A three day trip to the northern Ruahines in the Indian summer month of March 1985 ... it sounded too attractive for Richard Haverkamp, Alan Gibb, Simon Davis and I to say no to, so we grabbed our gumboots and packs jumped into my car and headed north on a stormy Friday night with the rain sheeting down from dark leaden skies and water lying in tarn-like puddles on Highway 50, Hawkes Bay.
I'd heard from Phil Mackie, Hugh Dawson and others on a previous VUWTC trip that the Ikawatea Forks/Ruahine Corner area was essential material for all truly dedicated trampers, but we were beginning to doubt whether we'd chosen the right weekend (the worst floods in northern Hawke's Bay for years, the Napier - Taupo road closed etc) as we neared the end of Kereru Road west of Hasings. The prospect of setting up Richard's fly tht night lacked any appeal and just when the lads were on the verge of despair, a marvellous sight loomed out of the gloom, a luxurious shearers' quarters - carpet, lounge chairs and all.
The rains abated overnight and we were up and away at the crack of dawn, leaving $5.00 and a bold thank you not for the unsuspecting farmer.
A walk across farmland to the Forest Service's new Masters Shelter was followed by much crashing and bashing through bush looking for the Golden Crown Track. Eventually onto the beech-covered Golden Crown Ridge we tundled, making steady progress in thick cloud, north along the alpine herbfield tops to the 4 wheel drive road at cosy No Mans Hut (4 and a half hours). Reading the rain gauge we discovered a humungous 16 inches of rain had fallen in the previous 5 days and we were glad that we were only getting occasional showers.
Careful compass work in the mist and rain proved somewhat unnecessary as the route along the tops and down Ikawatea Spur is well snow-poled. By mid-a 'fternoon, following an excellent track through magnificent red beech forest, we were within 100 meters of Ikawatea Forks Hut, only it was on the other side of a very swollen branch of the Ikawatea River. Alan and I were keen to give the crossing a go and waxed lyrical about the comforts of a Forest Service 6 bunker for the night. However Richard and Simon preached caution and in the end discretion won out over valour and we pitched the fly in the trees within sight of the hut. Warmed by Richard's impressive fire-lighting effort, and encouraged by the cessation of rain, we had a pleasant evening in the bush.
A beautiful, cool, clear morning dawned for us on the Sunday, down in the deep, gorged Ikawatea Valley. Crossing the river that morning was easier than a fart in the pocket. After we'd checked Phil Mackie's entries in the hut log book, we bushbashed up a good south-trending spur for 2 hours before emerging, eyes blinking, onto the sun-drenched tops below Trig Y at just under 4,500 feet. What a sight! Bathed in brilliant sunshine under a cloudless blue sky, the Mangaohane Plateau spread out for miles, before dropping sharply off to the Ikawatea Valley. A landscape of amazing limestone outcrops and red tussock stretched away beyond the distant Taihape-Napier road to snow-capped Ruapehu and Ngauruhoe.
We trundled along the edge of this vast plateau, the peace only briefly shattered by two Airforce Strikemasters flying low past us at speeds faster than sound (parting our hair!). Lunchtime at Ruahine Corner Hut, a superb 6 bunk hut with a big red-painted verandah located at the sharp transition between red tussock plateau and deep green Kaikawaka (mountain cedar) forest. . The impressiveness of the area continued as we followed the track along a narrowing spur at the edge of the limestone landscape towards Potae, weaving between limestone outcrops and mountain cedar trees. A long hot uphill stretch took us onto the heavily faulted main Ruahine Range at a point called Trig U. Prom here there was a view stretching from the Kaimanawas and Kawekas to the southern Ruahines and from Ruapehu to the coastline of Hawke's Bay.
It was 4.30pm, a sunny day in the Ruahines, and the lads were feeling lethargic, if not a little lazy. The clear skies and warm afternoon sun lulled us into a false sense of security and we all decided to pitch Richard's fly a few hundred metres along the ridge from Trig U. Even the presence of a large bank of clouds far to the south just on dusk failed to make any impression and we retreated early to pits to play a word game. I must have dozed off because around 10.00pm I gradually gained consciousness and became aware that all was not right with our rather airy situation, 5,000 feet up under thin nylon. The wind had switched violently to the south and was increasing by the minute, drenching Richard at that end of the fly with heavy rain. We jumped into our sleeping bag covers and apprehensively watched the unequal struggle of fly versus storm. Storm had the final laugh at about 11.00pm, when the fly was ripped from the ground and we were totally exposed to the elements. 'Abandon ship' was the urgent cry.
Then began 2 hours of very careful compass and map work as we tried to find the faint trail leading off the tops down Totara Spur. Visibility was shocking and our first bearing ended in depressing bluffs. It wasn't until we had retraced our steps along a second bearing that a vague ground trail was found leading in about the right direction. The fun and games continued as we followed careful bearing after bearing down the wide spur until sometime after 1.30am a newly cut and disked track was found at the bush edge and our safety was assured. Stumbling in the feeble light of our overworked torches, the 2,000 foot descent down through the bush to Upper Makaroro Hut took us until 3.00am and our rather long day ended in a brew and night victory celebrations of gingernuts all round.
I awoke, in my damp and steamy pit, a short few hours later to a Chinese laundry of a hut - wet gear strewn around and hanging everywhere. We still had a long way to go to get out so an *early" start of 9.30am (6 and a half hours after we'd arrived) was the order of the day. Up 2,500 feet to Parks Peak Hut (lovely location), with the southerly gradually blowing itself out. An early lunch and then a steady trudge north along this interesting bush-line-level ridge until we reached the Golden Crown Track by mid-afternoon. Extensive views over Hawke's Bay farmland and the rugged starkness of the outlying Gwavas State Forest were the backdrop as we raced down onto the farmland.
