This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
It started one Friday night at a roadend called Walls Whare. Our mission - to cross over the Tararuas and deliver a broom to Maungahuka Hut on the way. About two hourslater, after negotiating knee-deep bogs, slippery rocks and roots, low flying trees, and the
occasional stream, we camp at Makaka Creek, where the track starts for Cone Saddle. I take one last look at the starlit sky before. cruising into zzzz mode. Fuelled on Flemings Rolled Oats we power on up to Cone Saddle. At around 1:00am we stop approxi- .WT&MC. MAY 1995.
mately 100 metres below the top of Cone for further refuelling. During this brief but pleasant respite, Gerard lets it slip that he has forgotten the onion for dinner. He couldhave forgotten the zucchini or the mushrooms, but no, he had to forget the onion. How am I supposed to climb Maungahuka with only the thought of a bland dinner without the onion waiting for me at the end. I glare murderously at him.
Cone is reached, the exhilaration seriously tempered by light rain, heavy clag, and no onion.
We arrive at Neill Forks at approximately 1:00pm, just in time for lunch. I am beginning to accept the missing onion, hell it’s only an onion, when out of the corner of my eye I spot a plastic bag hanging from the rafter. Upon closer inspection, it’s found to contain around seven onions. Now we have too many onions. Gerard just shrugs his shoulders and says he knew the onions were there, and therefore had left his onion at home to save weight. A kinda Himalayan food cache.
With renewed motivation we roar on up Maungahuka, stopping briefly at Concertina Knob for water and chocolate, then down the dip and up onto the tops. No views, no sun, but still we have an onion and dinner is just over the hill.
Maungahuka Hut is a mess, the result of no broom. We quickly assemble our secret weapon - anew broom and sweep the place out. Part of our mission accomplished. Dinner is a huge success, largely due to one onion and two expert chefs. I’ve got to say something nice about Gerard, otherwise he won't allow this trip report to be published. After dinner I settle down to read the hut book. A small but significant entry catches my eye, dated’ around February. Two tourists from England have written of their experiences in the Tararuas and cannot understand the term “clag” It seems to-them that the-definition-of — clag is, and I quote, “small bits of poo that cling to your pubes”. Kinda makes “clagged in” an entirely different kind of concept! Not only can you get clag on the tops but now you can get it on bottoms as well! Moming dawns after a night of howling wind and rain. Morning isn’t much better and we set off early in the “clag”, hoping to find the tum-off to Pakahore Ridge along the way, and therefore escaping the harsh conditions. In between crossing the Tararua Peaks, Gerard is concerned at the small river that is now flowing off the Tararua Peaks. What is Penn Creek going to be like by the time we get to the bottom of Pakahore Ridge? I assure him, in all my wisdom of never having been there before, that it won’t be a problem. I just want to get off the wind and rain blown tops and into the quiet, gentle’ environment of the bush.
Penn Creek, well, like the name says, it is just a creek. Gerard, reassured by all of this, decides Pakahore Ridge isn’t such a bad option. It isn’t too hard to find the ridge. About 10 minutes past the tama stick poked into a rock marks the turn-off. Once into the bush a clearly marked track leads all the way down to Penn Creek, which by the time we get there, could be renamed the “raging Penn Creek River". Well, I can’t be right all the time; it seemed like a good idea at the time. Gerard just glares at me, visions of missed transport, cold night in the bush, and a handful of rice for dinner in his eyes. I think about reminding him of the forgotten onion but decide this is not a good time. Speaking of which, it is now 11:30am, the transport leaves at 4:00pm; we have four and a half hours to cross a flooded river and tramp out from Penn Creek. I suggest we travel upstream until the creek shrinks in size and we can‘cross in safety. Not much of a plan, but still a plan. After an hour of grovelling along the bank and crossing swollen side streams we reach a point that looks fairly promising. There is always a feeling of trepidation stepping into a rushing, swirling, cauldron of brown water, but using mutual support, we gingerly make our way to the opposite bank. Safe, but !’m not too sure about sound. Thenitis a short clamber up the bank onto the track and full speed to Penn Creek Hut for a final refuel.
Lunch is spent in a psychedelic haze that “Lost Sheep Tours” calls a paint job. We have 3 hours left to catch ‘the transport. Considering it normally takes 31/2 hours to get-out;itshouldn‘t be.a-problem,but-the-track has. beea_____ closed due to slips. This is going to be interesting. Ican’thelp but notice on our departure that the creek has dropped and is looking fairly tame compared to two hours previously. That's life, I guess. The track is really excellent for the first 20 minutes until itjust disappears into thin air where a huge sliphas moved it downhill about 30 metres. This becomes a common occurrence, so in between grovelling across slips and windfalls, and running on the track we manage to arrive at Otaki Forks at 3:55pm. Mission accomplished with plenty of time to spare; in fact, more than can be imagined as the transport doesn't turn up until 5:30pm.
On the way out I look back at the Tararuas. The 'clag" is starting to lift, as it always does. I think about missing onions, lonely mountain huts, swollen rivers, and comradeship; sometimes just a weekend tramp into the Tararuas can mean so much more. Dear Aunty Tutuwai.. .
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WTa&MC MAY 1995