Wednesday morning we wake up in Winton and find ice on the car. We
have spent Monday and Tuesday last week preparing "the boys", Liz's high
school friends, Tim and Pat, for the tramp. With all the gear in
order, Vicki took Liz and the boys to the track briefing Tuesday night,
and then left them at the Rarakau farmstay at the trailhead, because there
was not enough room in the car for 5 people and all our gear and food to
get to Tuatapere in one trip. A cold front was forecast, but in the
night it begins to hail and sleet. We wake up at 5:30AM and pack
the car. It is hard to back out of the driveway with the windows
iced and fogged. We drive an hour through the darkness, passing rainy
farm fields and sleepy soggy sheep to Otautau, then over a low pass to
Tuatapere. As we come over the crest, the sun comes up and breaks
through clouds to light up the newly snow-covered mountains of Fiordland
in front of us. Then 20 minutes over gravel to get to Rarakau.
Our breath condenses in the cold air as we gather up Liz and the boys,
stash our helipacks in the shed, and head out through the forest.
The first hour is through bush along the cliff tops, with the sound of
surf coming through the trees. Then down a steep stair to the first
swing bridge. A three kilometer walk along the breezy beach brings
out some sunbreaks. We walk together in a group until time to go
back into the forest, then single file another klick along the road to
the Track Burn swingbridge.
The group has now got ahead of me, and it is starting to sprinkle
rain. I stop to put on my raingear. I am struggling on
my pack and juggling the walking poles, wondering why I bothered to bring
them, when up comes Alice. "Hello" she says, and we introduce ourselves
and walk together for awhile in the beautiful, dense Waitutu rainforest.
I can't keep up with her on the hills however, and soon I am the straggler,
coming last into Flat Creek as it starts to rain a bit harder. We
start out as a group up the hill now. Its 928 meters up to Okaka
hut. At first we are walking on boardwalk through the forest.
From time to time we walk on the mushy ground. "Why all the boardwalk?"
the boys ask. I see this planking as ominous. "Because we need
to save energy for the climb ahead." I tell them.
The forest is huge, ancient, full of ferns and changeable.
The wind blows and gusts of rain come down. In the forest this is
just a spinkle and drip, but through breaks in the trees I can see it is
pouring rain in the gulleys. Then the sun breaks through. I
am hot in my polypropylenes, and take off my rainjacket. Now rain
comes back and I put the jacket back on. We cross 3 streams.
At the last bridge, the little plastic cap covering the nipple on my water
bottle pops off when we stop to refill our bottles. Pat sees it swirling
around in the pool below. We carefully lower the metal bucket hanging
from the bridge and try to scoop it up, but the waves from the bucket move
it into the current and it is gone. It starts to rain more heavily
so we move on. Up another hill and then there is a spot of sun and
some windfallen trees to sit on. We have lunch. Vicki has carried
the billy, and we fire it up for hot soup and tea. Nutella on open-faced
bread, peanut butter and salami sandwiches, ramen, biscuits and dried fruit
recharge us.
A black and white New Zealand robin joins us and entertains
us with his cheekiness. He is not afraid to perch right next to us
looking for a handout. We pack up as the rain comes back and head up hill.
There is no keeping together now. The boys are out of sight and sound
in minutes. Liz is third. Vicki and I stay together for awhile.
Vicki has a strategy. "I climb from marker to marker, then stop to
catch my breath".
I stop to take some pictures. Really it is an excuse to
breathe. The climbs are steep, but having to stop is ok. Each
time I pause, I look around. Here is a gnarled tree root. Next
stop is a new kind of fern I haven't seen. One stop, when my breathing
quiets, I notice that the forest is silent. No wind. It is
full of spirits. It is ancient and it is just there.
I yell at Vicki to wait a bit, and we stop for a water break.
She says, "I hope that was the 'steep climbing' part we read on the map."
I take off my boot and rewrap a toe. I tell her to go on ahead, as
it is getting cold. A gust of wind starts blowing down from above
as she is heading up. I scramble to jam everything back into my pack
and throw on my raingear. I know a big shower is coming. Instead,
snow and sleet pelt my rain hood, tapping louding against the fabric, rattling
in my hearing aids.
Now comes the steep climbing. It is 10 or 15 steps up and
then stop to breathe. Over and over. It is rocks and roots.
I am using the Leki poles to balance and help push myself up. Without
them I would need at least one hand on a root or tree at times. I'm
glad we helipacked. I know I can make it to the hut, but it has been
7+ hours of tramping and climbing now. I'm worried- will I have anything
left for tomorrow? And the 3rd day? Suddenly the trees are
getting smaller. I come over a little rise and go down 10 steps.