The northern Ruahines is a fascinating area particularly the Ruahine Corner and ikawatea area, so I recommend that one day you grab gumboots, pack and a decent tent and take a trip there, you won't regret it.
The pacemakers were:
Brian Dobbie
Richard Haverkamp
Alan Gibb
Simon Davis
We'd survived the epic olivine trip and then dragged the father through the 'Cruisey side' of Lewis Pass, namely the St James Walkway ... and still we hadn't been in the snow. Two weeks of the Xmas holidays left, where to now ... where else when you're based at Timaru ... Mt COOK YAHOOO!!
30/01/85 Bus to Mt Cook from Timaru. Arrive 3.15pm in fabulous weather. Hoping to hitch a lift we set off for Ball Hut. And our pedal pushers did walk and walk, for miles we walked till finally we got a ten minute lift to the Blue Lakes Shelter. Enough to cool us down, we were frazzeling in the heat. And who was it that decided we should walk onto Ball Hut and how long did it take us!!
Time for tea and darkness. The Keas enthralled us by trying to get into the hut by banging down the door with thir beaks and jumping at it feet first. One had the misfortune of trying once too often and Mike descended on it, from pit, with broom handle and rock'.! whew.! Got the little bugger right on the head, on its back feet in the air, is it dead?!. only stunned, shook itself, flapped upright and waddled into the night. And so finally to sleep.
31/01/85 Up to a fine morning and we headed off over the Tasman Glacier moraine to the Hockstetter ice fall. A very slow pace due to extremely heavy packs and the hot, hot, hot sun. Dehydration was on the list for the days activities'. Before crossing the base of the Hockstetter ice fall, a helicopter that had been buzzing around for quite a while, landed right next to us sending ice and morraine in all directions. They were looking for a young couple and had spotted us ... and we thought it was a ride to the tops! - no such luck.
Crossing the icefall was superb, tiny streams everywhere, clear ice and suprisingly easy to cross, so refreshing after the morraine. But soon we were back onto morraine again and the pounding heat off the rocks; finally lunch at the base of Haast Ridge, a most welcome break.
The guide book says 'Ball Hut to Haast Hut via Haast Ridge 4 hours' and 'despite being a regular access route the ridge is not easy and has seen at least 3 fatalities'. Understatement of the year.'! It had already taken us 2 - 3 hours to cross the Morraine, now this bugger was still ahead of us! So we thought take her easy and slow and we'll get up to Haast Hut ... ha ha. So up we went .. . the first 500 feet was shit ... Sheer shit up hot loose scree, neither of us enjoyed it, and we were glad to reach a tongue of Tussock and up up up, no track, occassional cairn. More loose scree, loose rock climbing, tussock grabbing, getting stuffed, sweating like pigs and still up up up. Wheeeew its a long way down'.! Like Mike says 'its a good place to come to get rid of your fear of heights!!'
The view is fantastic ... However the ridge is designed to kill, loose rock and scree ... I've never had to rock climb like this before!! Avalanches crash down the Hockstetter ice fall soooo, unnerving. Finally up a rock gut to reach the little A frame Haast Hut. How long did it take us ... well, shall we say the shadows were long. Its fabulous to have made it and water at last. Raros and Jellies ... YAHOO...and the view ... up the Tasman, Malte Brun, De la Beche, Haidenger, Chudleigh, all looking superb in the evening sun. However the zzzz's soon descend on our tied bodies.
01/02/85 Lazed in the little hut most of the morning. Weather claggy and windy, where's our view gone. Dragged ourselves out of pit to head up to Glacial Dome. A short stretch on rock and then plugging up and up in snow ... whew ... she's still steep...Some rock near the top, crampons off, rope out. Not too nice a rock climb in the wet conditions, glad to reach the top. A short sprint down to Plateau Hut, just before the storm broke. Only one person in the hut ... an Australian ... Roger.
02/02/85 Plateau Hut. its freezing in here. ... soooo cold! Weather stormy, snowing, windy only the three of us in a barn of a but. Spent the day wrapped up in blankets and pits, making scones, and reading, how decadant.
03/02/85 Plateau Hut. A fine morning, couldn't believe the view of Cook and Tasman looming directly above us. The three of us shed our cacoons and stepped out into the big wide world of snow and monsterous mountains. Roped up we headed off (with day packs) across the Grand Plateau, sidleling crevasses, around the Hockstetter to Cinerama Col and the Anzac Peaks, a long plod in crampons up the couloir of the right hand peak, crampons off and rock grovel to the top ... Holy shit what a view. Clinging to each other the three of us huddle on the 4 feet by 4 feet top and exclaim to the world the superbness of this place ... All climbs up must come down ... abseiling most of the way then bum sliding we descended back to the plateau and trudged our happy faces home to the hut. Good Grief its now FULL!!! Heaps of people flew in on the snow planes that land on the plateau. The talk all night is whose going to climb what with whom. Mike and Roger decide to climb the Silberhorn Ridge of Tasman tomorrow. I think I'll stay at home. Feeling tired and sunburnt the zzzzzs settle in.
04/02/85 Mike and Roger were up at 12.30am, with many others, to climb Tasman. They left at about 1.00am ... its now 5.00pm and no sign of them. They should be arriving back soon. I've spent the day savloning my sunburnt face and drawing. Unfortunately Mike took my sunglasses so I couldn't go outside for long, due to the snow glare. There are heaps of people out climbing Cook today, occasionally they could be seen ... 10.30pm Mike and Roger return ... safe whew!! an epic day for them. They got up to the top of Silberhorn Ridge by 9.00am doing good time. Couldn't get across to Tasman peak due to a huge crevasse so headed back down at approximately 11.00am. Then the trouble began ... Roger fell into a crevasse and managed to prussick out ... later a rock dislodged and whaked his ice axe hand, breaking the spike off his iceaxe ... Mike dropped a snow stake down another cravesse ... Roger lost a mitten ... Roger tripped over the side ... and so it went on. Was this guy jinxed or something!!
05/02/85 Spent the whole day relaxing, swabbing savlon on sunburnt faces and reliving the previous epic day. A beautiful day to contemplate the world ... for tomorrow, we must part.
06/02/85 Mike and I were up and away before the sun. Roped
and cramponning out via Cinerama Col. A few more crevasses had opened on
the plateau. Through the col we had to cross a schrund and sidle avalance
debris across to Boys Col. Plain sailing down the snowfield and onto rocks
and scree. A good track, cairned, led down a rock spur to a grassy slope.
Such easy going after our mindless grovel up Haast Ridge. A final scree
slide to the base of Ball Glacier and onto the Tasman Glacier. A happy
hot trudge led us out past Ball Hut to catch a bus at the car park and
on into Park Headquarters. Such a fast retreat ... we met up with Murray
and hit the pub hmmm.
The usual story started this eye opening tour of the Tarauas - Friday night pickup, fish and chips in Featherston and a late arrival at the road end.
Clarification of background is needed here if the story is to unfold. Having only been on two trips in the last 11 Months I knew I would be pushed if I went on a Medium trip, however the decision was made. So here I was at Holdsworth roadend looking for a medium group. But there seemed to be a bit of confusion due to late withdrawls. Gosh shock horror when I found out that I (Mr Unfit) had been promoted to the fit group, more shock and horror when I saw the planned route. At least I wasn't the only one promoted, so was Donna and Tussock.
Anyway nothing to do except go along with the idea. 9.10pm we headed off under torch light up the track past Holdsworth Lodge, destination Powell Hut. Nothing eventful happening until pig flats when Tussock decided we should stay at Mountain House, as he shot in and stayed put, even with frantic shouting and whistling by Donna. Anyway after this short delay it was up to Powell Hut when we arrived at approximately 11.45pm. The night was fine but cold hence visability was perfect and so we could see the lights of Masterton, Featherston and Greytown below us. After a short night sleep of about 4 - 5 hours it was Saturday morning.
The weather was fine (very little cloud) but with a cold wind. At 8.00am we set off for Mt Holdsworth, arriving there about a half an hour later, to get excellent views of the Tararuas. Winding along the tops we arrived at Jumbo where Donna (who had the flu) and Tussock left us, we however carried on (though my legs were pretty bendy by now) to Angle Knob and McGregor Spur. All along the tops we had views across the Wairarapa to the sea and also brillant views of the main range (where we were going, or I was attempting to go). We then shot down the spur past McGregor Biv and into the Waiohine River Gorge (drop of about 1,900 feet) for lunch. The weather was still fine, but the pace was starting to show on my legs. After a half an hour lunch we were off again up a disused unmarked deer trail onto the spur leading up to Nichols (1,500 feet rise). I was really stuffed now though the rest of the group seemed to be going strong as expected.
After a brief stop at Nichols Hut (where I caught up) it was off again this time to climb Mount Crawford (another climb of 900 feet). Again they had good views. However by the time I got to the top (2 minutes later) cloud cover had come in below us on the western side of the range. Finally they strolled (and I struggled) along to Junction Knob and then along to Anderson Memorial Hut, arriving about 5.00pm. Four hunters were also staying there so Murray Corles and the two Johns had to sleep on the floor (bit cold outside).
The next morning I awoke to the sizzling of bacon and eggs at 6.00am (hunters food, we had to put up with Muesli). However in typical style the hunters didn't go out, as it was raining. We set off in the direction of Aokaparangi in thick clag and intermittent rain. After a lot of down and ups and a few hours we reached the Aokaparangi - mid Waiahine turnoff (a bit cold, wet and sore at this point). After dropping 3,000 feet we made it to Mid Waiohine Hut, arriving at 11.45am for lunch. Some hunters staying there were more inclined towards liquid than solid, as outside there were 140 full tins of double brown beers and inside about 300 empties (conservative estimate).
None of us were looking forward to the 3,300 feet climb up to Isabelle that lay before us, anyway we set off about 12.15 arriving on the top of Isabelle about 2.15pm (my legs and knees in a serious state of decay), then it was down and up again onto Mount Holdsworth in heavy rain, arriving at Powell Hut about 3.10pm for scrogan etc. One hour fifty minutes later we were back at Holdsworth Lodge. Only one hour late, as the pickup was at four o'clock. overall it was an enjoyable eye opening experience. Maybe a little more fitness would help, however the jump from medium easy to fit was a large one. Anyway a good time was had by all (I think).
The "did I make it?" group was:
Terry Patterson
Murray Corles
Jonathan Kennett
Johnny Mulheron
Donna Robertson & Tussock to Powell
Muray Bathgate
Murray Bathgate Well let's start from the beginning, since that's were it all began. Meeting at the Railway Station in the early hours of the morning, I spied a bunch of hairy looking mongrels, which presumed were the others from the tramping club.
After a hair raising bus trip over the Rimutakas with plenty of talk about the weather, drink mixtures, and the tramp to come, we eventually hit the track to Mitre Flats, after waiting for the broken-down bus (and it didn't even belong to the New Zealand Railways).
Everyone set off in a mixture of groups with packs feeling rather heavy. The walk was pleasant in warm, wet conditions (remember it never rains in the Tararuas) with lovely views of the river water falls, tree clad slopes and the hairy legs of the person in front. The ups and downs weren't to bad, although some differently. Some groups practised using their vocal the way, to help pass the time.
If you had a leader like CAT she was never toosure where you were or how far to go, but after walking over the wire bridge (just like in jungle movies, although it didn't break) and through the freezing river, the glorous camp site came into view.
The afternoon was relaxing with volley ball, cricket and moans about sore feet and the rain. Dinner arrived in a series of boiling billies and sighs of contentment, and the arrival of nightfall dragged most people to the fire. This was the highlight of the weekend with the cracking open of merry makers, heaps of terrible singing and even some dancing and Sam Hunt appeared out of no-where and gave a few blasts to the delight of the crowd. he long hard seven hour tramp finally hit most people and they were enticed to sleep.
Awaking to the beautiful sounds of tuis, wood pigeons and moas, brought forward a sunny Sunday. Breakfast plopped in billies as porridge was prepared, although some looked more like soup. The tramp organisers decided to have a bit of fun and forced teams to carry an injured person. One group of action men fell in the river and lighting fires with wet wood took time, but everyone succeeded?
Packing up was full of surprises, especially when your pack felt heavier than the day before. Those who walked out left first, while a group of jolly frogmen and women decided to tube down the river. it was said to be heaps of fun floating down a river on your pack, but packs full of water are extremely heavy to carry! The bus awaited the last of the tubers while others rested in the lovely sun. A stop at the dairy solved problems with drinks and Weka Burgers.
Sleeping on the bus wasn't too difficult for most people and a hot bath at home was paradise. Freshers was a enjoyed excellent tramp, I'm sure everyone enjoyed themselves,and if they didn't then they are naughty Noddys.
The water beside my kayak suddenly heaved, falling aside as the huge form of a southern right whale surfaced beside me, no more than 5 feet away. We both floated there, just staring at each other for several minutes. Eventually the whale decided to potter on, it arched its back and slowly dived out of sight, leaving me bobbing in its wake.
That encounter was only one of many I had with a multitude of fascinating creatures that make their home on Campbell Island, New Zealand's southernmost sub-antarctic territory.
In November 1983 I set south from Bluff for the 66O km journey to Campbell, to spend a year manning the weather station there with 9 other crew members, the Officer-in-charge, Cook, Mechanic, Technician, two Geophysical observers and three other weather observers besides myself. It's not a place many people want to spend twelve months in. The island is 10 by 10 miles of rolling to steep hills, covered in tussock punctuated with rock stacks and usually terminated in massive cliffs - up to 1500 feet high falling sheer to the sea. The weather makes Wellington look like an advert for Club Med. Gales are frequent and strong, rain falls on over 330 days per year, sunshine is transient, and the temperature sticks fairly close to the 6 C average, though snow can lie for several days.
For all this we all quickly accepted our environment as normal. The 10 C days saw us out in shorts and T-shirts and any wind up to 15 knots was regarded as calm. Seeing a shadow after June was a surprise. One (1) hour of bright sunshine was recorded for that month!
The wildlife and freedom made my stay on Campbell. Once out of the base we could wander anywhere that was physically possible and everywhere I did wander. There were animals - almost always tame. Campbell Island is the home of the southern royal albatross. Several thousand nest right across the island - little white dots scattered over the hillsides. The 'Alberts' take 10 months to raise a chick and are happy (normally) to have us handle them and their chicks. They are the largest seabird, with a wingspan of 11 feet. Watching them soaring around the bluffs and tussock covered slopes on outstretched wings was a magnificent sight.
Smaller albatross, the mollymawks, breed in their tens of thousands on the northern cliffs, the sky under the colonys being full of wheeling and diving birds. Flying was really perfected by the beautiful light-mantled sooty albatross. In their mating flight, two of the tear-drop shaped sooty-grey birds will tack, dip and swerve in perfect unison, to the accompaniment of the loud, mournful "pee-ooo" wail of watching "sootys".
Say "sub-antarctic" and before you've finished penguins are being mentioned. Campbell has its fair share. Yellow-eyed penguins breed in scattered groups in the few sheltered bays and evenings could be spent watching them porpoising up to a beach, popping out of the water and waddling off into the coastal dracophyllum scrub to feed their young. Rockhopper penguins, looking like dwarf punks with their, yellow plumes arching over bright red eyes, live in tightly packed colonys on bouldery shores under soaring cliff faces. Like most of Campbell's residents they spend the winter at sea. Other penguins, including king, royal, gentoo, and even a lone chinstrap penguin made landfall on the island.
Obviously it was worth it to get out tramping and the five small huts on campbell made it a lot easier. The entire island is covered in peat, making walking interesting, - extracting a leg knee-deep in the stuff was not uncommon. Normally tho', the tussock fields were pretty easy travel.
There was also a variety of other plants besides tussock. The megaherbs with their leaves of two to three feet across and tall flower stalks are the ones that immediately catch your eye. Smaller gentias, lycopodias, hebes, and other herbs nestle in amongst the patches of thick coastal dracophyllum but can also be found on the cold windswept ridgetops.
All through this vegetation, especially around the coast, we could expect to stumble on slumbering hooker sealions. The bulls of the species didn't take kindly to being disturbed and would give us a short lumbering charge and a deep, hoarse bark to hurry us on our way. At first this is very disconcerting but was quickly taken as part of being a "Campbell Islander". A more blase attitude and "sammie sidestep" is soon developed after the first few encounters.
The 30 odd sealion pups that slept around the base buildings through June were a lot less bigger than their half ton, 10 foot long brothers but even more inquisitive. They insisted on checking out our activities and one pup in particular spent some time in the laundry sloshing through an accidental overflow.
The huge elephant seals were also common on Campbell's shores, snorting and slumbering their days away. Ocasionally a sleek predatory leopard seal showed up.
Fur seals are now making a comeback after last century's sealing, as are our winter visitors the southern right whales, who turn up from May to September to breed. Twenty at a time could be seen splashing, leaping, and blowing within 50 feet of the shore.
Whaling stations actually operated for a while, as did sealers after the island was discovered in 1810 by a Sydney based sealer. Various scientific expeditions also visited, and sheep were farmed from 1895 until the depression. The descendants still remain. In 1941 a coastwatching station was set up and continued after the war as a weather station until 1958 when the present base was built. The multi-roomed hostel, storage sheds, technical and weather buildings, generator room, and wharf make up a well set-up, comfortable home. We were in regular radio contact with Wellington, and the odd ship, and occasional maildrops by R.N.Z.A.F. Orions kept us in contact with the "mainland".
Surprisingly, little serious strife develops between crew members, and the many parties, mid-winter swim, and short ski season all had a distinctive, unorthodox, Campbell Island air of insanity and good humour.
One distinctive aspect of base life was the ever present scoundrels of the sub-antarctic, - the skuas. Looking like a cross between a hawk and a gull they always had one thought on their mind - food! There was always a couple on the food store eyeing developments in the dining room and one local skua was temporarily piebald from sampling the contents of a paint tin.
These things and more made my stay in the sub-antarctic particularly memorable.
The high stark cliffs, tawny fields of tussock whipping to and fro in a gale, the grey claggy afternoons, tramping along ridgetops amoung the albatross, and cold blustery days on a deserted beach staring out across a slate grey ocean at whales blowing and leaping. All these memories remind me of a special alluring island deep in the Southern ocean. I'm going back for another year.
Where were you in the first week of July 1985? If the answer isn't NW Nelson then you missed out on one of the year's great trips.
A mere eleven people hurtled through the night in the Avis van to the Graham Saddle, and from there tramped by the light of a silvery moon to nearby Flora Hut. Shortly after arrival, at the ungodly hour of about 2.00 am, several sleep-starved, semi-functioning brains are benumbed when Tim (fit group) sticks his head through the door and offers us a brew. Brief discussion follows on the necessity of nipping keenness in the bud.
The following morning our let's-not-strain-anything-easy-medium- party democratically abandons a provisional plan for the ascent of Mt Arthur (the weather wasn't ideal anyway) and heads for Salisbury Lodge on the Tablelands, taking in several rock shelters along the way. The stove in this luxurious hut (NB: as distinct from the gas burners for cooking) is made by Fisher, who must have got started in making safes. We conclude it is designed to prevent the heat of the fire from disturbing the surrounding air for as long as possible, protecting the hut occupants from the dangers of rapidly applied warmth. That night the cloud lifts to give us a brilliant moonlit view of the whole Arthur Range. Robert's enthusiasm for an ascent the next day is boundless and we retire with dire threats of being Waway within half an hour of first light' ringing in our ears.
Next norming our leader points to a large bank of grey cloud and announces that it's clearing, so off we go up Gordon's Pyramid, supposedly en route to Arthur. Shortly after the bushline we decide we've seen enough (cloud) so we head back down to seek out something explorable among the Tableland's huge potholes. No luck, and we return to the hut and Nicky, abandoned in the morning with a dose of the lurgy and a recipe for scones. After lunch we cross the upper western slopes of the Tablelands to Balloon Hut (more gas burners), pausing for a snowfight at Bishop's Cave. This battle ends with us all standing a discreet and suspicious 40 feet from one another - you can't trust anybody with a snowball.
The following day is absolutely brilliant as we go around past Lake Peel and up to the Cobb ridge for amazing views - blue at the top, white in the middle, and green down below. Walking up the Cobb valley in the afternoon is like travelling through one of those fantasy pictures of Fiordland, the ones taken when it's not raining.
Both ours and Grant's group arrive at Fenella Hut that evening, all suitably impressed with this luxurious abode ("Hut" is a bit of an insult). Ian Stimpson takes of his socks and mutters something about yummy toe jam for dinner.
A rest day follows and the level of activity varies; some trudge up nearby peaks for views and snow, others sunbathe and even 'swim' in the partially ice-covered Fenella Swimming Pool. A handy few do all these things.
Another lovely walk in the Cobb valley (down this time) to Trilobite Hut for the night, Wayne making half the trip in jandals after wringing pink water out of his socks the previous day. Trilobite Rock yields no sightings of these creatures but a theory is developed as to their extinction: dinosaurs stomped on them thinking they were cockroaches.
That evening a futures market opens in the bunkroom, trading in contracts for drinks at the Picton pub. Real money changes hands and by the time trading stops not everyone has escaped unscathed: Wayne demonstrates that a BCA doesn't necessarily teach you how to make money...
The last full day's tramping takes us back to Flora Hut again, via Asbestos Cottage and a pleasant amble up Flora Stream. At the Upper Gridiron rock shelter we find the fit group have made a special effort to beat us there and occupy it, attracted by the comfy swing seat in front of the fire. Definitely a good place to stay but unfortunately not big enough for all of us. No-one wants to buy a futures contract (a what?) but Pete clinches a deal to carry a pack to Flora for the promise of a milkshake.
At dinner the last in a long line of gourmet items emerge from Nicky's pack and we consider enlisting this man for all future tramps, whether he wants to go or not.
The next day is Grant's 21st which we duly celebrate by throwing him into a lovely fresh cool mountain stream. A discussion of windchill factor and frost-bitten extremities was not welcomed on the short walk to the roadend.
It was altogether an excellent holiday from everyday unreality - to think I nearly didn't go ...
La groupe: Robert Speedy, Margaret Carpenter, Janet Dalziell, Nicky McLean, Wayne Stevens, Graeme Speden.
Early Sunday morning. I bolted down my first coffee of the day as Dennis arrived at the door. We loaded up the Avenger, zoomed into town to pick up Mike and then headed for the ferry. This was to be the trip of the year, a two week winter migration to Cook.
