This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
By Andrew McColgan
Wellington Railway Station, 6pm. Where is the Trip Leader, where is Damian, where is Joseph? Half the party is missing already, this is not a good sign for the tramp. It was a long trip in the Duchess, the monotony broken only by a brief stop to watch the eclipse of the moon.
Finally we arrived at our campsite. The flies were pitched, pits set up and the first signs of a deep sleep was descending upon me! Then suddenly it was daylight already. Incorrect! It was those trampers from across the harbour whose name I dare not mention, descending upon our campsite in their truck with the lights on full beam. The night was alive with the slamming of doors, and the LOUD confused sounds of organised chaos as they set up camp.
The morning arrived and the inevitable meeting between the two clubs to sort out destinations occurred, initiated by them. Our response, the cold shoulder, and fast packing as we win the race to the start off point. The race up the ridge, led by the fits who were soon to be caught by the mediums, and the mediums in turn were caught by those whose name I cannot mention. Led by our untiring leader Matthew "I'm NOT wearing pink shorts" Grainger, our efforts were redoubled and we repassed them on the tops as they rested and regrouped. That was the last we saw of them until they turned up at Kiwi Mouth Hut.
And then there were those who fell into the river, voluntarily and involuntarily, Matthew "VERY LOUD PINK SHORTS" Grainger, Damian "yes we saw you fall in" Kells and Joseph "second wind" Afamasaga.
The menu on the first night was a beef stew containing nothing less than Damian's HELL PEPPERS, followed by cheesecake. On the second night we were treated to macaroni cheese with bacon, followed by instant pudding. The menus of the club I cannot mention, consisted of pasta and vegetables on the first night and rice and vegetables on the second night - there is nothing like eating well, eh?
The defuming of Kiwi Saddle Hut was led by Toddy, who almost single-handedly defumed Kiwi Saddle Hut. The fumes were so bad that even the rats were abandoning the hut. Then there was Claire Silcock (who me?) and Gary Goldsworthy (that's more like it!) who brought a new dimension to the loud defuming process. Their process involved shaking the hut to bits through loud sonic booms. I must admit that Jo Thomson, my friend on the trip, also joined the sonic boom crowd. The rest of us sat in the corner extremely embarrassed by the whole affair, especially yours truly who removed himself from the hut to do such foul things (pigs fly, Andrew! Ed.). A final little note to all those hunters on the trip! We saw a stag three minutes from Kiwi Saddle Hut and you didn't, Ha Ha Hal! (Note from the Editor : It's just as well we didn't see a deer all weekend because the rifle scope was alll fogged up anyway!!)
The punters on this trip were : Matthew Grainger, Damian Kells, Jo Thomson, Matthew Craig, Joseph Afamasaga and Andrew McColgan.