stimulus; the dependence on incentives (the old carrot trick); one’s
relationship to their own past, present and future; personal
responsibilities and excusing them with substitution (i.e. passing the
buck).
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
43
After lunching at Te Puke Hut, in the company of a culler, we plodded
on along the delightful ridges and tops to reach Tira Lodge on Venison
Tops for the night. We found some damper mix on the shelf in the hut
which Paul made into chapattis, then I expressed a nagging fear to my
mate: (Paul’s words) “we’re running short of food. We found some
flour in the hut, it smelled a bit strange, but I didn’t care about this and
cooked some chapattis. After we had eaten Rex said, ‘it could be the
smell of possum lure in this flour’.
“So I wrote the following words in my dairy in English: ‘If somebody
finds us dead or sick, we have eaten too much of the fucking mixture in
the vinegar bottle, probably possum poison.”
We had been a bit careless and I went to bed hoping we would live to
regret it. We both awoke with nothing more severe than the normal
bout of morning flatulence.
Bounding off the hill towards the open Kaweka tops, hopeful of settled
weather, we got into yet another deep conversation about George
Orwell and his incredible predictions for this year. The realism of
people faithfully toiling on in support of the slumbering capitalistic
giant; and the proletariat, secure in their consumeristic cocoon. We
marvelled at how Orwell could have foreseen, in 1947, how television
would be such an influence in our lives, how clever marketing
influences what we buy, how we dress, the phrases we use, the car we
drive.
Breaking out of the bush at around l597 metres, into the morning sun,
we got onto the main ridge above Ballard hut. The view in every
direction was magnificent. South down the ridge we could see the main
Kaweka summit and, east, down onto the plains of Hawkes Bay.
Striding out along the ridge was great. Open travelling. We stopped just
south of Kaweka for lunch, in a hollow out of the wind. Bobbing up,
just before moving on, we saw a large strato-cumulus cloud (a mass of
grey, moisture laden, fluffy cloud with a flat base) bearing down upon
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
us, ready to shed its load. We pressed on, over Mad Dog Hill, down to
Studholme saddle and up again to Kaiarahi, onto the Tits. We met a
group of SES (special employment scheme) workers here, clearing the
track, and dropped off the ridge with them down to Kaweka hut for a
brew. It started raining so we shot off, down past the lakes, to
Kuripapango. We located Russell at the N.Z. Forest Service base, who
let us use Robsons lodge for the night.
After heavy rain overnight it dawned fine. We went over our route on
the maps, bid Russell farewell and headed off up Gentle Annie. The
tarseal was sticky underfoot and it seemed as though summer had
started. From the other side of Comet Hut, Paul hitched a ride with
Russell, who was going up to do some work. By the time I got to the
hut Paul had a brew on and laid out some food left by three young
hunters that had gone before I arrived. On closer inspection of the
white bread (Paul had shared it out and eaten his) I noticed it moving
slightly. Some of it was maggots. Paul went green!
The track up over Comet is a benched, open, well marked track then it
drops off steeply down to the Taruarau River. Down, down, cramming
already screaming toes harder and harder into the front of our boots.
With relief we crossed the river at the bottom, lingering to soak our
feet. Some fifty metres down stream on the opposite side we picked up
the new track to Shutes Hut and traversed up and around. We luckily
caught the track cutters in the hut (we had been told that they were
there), got the maps out and picked their brains for the southern
Ruahines, of which we had no information. Their hospitality was
wonderful and, well sated with coffee and fruit, we went in search of
the track to the ridge. It was another hot day and we were stripped,
apart from our shorts and boots.
Perspiring heavily, up the spur on an overgrown track, we were
constantly being torn at by the bastard grass, at times over waist deep.
We emerged out of the bush into a cool evening breeze and pushed
onto the bivouac, which is well camouflaged in the bush about 65
metres down, and off the ridge to the west. There were thunderheads
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
45
building up in the west. They are normally associated with warm frontal
weather and pass fairly quickly, bringing in its wake high cloud (cirrus)
followed by lower cloud (alto) until cumulonimbus and rain arrives
(associated with a cold front). We looked about in the gullies for water
for our evening meal, returning empty-handed to discover a full tank
behind the bivy. Then the clouds opened and there was definitely no
shortage of water. The bivouac was not much bigger than a double bed,
and getting organised around food and sleep in such a confined space
took a lot of careful movement. Our food supply was dwindling and we
realised we would have to ration carefully to reach Palmerston North
safely.
It poured buckets overnight, and when we woke it was still going. With
no more than a glance between us, we knew we weren’t moving
anywhere and both curled up in the warm security of our sleeping bags.
At ten we had a snack and decided to set the limit at 11.30, if it hadn’t
relented before. We couldn’t afford to sit it out. With little change we
packed and departed on time into the deluge. Once on the ridge the
rain eased to dense swirling clouds. The track was very indistinct with
only occasional markers in the bush. Then we broke out onto the open
top and a poled track. The skies wept heaps again, and the ground was
inches deep in water in minutes. It was cold as well. We strove onto No
Man’s Hut, luckily finding a couple of friendly hunters in residence and
a piping hot fire. We thawed out, dried out and ate up, to leave again in
clearing skies mid-afternoon over the open tops of Ohawai, down and
up into the bush again. Thick, tangled, stunted mountain beech. Thank
goodness for the track, which was 6 inches to a foot deep in water on
the ridge. Approaching Akarana Hut, we could see a large black cloud
heading our way, got our skates on and dashed the last kilometre to the
hut, arriving as hail’n’all lashed down. My fibrepile and polyprop
clothing had drained dry and was lovely and cosy. Paul soon was as
well, after changing his.
The twelfth of February was lousy, Paul explains:
‘It was hard work to reach the hut today. We walked about 10 hours
through rain, cloud and really strong wind. It would have been a really
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
great day if the weather had been nice, all these beautiful views from
the top, but no way, falling around wet tussock grass. I can’t remember
too many things that I have done which were as hard as this hike in the
storm along the ridge; crashing through bush and balancing on wet
tussock. When I was asking myself, “why are you doing this” I felt
really bad, but when I said “there is no other way than to fight” it was
okay. In the end we reached the hut surprisingly quick.’
I worried a lot about Paul on this day. He started slowly and didn’t
seem too interested in the day, then when the weather crapped out
again, and his cotton clothing got saturated in the blown sleet, I was
afraid he might get exposure. We tumbled on over Tupari, along the
Ina Rock precipitous ridge onto Maroparea, rarely able to see more
than 50 to 100 metres, getting blown about in the violent gusts, nose
stuck to compass. In thick mist on Maroparea I sidled up to Paul and
screamed above the wind.
“We’ll have to change our attitude, pal. Extract our heads from our
bums, forget the shithouse weather and lousy terrain and get above it.
We won’t make the hut at this rate”.
Paul nodded agreement, obviously in conflict with the situation. We
made Sparrowhawk bivy about 5 pm and struggled on, over tussock
and thrashing through untracked leatherwood and beech. We’d lost
remnants of the track hours ago. This ridge can’t be walked often.
Reaching the sanctuary of Sunrise Hut was blissful. A palace. We
quickly got the fire stoked and copious brews and hot food followed.
Paul and I wondered if somebody had ‘pushed the button’, causing this
lousy weather as an effect of nuclear holocaust.
The following morning the weather hadn’t changed so we called a rest
day. It sleeted and blew a gale most of the day, offering occasional
glimpses of the bright sun-parched paddocks below. We heard on the
radio that it was 26° celsius and sunny in Hastings!
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
47
On the ridge, first thing, it was clear all around. We were above the
cloud and could see Mts Ruapehu, Ngaruhoe and even Egmont in the
distance. A stiff breeze still blew. We traversed the main range all day,
feeling like yo-yos between all the little peaks. I got blown off my feet
twice on the Sawtooth ridge. We stopped at Howletts Hut for the night
in deteriorating weather. Pouring over maps we decided that, if the
weather is still lousy, we’d drop off the ridge, instead of carrying on
along the tops to the Pohangina river.
It was nasty in the morning, so we navigated past Otumore and
dropped down to Iron Gates Hut and along the Oroua River, to have a
comfortable night with friendly people at the Heritage Lodge. We were
running low on supplies and were overdue out of the Ruahines. From
all accounts, the tops south of the Pohangina River were dense
Leatherwood and the rivers flowed east-west, across our path, so we
resolved ourselves to a road bash into Palmerston North.
Fortunately I had good friends in Palmerston, and Doug and Judy met
us on the road to relieve us of our load and bring fresh goodies from
their deli. Paul was determined to walk the road with me as it was the
last section he would walk with me. We covered 55 kilometres on
Thursday to make Ashhurst, and hobbled into Palmerston midday on
the 17th, fourteen days, and over 350 kms from Whakapapa.
