This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
f I "hey say the full moon can’ do strange things to people. Maybe it's true; maybe it's not - but it certainly seemed to have that effect one night on this year's Arthur’s Pass trip.
Itwas 11:30 on Saturday night, and there was a certain sadness in the air. We were sitting around the table, quiet and subdued despite the paper hats and fancy dress from the special “formal” dinner earlier in the evening. The wine cask was empty, the Baileys was gone, and the whiskey bottle was much depleted. Spirits - both psychological and liquid;- were definitely low.
lthad been a good trip. There were ten of us - Allen, Sue, Lyndsay, Karyn, Mark, BJ, Nathan, Nick, Ellie, and Harry - and in the last week we had been skiing, climbing, tramping, and mountain biking. We had spent relaxing evenings playing cards or scabble, singing to Mark's guitar, or practising juggling with Karyn’s juggling balis. And we had enjoyed some pleasant visits to the Bealey pub on the way back from the skifields, relaxing after a hard day, consuming beers and spicy chips around the blazing fire.
But like ail things, it had had to end. The week had flown by, and now, all too soon we were down to our very last night. Tomorrow we had to pack up and head north, leaving the Arthur’s Pass mountains and bush behind for another year; the following day we would be back in Wellington - back to the crowded streets and gloomy weather, back in the Office, back to the old routine. There was no doubt about it: we were feeling “Gepressed, ~ . :
“How about a midnight ride to the Pass,” suddenly suggested X (whose name won't be revealed in order to protect the guilty), breaking the silence. “Great idea,” said Y enthusiastically. “I'm in,” said Z. No-one else was keen, so 15 minutes later the three of us were away, dressed in our polyprops, gloves, woolly hats, and windbreakers.
We pedailed out of the drive and down the lane cautiously in the snow, emerging onto the main highway. Here the snowploughs had been hard at work following the big snow dump a couple of days earlier, and the road was clear and dry. But at this time of night there weren't any vehicles on the road; all was quiet.
We turned left and headed north through the village. Not surprisingly, nobody was around - the nightlife in Arthur's Pass Village cannot be said to be ragey at the best of times. The shop had shut hours ago and the lights were off at the restaurant. There was not a soulin sight. The night was calm and clear; the full moon was shining in the sky. Our headlights were completely unnecessary and somehow seemed to detract from the atmosphere, so we switched them off.
The snowcovered lodges and deep snowdrifts gave the village an unfamiliar air, like something out of the Swiss Alps, and we began to feel a bit like sightseers in a foreign land. . “And over on our right we have the quaint railway station...” Z began intoning, like a practised tour guide. “Oh, I say, isn't this absolutely spiffing,” said X, in an exaggerated upper-class British accent. “What a q-q-q-quaint little village,” said YY, in his bést obnoxious tourist manner. “I do so hope the natives are friendly.”
Our mood of depression was gone - we were feeling happy, doing something out of the ordinary, unpredictable, frivolous. Above us the stars shone brightly in the clear, cloudless sky, sprinkled in their thousands across the heavens with that intensity they only ever have out in the hills, away from the lights and the haze of the city.
Soon we came to the far end of the village, where the flat finished and the climb began. As we began the uphill slog X began singing: “We'll be riding up the mountain when we come. We'll be riding up the mountain when we come. We'll be riding up the mountain, We'll be riding up the mountain, We'll be riding up the mountain when we come,”
“We'll be as knackered as a newt when we come,” chimed in Y, panting hard as he cycled up the steep grade. He had no idea how knackered a newt was, but that didn’t matter; it sounded good and it provided an extra verse to the song. “We'll be as knackered as a newt when we come,” answered X and Z in unison, continuing the song. “We'll be pedalling through the night when we come,” sang Z in his turn. “We'll. be pedalling through the night when we come,” echoed the others. “We'll be panting like a horse when we come,” sang Y. , “Pardon?!?!" said Z. X began giggling. “Oh - I see,” said Y with a grin, the ambiguous possibilities of the words dawning upon him. And that was the end of that song.
A short while later the road dropped steeply down to abridge across the river. We took this carefully, wary of ice in the shady dip, but there was none. Across the bridge we ground up the steep climb out the other sidé, wobbling allover the road in low gear and panting hard.
We paused at the Mt Rolleston lookout, welcoming an excuse to have arest. Mt Rolleston, the highest peak in the area rose beyond the bush fringe, silent, tantalising, bathed in the soft moonlight. Its snowcovered flanks seemed just a short distance away through the still night air, So Close that you felt you could almost reach out and touch it as it towered into the starlit sky. The neighbouring peaks seemed dwarfed in comparison.
“That's what I wanted to climb,” said Z, disappointed that bad weather and poor snow conditions had prevented our planned ascent. Y nodded. ‘I've wanted to climb it for the last 5 years,” he said. “But never mind there's always next year. The mountains won't be going anywhere.’ “True, but I mightn’t be here then,” said Zz.
