This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
he 5:30pm ferry sailing the day before Easter was chocfull of WTMC trampers and sea kayakers, including eight bound for the Goulter Stream, Mt Rintoul, and Old Man. Dire weather forecasts clearly had other trampers (from one of those other clubs for sure) ready for action, as they strutted their longjohns, gaiters and boots along the Arahura’s catwalks. No doubt planning to scale the bridge on the way.
After a muffler-wrenching ride up the Northbank Road, we camped near the mouth of the Goulter Stream, which we shared with Marilyn’s party. The much~dreaded weather passed us by in the night, and we managed the earliest start of the trip (after Lisa discovered meringues and ferry travel produce crumbs and dust). A few kilometres along the road and up the stream got us quickly up to the Lower Goulter Hut where it was time to cross the river. The Teva~wearers were glad to put on dry boots on the far side, while the rest took on ballast for the climb.
Leaving Marilyn and co. below, up we went to the ridge 200m above, and the first of many great views where Eric and I attempted to lighten our loads by emptying I our packs down a slip. A quick lunch and we followed the ridge up and up again, each time expecting to reach Bushy Top. When we did get there the spectacular views gave meaning to the name. Nola and I had become distinguished as the Front Running B**s by keeping up a constant pace (i.e. not stopping every 5 minutes) and we pushed on for Tarn Hut, with Eric close behind.
Breaking with Club tradition (Medium ? Ed.) we selflessly selected the bunks under the fly on what proved to be the clearest and freshest of nights on the trip. Chilli con carne and mountains of vegetables and rice were served around a warming fire, followed up by angel delight under crumbed meringue. Even Greg rose again from his comatose state for the event well, it was Easter.
Although the hut was cosy, the reading material proved resistible ( a choice of ‘Bad Girls’ and a ‘Gibbons’ bible - no doubt left by one of those bands of apelike missionaries, intent on saving soulless trampers from their fates) and pits were soon sought.
Those of us left out in the cold awoke on Saturday to a frosted fly, and grateful of warm sleeping bags. After the sun warmed us all, we made a leisurely start with a solid slog up past Bishop’s Cap and onto Purple Top. Lunch saw us looking down on Rintoul Hut and across at Mt Rintoul’s awesome slopes. The gorgeous weather threatened, with wispy clouds moving around Rintoul’s summit.
The FRBs set off quickly on to the hut, intent on pushing on and over if possible. As the party regrouped at Rintoul Hut, decision time came. The faint of looked slightly I heart and the optimistic (for more fine weather tomorrow) suggested a tempting afternoon lying in the sun, while the pragmatic said the seize the day and push on and up. Leader Brian rose in stature and proposed a compromise ~ to make a start and check progress after an hour. And so a somewhat late crack at Mt Rintoul began at 2:30pm. A sharp initial climb proved not so bad, with even James bearing up to the strain. Nevertheless, some fool offered to lighten the aforementioned’s load b a fly, after which there was little holding him back.
The highest peak of the trip, Mt Rintoul (1731m), was reached on schedule in an hour and a half, and after a team photo we were on our way, but with another peak still ahead.
A long ridge snaked downwards, eerily ending with sharp falls to the left and cliffs rising steeply ahead. The track took the only way, down to the tree line on the right at 1400m. Our fortune took a similar dive as incessant hail descended upon us (probably a consequence of one of my irreverent Easter jokes).
There was only one way on - 250m back up a slippery scree _ slope. Much scrambling later, and fortunately the end of the hail and we were looking down on Old Man Hut. Time had taken its toll, and at 5:30pm daylight was limited. The FRBs once again took the lead, with images of bunk beds and roaring fires. in their heads. Things started to go awry as we started to climb again and saw the hut still some way below. A quick map check and drawn torches took us back to find the turnoff we’d missed. Fortunately, we caught James barrelling torchlessly down the track in the dark and turned him around. The turnoff was found, and while Nola waited in ambush for the rest of the party, James and I headed hut-wards, still optimistic of lighting a fire in the hut to warm weary trampers. James took off into the dark with his crash and slide technique, while I adopted the more usual approach of using a torch.
A miserable 200m descent later, a couple of WTMC flys full of trampers materialised. Who could it be, but Marilyn’s bunch of happy Mediums, bunked down for the night. Resisting the urge to strike one (wait for it), I got filled in with the bad news no room at the inn. I thought this was an Easter story!
Next best thing was to get this fly off my back and into the air. Grateful thanks to Marilyn, Kelvin and Ray for a helping hand when it was needed. Soon the distinctly unhappy Mediums happened along. The fickleness of cold, tired trampers came to the fore, with Nola copping flak for apparently singlehandedly dragging each one of us kicking and screaming over Mt Rintoul. Nevertheless, reality bit and a second fly was soon up, dinner (‘pasta surprise’ & instant pud with, you guessed it - a light dusting of meringue) cooked and eaten, and trampers in pits in record time.
Sunday was hailed by Rod, the (Easter) bunny, replete with much-appreciated eggs but without the floppy ears. To make up for the exertions of the day before, Brian led by example and we set off at an even more leisurely 10:30am for an ‘easy’ day - up and over Old Man, and a ‘short’ walk towards the Forks.
Old Man was our last peak for the trip and proved no great worry. After quick photo stops, we eagerly headed down to warmer altitudes, After lunch at the turnoff, down we went, 800m in all with the last 500m a steady but slippery descent. Two hours after the turnoff we got to the stream, sure of a gentle amble to our campsite. Clearly having learnt little in three days, numerous fallen trees and a few lost markers brought an interesting extension of Parkinson’s Law into play: the track extends to meet the light available. However, we did arrive before dark and with a little more care but not much less haste than the previous night, flys were up and dinner was ready. Macaroni cheese was munched and cheesecake with more of that meringue dust pleasurably consumed, with even time for a second brew before another welcome pitbash.
Having waited for James to pack his pack for the last time on Monday, we finally did set off on an easy ramble to the road, with a short bash to a farmhouse where taxis were hailed and we set off regretfully northwards.
Quote of the trip (Nola to Greg): “You had a Performance Bar this morning and you were still useless”.
Fellow meringue-abusers were Brian, Eric, Greg, James, Lisa, Nola, and Rod.
met Lorraine at a Wednesday club meeting. She was keen to get up into the hills and her experience at that point was a. day trip into Smiths Creek. Lorraine was very fit, she is a keen gymnast (goes to the gym) and does a bit of biking. The trips on which we were going were cancelled and she was still very keen to get out, so I decided we would spend the long weekend in the hills somewhere. I would
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By Nick Wood