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Fit-eeps Medium Trip in the Rainbow area
L* by noble leader Dave McD of great fame, we, the even nobler party of 13 (oh, what a fortuitous number to lead) set off on our revised trip up Connors Creek. What a fine day it was; hot and sunny and many were burnt. A glorious luncheon repast we partook by that running brook called Connors. We then slogged up a very steep mountain (no sissy hills in the South Island) to yon campsite of much wonder just inside the upper limit of trees. What a place of sojourn it was: we were agape with the magnificence of our surroundings.
Oh, at this point I should introduce the wanderers: Greg Greatstep, Kirsty and Wendy oh so jolly, John Forgotsox, Steve from some sunny heathen land, Tracy from some blighted place, Suzanne and Mike returned from the aforementioned blighted place, Keith the leprechaun, ET from *, Ruth our shining lady, Ray recently decamped from Bogansville, and Hazel the snowlover. What a fine band. We revelled in delight that eventide, banqueting on simply superior vittles and then retired to our awaiting flys. The second-day we hoofed it up to Connors Saddle to a superbly view-enhanced luncheon site. After eating, we decided to tackle an easier and only mildly challenging route over 2162 metres (40 less than nearby Mt Chittenden) to sidle down. to Begley Creek. En route there was much whooping and great din (actually more like deathly silence on the ascent), later much snow<sliding was had by some (real whooping this time) while Mike, _ this section’s leader, scouted out the descent to the Begley.
I at the previous day’s salubrious brook-side lunch spot. The weather turned to rain later
®@ It was not to be: too vertical (or not enough) was the verdict. Oh, but in vain it was, yep, back to Connors Saddle traversing a snow slope it would have to be. Once the merry wanderers twigged, tongues wagged yet no meat was to be had. Tough! Just more of that nasty Spaniard, only this time down. Who would not do it again? Yet another great din was roared by the multitude. We were not to be away to Begley, Hamilton Saddle or down any poxy river; hell, we liked our wee brook.
but souls were mirthful, contemplating the day’s events. What a day it had been. The third day (seem it not like the tenth by now?) saw a leisurely stroll out through fine beech trees shading the brook, to the largeholdings of Rainbow, past the picturesque peasant hovel that passed for a forlorn PAanor House and back to the Orient Express whereupon we boarded and rode to Picton. Some of us, however, were purveyed by another steed with a tippling nose and experienced a fruitful of degustation of really fine liquids on the way. Gumbootville beckoned... Here endeth the story.
(Anybody asleep yet?) (Yes — Ed.) Well, so back down the same wondrous Connors it was, as we were too tardy for all that Begley- Biggy nonsense. We set up camp
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Nelson Lakes Labour Weekend ’96 By John Renouf