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PALMERSTON NORTH TO ST ARNAUD
To Paul and I it was like a dream come true, cramming ourselves to
immobility with beautiful food at the ‘Stuffed Goose’ Deli, soothing
ourselves in the warm, homely companionship of Doug, Judy, Emma
and James. On Saturday afternoon, when Judy came home with unsold
croissants and french bread, blue vein and camembert cheeses, we went
into ecstatic fantasy, sure that our senses were having us on. On the
19th of February I reluctantly got out of bed, it was grey with a cold
easterly blowing. The tops of the Ruahines had stayed grotty all the
time we were in Palmerston. Paul was heading off to the Southern Alps
to climb, and I wasn’t keen on taking to the Tararua tops alone, in light
of recent experience. Still we both packed up and departed, after a fond
farewell, into the bracing wind.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
49
Doug was going to drive my rucksac out to Tokomaru for me, to save
me lugging it on the road. Paul was hitching to Wellington so, with a
lump in my throat and a tear in my eye, I thumped him with the maps
in my hand, squeezed out ‘take care mate’ and strode off down the
tarseal. Picking up my rucksac from a calf pen on Albert Road, there
didn’t seem to be anybody about so I headed onto the road head and
checked with Mr. Ryder for directions over to the Tokomaru River. Just
as well, as the information I had previously was incorrect, indicating
there was public access across to the river. Evidently there is not, but
Mr. Ryder gave me permission to go across. At the top of the hill, I
looked down and thought I saw Doug, Emma and James at an adjacent
homestead. It upset me not to have checked while I was in the valley, to
see them again, and thank them for running my gear out. Feeling more
alone than I already was, with my head down, I walked on.
Reaching the Tokomaru River I sloshed straight in, now well aware of
the wasted time, energy and added risk in trying to keep dry feet. I
looked about for remnants of Burtons track but could only find little
bits that seemed of little help. I believe Burton was a hermit who lived
by the river here. He was given leave by the government to remain, as
long as he maintained a foot track down the river, which he built. He
has long since died and his track is being reclaimed by the bush.
I emerged out of the river below No. 3 Tokomaru Reservoir and
plodded up the gravel track, over the saddle and down past the
Electricity Department houses. For a while following a pair of weasels
cheerfully play fighting, unaware of my presence. Hoping to find one of
the huts open at the road end, I was quite disappointed when the first
one was locked and I didn’t actually locate the second. Back down the
road a bit I found some shelter for the night. A hut with the door left
open, the latch had been bolted and it hadn’t been forced but here it
was wide open. Well, my legs were killing me and it was dusk so I
settled in to squat for the night.
50
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Securing the door as best I could in the morning against native
intruders, I wandered up and over the hydro dam, with eerie mist
damply hanging on the lake. The track up to Ngapuketurua Ridge had
just been re-cut and marked, which was a great relief, as I plugged uphill
in patches of sunlight. On the ridge the track stopped in leatherwood
and tussock. Struggling, fighting, pushing, swearing, slipping, cursing,
bleeding, aching it took me two hours to make it the 2 kilometres over
Ngapuketurua to Massey Knob for lunch. From there, I picked up a
few more tracks on the ridge up Kareti, down, up Ruapae, down, up
East Peak, down, down, up West Peak, up, down, up , down along
Walker to Pukemoremore. At about 5 pm, Dundas Hut looked very
tempting a few hundred metres off to the east of the ridge, but I
swagged on, over Logan, Dundas, along the splendid ridge, with the
cloud ceiling dropped to meet the spires of earth and rock.
I reached the Arete bivouac at seven, tried to make myself comfortable
in the dank refuge, guzzling liquids and food to replenish energy, and
fighting off cramps in my thighs. After some dithering I was warm, fed
and cosy in my bag, prone outright to ease my aching limbs. In the
morning, it was raining and cold as I climbed back onto the ridge,
stumbling over tussock. Up towards Lancaster. Some gallant person
had poled the ridge for a few hundred metres, then these disappeared,
leaving me in the mist peering about for any sign of track. Checking my
compass, I found I was heading 90° off. Back down I went until I
found the route across Waiohine Pinnacles onto the Tarn Ridge.
A quick snack at the hut then up again into the nebulous. Steeply onto
the pinnacle, unsure of which one was the one. Visibility was down to
less then twenty metres. When I reached a trig, which I assumed was
Girdlestone, I dropped back about thirty metres or so, and descended
steeply on a compass bearing, to what I guessed was the main ridge.
The only view I had was 600 metres straight down into the gulleys on
either side. The ridge started forming; wet lichen covered rock.
BRRRRR! Over Atkin to North King. The clouds broke momentarily
so I quickly got some cross bearings and plundered on.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
51
Ascending South King I slipped, took a nose dive, face first towards a
giant Spaniard spiky plant (aciphylla). I rolled, landing on my side.
OWF! Rucksac teetering into space. Phew! I picked myself up and
hobbled onto some level ground. No major damage. A couple of large
slabs of stilton cheese on cabin bread (donated by Doug) sorted me
out, and on I went. Easier ground to Broken Axe Pinnacle (‘Broken
arse pinnacle’ - one slip and it was a broken arse!).
At Angle Knob, the track becomes more distinct and eases off. It was
wonderful to stride out, stretching aching quads and jaded knees. Over
Jumbo and up Mt Holdsworth. Dropping off, I broke out of the clouds
to see Masterton bathed in sunlight. Past luxurious Powell Hut, into the
bush and down to the Mountain Hut.
The following day was beautifully clear and sunny as I dropped into the
Waihine River, over Cone Saddle to the Tauherenikau and down past
vandalised Tutuwai Hut to Smith Creek shelter. Why people take time
to walk up through this magnificent and spectacular country, in
overwhelmingly beautiful scenery, and then smash the shit out of a hut,
I just could not understand. On the alluvial terraces, in both the mid
Waiohine and Tauherenikau, there are numerous ideal campsites. Andy
and Les were upgrading the track up the Tauherenikau. We had a
comfortable night together at Smith Creek shelter, they gave me some
goodies to keep me going, and on I went up the lovely benched track to
Kaikohe.
Crossing the road, I got onto the old railway incline over the
Rimutakas. It is part of the Wellington Water Board catchment so
permission to enter is required, some inoculations might be needed and
definitely no camping or domestic pets allowed. I’d checked this out
before I started walking and arranged my permit. Originally the railway
was a link between Wellington and Featherston, before the tunnel was
built through the Rimutakas. Wandering up the gentle slope was lovely,
picking sun ripened, juicy blackberries, over antiquated bridges and
through eerie tunnels (in which I was practicing a trick picked up from
a climbing mate in Britain. He used to drink his last pint with one eye
52
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
closed so that when he went out into the night he could swop eyes and
see where he was going!). The tunnel at the top is 600 metres long, so
needs a bit more than eye technique. Dropping from the Pakuratahi
watershed to Cross Creek, the incline changed to a grass terrace, and
meanders through two more tunnels into the Rimutaka State Forest
Park.
One of the magnificent bridges on the Rimutaka Incline
On reaching Western Lake (Wairarapa) Road, I headed south west
down to Wairongomai Station. Stopping at the first house on the road
to see if I could pitch my flysheet thereabouts, and to get local info.
“Hello”
“Oh, come in, cup of tea?”
“Yes, please”
“I’m Carol Wedderburn”
“Hi, I’m Rex. Is there somewhere around here I could camp for
the night?”
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
53
“I’ll ring the boss and see if you can stay in the singlemens place.”
“Do you know if it’s possible to walk up the Waiorongomai, over
to the Orongorongo and onto Wainuiomata?”
“Yes, I think so. Alex my husband is the man to talk to. I’ll just go
and get him”.
Alex had gone for a hunt, so Carol ushered me toward the shower and
cooked up a meal for me. Some of their friends came around, followed,
just after dusk, by Alex. We chatted away about the trip, and I enquired
about tracks over to the Orongorongo. Alex told me it was another
water catchment area. I assumed that my original permission, together
with all the inoculations I’d had, were sufficient to cross.