We continued on up the road. The floor of the surrounding beech forest was deep with snow from the big dump two days before; the branches of the beech trees were heavily laden and sagging under the weight. For some trees the burden had been too much to bear, and freshly broken branches lay fallen on the ground. Where the trees were free of snow they were festooned with moss. The whole scene looked like something out of a fairy tale in which ghosts and goblins could be found lurking in every shadow.
“You look just like Grandfather Smurf,” said X, out of the blue. “What on earth made you think of that?” asked Z. “I don't really know,” said X. “But isn’t it funny how everybody remembers the same stupid TV programmes,” said Y. “A whole generation can probably quote phrases from Thunderbirds or The Wombles.” “What always used to puzzle me as a kid when I watched the Smurfs was the way that the word ‘smurf was used in so many different ways,” said Z. “Sometimes it was used as a noun, and sometimes it was used as a verb, and I so on. It really used to confuse me.” “There's a good old-fashioned Anglo- Saxon word that works just like that,” pointed out Y. “I know,” said Z. ‘ll be completely smurfed by the time we reach the Pass,” said Y. “Pll bet the others will be really smurfed off they didn’t come,” said Z.
Finally we reached the bushline, emerging from the snaking, tree-lined avenue of the road, out into the subalpine landscape of the Pass. On the tight was the Temple Basin carpark, a number of cars sitting there silently in the night, some still covered with snow from Thursday's heavy dumping. Far above, the lights of one of the ski lodges up in the basin stood out brightly, an unexpected light far above against the mountainside. The Pass was now only a few hundred yards away, up the top of the final steep rise. We put on a burst of power and were soon opposite the tall monument to Arthur Dobson, the discoverer of the Pass. Another hundred yards more and we reached the smaller roadside monument marking the very crest of the divide. We had reached our goal.
Getting off our bikes, we looked ahead to where the highway dropped off down the other side of the Pass, heading down into the Otira Gorge. Two days earlier this section of road had been completely covered in snow, and cars had been crawling along with chains rattling as the snowploughs struggled to keep the road open in the blizzard conditions. Vehicles had bottlenecked in the narrow, zigzag section of the route, waiting for a large articulated truck jack-knifed across one of the hairpin bends to be towed free. Some travellers had given up, beaten by the conditions or without the necessary chains or experience, and had returned to the village to wait for the weather to improve. We had watched in horror and fascination as one parked car had lost its grip on the icy surface and slid slowly back down the road, driverless, with two frightened children in the back-seat. Only a deep snowadrift had prevented it from plunging off the road and down the hillside. But that was two.days.ago,.and now all was calm and clear, although deep snowbanks still lined the roadside, “Wouldn’tit be great to just keep on riding down the other side?” said X. “It's such a perfect night, ! feel I could just go on forever.” “Yes, it would be a great ride down the Gorge,” said Z. “There's no traffic, you could really go all out.”
“We could keep going all the way to the coast...” said X. “But it would be a bloody long, hard ride back up,” pointed out Y, destroying the fantasy. “True...” said Z wistfully.
“Let's make snow angels,” said X, all keen and enthusiastic. “What's a snow angel?” asked Y, “You lie down and flap your arms and legs, and you leave an angel-shaped print in the snow,” explained X. “We made some when we were coming down Mt Avalanche on Sunday," Y and Z weren't very keen. “Sounds like a bloody silly idea,” said Y. “Come on everybody, let's make snow angels,” said X undeterred, heading for the snow at the side of the road. Still Y and Z didn’t move. “Come on everybody, let’s...F***!" exclaimed X, as she stepped off the road and unexpectedly sank up to her waist in the soft powder snow.
cracked up laughing. And that was the end of snow angels.
“We must get a photo while we're here,” said Z, when he had finished laughing, Z had brought his camera with him. “And seeing that we're on a pass, we've got to, well...” He trailed off. “Got to what?” asked the others. “Got to mark out territory,” continued Z, cryptically. The others looked puzzled, so he explained further. “I've got this great photo of a friend on a mountain pass in Canada,” he said. “The scenery is spectacular, but your whole attention is focused on this prominent liquid arc..." “Oh,” said the others. “Come on,” said Z. “Well...” began the others. “Come.on,-you_take. the camera-and_llI. do it,” said Z. “Up on the pass marker - it's got to be up on the pass marker,” said X, getting into the spirit of things. “OK," said Z. So Z got up on the monument and prepared himself while X lined up with the camera. “Right,” said Z.
There was a sound of liquid from the monument and a flash of light from the camera. "Did you get it?” asked Z. "I think so,” said X, “we'll have to wait for the film to be developed fo be sure.” “You won't be able to show that photo on Club night,” pointed out Y. “Oh, I don't know...” said Z. Z turned to X. "Your turn,” he said. “Aw, come on,” said X, ‘it's alright for you guys, but it's a bit different for...’ “Come on, there’s no backing out now!” said Z. ‘I've got the camera; up on the monument!” So X got up on the monument and crouched down while Z waited with the camera. “I can't,” said X. “Course you can,” said Y. “No, I can't,” said X. “We won't look,” said Z. “No, you don’t understand,” said X. “I can't I'm dehydrated.’ “Oh,” said Z. So that was the end of that activity.
