This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
Friday night saw a large group of Tongue and Meats on the Picton ferry heading off to do some tramping in the Mariborough Sounds, with the traditional Labour Weekend forecast of impending bad weather. After exploring the new-look “inter-Islander” ferry (only Railways could spend millions of dollars on a refit and end up with the ferry worse than before, complete with uncomfortable metal seating and ghastly sea-sick green pillars in the bar) we reached Picton and were soon on board a small boat for a short trip across the Sound to Torea Bay where those of us on the fit trip got off, leaving the Easies to continue on up the Sound to Ratimera Bay. Next morning we awoke to the sound of rain on the fly, and an enterprising weka busily dragging Bob's large bag of buns and chicken pieces off down the track. After a damp pack-up and a photo stop on the jetty we set off up the road in the drizzie to the saddle. There the rain was heavier, the mist was thicker, and the track off along the ridge-top looked damp and overgrown with gorse - enough to dampen the spirits of even the most experienced tramper. However a check of the map revealed that the Portage Pub was conveniently located ten minutes down the Kenepuru Sound road, and a decision was quickly made to re-route the trip in that direction. Mile after mile of road walk in the drizzle followed, enlivened by speculation about the fate of the Easies, who, a check of the map reveated, had been dropped off at the foot of a twelve hundred vertical foot scrub bash. By mid-day the weather had improved and a pleasant lunch was had at a picnic table by the beach at the head of Kenepuru Sound. With good weather after lunch we decided to cut across the farm land to a track that led back up to the ridge top. On the way a large herd of cattle of the male variety decided to pay us some closer attention than we wished, and treated us to an impressive display of bellowing which, we found out later, was loud enough to be heard by the Easies on the ridge top several miles away. It was with some relief that we left the farm land behind and began the steep climb up the hill, to be greeted at the top with views of Endeavour Inlet, Kenepuru Sound and Mount Stokes, the highest point in the Sounds, with its top hidden in the mist. Shortly after, the Easies arrived along the ridge-top track. They had spent three hours that moming scrub-bashing up from Ratimera Bay, and some of them were clearly not impressed by the ‘easy’ grading of their trip. After a quick trip along the ridge we again meet the road and headed down to Camp Bay for the night. Here Peter's gourmet skills came to the fore, and we dined on ‘Chicken Carribean’, followed by berry pie - a great change from the more usual stew, even if it did take a jong time to get ready. The next day we awoke to heavy rain. Our ever-keen leader, Pete, was eager to get away for the trip up Mount Stokes, but a More Experienced member of the parly quickly informed him that a long road waik in the pouring rain, followed by a damp grovel up a steep mountain side in order to see the mist on the top, wasn't his idea of fun, and he intended to spend the moming in an intensive bout of pit-bashing, followed by a quick jaunt around the coast to that night's planned campsite, just in time for a comfortable afternoon's further pit-bashing. Lynley, an enthusiastic relative newcomer to tramping, indicated that she was also keen to go, partly due to the fact that she had been bet a dollar the night before by one of the Easies that she wouldn't reach the top, but the More Experienced tramper sympathetically informed her that with constant medical care and plenty of rest she might make a complete recovery from this strange mental iiness. Eventually, however, Pete cunningly arranged a patch of biue sky to appear, and the More Experienced member was persuaded to move. No sooner had we packed up, having watched the Easies depart some time before, than the patch of blue sky disappeared again. After a long, steep road walk we reached the turn-off to the Mount Stokes track, where we thankfully dropped our packs and set off up the track. Two hours later we came across a group of DOC workers camping just below the summit. They had spent the weekend in their pits, and told us that we were crazy to be up there in weather like that. Just past their campsite we emerged onto the open top of Mount Stokes. Here there is a small area of sub-alpine herb field completely isolated from the nearest similar vegetation in the Richmond range in the south and the Tararuas to the norih, and containing a few plant species uniquely its own. Unfortunately, DOC has had to install a solar-powered electric fence around this area to protect it from being damaged by wild animals. From the tng at the top we paused briefly to look at the views. To the east, spectacular scenes of Queen Charlotte Sound - completely hidden by mist. To the west, vast vistas of Pelorus Sound - completely hidden by mist. To the south, majestic panoramas of Kenepuru Sound - completely hidden by mist. To the north, the scenic splendours of the outer bays and islands - completely hidden by mist. And in the far distance, the rugged coast of the North Island completely hidden by mist. Somehow it didn't quite seem like it did in the tourist brochures, and after a few minutes we set oft back down the track. Back down at the road, there followed a further long road walk, relieved only by the white blooms of the bush lawyer,
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and the sight of Lynley disappearing into a passing car and being deposited further on up the road. Eventually we left the road and we had a long steep descent down a bulldozed track to the head of Endeavour Iniet. Twenty minutes down the track brought us near to the famed Furneaux Lodge, a plush guest house accessible only on foot or by boat. We decided that it wouk! be only hospitable to pay a visit - and to partake of a drink or two in the process. We emerged out of the bush onto the well manicured lawns and were immediately greeted by the stares of yuppy yachty types lining the verandah. We hesitated, self-conscious in our muddy boots and uncertain what to do. The stares continued. Finally we slunk back into the bush, the staring eyes still fixed firmly on our backs. Further up the track we came to the official campsite marked on the map. This tumed out to be a tiny patch of grass overlooked by private houses and was not exactly the most appealing of locations - it would be just like camping on someone's front lawn. Fortunately, fifteen minutes further along the track we came upon a very pieasant campsite under the trees by the beach, near the mouth of a stream. We were soon feasting on another fabulous Peter Jackson meal - tuna and tice, complete with potato salad and mixed bean salad. We were so full that we had to leave the fruit salad and custard tor breakfast the next day. That evening a strong gusty southerly wind arose and blew straight the fly - “a gentle zephyr watting lazily through the trees” said the More Experienced tramper, jusi before his groundsheet blew off into the undergrowth. The surrounding bush was also lit up eerily by thousands of glow worms. Next morning we were away early for the trip around to Ship Cove. Approaching Resolution Bay Pete decided to test his navigation skills by taking some detours, first down a private side-track and then up some obscure goat tracks. He reappeared eventually, however, and we set off up the steep climb to the saddle leading over to Ship Cove. Heading down to the Cove we passed through some of the nicest bush on the trip so far, but we were too rushed to appreciate it as we hurried to meet the boat at half past eleven. We arrived at the Cove with fifteen minutes to spare, and just had time to have a look at the huge white monument to Captain Cook, and at the surrounding bush-covered hills, which must look very much like they did to Cook two hundred years ago, before boarding the beat for the cruise back through Queen Charlotte Sound to Picton and the ferry home. Allin all it was an interesting trip to a new area for the Club, but was made a bit disappointing by the bad weather on the first couple of days. On the trip: Peter Jackson (Leader), Bob Haig, Lynley Whitford, Andrew Maugham, Harry Smith (Scribe)