Carol and Alex kindly gave me a bed for the night. I got away early in
the morning and splashed in the Wairongomai River, up to the ‘Forks’
then left into the Oreore stream. Over debris, short waterfalls and
slippery boulders. I scrambled up a large fallen tree to overcome a
precipice, and shortly made Wairongomai Saddle, to wander gently
down into a tributary of the Orongorongo. I lunched by the river below
a large landslide and carried on down past the weir to a building,
following footsteps all the way, some of them wet. I searched about for
a track over the ridge to Wainuiomata but everything petered out into
dense bush. I came across a tunnel entrance. This was exciting. There
was a railway track into it. Checking the map it seemed to be about 4
kilometres long. That would be about 35-40 minutes at a good lick. Plus
the return if there was a locked gate at the other end. My torch batteries
were low. I raided spares out of my pocket radio, just in case, and,
plunged into darkness. It was wet underfoot, crouching so as not to
bang my head. Mid way I could hear a hissing building up. Shit: surely
not a train. I slowed down and carefully pressed on, checking to see
where I could dive if need be. After a few anxious minutes I came
across a water pipe gushing. Relieved, I strode out again, trying to make
that pinhole of light human-size. Popping back out into the bright
sunlight, there was a tarsealed road leading on down past some cultured
glades. Cruising by the dam I waved to a couple of blokes and kept
going. Shortly one of them on a motor bike joined me:
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
“Wot are you doing here?”
“I’ve just come from the Orongorongo.”
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’ve got permission to be in the catchment area.”
“You can’t have. You must be a piss poor tramper if you don’t
know where you are.”
‘Thanks’, I thought, ‘been nice talking to you.’
On checking later in Wellington my permission did not cover that
catchment and I had made an error entering the Orongorongo above
the tunnel. I believe it is a totally restricted area.
I saturated myself with chocolate milk in Wainuiomata, rang a friend in
Wellington to let her now where I was, and proceeded onto Dicks trig
point at the back of Eastborne. Crashing up through gorse, along the
firebreaks and into the native onto a brand new benched track. Across
to Lowry peak, then I popped out of the bush on the ridge.
Yahoo! There was Wellington over the bay, bathed in the evening glow.
I made Petone well after dusk, treating myself to the night in the pub,
and picked my way, next day, across town on the Urban walkway
system, being met at the cable car by Meron. More than 1600
kilometres in less than a hundred days. I was chuffed.
I had three wonderful days in Wellington being looked after by Meron,
Neil and Joëlle. I was starting to feel tired and sore, so was ensuring
that I ate plenty of good food. The company of good friends was
exhilarating, highlighted by the romantic moments with Joëlle up Mt
Victoria, on Oriental Parade and at Massey Point. This beautiful French
woman had an affectionate and adorable aura. I could feel cupid’s
arrow coming and didn’t know whether to duck or welcome it.
My original intention was to canoe across Cook Strait as a continuation
of the trip. I’d not organised my canoe to join me because I had
thought some of the canoeists and canoe clubs around Wellington
would identify with the idea of the trip and give me a hand. I had tried
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
55
to make contact before starting out, and as I walked down, to no avail.
Now I was in a tight spot if I was going to ‘go for the Strait’. I had no
boat, nobody interested in providing information, and every lead I tried
ended in a blank wall. My strongest contacts started moralizing with
me, which was exactly what I didn’t want, so I began ringing around
and looking up people to see if I could hitch a ride on a yacht.
Unfortunately I’d missed a couple by a day or two. The weather had
been perfect for a canoe crossing for two days. I was feeling frustrated.
On the leap day I packed up and Joëlle ran me down to the ferry. I
must be crazy to go back into the hills for two to three months and part
from this woman.
On reaching Picton I got straight on Queen Charlotte drive and walked
the twenty-five kilometres to the Outward Bound School at Anakiwa.
Before leaving Wellington I had contacted Greenpeace and told them
that I would like to try and get sponsorship for them while I walked the
South Island (i.e. 1 cent a kilometre, etc), so now I had to calculate my
daily distance fairly accurately.
Staying the night at Anakiwa, I tried to pick a few brains for
information on tracks in the Mt Richmond State Forest and also case
the joint as it had been re built since I had done my course twelve years
earlier. Out on the road in the morning, I ambled down to Linkwater.
After obtaining permission, I cut up onto the ridge of trig PP and into
the hush heading for Mt Cullen. The going was pretty straight forward,
although untracked, through Beech forest. I almost trod on a pig hiding
under a fern. But my head was definitely elsewhere. I was feeling totally
alone. Thinking of others, especially Joëlle, overwhelmed by the
thought of thirteen hundred, or more, kilometres in totally committing
country, alone. Wondering what I was doing walking away from a
budding beautiful relationship. What am I doing here?
56
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Coming south off Mt
Cullen, I started slipping
and stumbling clumsily.
I was feeling totally
lethargic.
Was
I
unconsciously
willing
myself to make a
mistake to save making a
decision? Deep breaths
on the top of point GG,
then down south easterly
looking for the ridge.
Slippery bluffs, wet,
greasy, unhappy, lonely,
sad, I stopped. Back up
to GG. This was it. The
Tumbling down the ridge, thinking that the trip
decision had been made.
was all over…
The trip was over. At
least until Joëlle and I defined our relationship a bit more. I couldn’t
walk away having just opened the door and let in some fresh air, to
slam it shut. Dropping down to Trig 2161, tripping, falling, cursing,
crying, tears streaming down my face. What a bitter relief. Steep grass,
sliding, aching legs, awkward rocks, barbwire fence, argh! At Okaramio
Road I hitched a ride to Blenheim with a truckie. I told him I had just
chucked in the trip to walk the length of New Zealand. He advised:
“Don’t ever give up on anything. Least of all don’t show that you’ve
given up”
Thanks, pal, cheered me up immensely!!
I was back into Wellington within a few hours, physically and
emotionally exhausted. The skin on my right shoulder was bruised and
cracked, just from carrying the same weight that I’d already carried for
three months. I slept, ate, relaxed for another two days. I had lost about
a stone and a half walking the North Island. I was starting to make
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
57
Gandhi look like a fat man. There was a problem with my diet and the
recent high intake of protein should have tipped me off.
Joëlle and I talked a lot. My return from the hills had been obvious to
me, but to Joëlle, who had just moved into her own flat, it was not. She
was wondering what I expected of her; I felt as though my presence
was stifling her, she needed space, time. Once rested, I realised the only
thing I could really do was return to the mountains. At least now we
knew where we stood - as much as one can in a tender, budding
relationship between two strong willed, independent people.
On the night of the 4th of March I was camped, in clouds of midges,
below Mt Riley, ready to ascend and get back into the trip. I had written
to Paul from Wellington to ask if he could rejoin me at St. Arnaud.
That would spur me on, until my passion for the land returned. The
euphoria of being ‘at one’ with the surroundings had evaporated for
now. Climbing back into the mist and rain on the flanks of Mt. Riley, I
was perspiring and breathing heavily. Up and up. Out with the compass
and off the other side towards Mt Sunday. Wet, cold. Over the other
side, looking for the ridge. Trying to think objectively and rationally
about the trip. The high alps. The rivers. My dairy notes:
‘Been cramming vitamins and glucose down my neck, trying to
overcome physical fatigue, but still can’t quite get my head together. I
may have been on the move generally too long. Really want/need to be
with friends/lovers for a long time - time to put down roots and gather
a family together.’
On reaching the miners trail, I turned left down towards Bartletts
Creek. I had planned to do the Baldy - Mt. Fishtail - Mt Richmond
traverse, but I was in no shape to take it on, and the weather was
showing no sign of improving. The traverse is an arduous task for a fit,
well equipped party. Along the north bank road of the Wairau River
and up to Top Valley stream to the hut. As pangs of loneliness were
starting to lurk, another bloke turned up. Dave, a Canadian, born in
Portsmouth. It was nice to have company. He said he wouldn’t mind
walking with me for a day or two. We settled down to a chatty night
58
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
with a fire blazing, producing plenty of hot tea. Away early together
into another grey day, heavy showers lashing through. The lovely
benched track changed as we turned off up towards the Old Man.
Traversing up greasy slopes, crashing through stands of Manuka.
Markers were difficult to pick up occasionally. Heads bowed as rain
seeped through the tree canopy. We crossed a gorgy stream and picked
up the track again, rising abruptly in the beech forest. Here Dave
suggested I go on. He may turn back or, at most, reach the Old Man.
Torn between Dave’s company and regaining momentum on the trip, I
forced myself on. Up nearly a thousand metres then right along the
ridge onto the ‘Old Man’. Visibility was down to less than fifty metres,
so I had to keep a close eye on the map. The ridge away from the Old
Man undulates gently. Then, after the turn off to the hut, breaks out of
the bush and climbs a big barren slag heap.
Out of the bush the temperature dropped quickly, aided by a stiff wind.
Cairns on the top were a fair way apart. The ridge onto Rintoul could
be tricky to find. The torrent of rain got heavier and heavier as the
visibility became less and less. Ducking behind a rock out of the
tempest, I hastily mixed a concoction of water and glucose. Got to keep
going, not a place to be caught. Feeling lethargic. Compass. Map.
Decisions. Commitment.
Down off the lump looking for the ridge. The rocks, the whole
mountain was seething with water. Noise, what noise. Like a ridge in an
electric storm. Frightening. Grovelling between spikes of rock on a
vague bearing, aware of the risk of a fall but numbed from total
comprehension.
Slowly the ridge rounded off and climbed steadily to Mt Rintoul. More
cairns, a pile of stakes to be put in, evidence of the right place.
Dropped off down a scree gully to a marked track and reached the hut
about 4 pm. Enough for the day. I wouldn’t have a chance of making
the next hut in daylight and I was now conscious of the need to pace
myself. The chance of burning out, forever near. My boots were well
torn from the screes. I’ll have to back off the Red Hills and drop into
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
59
the valleys again.
Next day, up over Purple Top to the Bishop’s Cap and along to the
Tarn hut for lunch, then over Bushy Top and down to the Mid Goulter
hut. The Red Hills were poking defiantly out of the clouds, teasing me
yet of another decision.
Arriving at Manuka Island at dusk I approached the farmstead to ask if
I could crash in the woolshed for the night. Joan Dodson welcomed me
in and said they could do better than that, they would give me the use
of a caravan for the night. Joan’s husband Rex arrived in from the farm.
We walked the dogs together, they did their evening chores and invited
me to join them for a meal. We talked on and on. Rex and Joan had
been working for the United Nations for the last twelve years, two in
the Golan Heights of the Middle East and, recently, three years in
Bangladesh, coordinating food and stores coming into the country.
They had been back at Manuka Island for three years, working hard to
extract a living from the land, with the temperamental rivers to contend
with. Their recollections were varied and fantastic. I was quite drunk on
the friendliness and hospitality.
Bidding the Dodsons a warm farewell in the morning, I plodded along
their eight kilometre track to the road and trudged on to St Arnaud. On
reaching the Post Office there was a note from Paul. I dropped all my
gear at the Yellow House, where I would stay and loped, awkwardly, as
fast as my pins would take me, down to the campsite. Here he was, my
big mate. It was wonderful to see him again and to hear he would have
time to walk for nearly a week with me.
60
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
ST ARNAUD TO MT COOK
It had been raining, off and on, for five days. The cloud hung like a
mantle of gloom over Lake Rotoiti. It was cool, very cool for the
second week in March. Paul and I decided not to rest, as his time was
limited. We were both concerned about my deteriorating physical
condition. I had lost 10 - 12 kilo, had raw abrasions around my legs,
and required considerable amounts of glucose to keep the blood sugar
limits up. I asked Paul to voice his objective opinion on the
continuation of the trip whenever he saw fit.
The track to Speargrass Hut was delightful. Open beech forest, lush
mosses and lichens; rich browns, tranquil greens. It was wonderful to
have company again. The pressure seemed off. The same ground was
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
61
being covered, the same decisions made but everything flowed easier,
less committing.
Wading through chest deep grass in an open clearing to reach the hut,
we lunched and continued on into the stunted beech forest, sloshing
over rich peaty ground, knitted together with interlaced roots. The
greying skies grew denser and shed their burden. A night at Howard
Shelter, then we dropped over to Lake Rotoroa. The valley and hills
here show a striking story of glacial action. The classically rounded
shape like a U, with truncated spurs and ridges, chopped off by passing
rivers of ice.
At the Sabine Hut we turned left up the Sabine River. Paul and I had
settled easily back into our relaxed rapport. The alpine panorama,
although shrouded in mist, had tossed its charm upon us and was
beckoning us onward and upward. The sides of the valley were showing
signs of post glacial erosion: great scree slopes, at times loosing their
grip, being overcome by gravity and sliding, covering all before it.
Characteristic post-glaciated valley in the Upper Sabine
62
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Rambling up the alluvial terraces was fabulous. Picturesque camping
spots all the way up to the Forks Hut, where the character changes and
the bush comes down to the river bank in a steeper gradient. Reaching
the Blue Lake hut just before dusk, our pockets stuffed with wild
puwha to eat, we set about making ourselves comfortable. A large meal
of fresh vegetables, macaroni, bran and soup, topped off with jaffa milk
pudding and biscuits, pure luxury.
Leaving the hut early, to ensure a safe crossing of Waiau Pass, we
climbed out of the cirque of Blue Lake on to the terminal moraine of
Lake Constance. Traversing right we picked our way up a scree slope,
following odd cairns until we were about a hundred or so metres above
the Lake level. On a sloping terrace covered in snow grass and
aciphylla, we then contoured across, following occasional cairns,
dropping very very slightly, but keeping well above the bluffs. On
reaching the first gully, we dropped twenty or so metres and skirted
right into the second gully that we followed right down to the lake
shore. Loud abuse from a Paradise duck, and close perusal by a Skua,
reminded us of our intrusion. Paul and I were both invigorated by the
scenery. We both felt more in our element, that of a mountaineer, and
helped quell some of our excitement by nervous chatter, recalling
exploits of mountains in Europe.
Following the creek and valley at the back of the lake, we eventually
found the sign pointing obscurely up into the cloud. We had identified
this Pass from the Lake and had picked a route, and, alas, from the sign
up, steel standards (poles) mark the route. We had a snack, shouldered
our loads and started threading quietly up, experience confirming the
lack of haste. Luckily the Pass was clear of snow and we dropped
quickly off the other side, picking our way carefully through the bluffs.
Route finding here could be difficult in adverse conditions. Beware.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
63
The first of 13 alpine passes
We reached the Caroline Bivy mid-afternoon, in a downpour, to find
the only two bunks occupied by three blokes. Jim the Farmer, Jim the
Doctor, and Roger. They offered us a brew then we set about putting a
lean-to onto the shed with my fly sheet and adding another room with
Paul’s tent. Of great interest was a note in the hut book by Graeme
Dingle and Jill Tremain from twelve years earlier, when they did the
first winter traverse of the Southern Alps, south to north. It lashed
down all night.
Meandering down the Waiau River to the Ada Homestead and onto the
St James Walkway, the weather was maintaining its consistency, the
cloud ceiling was low, giving limited views sprinkled with showers. I
redefined the term ‘cloudburst’ to mean a momentary parting of the
clouds and a spurt of sunlight. In the conditions we brought our
perspective right in and, for the first time since we’d been together
again, we started developing a philosophical discussion. It was always
difficult to establish a hearty debate because our opinions were
64
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
generally agreeable, but I started fishing with a comment about the
necessity some people have on passing judgement on others. We
together wondered why, when one person meets another, each person
draws a little mental picture of the other, fitting certain characteristics
into a recognisable shape; how, when the relationship develops, one
recalls the mental picture of the other, reassuring themselves of this
assessment. How demands are made and expectations met. We
concluded by thinking that it was a process to ward off emotional
distress, by those who needed ‘safe’ ground, and decided we too needed
that at times.
On reaching the Lewis Pass we introduced ourselves to Chris Heaphy
at the Boyle Lodge Outdoor Education Centre. He had heard we were
in the area and welcomed us in for the night. Paul and I had the
opportunity to elaborate and expound on the trip to a group of
students from Culverden, who were in residence. We painted a pretty
dramatic and romantic picture. Chris ran Paul and the rucksacs down to
Windy Point in the morning as I loped down the road. Stashing our
gear in one of the loos for safe keeping, we hitched into Hamner
Springs to pick up our food parcel at the Post Office. A strange feeling
in that town struck us both. Maybe we weren’t accustomed to inquiring
eyes. Some hot chips and good mail cheered us both, and eased the
culture shock. Out on the road a myth started to ring true, that of
South Island hitching. It took us six hours to travel the thirty or so
kilometres to Hamner and back. Even buses didn’t stop when hailed.
Still, it gave me time to convince Paul that he could possibly spend a
few more days with me. He decided to walk through to Arthur’s Pass,
go to Christchurch to change his airline ticket and return and rejoin me
at Mt Cook. Magnificent.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
65
Up to the Hope River the
track is in excellent
condition, wandering neatly
through the beech to the
Midway Shelter and Hot
Spring (or sprung), over flat
alluvial terraces to the
footbridge and up to the
Hope-Kiwi Palace. We had
bungled our planning a bit,
not to have a royal night
here. Paul had unluckily
dropped his camera in the
Hope River from the
footbridge. It was well
saturated
when
we
recovered it, with little
chance of revival. Lunch
and a snooze, then on we
went up Kiwi Valley to the
saddle and down through
juvenile red beech on a big, wide, beautiful pack track. Crossing the
river, we settled into No 2 hut for the night.