“Now we've got to traverse the Main Divide,’ said Y. “What do you mean?” asked X. “Traverse the Main Divide,” said Y. “Like you'd traverse the Main Range in the Tararuas. We're on the Main Divide; we've got to traverse it.” “Where?” asked X, puzzled. “Erom one side of the road to the other,” said Y, “Right on the Main Divide.” Z surveyed the prospect, “It's a long way...” he said, in mock seriousness. "We can do it,” said Y, solemnly. “If we try hard, we can do it. I know we can. We're trampers after all.” "Give it a go,” urged X. So Y lined up at the pass marker and prepared for the dangerous mission, aiming squarely for the far side of the road, all of ten yards away. Taking a -deep breath; he-stepped-outbravely-inte the void. ‘Careful,” cautioned X. “Don't fall,” said Z. Y advanced slowly across the road, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, inching forward, arms stretched out for balance. On one side of him was a dizzying drop to the road surface on the Canterbury side of the Divide; on the other side it was an equally long way down to the road surface in Westland. All about was a deadly, hushed silence.
About halfway across Y began to lose his balance. His arms flailed about desperately, but it was no good, and with a desperate mournful cry he fell off the imaginary dotted line and collapsed onto the road surface in Canterbury, far, far below. “Dead,” announced Y dramatically to the others. X and Z came after him, making their own heroic attempts at the dangerous crossing. X lost her balance and fell, like Y, off into the yawning abyss. But Z succeeded in reaching the far side of the road, an heroic, crowning triumph for the expedition.
Down on the road, X and Y were lying on their backs, waving their legs madly in the air. Z raced over and set up his camera, switched it onto self-timer, then nipped around and joined them on the ground. The camera went off with a flash of light, capturing forever on film this strange scene of three trampers lined out across the top of the Pass in the middle of the night, sitting on the deserted highway, grinning at the camera through up-raised legs. Above, the full moon shone down impassively and the stars twinkled in the inverted bow! of the sky. And up to the east, up in Temple Basin, the light of the ski lodge shone out, unblinking against the mountainside. If anyone was still awake up there and had happened to look down, they may have chanced to notice apin-prick of light flash out momentarily in the darkness of the valley below and wonder who would be crazy enough to be out and about down there at that hour of the night.
Eventually,-by__unspoken__mutual agreement, we felt it was time to go. But when we got back on our bikes we paused for one last look around, lingering for one final moment as if reluctant to bring our outing to a close, so much were we enjoying it. Then we set off for home - and so began a high-speed ride back to the village. Back down the road we went, past the Dobson monument, past the Temple Basin carpark, back into the dimness of the bush, down the highway. at high-speed without braking. There were no worries about ice or traffic now. Down the steep descent to the bridge, avoiding the loose gravel at the side of the road, a screech of brake rubber at the bottom before the sharp swing onto the bridge. Then across the bridge, drop down through the gears and pedal hard, up the steep climb away from the bridge. Z was out in front but the other two were in close pursuit. Click smoothly back up into top gear and pour on the power, rounding the bends in the road, curving left, then right, then left and right again; descending in a few minutes what had taken, us three-quarters of an hour to go up. Finally, the long straight descent into the village, then out into the open and an all-out sprint down the deserted main road; to an imaginary finish line somewhere opposite the shop. Only then did we ease off, cruising the rest of the way home through the village. Right at the end, shortly before the turnoff up to our hut, we were surprised to meet a car, the only one we saw the whole way. It passed us with a friendly toot. “This would make a great trip report,” said X, as we walked up the path to the hut. “We could call it ‘Pissing on the Pass’,” said Z. "But you could never capture the mood, you could never put into words the atmosphere,” said Y. “And Claire would never print some of the things that have happened,” said Z. We went inside to find the lounge deserted; itwas one-thirty and the others had gone to bed. But we sat around for a while and talked, united by a shared experience, on a high, feeling the others had missed out, had passed up something really special. ‘ “I've really enjoyed this week,” said X, sprawling out comfortably on the settee. “So have I,” said Y, lounging back in the armchair, feet up in front of the potbelly stove. “What have you enjoyed the most?" asked Z from the other settee. "I enjoyed the 75 km bike ride around
Meh dae ee At in
Lake Brunner,” said X. “So did. And I really enjoyed the trip around the tops over Mt Bealey and Mt Avalanche, despite the horrible snow conditions,” said Z.
“So did,” said Y. “And the skiing. But do you know what I think I've enjoyed the most on this trip? I think what I’ve enjoyed the most is the last hour and a half.”
The others nodded in agreement. It was true, And a short while later we went to bed. The week was over.
[Photo captions and page text that interrupted the story:]
An attempt to capture a special mood
By Harry Smith
WT&MC February 1996: