This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
Veli things did start off all right. I mean the ferry was only supposed to be an hour late, which ig not bad for Easter. And it was raining. A brief adjournment to the pub to relieve the tedium of waiting proved to nearly solve the problem, but three intrepid trampers did manage to scramble up the gangway with seconds to go and fall into the patient arms of Chief Guide Eric.
It didn’t stop raining, of course. We arrived in Worth-¥est Nelson Forest Park at 6.30am. No sleep, true. But it meant we didn't have to bivy in the rain or walk in the dark. We arrived with a bump. The bus had run off the road and so we clambered out the emergency exit and stoad around in the rain for the morning. Once technology had replaced the bus on its rightful track, we finally lurched into the bush.
Qur destination was the Peel Range. Soon it was lunchtime and our team of four sat down in the gun to watch David Humm eat his pumpkin seeds. Within a minute four bedies lay asleep on the tussock. Fertunately Bill Bristow's snoring woke us up, soa we packed up, dropped to bush line, set up camp and promptiy fell asleep again.
Saturday dawned with rain. An anonymous ballot of options found the majority in favour of retreat ‘and unbelievably none in favour of returning to the bus and hiding for the rest of the weekend). So in true FE fashion we set off at a jolly pace. But, what! Ve discover that the Chief Guide bas left his parka behind! “Never mind", says Bill “I've got a epare PYC in my pack". Was this crafty planning or Eric's incompetence? The sheepish grin emerging from the borrowed plastic hood told all. Meanwhile, somewhere in the park, Peter Jackson's party is keeping an eye open for a parka~less Chief Guide to provide him with his coat.
The combined weight of years of experience told us that it was raining and that walking in the rain isn't much fun. The only sensible solution was to walk to a sheltered, sunny rock bivy and sunbathe on the mattresses. Unfortunately, the Medium party lacked that depth of experience and expressed some disgust that the FE party was attempting to contract melanoma. Spurred on by a wave of insults, our fearless, suntanned explorers left at dawn the next day and eventually staggered to the top of
Mt Arthur. Then it was time to set our sights on the road, «eo aff we sprinted, pausing only ta change suntan to sunburn at Flora Hut.
Tired and weary we arrived at the road with a few kilometres of walking in front of us. One of our party dives into the roadside bush to call nature or answer nature's call. And what does he find? A whole Medium party sitting around a campfire, tents pitched and every member observing utter silence so the nasty FE's would go away. After such an insult, there was nothing to do but join then.
However we soon provided them with the luxury we had become accustomed to. We served them with a delicious blend of Lime Instant Pudding with Moro bars (commants ranged from Alex’s “it's a bit antiseptic" to William Cone's “I like it"). The finale of the evening was a toast to David Humm's rubber gummles. He tassed them onto the fire and provided a formal cremation for a worthy set of footwear. Eric got into the spirit too, but in searching for something to burn, he couldn't find his parka.
And then remained a twelve hour epic back to Wellington, punctuated only by the “stone the watch to death contest", and the bue nearly going off the road a few more times.
NORTH-WEST NELSON AT FASTER Lynley Whitford