Away early into rain we plodded up the river terraces, past the hot
springs - testament of the land masses grinding against each other,
producing heat, distorting land forms. The odour of sulphur hung
heavily in the air, like that of a construction welding shop. Just before
arriving at No 3 hut, the peace of the land was shattered by screaming
two-strokes. Four blokes on motorbikes came blatting past, regarding
us as another exciting obstacle on their journey. When chatting to them
at the hut we discovered that they had woken this morning in
Christchurch, here it was not even midday, and we were together in this
isolated little clearing in a valley squashed between mountains. The
contrast of time blew Paul and me away, having just spent two days
walking from Windy Point.
66
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
We lunched at Cameron Hut and squelched into the heavy Scot’s mist.
At the Forks we picked up a lovely open benched track. On and up to
Harpers Pass. The rain relented to give us a damp view down the
Taramakau. Steeply descending through the bush onto the footbridge,
over and along erosion debris. The moist predominating westerlies,
coming off the Tasman Sea, rise when confronted by the foothills,
forcing the air mass upwards, condensing the moisture in the air.
Pushed higher on striking the alps, the water droplets in the clouds
gather together and fall. On average nearly three quarters of a metre of
rain falls every month washing away the schisty type rock-paste soil,
down into the eroded faultline now dominated by the Taramakau River.
We spent a soggy night at No 4 hut and carried on down the river in
clearing skies. Paul was becoming a little introverted. He hadn’t heard
from home for nearly three months, which was most unusual. The
thought of his parents being in difficulty and not knowing about it was
plaguing him. In contrast we had heard a lot about the acid rains caused
by industrial pollution in Europe killing the needle trees (they have a
higher absorption than others) so Paul wasn’t looking forward to
returning to dying countryside after becoming so engrossed in the
lushness of New Zealand.
By the time we turned up the Otehake, the sun was beaming out of
blue sky. Rambling up the rocky riverbed, with several crossings, was
welcome, but we had heard tough stories about the ruggedness of the
Otehake, the wilderness area of Arthur’s Pass National Park.
Inadvertently crossing the footbridge, instead of sticking to the river,
we had our first taste of the country to come as we clambered hand
over foot vertically down off the bridge, grasping tree roots for
support, to reach the other side.
Lunching by the hot spring that we didn’t find, we stumbled back up
into the bush; beech forest. The valley side is steep and underfoot is
wet, slippery mosses and lichens plastered liberally over tree roots and
rocks. Being a wilderness area the track is marked regularly but not
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
67
maintained to help keep it in its wild state. We dropped back down into
the river at the junction of the Whaiti Stream. Some of these streams
are prone to flash flooding so care is essential, especially in pending bad
weather, as retreats could be cut off. The track continues about three
hundred metres up from this junction, in the river, then rises steeply
back to the slanting jungle. It took us hours to locate the track
continuation by the river, and were now doubtful about making the hut
by nightfall. We slipped, tumbled and blundered on, across the next
creek to a large slip, gingerly tiptoeing across with the river gushing
nearly a hundred metres below. At six, the light started fading. We still
had over two kilometres to go to the hut, which at this pace would be
more than two hours. Finding two narrow ledges in the bush, we
decided that this was it. This was not a route to bumble on in the dark.
We hurriedly cooked, in the dimming dusk, and sat puffing Paul’s two
last cigarettes and sipping ovaltine. It was not the Ritz but luckily it
didn’t rain and we breakfasted at the hut with only dampened spirits.
We tramped up into the Shangri La at the head of the East Branch,
keeping to the true left of the main stream, high up on eroded terraces,
picking our way through the stunted beech. Up, following cairns, over
loose shattered boulders, to Taruahuna Pass and down into the open
tussock of the Edwards Valley. Mountains becoming enveloped in
cloud. We called an early stop at the Edwards Hut mid afternoon and
lounged about drinking tea, reading and snoozing. We lunched in
Arthur’s Pass the next day.
There were three days before I rendezvoused with Tina Troup and
Jean-Paul. Geoff Gabites and Nick Hines from Macpac Wilderness
came up, went over their gear with me and took Paul off towards
Christchurch. Relaxing, eating and sleeping well I was refreshed on
Friday morning as I loaded up and sauntered down the road to Bealey
Forest and the hut. Bob and Doreen Murie had looked after me well at
Arthur’s Pass, letting me use their bach.
68
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Jean-Paul and Tina arrived in
mountaineer’s style - middle
of the night with torches
strapped to their heads. We
had a meal together and
settled in for the night, sorting
out plans for the next few
days. Unfortunately Tina
could only spend the weekend
with us but Jean-Paul was
keen to make Mount Cook.
Away early, we ambled up
through the bush and broke
into the clear at Mt Bruce,
above a sea of cloud in the
Waimakariri. Over to the
Lagoon Saddle A-Frame and
Jean-Paul and Tina join me south of
down the spectacular Harper
Arthur’s Pass
River to the mid-Harper Hut
for lunch. Tina kept producing mounds of surprises from her rucksac;
heaps of camembert, blue vein and cottage cheese, sauerkraut and
carrot salad, fresh bread. Pure heaven.
Tina and I had met in Port Stanley in the Falkland Islands at the end of
the summer of 1983. Tina had been cruising the Antarctic Peninsula in
the French yacht ‘Damien’ with Sally, Jerome and Patrick. Jean-Paul
was a French sailing/climbing friend of Tina’s. He had sailed out to
New Zealand on his yacht with his wife and two children. Jean-Paul is
the Master of a drilling rig tender off Angola and commutes every six
weeks from wherever he may be to his work. Fortunately he was now
on time off and wasn’t due back at sea for three weeks or more. He
rapidly got dubbed ‘Yoplait’.
Tina left us at Boundary Hut to return to Christchurch and Jean-Paul
and I continued on down the Harper River. The spectacular pinnacles
at the bottom of the valley are formed from a landslide of glacial
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
69
deposits. Being on the leeward slopes from the prevailing weather,
vertical falling rain erodes the stony soils. The pinnacles survive while a
pebble protects its top, but quickly washes away once the pebble has
fallen.
Now in the great river systems of the Mid South Island we trudged on
down the Harper into the Wilberforce and over to the Rakaia.
Benighted at Mt Algidus Station, we imposed on the Manager to camp
there. He bunked us down with a Forest Service team, in the area doing
a botanical survey. The glacial scars in the Rakaia testify to the huge
forces of nature. Rivers of ice flowing down this enormous valley, in
recent time, have gouged great terraces out of the hillside and
depositing moraines. These terraces have been since eroded by rain,
cutting perpendicularly through them, giving a striking effect.
These mighty rivers don’t even respect the locals
At Manuka Point we stopped to get some local knowledge. Juliet
Morris gave us tea and cakes and all the info we needed. On we went
up this great chasm of the Rakaia. To Banfield Hut and up the rubbly
bed to Reischer Hut. Jean-Paul’s knee was playing up and giving him a
lot of pain. He was dubious about being committed to the high country
to come, with its steep aspect and punishment on human joints. We
70
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
rested in the rain in the Reischer. In the morning Jean-Paul was sure he
couldn’t carry on. Checking the maps it was just as quick and easy to
cross Butler Saddle and go to Erewhon Station than return down the
Rakaia, so up we went into Reischer Stream and into the first branch
right. Scrambling over damp rock in the creek into the left fork and out
onto the screes above, plodding up into the swirling mist to the saddle.
We dropped quickly down the other side moving right as we did.
Turning the gorgy bit at the bottom on the true left, we were shortly
strolling down the head of the Lawrence to the bivy. At the bivy, JeanPaul urged me to go on alone. He had resolved himself to a quiet walk
out the next day and returning to Christchurch. Reluctantly I slapped
him on the back, bid ‘farewell’, and walked off down the valley, fully
aware of the seriousness of the country to come.
Fording the swollen, bone chilling, nerve-wracking Clyde River was
merely a taster as, over the next two days, I crossed the Havelock, up
the Growler and down Northeast Gorge to Lilybank Homestead.
Descending the greasy snow covered schist slopes coming down
Northeast Gorge I slipped, tumbling down the slope heading toward
the bottomless gap between the snow bank and the stream, as jagged
rock sliced skin off my hip like a bacon-slicer. Using the some of the
sticking plasters I had in my first aid kit, I patched myself up as best I
could and limped into Lilybank.
Revived by southern grace and fresh vegetables, I pushed on, across the
swift, braided Godley River around and up the Cass. Crossing Ailsa
Pass, I was feeling like Cisyphus, the person in Greek mythology
condemned to push a rock to the top of a mountain only to let it go
and start all over again. Down I went into the Murchison Valley, over
the black ice of the Tasman Glacier and onto Unwin Hut at Mt Cook
and my mate Paul. I was jaded, shattered, in complete harmony with
the high mountains.