No "down"! It means I have wasted 10 "up" steps! But there
is a gap in the trees, and I can see the Okaka hut. Its doesn't look
very far away. The sign says "Okaka Hut- 1 hour ->".
The path comes up against the mountain, and goes down between huge rocks.
The wind is howling now and it is snowing hard, but in the cleft it is
a bit sheltered. Snow drifts down. I look to the my right and
a beech tree has wrapped huge roots around 3 giant boulders, each rock
at leat 2 meters tall. I've never seen anything like it. The
tree above is not that large. The roots are humongous. This
tree is not going anywhere without taking a piece of mountain with it.
It is determined, it is resolute. I push upwards to find boardwalk
and more stairs. Finally the ridge. It is gusting 80 kph winds
and there is razorback ridge to walk along, too narrow for two feet side
by side. I use the poles and still almost get blown off. I
can feel my face getting frost nipped on the left as I come down over the
ridge. There is only slanting boardwalk now down into the cirque,
to the hut, but it is slippery. I have to concentrate to keep from
slipping. When I get there, no welcoming committee, no cheers.
Everyone is inside around the warm stove. I work off my boots and
hurry to join them.
The night is freezing cold. The wind shrieks. The
sleeping rooms are unheated, and it is 1 degree C. at bedtime. Vicki
and I are each in our sleeping bags, but we cram into one bunk together,
so at least one side stays warm. If I roll up against the wall I
am instantly cold. Several times I fall asleep only to wake up shivering.
In the middle of the night I have to run outside to the toilet. I
put it off as long as possible. It is pitch black and my flashlight
illuminates the slush I walk through in flip-flops. I take the opportunity
to put my polyprops back on under my dry clothes. I've had them hung
up for 3-4 hours and they have dried themselves out even in the cold, so
they work, and I am less cold the rest of the night.
Morning, and the wind is only moaning a bit, not screaming any more.
Its cold, I run to the toilet again and then into the common room where
the warden is making porridge for us all, and the stove is relit.
The room is cold, but Vicki and I, first up, watch the sun rise over the
sea and the mountains to the east. It has cleared off mostly, and
we can see the ridge we climbed yesterday, and all of the country to the
east and north. The Takitimu mountains, which do not look that big
from Winton, are a huge block of snow-covered rock rising out of the plain.
We eat breakfast, repack the helipacks and lug them down to the platform.
We discuss climbing up to the summit, about 80 meters above Okaka.
The boys and Alice want to do it. We decide to dump the packs at
the trail junction, and take our chances that the keas will attack them.
I do "foot clinic" for everyone, taping and patching red spots and sore
spots, so I am last one out the door, after doing my own feet. I
take Alice's picture for her as I climb the summit boardwalk.
The boards protect the alpine plants and tussock grass. But
they also wrap around the cliff face. As I walk around the western
edge of the loop, I can see more and more of the mountains of Fiordland
in the distance. The sky is broken clouds, but I can see forever, over
to Lake Poteriteri, the Wairaurahirir river curling through the forest
below, and around up to the north as well. I am glad we are not fogged
in- this is the view I walked and climbed for all day yesterday.
The mountain top has many tors, towers of rock sticking up, with tarns,
small mirror-lakes between them. I walk around the summit quickly;
it is still freezing and the wind is about 40-50 kph. I have three
layers of thermals on, but I cannot stay up here long. It is a place
full of power and mana in any case.
As soon as I reclaim my pack (no keas, darn it) and start into the
forest, I am hot again. I shed the thermals, but not the raingear-
it is still windy. Day two, like Gaul, comes in 3 parts. The
first is a walk down the hump ridge to Luncheon rock. It is undulating
up and down, with some real stairways from hell. There is a group
of 3 young men from Wisconsin who are now doing their 5th Great Walk in
2 months. They leave an hour after we do, but in mid-morning blow
by me on the stairs, lugging huge packs. However, the views are spectacular.
I stop to look often; as the weather evolves, the sun moves, and the clouds
shift, so the vista changes. I am last into Luncheon rock, and glad
to sit down. I have drunk all my water, and have to refill my bottle.
It is easy to get dehydrated on the walks; despite all I've had for breakfast
and walking, I am still thirsty by noon. It is sunny, and I can see the
terraced slopes ahead. These are ancient beaches, lifted up in succession,
and "famous among geologists worldwide" according to one guidebook.
The second part is mud. Lots of mud. There is even
a little ditty on the map about it:
"Mud, mud, glorious mud,
nothing quite like it for cooling the blood,
So follow me, follow me
down to the hollow,
and there let us wallow,
in glorious mud."
It is all downhill in the mud. I have gaiters on, and decide
to just plow through. Going down in general is harder then climbing,
and I am glad again for the poles. The articles say they protect
your knees from the shocks going down. They also protect you from
going in too deeply in the mud, and they make great probes for deeper looking
mudholes. I stay with Liz and Vicki going down. Liz picks her
way around the mud so it takes her longer. I squelch in over my right
boottop several times in holes that didn't look that deep. The two
boys have decided to race down the mountain, despite my warnings that it
is very dangerous and that I am not in a mood to set bones. They
are gone, like gangly deer leaping off through the bush.
Coming down is a lesson in plant succession.
Suddenly, ferns!
Part three is a lesson in the works of man. We come down
to the Edwin Burn viaduct. The last part of the trail is along a
tramline, built by the Port Craig lumber company in the 1920s, when they
logged this section of the coastal forest. The Percy Burn viaduct
is the longest, tallest and largest wooden viaduct still in existence anywhere
in the world. All 3 viaducts have been restored. We walk along
flat, graded trail and have to watch out boots don't catch in the iron
nails sticking up above the sleepers which are still present in the grade.
There are cuts through the hillsides that are dark, moist and full of earth
smells and ferns, and of course, mud to slop through. I am amazed
at the way the bush has grown back. The huge ancient trees are gone,
but there is still dense bush and forest full of birds and young trees.
In another 100-200 years it will look as it did before the logging.
The viaducts are impressive works of 19th century engineering, but they
seem out of place here. Still, I am happy not to have to climb down and
up the deep gullys. But soon these works are behind us, and the sign
says 2 more hours to Port Craig village and hut. This is a hard two hours;
we are tired from two days walking, we are sore from going down mudholes
for 3 hours and using unaccustomed muscles, and it is hard to just match
your stride to the gaps between sleepers. I work hard to notice things,
like an old iron rail, or the insulator in the tree, left from the old
phone line to the Point Puysegur lighthouse. At the end sandflies
start biting so we just keep moving, until we flop down on the benches
at Port Craig, haul off our boots and duck inside the screens.
The silly boys, who ran down the mountain, got here an hour earlier,
and ran down to the beach (5 minute walk). There were Hector's
dolphins surfing in the bay, so they jumped in for a swim with them.
Now they are playing chess, and eating the rest of the huge sack of snacks
they carried and having a good time. Vicki, Liz and I make dinner,
brush our teeth, and leave the beach for later.
Port Craig has lots of hot water and sandflies. But after
dark, when the sandflies retire a bit, we take a bucket of hot water down
to the ablution block and take "spit baths". It is dark and the clouds
clear. The Milky Way and Magellanic's appear. In the distance,
a morepork, NZ's native owl, starts to call. My bird book says, "every
New Zealander recognizes the distinctive call of this owl, which can become
tiresome". The owl moves much closer. Every 30 seconds were
are treated to a loud call of "MORE PORK!". I'm too tired for it
to keep me awake, and it is kind of amusing.
We are awakened to the sound of Bellbirds. Vicki and I
walk down to the beach to watch the sun rise. It is beautiful, noisy
with birdsong, and the sandflies want breakfast. We return for porridge,
and the warden has missed the weather report. Oh well, its always
a "fine day" in Southland. Somewhere. We pack up the helipacks,
and I decide to lighten my daypack and not take any warm overclothes.
I do "foot clinic" again. We decide to give the boys the carkeys
and have them organize things at Rarakau as they will get there first.
Alice leaves just as I am taking off also. For the first
two hours I keep up with her mostly. The walking poles are helpful
on this track, with undulates through the coastal forest, crossing many
small streams. Of course, there is mud, but less of it. Mostly
we just walk silently, but for awhile we converse. She is doing a
masters in industrial engineering at Frontera, the food firm, in Southland.
Her brother works at a ski resort in Colorado. Do I want to immigrate
here? Her parents would like to, but are too old to qualify.
What do I think of the healthcare system here. It is a nice conversation
between people who enjoy the forest. It starts to rain and we come
to some hills, and I am walking by myself again.
As I come down to Blowholes beach it starts to pour rain. I
duck back into the forest and put on my full raingear, including mittens.