Monday morning, with all present and correct we squeezed gear and bodies into our noble chariot and, suspension groaning, set course for Cook. Once clear of the big smog we were surprised by the amount of snow to the west. All but the smallest hills gleamed white. Snow first appeared roadside near Albury. By Fairlie the scattered drifts had merged into an all enveloping mantle and Burkes Pass and the upper McKenzie were in full winter plumage. Apprehension grew as to what we would find at Cook. It was an 18km walk into Beetham Hut, half of that on the Tasman Glacier - would there be one foot of snow, two ... ? Arriving at the Hermitage we signed in ...
"... and the name of the party please."
"How about the Fireman's Four?"
Well Mike I've heard better, but what the hell. A quick libation to christen the trip and then we made for Ball Shelter. Our earlier fears had been unfounded, the snow had been dumped on the foothills, the main divide had received only a dusting.
Tuesday dawned cold, crisp and clear. The trip up the glacier took a longish 6 hours, due less to the snow of which there was rarely more than 4 inches of powder, then to our bloddy heavy packs, each of us carrying nearly 25 pounds of climbing gear alone. There were of course many stops to ... admire the view. It was with audible relief that we reached the hut and set about making ourselves comfortable. We had the hut to ourselves and it remained so for all but one night of the trip.
Wednesday was a 'rest and relaxation' day but the weather was too good to waste mooching around the hut, so in the afternoon we climbed a couple of thousand feet in search of views, then spent a while soaking up the beauty of Tasman in winter. The only thing to disturb the atmosphere was the sight and perpetual drone of ski planes as they buzzed and flittered up and down the glacier. They were to be a constant irritation from sunrise till dusk for the remainder of the trip.
Thursday was another perfect day so Dennis and I decided we'd wander up to Malte Brun Pass to work on our fitness, check out some routes and to watch a guide and client, who had passed through the day before, tackle the south face of Malte. it took 3 and a half hours to get to the Pass, the last 2,000 feet of the climb in deep powder, however, many of the steps the guide had made were still usable. The views from the Pass were great but the south face of Malte was bare, both of ice and climbers. The conditions for a face climb were rat-shit so the guide had dragged his client Up Augille Rouges instead. Although we had not intended to do a climb so early in the trip, with the weather so good and steps ready plugged, it didn't take long to decide to follow. The route taken was the easiest on A.R., 1,500 feet direct from Pass to summit. The deep powder made for slow going despite the other steps and it took two long hours to make the top; but what a buzz it was on reaching the summit. The views, the weather, and a completely unanticipated climb so early in the trip. we headed back elated.
Meanwhile Mike and Dan had also been making moves though of a somewhat different kind. Rock buttresses a short distance south of the hut and overlooking the Tasman contained a wealth of rock climbs which they attacked with gusto, as well as with hammers, boots, pitons and a degree of frenzy that only Dan can impart to such a salubrious pastime. Rock climbing at Cook in winter, what will they think of next?
Friday was another rest day which Dennis and I made the most of. Mike, totally pissed off with the absurd conditions and determined not to do a snow plod, took Dan to De la Beche in search of ice. if the weather was bad on the morrow we would probably join them, if it stayed fine we'd try Mt Chudleigh.
Well, Saturday was another perfect day; it was getting
monotonous. We left Beetham at 5:15 and headed south onto the ridge leading
to the Langdale Glacier. At 6:45 we stopped on a small peak to admire the
glorious sunrise but we quickly became cold and after a few photos moved
off. We were forced off the ridge after a short distance and had to sidle
and climb through deep powder the last 1,000 feet to the Langdale, which
we finally reached at quarter to 9. We roped up for the glacier and studied
our first clear view of Chudliegh's north-west ridge; our intended route.
Roping up soon proved unnecessary as the slots were well buried but we
continued to move together, expecting to have to belay once on the ridge.
The glacier climbed 1,500 feet to steep snow slopes and the N-W ridge.
The route from the beginning of the ridge consisted of, first, a brief
snow arete, then a short exposed snow slope narrowing at its head onto
a second longer arete, and finally a narrow coulcir just a hop, skip, and
a jump from Chudleigh's summit. Expecting the aretes to be windswept and
icy we prepared to belay, however, the snow continued to be a deep powder
and the rope was removed. The snow slope was quite steep and the powder
uncomfortably deep. We climbed, a shaft in one hand, snowstake in the other,
on all fours - expecting it to avalanche at any moment.
The second and longer arete was delightfully exposed, falling away
steeply 1,000 feet on either side but again the snow was a deep powder
and the rope was not needed. The final couloir similarly passed without
difficulty and at 1:15, after 8 hours, we reached the summit ridge. Unfortunately
there wasn't the broad, snowy summit upon which to rest, relax, and ruminate
as is my want; but rather a number of small crumbling rock outcrops, scattered
along 100 feet of exposed summit ridge, glued together with insubstantial
spatterings of powder snow and large gobs of fresh air. We picked the one
we thought highest, roped to it, took a few photos and then made off. We
arrived back at the hut at 4, completely whacked but happy. No sooner had
we eased off our boots and settled down to a leisurely lunch then Dan and
Mike crashed in. They'd spent an exciting day or so playing on the De la
Beche ice cliffs and regaled us with stories of mirror smooth faces, brittle
overhangs, heart stopping leads and entombed mammoths. We believed some
of it.
Despite there still being six days of the planned trip left we all had thoughts of heading home. The trip had already far exceeded our expectations and we were perhaps afraid of an anticlimax. Also Mike and Dan had both been fighting a lurgie for several days and had given up hope of shaking it. Still, they had not yet done a climb and decided to try A.R. on Sunday, by the same route Dennis and I had used. We would then head out on Monday.
Sunday. Dan and Mike left sevenish, however for the first time clouds marred the sunrise and the weather was altogether too warm. A large hogsback gradually formed over Cook and at 10 the first wind struck, blasting clouds of spindrift before it. Dan and Mike, two dots halfway up to Malte Brun pass, could be seen to stop briefly then turn and race back. Clouds bubbled over the main divide and as they arrived back at the hut it began to rain. Hail followed and at 2 it began to snow. The wind continued to grow taking the chimney a short time later. By nightfall it was raging at storm force, the hut shuddered and rocked, the perspex windows drummed, the walls bulged and groaned. We huddled in pit trying to sleep. Rain alternated with snow and sleet throughout the night and water ran everywhere; squirted under the eaves, dripped from the roof, dribbled between the lockwood planks and poured down the broken chimney. At intervals we each would rise, search briefly for a dry spot, then collapse back into pit and try to shake the feeling that the hut was barely aground and with the next gust would break free and ride out to sea.
Throughout Monday the storm continued though the wind
dropped in the afternoon from storm force to a more sedate gale. The day
was largely spent in pit emerging only briefly to start another brew or
prepare for an expedition to the longdrop; a journey requiring speed, daring,
complete storm gear and a shovel with which to force an entry. On Tuesday
morning we were startled awake when Dan called.
"Hey guys, what do you hear?"
Glorious silence. The wind had ceased and although there was still
a lot of cloud, there was a definite break in the weather. At 8 Mike called
up the ranger - the forecast was apalling. Winds turning to the south,
rising again to gale force, freezing level 700m., 1 metre of snow at Tasman
saddle. Time we cleared off. We set about cleaning the hut, a daunting
task after 8 days. Occasional gusts of wind speeded us on, as did the sight
of hogsbacks forming once again over Cook and we left the hut half expecting
to have to return but the storm never arrived. High altitude winds tore
hugh plumes of spindrift from the main divide and thick cloud enveloped
the peaks but the Tasman stayed calm and almost warm.
Four hours later we reached Ball Shelter, good time considering the
new fall of snow. We ploughed on and 2 hours later arrived at Blue Lakes
and the welcome sight of our trusty steed. She coughed and caught on the
second turn of the key, despite a thick coat of snow and the weightly pessimism
of my collegues. With a sigh of relief we left the clag behind us and headed
home.
Looking back on Nelson Lakes 1985, I remember the first thing that struck me about it (apart from legions of sandflies!) was its sheer beauty. Right from the tips of its jagged peaks plastered with snow, down through muted shady beech forest to cool and tranquil lakes, Nelson Lakes was an incredible place to be in. In the midst of the tests, exams, reports, essays and deadlines of varsity life, a healthy dose of GOD (the Great Out-Doors) was a welcome prescription.
Taking heed of my delicate state of fitness, I had enlisted myself in Graeme. 'It's just around the corner' Speden's medium-esay group. We subsequently proved such a dynamic bunch that our hectic pace left the "Pit bashers" group grovelling in their pits at Angelus Hut. It all began innocently enough with a 2 hour wander around Lake Rotoiti to Lakehead on the first day. This walk resulted in the first of numerous threats/promises from Janet 'Snowline" Dalziell that she would go for a swim in the morning. When Sunday dawned cold and wet, Janet was to demonstrate (not for the last time) her awesome willpower and she resisted the temptation for a swim. And Sunday was wet, very wet. We occupied ourselves sloshing our way to John Tait, where we were later joined by some "bloody schoolkids" (as they came to be affectionately known) from Auckland.
Monday took us on up the valley, past the Travers Falls (alternative names suggested: Bridal Veil or Cascade) to Upper Travers Hut, with the Aucklanders appearing later that day. Up in the snow surrounded by jutting peaks, heaps of snow and with Travers Pass 'just around the corner' (that's what Graeme said, anyway), we got quite carried away. Margot broke out in blisters with excitement, Wayne celebrated with an inaugural bumslide, and Janet got so excited she nearly went for a swim.
No night in a but with 14 Aucklanders could be called pleasant, but after a fusiade of friendly abuse, a calm settled on the hut for the night (broken only by my snoring).
Tuesday was the start of three glorious days of fine, still, clear weather. We set out for the day in determined pursuit of the top of Travers Saddle and a late winter tan. Progress towards both was rapid, and in a stunning piece of good timing we arrived at the top to be greeted by the distant "baaas" of Richard's group coming over Rainbow Pass. (NB From this point Richard's and our groups could collectively be known as the easy-medium-fit group). After a prolonged lunch break for pikky taking, vista gazing, bumsliding and sunbathing, it was off down to Forks Hut. On the way down Janet demonstrated a perfect involuntary bumslide, we all (s)tumbled down the amazing avalanche shute, and 'Oohed' and 'Aahed' the Chasm.
Tuesday night was the VUWTC marshmallow party with lan, Richard and our groups spending a pleasant evening by the campfire eating, talking, eating, joking, eating and abusing Ian - a Baaaaautiful night, and a contestant for trip highlight.
Wednesday was another glorious day involving an easy wander down to Sabine Hut at L Rotoroa. We passed what must be about the world's most perfectly designed swimming hole on the way but again Janet showed her willpower by not swimming in it. But Lake Rotoroa is a fabulous lake and our collective willpower collapsed and we all ended up swimming or at least having a wash.
My calves ache at the memory of Thursday - Mt Cedric, 3,000 feet straight up. But what a VIEW!!: from the top. The top half of the South Island spread out before you like a map. After an extended gawping session it was off to Angelus Hut and further sessions of bumsliding, pikkies and other snow-orientated recreation.
Having spent the morning eating as much of our food as was possible we departed Angeles Hut on Friday afternoon in foul weather with clag right down and a gusty SE blowing. The fit trip needed a pit day after having tried to keep up with us for two days, so we left them to slob it out. Dropped down Hukere Stream to Coldwater Hut which is a neat little hut with a lovely outlook onto the lake. The true state of Margot's feet was then revealed - a series of blisters stuck together with sleek (she walked out in jandals).
Saturday morning saw fresh snow on the tops, light rain down below and a gentle sidle round the lake edge back to St Arnaud for pies, sticky buns and a look at the chapel and the bus back to surreality (VUW).
Thanks to Graeme for being a 'Very Nice' trip leader and to Terry for
his organisation of the whole event. Baaaaa ... 'Very Nice' to be said
with outrageous French accent.
Trip members: Graeme Speden, Paul Barber, Margot Broadhead, Janet Dalziell,
Wayne Stevens.
On a dark and stormy night five eager trampers left Wellington for a week's tramping in N-W Nelson State Forest Park. The Flora Saddle carpark saw the start of an adventure, as the moonlight bathed the track in silver and mottled shadows, and the night was spent at Flora Hut.
Sunday brought forth drizzle and grizzle when Robert Speedy kicked our leader (Grant Harper) in the head. All members quickly realised the full weight of their packs and after four hours of puff Asbestos Hut was reached. This hut has a very pleasant historic character, considering that Annie and Henry had a romantic love affair there for forty years, until Henry dropped dead in the snow, and Annie hit the bottle. In the afternoon, three keen team members sauntered up to the Cobb Ridge (at 3,800 feet) and looked through the cloud to the reservoir. In the evening Grant and lan provided light entertainment by dancing and singing to the Telethon tune 'Thank-you very much'.
Monday started with a beautiful sunrise and a morning stroll down the hillside to the old Asbestos Mine, with the next hour being spent walking up a vertical bulldozered track which we named "The Grunt". Eventually the top came into view, and so did a man with a red Skoda, who offered us a sack of kiwifruit and said "help yourself", so we did. Climbing up to Bushline Hut in the Diamond Lakes was good and Peter was overjoyed with the sight and smell of snow. Peter is a fascinating person, for breakfast and lunch he eats only two gingernuts and a spoonfull of Marzipan icing, but on the last days he became a glutton by consuming a 'buzz-bar'. He became known as the Marzipan - Snowman, for obvious reasons.
Tuesday was a fantastic day with blue sky and heaps of snow. our party tramped around to Diamond Lakes, stomped in the snow and practised some ballet dancing. After cruising down a bush clad ridge to the valley floor, we met up with the M/E party and then it was on to Fennella Hut. Now this is no standard Forest Service four bunk job. This five star hotel contains communal sleeping platforms, sink with running water, a gas stove, drying rooms, two doors, sliding windows, and not to forget the flushing loo, with a stained-glass window. Another team member was Grant Harper often referred to as 'leader' or 'No 1'. He's a fit good keen man, although a secret alcoholic at heart, with his rum cake and rum biscuits. By the way have you heard the saying 'Candy is dandy but liquour is quicker', if not, ask Grant.
On Wednesday several people awoke to see the full moon sliding behind the white capped mountain tops and the sun rising, causing a cascade of pink light an the snowy ranges. Today, several good keen men took to the hills and climbed Mt Gibbs and Mt Cobb, just for fun. Others had a quick dip in the nearby swimming hole, but they had to break the ice first!
Thursday saw an early start for the M/F party (i.e. we left the cleaning up to the M/E party), and we tramped along the valley floor (ideal Moa country), then up onto the tops. These tablelands are a lovely sight, surrounded by tussock and pockets of bush. The night was spent at Salisbury Lodge, and believe me it was a Lodge. Team member Tim was known as 'Boy Wonder', mainly due to his keen, fit condition, and because of his cooking talents, he can boil or fry anything (as you will see!). His also known to laugh before finishing a joke.
Friday was the race for Gridiron Gulch rock bivy, and the race was won by the M/F party (of course) because the M/E members slept in for too long. This rock shelter is a small version of paradise: a little hut is built up against a leaning rock face, a couch is suspended f rom the rock so that it swings, and a sunk in fire pit warms one's feet. At this stage Tim decided everyone stank to much, so he boiled a billy in the hut and shut the door. Later he remembered about the billy and opened the door to reveal clouds of steam for us to have a sauna in: (I told you he could boil anything.) Team member Sue is a young filly, known as wonder Woman for her desire to climb every mountain in sight (?) and because she likes to eat raw rat heads for breakfast. Later in the day, the M/E party arrived and two of our 'good keen men' offered to lead the way to Flora Hut (one hour away). Peter's enthusiasm was too much and he carried a girls pack in return for a favour (?), and Grant received a cup of tea, but did he have other thoughts in mind? The evening was spent talking and eating: cheesecake (a kiwifruit), custard, biscuits, and toasting marshmallows (but Sue had a couple of rat heads).
Saturday was Grant's 21st, so we threw him in the stream (P.S. it was Sue's idea). Last and least in the party was Ian. He suffered from everyone's abuse and was at the bottom of the pecking order, referred to as 'NUMBER FIVE'. But, I must admit, he was the only mature person with a decent sense of humour, although others may have thought of him as an idiot - they could be right - once the van was reached it was into civilian cloths, fish and chips at Nelson and beer at Picton. The ferry home resulted in starving trampers trying to scavenge free mince pies, but to no avail, and certain members of the party escaped to quiet dark areas of the ship. I'll say no more.
Team members: Grant Harper ('No. 1/Leader'), Sue Bowler ('Wonder Woman'), Peter Brown ("Marzipan-Snowman"), Tim Percival ("Boy Wonder"), Ian Stimpson "No. 5".