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
71
MOUNT COOK TO MILFORD
“I live not in myself, but I become portion of that
around me; and to me high mountains are a feeling,
but the hum of human cities torture: I can see
nothing to loathe in nature, save to be a link reluctant
in a fleshy chain, classed among creatures, when the
soul can flee, and the sky, the peak, the heaving plain
of ocean, or the star, mingle, and not in vain.”
- BYRON
72
A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
Sleet splattered our faces as we emerged on the ridge at the head of
Fred’s Stream. A brewing nor’wester was billowing clouds over the
main divide and down into the valley. Conferring, we didn’t think we
had much time before a storm blew up, and we plunged down into the
creek, over sharp, loose, shaley boulders. Once down at the water we
followed its path for two hundred or so meters then traversed left,
contouring above the deep gorge, picking up an occasional deer path.
We stopped at Reardon Hut as the night pelted rain, then pushed on
down the Dobson Valley. This beautiful, classic New Zealand tramping
vale obscured by clouds. Steep valley sides cut deep by streams, pockets
of remnant podocarp forest hiding up the eastern gullies, beech forest
to the west. The rain eased and the clouds lifted about midday. We
stripped and ambled on down the rubbly bed. Our spirits were low.
Paul had a recurring back injury that was playing up. His objective
observations of the trip were sounding like harsh criticism to my weary
ears. We stopped at Irishman’s Hut for the night (a musterers hut.
Belongs to Glenlyon Station, permission required).
Turning into the Hopkins we met the full fury of the storm. Strong
gusty winds, sleet, hail, stinging rain. Fresh snow was down to 1800
metres. Violent blasts threatened to dump us in the icy water as we
picked our way across the braided river and onto the gravel road.
Buffeted like front row forwards we fought our way up to the
Monument Hut for a late lunch and an early stop; drenched and
knackered. It lashed buckets for the rest of the day and most of the
night. Away next morning into slightly better conditions up to the
Huxley and on to Broderick Hut. Occasional glimpses of rock slabs on
the eastern side of the valley allowing us to dream of sunny days and
shorts, caressing warm rock. For two days it snowed at Broderick Hut.
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73
“ Do you hear that, Rory !”
“ No, nothing”.
That was it – nothing. It was quite deafening. The absolute noise of
pure silence. We had been in an Antarctic tent for four days waiting in
inclement weather for a plane to pick us up. Our job was done. Now
there was a lull. I poked my head outside the tent. The clouds were
down. It was white, everything was white. No definition between where
the clouds finished and the snow started. Stretching legs walking away
from the tent we could just as easily walk into a mound of snow or over
an ice cliff. Weird. Cocooned from the elements in our padded
clothing, we were divorced from our sense. No sound, no sight, no
smell, no feeling.
“As a species, we’re pretty dependent upon our senses,” stated Rory
stirring the dehy stew on the primus. I nodded, and smiled.
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Paul and I got away on the ninth of April into the clear, crisp morning.
A dusting of snow on the floor of this beautiful dale. We found cairns a
kilometre due north of the hut and pursued them up terraces, on the
white carpet, to Broderick Pass. Glaciated peaks of Mount McKenzie
on the right and Mount Strauchon on the left framing the trampers
haven - the Landsborough Valley. Mount Hooker jutting defiantly into
the turquoise sky. Dropping rapidly down into McKenzie Creek we
were shortly tumbling down the beech clad spur to the true left of the
gorge. Slipping, sliding, falling head over heels down to Creswicke Flat.
A quick snack, then off down this majestic river.
Luckily the storm hadn’t brought much heavy rain so we ambled on
down the river bank to camp in an idyllic glade, three kilometres down
from Golden Point
The bottom section of the river lived up to its reputation as a tranquil
wilderness albeit with some signs of exploitation. Classic beech forest
with its dense pile of moss and veil of lichens, injecting feelings of guilt
for the intrusion of this sacred refuge of nature. We tiptoed past and
grunted up Harper Bluff, keeping well left of the cliffs, then easy going
to Strutt Bluff where we opted for two deep river crossings in
preference to climbing the corner.
We camped at Pleasant Flat Shelter for the night then headed on over
Haast Pass. Paul managed to hitch on with the rucksacs as I powered
up to the saddle and dodged down the old Bridle Path to Davis Flat,
reaching Makarora mid afternoon to a mini banquet prepared by Paul.
Lindsay, who was working at the motorcamp, had left Gisborne two
years earlier, walked to Wellington, then across to Picton and down the
West Coast roads to here, where he decided to rest up and mellow out
before picking up the trail or not. Paul and I didn’t rest. We packed up
our gear, sorted out food and got ready to head back into the hills.
Away mid morning we crossed the Makarora River and branched off
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75
up the Wilkin. The weather seemed settled but as we still had two difficult passes to cross we decided to keep the pace on. The waterfall face
at the head of the Wilkin South Branch provided some excitement but
by keeping right we avoided difficulty. This face would be extremely
tricky in heavy rain or snow. In fact the Park handout states:
“The waterfall face involves some degree of unavoidable risk even
under good conditions, but when the tussock is wet or snow-covered it
can be positively dangerous.”
After scrambling up the face we emerged into the valley above leading
to Pearson Saddle and
Rabbit Pass. We kept
traversing left to the
pass then up higher,
fifty metres or more,
to
the
saddle.
Dropping into the
East Matukituki is
again quite hazardous,
climbing down friable
slates of schists. Silt
laid down in the
oceans
has
been
compressed
and
transformed into solid
rock
(metamorphosed),
bent and twisted by
the movement of the
earth’s crust to be
exposed and eroded.
The southern side of
the pass, protected
from the thaw of the
sun, was still plastered
Paul emerges from the shadow on Rabbit Pass,
with a thin layer of
completely dwarfed by the gigantic landscape
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
snow. Not thick enough to cement the slag heap or allow us to kick
steps. Carefully we balanced down to the tussock slopes carrying the
useless rope. Useless because we couldn’t attach it to anything to stop
us falling, so one slip would pull us both off.
We bivouacked on the river terraces at the southern end of Ruth Flat.
The hut marked on our map had long been removed and only remnants
of the airstrip remained. Away early, we took the sidle track above
Bledisloe Gorge (Bloody-slow Gorge). The gorge was the scene of a
dramatic rescue around 1934. A small group doing the first ascent of
Ruth Ridge to the Volta Glacier had a fall. One person was injured. By
the time somebody had gone out for help and a rescue party had
arrived the injured person had developed pneumonia. Thence followed
a horrendous stretcher carry dawn the gorge where, according to the
walking guide, “the lower part of the gorge is confined between
overhanging rock-walls for considerable distances.”
Down the East Matukituki we wandered. The walk along the valley was
very nostalgic for Paul. He had climbed Mount Aspiring in February
before rejoining me at Nelson Lakes and had also been in the area four
years previously. Paul was truly my guide to Aspiring Hut.
The climb out of the valley to Cascade Creek and Cascade Saddle was
arduous. Another place to be extremely careful in unpleasant weather
or snow. The steep aspect of the slope would be very slippery and
prone to
avalanche.
My
camera
jammed solid.
I swore and
cursed. What a
lousy time for
it to happen.
A crisp, clear
beautiful
The last photo my camera produced before dying completely
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77
Autumn day with uninterrupted views up and down the Southern Alps.
Glaciers sparkling like diamonds. Their cool blue shattered with
menacingly dark crevasses thrown into contrast with the low light. We
were totally invigorated as we surged into the head of the Dart Valley.
Already some two hours ahead of the times indicated in Moir’s
guidebook.
Paul’s back was giving him heaps of pain. He urged me to carry on, so I
did, traversing the huge area of slumping above the moraines of the
Dart Glacier with great care. The route is cairned but the erosion is so
pronounced that it obviously changes regularly. I was concerned that it
was going to do so as we crossed it rapidly.
In the Dart Hut that night we met Angus Farquhar, an Australian
visitor who was doing some walking and climbing in the area. Angus
was keen to head down the Dart and onto the Routeburn and so we all
decided to team up.
Unfortunately Paul’s time was running low again and reluctantly he had
to decide to leave for Auckland at the end of the Dart Valley, to return
to Germany. A sad moment as our friendship had developed to that of
solid companionship.
“Did you hear that crash last night,” I asked Paul, coyly.
“Yeh! I got shaken awake about 5.”
“Bloody huge quake,” said Angus.
I was sure I had been dreaming and had heard the whole head of the
Dart Valley crash down around us. We worked out between us that it
had been a large earthquake. Later we found out it was 5.7 on the Richter scale and centred off Fiordland. It certainly made a lot of noise.
We spent two glorious days tramping down the valley, stopping
frequently to gaze at the magnificent spires of rock and ice, and
fantasize of climbing trips to come.
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On reaching Paradise, Paul and I parted. Choked with emotion I
crossed the river with Angus heading for the Routeburn. Paul’s diary
notes :
“All these days I have suffered with back pain. It has been no more fun.
Today I said goodbye to Rex. We split in Paradise, which really reminds me of
a paradise. I don’t know if any of our common dreams reach reality. I feel a
real open and true relationship with Rex, which has grown with all the
challenges of the bush. There is a human being with whom I shared life for 9
weeks. In two months I will be back in Europe. Do I come back to New
Zealand bush or the Southern Alps again? I don’t know!”
Carefully Angus and I crossed the Dart River, cautious of the rumoured
quicksands. Angus, an amiable Australian gnome, had been in New
Zealand for the summer climbing in the Central South Island, ski
mountaineering where possible, and tramping elsewhere. He was
dropping into the Hollyford to finish off his sojourn before returning
to Oz and hopefully some work.
The Routeburn Track climbs gently from the road end up through
superb beech forest alongside the gurgling brook. Emerging onto the
flats, we were met by a rainstorm obliterating all views around us. From
the Routeburn Flat Huts the path rises steadily to the falls then into an
alpine basin and up to Lake Harris. Through Harris Saddle the track
drops and traverses along the Hollyford Face to Lake Mackenzie.
Here Angus and I rested for the night in the boisterously warm fug of
an overcrowded mountain hut. A North American lady expounded
generously, for all to hear, on nuclear weapons, solar energy, U.S.
congress and the New Zealand racial situation. Angus and I cringed and
slunk off to our sleeping bags.
In the clearing morning we were privileged to panoramic views of the
Darran Mountains as we contoured around to Lake Howden. Great
blocks of granite in the swirling mist.
We separated at Pass Creek as he dropped into the valley to end a
holiday and I carried on to the divide and Milford Sound for a resupply.
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79
80
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MILFORD TO DOUGHBOY BAY
“What a privilege to know the profound stillness and peace
of the land, to see star spangled skies and to listen to the
pulse of the universe”.
- Jill Tremain
Back at Howden Hut, I turned south down the Greenstone, my rucksac
swollen with Easter goodies posted to me by Betty, my mum. A strong
wind blew up the Valley causing a short, sharp chop on Lake McKellar.
Combined with high wispy cirrus clouds it was not a good sign for the
weather.
I stopped for lunch at the new McKellar Hut, a real palace, and pigged
out on the hot cross buns and chocolate eggs with marshmallow
centres, then rambled on down the Valley.
Out into open grasslands the wind dropped to nothing and the clouds
disappeared, leaving me with a feeling of treading onto somebody’s
picture postcard. Across the footbridge the track follows the true left of
the river (east), cutting in and out of the beech forest. Views back up
the Valley are dominated by the magnificent spire of Mt Christina in the
Darran Mountains.
When the track and river join again, the path wends its way through a
maze of Celery Pine (Phyllocladus Alpinus). Out of which I followed a
fat stoat waddling ahead of me. Imitating its awkward gait, I tagged
stealthily on behind, across some screes and into the open again before
the stoat realised it was being pursued by an idiot and disappeared into
the scrub.
I crossed the footbridge over Steel Creek to arrive at the Hut about
three. Sitting on the veranda were two people. I introduced myself.
They were Alan and Greta Bevan from Dunedin and knew Geoff
Gabites from Macpac Wilderness. We sat in the sun, chatted, ate Betty’s
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81
Easter cake and drank copious amounts of tea.
Alan and Greta informed me that the Greenstone Track has been
surveyed for a tourist road through to Milford Sound. This fantastically
beautiful tramping track is calculated to be replaced by tourist dollars to
save armchair tourists a bus trip through Mossburn and Te Anau. I was
horrified to think of the total destruction of tranquillity in the area due
to a strip of tarseal. It would also remove an overnight stop on the
Routeburn Track and accelerate exploitation of the Caples Valley and
Passburn.
Walking out the hut door into the fog in the morning was exhilarating.
My senses were immediately and totally absorbed. Sounds seem to hang
on every droplet, smells were erotically intense. It was as if my
molecules had separated and expanded to fill the Valley and blend with
everything around. In this euphoric state, I glided down the Valley and
up the muddy track beside Passburn to emerge into the sunshine and
thickets of Bog Pines.
Gently down to the Mararoa River onto the freshly marked Passburn
Walkway and new eight bunk huts. Open, barren hill sides, covered in
tussock grass. High peaks, steep sides and rounded valley bottoms.
Typical of a post glaciated landscape, although I understand that some
of the shaping has occurred from permafrost or frigid non-glacial
conditions.
At the North Mavora Lake, I followed the four wheel drive track on the
Eastern shore. Happy family voices were echoing across the water.
Crossing the river between the Lakes I joined the track to the west of
south Mavora Lake and marched on down the river and up into Kiwi
Burn Hut for the night. At the hut was a family from Invercargill,
Alaister and Heather with their three boys. Alaister offered me his pipe
for a smoke and after a few puffs, I was coughing and retching, not
regretting my absence from tobacco. Also in the hut was a guy that
looked familiar.
“Have you ever been to the Antarctic?” I enquired.
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
“Yeh! How did you know?”
“I don’t know how I know, it is a feeling I have.”
It was Jonathon Aitchison from Mt Cook who had been to the
Antarctic two seasons after I had, to geologise in the Ohio Mountains
near the South Pole with Maggie Bradshaw. Maggie had been down the
same year I had and done a similar trip with Graeme Ayres, who was
originally from Mt Cook and with who Paul and I stayed at Tongariro
National Park. It also transpired that Jonathon had stopped to offer
Paul and I a lift as we walked out of Mt Cook Village en route to the
Dobson Valley. Small world.
Geology was the name of the game as I walked down past the
Haycocks in the rain. Amazing tight, detailed formations. Jonathon had
told me of their source, but unfortunately I had forgotten.
Onto State Highway 94, I started limping. My right knee had blown out
consistently now for three days. I put it down to lack of liquids and
hobbled on. I passed the Whitestone Geological Reserve displaying an
“erratic” boulder carried down by an ice-sheet from the other side of
Lake Te Anau some 100,000 years ago. It started lashing rain as I
considered my geological insignificance and dreamt of a hot fire, a mug
of ovaltine and a good book.
Around the last corner before the Manapouri turnoff, a car came
skidding in my direction from along the straight. Over correcting, it
swung the other way, slid across the road, cart-wheeled into a telegraph
pole and disappeared from sight.
I dumped my pack and dashed across, desperately trying to remember
all the First Aid I had learnt, imagining decapitated corpses and entrails
everywhere. The car had landed the right way up in the ditch. I dived
down expecting the worst. Inside the car were four people, all sitting up
and all conscious. After a few questions and a couple of body checks, it
was discovered that there was nothing more serious than a sore ankle
and a few bruises.
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83
A truckie stopped and radioed on for assistance. A Nurse in a car
stopped and checked out the people again. Within an hour, the Police, a
Doctor, the Ambulance, the Farmer, a tow truck and the Post Office
had been and gone. All that was left was a flat area of grass, some
windscreen glass and me standing in the rain!
I rested a day at Manapouri while the impending winter demonstrated
its resolution. A deluge of cold water. The route that I had chosen was
presenting some logistical problems and was something of a dilemma. I
wanted to do up the Spey River and across to the head of Lake
Hauroko. Then a boat ride down to Lilburn Road and walk south over
the Hump to the Coast.
Andy Hayden, my mate in Invercargill, had been trying to arrange a
boat to meet me at the head of Lake Hauroko. Unfortunately, my
arrival there would coincide with the duck shooting season and all the
boats would be fully occupied. This meant I would have to wait ten
days for a lift and, as the hut at the Lake had burnt down the week
before, the situation was not very inviting.
On checking with Ranger staff at Te Anau and Clifden the other option
is to go across to West Arm, over the Borland Track to Island Lake and
Lake Monowai, then traversing the shore of Lake Monowai to the west
to get to Eel Creek. Behind the Eel Creek hut is an old culler’s track
which heads onto the tops then to follow the open ridge south to
Oblong Hill and the Lilburn Road.
This seemed the most feasible route so I cowered out of the rain in a
cabin at the Manapouri Campground for the afternoon, wrote letters,
sorted out my gear and started psyching myself into a determined effort
to get to the South Coast.
On the morning of 27th April, I caught the tourist boat across to West
Arm, after several abortive attempts at bludging lifts from fishermen
and the Ministry of Energy. Large, grey cumulus clouds scuttled across
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
the Lake as I climbed up the transmission line track to Percy Saddle. At
the Saddle I traversed out right to avoid the steep grassy slopes and to
follow a vegetated tongue down to the track on the other side.
The weather had held back for the day with only a few light showers.
Sleeping in a dank Percy Bivouac for the night I arose to find the snow
down to six hundred metres. In the lush, wet atmosphere, I trudged up
the Borland Track with lurking feelings of oppression. I could envisage
my single minded goal of completing the trip being washed away in the
storm.
At the Borland Saddle Bivouac I stopped early to assess the weather.
The A-Frame hut made of corrugated iron was big enough for three
wire beds with soggy mattresses. An old chimney in the apex allowed
for regular cold showers and the lighting was provided by the cracks in
the floor. In the prevailing conditions it was a welcome haven and I
shortly had a plastic bag tied over the chimney and the interior
organised into a comfortable bachelor pad.
Sure enough! In the morning there was 100 millimetres of snow around
the hut and it was still floating down in large flakes. My fate was sealed
and the options closed. It would be impossible to cross the high, steep,
grassy mountains to reach Lake Hauroko. My only alternative was to
walk out the Borland Road to Monowai and down the tarseal to
Clifden.
I felt cheated but relieved. I didn’t want to change the character of the
trip and walk on tarseal, yet the constant decision making and
commitment in my intense solitude was becoming a strain.
Brian Gwylliams put me up at the Blackmount Community Hall as I
passed through and I spoke to the kids at the School about this trip. My
report of an expedition I had dreamt about for years was definitely
without enthusiasm and I realised how jaded I had become.
I stayed with Russell and Rob Montgomery at the Clifden Ranger
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85
Station. The information I had about the Longwood Forest was sketchy
and with local knowledge it seemed as though the tracks went from the
North East to the South West, where I really needed them from the
North West to South East.
The tempest hadn’t relented and the Longwood Range was covered in
snow, so reluctantly I decided to take the back roads to Otautau and
onto Invercargill. Marching for two days in the dark, grotty sleet,
battered by gusty winds and spattered, shitty spray from stock trucks.
Passing the Southland Freezing Works (aptly named) I hit the wall. Hit
the bloody wall like a marathon runner! My energy reserves had reach
such a low state that I was starting to burn muscle. The lactic acid had
built up enough to smack my nervous system right in the guts. I had
been caring for my diet and taking 50-100 grams of glucose a day to
avoid this problem, but, alas, I was wrecked.
Gritting teeth and swearing loudly, I swaggered on, aware of the
consequences of a premature road side stop in these conditions. I
arrived at Andy’s work in Invercargill to collapse on the floor.
A day’s respite was welcome and necessary as I wolfed down
chocolates, bread, fruit and whatever I could get my hands on. Then
slipping on brand new Laser Escourt shoes that I had saved for this
moment I set off for Bluff. In my rucksac were my cut lunch, a drink, a
raincoat and my radio blaring out sound as I bounced along the road in
a glut of human contact.
Andy joined me at the edge of Bluff township and we walked around to
Stirling Point for the obligatory posed photo under the sign post
festooned with pointers to exotic places: London, Sydney, New York,
Equator, Cape Reinga We walked the Foveaux Walkway around Bluff
for good measure and returned to Andy’s.
On the 7th May, I crossed Foveaux Strait on the ferry. At Halfmoon
Bay I checked my route with Ron Tindall at the Forest Service Office
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
and headed straight off to North Arm Hut. The extremely wet climate
makes tracking very difficult. In this first section the wooden walk
boards provide easy comfortable walking. Further on it is boggy and
slippery. Luckily the fire was going in the hut and a warm cosy
atmosphere welcomed me in. Kim and John introduced themselves.
They gave me a cup of tea and an instant rapport was established.
John and Kim had been hitching around the world on yachts, travelling
from port to port. They had been resting up in New Zealand for a few
months and were about to head north to plan their next move.
Meanwhile they had a few days to tramp around the northern loop of
Stewart Island. We had a hearty meal together and shared colourful
stories of our individual adventures.
Away in the morning the track verified the image I had of Stewart
Island. Knee-deep mud holes, saturated dense bush and slippery, rooted
paths. Around the shore of North Arm Inlet and then up quite steeply
onto a ridge and down to Freshwater Hut. The views were limited as
the “Scot’s Mist” gathered. Inside the hut were marks indicating
previous flood levels, some up as high as the top bunk!! I bet there was
some bed sharing that night!
With one eye on the weather and the other on the level of the river
passing the door, I hastily gulped down my lunch and left. The open
winding track to Mason’s Bay was dry and really easy walking. After
three quarters of an hour the land channels into straight tunnels
enveloped in tall manuka, later to emerge into an open marsh.
The humidity had reached 100% about midday and subsequently
remained there. Mason’s Bay Hut was a luxury to find. A dry house
with separate bedrooms and a wood stove complete with a wet back
system for hot water.
Well ensconced, fed and watered, I was slothing around in my sleeping
bag like a fat slug in the noon day sun, when Kim and John arrived.
They had changed their plans and decided to come to Mason’s Bay for
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87
a rest day to support me in my trudge south.
Away early into a spectacular sunrise. On the beach the white crests of
the waves were accentuated against the rich deep blue of the sea. The
sand was bathed in a bronze hue. My emotions were raw, saturated. I
felt in a perfect state. Two and a half kilometres back from the southern
end of the Bay, the track to Doughboy Bay is marked by a yellow milk
crate hanging in the tree. A good track, two metres wide and fairly firm,
rises gradually up through Kanuka and Fushia into the sub-alpine scrub
to Adams Hill. On the top are areas of sphagnum moss. Sodden
sponges of vegetation, filling bogs, and waiting to trap and soak an
unwary leg or two!
The drizzle descended as I dropped down to Doughboy Bay. Reaching
the beach at midday I plodded down to Doughboy Creek, passed the
southern end of the tracks to finish this giant adventure. There is a
route that does further south over the Tin Range to Port Pegasus, but
this is a restricted area and supposedly would never become a Walkway.
I felt flat, at an anticlimax, without any of the elation that I had on
reaching Wellington or Bluff. I guess I had imagined this moment for
so long that I had cheated myself of spontaneous sensation.
I returned to the cave at Doughboy Bay, bedecked with bunks, a table
and utensils, for lunch before heading north for the first time in six
months. At the boundary of sub-alpine scrub on Adams Hill I came
across a great spotted kiwi (Apteryx Haastii) slap in the middle of the
track. It was big, about 40 centimetres high, with its beak stuck in the
ground, presumably looking for grubs. It didn’t spook when it noticed
me and I carefully got within two metres and chatted for over a minute
before it decided I needed a shower and casually wandered into the
bush. Fantastic! The consummation of the trip!
Back at Mason’s Bay, John met me on the beach and carried my
rucksac to the hut, as I struggled once again over “the wall”. Kim had
prepared a sumptuous meal. I ate and crashed in a delirious slumber,
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A Wee Walk in The Wilderness
vacant after nine months of total commitment, wondering what the
future would bring.
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89
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would most sincerely like to thank all the people I met throughout
this adventure. It was very much a pilgrimage of my homeland and I
was most heartened and encouraged by the warmth and hospitality of
fellow countrymen. Extreme gratitude to Paul Schmidt of Germany,
without the compassionate company of whom the trip most surely
would not have been successful.
Many thanks go to Bet and Rowe (my parents), Uncle Ral, Joëlle, and
Geoff Gabites for providing logistical and emotional support
throughout. To many others, far too numerous to name here, who
assisted along the way; notably Ray Stroud, John Lane, Barry Thomas,
Meron McCardle, Brian Neill, Ray and Marie Goldring, Bob and
Doreen Murie, Doug and Judy Keown, Les Cook, Andy Hayden, Tina
Troup, Jean-Paul, John and Kim, Parks and Reserves staff and Forest
Service Staff.
Not having ever planned an expedition of this magnitude before it was
very difficult to assume the role of a “Bludger” and try and obtain
goods or services free to cover costs. Somehow I never once failed in
obtaining what I wanted and was warmly received by everyone
concerned. Many thanks to Hobb Industries, Edmonds, Diamond
Pasta, Macpac-Wilderness Equipment, Agfa-Gevaert (NZ) Limited,
Laser Sports Shoes, Unilever, Sanitarium Health Food, Cadbury
Hudson Schweppes Limited, Choysa, NZ Honey Producers Co—Op
Limited, U.E.B. Cardboard, Anchor Co-Op Dairy, Skippers Footwear,
Mt Cook Landlines.
Many, many thanks to Betty Hendry, Wanda Raymond, Sharon
Mazey and Joëlle Xavier for spending a lot of free time typing the
manuscript. To Graeme Dingle for early feedback and advice on the
manuscript. Thanks to Jenny Iles for the preparation of the original
maps.
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