The beach is fantastic in the rain. The surf is pounding, the blowholes
are spouting spray, there are shags clinging to the rocks right on the
beach. The rain is pelting down and I am soaked everywhere except
my shorts. There are deer tracks and sign on the beach, mixed in
with bright red kelp and flotsam. I climb back up into the forest
where the rain continues.
In my 4th hour of walking, in the 3rd day, I lose my mind.
At some point during this rain, I stop thinking and just walk. It
is a mindless, empty, feeling-less state. I am in the moment.
I am not "one with the forest" or having any type of epiphany. I
am just walking. Just walking in the forest. Just walking in
the forest, in the rain. I do this for about an hour or so.
I am not thinking of any thing. The first thoughts that come into
my mind as I come out of this fugue state are about fungi. I notice that
there are all kinds of fungi here. Little gelatinous, shiny buttons
that are as hard as nails. Shelf fungi growing out of the trees,
that look like they have clamshells for a roof. Small purple capped mushrooms
growing out of the trail edge. I meditate for awhile on the rain.
Rain is good for the forest, for the fungi, for the ferns. Without
this rain, there would be no forest, no waterfall, no birds. It is
a Daoist thought. "The pot is valued for what its not." It
is a fine day in Southland.
Such peace cannot last forever. I reach Track Burn and
Alice has stopped to have a chat with 3 fellows who are smoking on the
porch of their crib at the edge of the stream. Two are obviously
Maori and they are preparing to go deer hunting. At least the cigarette
smoke keeps the sandflies away for 10 minutes while I stop for a drink
and muesli bar. Alice takes off shortly after I arrive. I leave
5 minutes after her. As I'm leaving the 3 Wisconsin boys blow by
me. We go over a hill and then out onto the beach. I'm beginning
to get worried because Vicki and Liz still haven't passed me, and I know
I am the slowest one usually. As I follow the young people up the
3 km beach, the rain slower dissipates. I look back, and a figure
appears out of the mist. It is the hut warden, walking out.
As he churns by me, I ask him about my wife and daughter. "They're
ok" he says, "your wife lost your daughter and went back to look for her,
but I turned her around". He rapidly disappears ahead
of me. I keep looking back all the way up the beach. Even take
out the binocs, but no sign of them.
At the end of the beach, there are a bunch of "bachs".
These are shacks, traditionally begun as a government benenfit for returning
veterans. The Wisconsin boys have stopped there and are drinking
beer with a bunch of blokes who are down to the shore for their biennial
5 day holiday. They offer me a beer too, but I accept a cup of coffee.
The rain has stopped. One of the men is cleaning 25 of the hugest
mussels I've ever seen, and another bloke proceeds to show me the best
way to eat them. Raw. He gets two of the college boys to eat
some also. I tell him they didn't go well with coffee. As we
are talking, a fellow pulls up in his ute with an 2x3 meter trailer behind
it. The trailer is 1/2 full of cases of DB Draught beer and 1/2 full
of propane and diesel. One proud fellow shows me around. "Its
taken us years to get this place like this." It is a wooden shack,
ramshackle with tile roof and excellent ventilation through holes in the
eaves. There are many old couches and a few cots, a wood stove, a
TV and diesel generator for watching sports, and even a shower and flush
toilet. They are very proud of having put the toilet in. "You
used to have to run down to the little house around the corner, and the
sandflies would eat you alive" they tell me. It is sunny and beatiful
now, and the blokes are beginning to sing "Que sera, sera!" (and its only
2 in the afternoon). I walk back to the dune edge and see Vicki and
Liz coming up the beach. I thank the blokes for the java, and go
meet them.
Liz has a very sore knee, and has been slow all morning. She
got her cotton clothes soaked, and Vicki made her put her polyprops back
on. Now it is sunny and the end is in sight, she is cheered up a
bit and moving better. We walk up the 145 steps to the bluff top
and walk through the last km of forest together. Twice we see pairs
of NZ pigeons up close, along this nature trail. It is a nice goodbye
to the forest. The boys have been back for 2 hours, and already taken
showers at the trailhead. We somehow manage to stuff all the gear
in the trunk, and ready to stuff ourselves into the car.
I take a last look up at the Hump. The sun has come out
again, and now that I know where to look, I can see the Okaka hut from
the trailhead. I can see the tors proturding from the ridgetops.
I can't believe I've walked 54 km in 3 days. It's hard to believe
I was up there, that high on the mountain. If I had known what was
ahead, I'm not sure I would have done it. But I hope I never forget
it.
