This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
oger, Prakash, Paul, Tod, Gary, Andrew and Charlie, the Magnificent Seven, embarked on an excursion into Nelson Lakes to an area 10km south of the Rainbow Skifield turn-off. A mixture of two Englishmen, a Kiwi with an English public school accent, and the other Kiwis (including Taihape boy) was always going to be fun. We were greeted by the new Club bus at Picton, allegedly called the Orient Express due to the Japanese instructions and calligraphy -on the front door-which remains untranslated, and peanuts and coke to christen it.
The hardest part of navigation proved once again to be finding the track from the carpark in the first place. Two members, eager
Labour Weekend Fit trip
and enthusiastic, strode off alone in the wrong direction, oblivious to our shouts and whistling which meant Prakash had to chase after them. We followed the picturesque Hamilton River up its course to reach the snowcovered saddle at 1,675m in just over four hours. Near the top we made a diversion to a stream to fill the water bottles and found a hind only 40 metres away, ignorant of our purpose. Luckily no keas vandalised our gear.
And there the Fit group re- -mained-on Hamilton-Saddle for.. lunch deciding where to head for next considering the steepness of the surrounding mountains and examining the closeness of the contours on the map for hours. This turned out to be no exaggeration—we stayed on the saddle for three hours in blazing sunshine. Prakash slept and snored for an hour, noisily at times, though this was reputedly for “avalanche control” purposes. A snowball fight followed more snoring and regular reconnaissance trips to the edge of the saddle to see if Woody and his group was in sight. Finally, after most of the Taihape jokes had done the rounds we thought more “Fit” tramping was in order before the Medium groups caught us up. We. descended into Begley _ Creek, crossing it countless times even though the track on the map was on the left of the river, and camped 10 minutes downstream of Begley Hut. Ignoring the 3-hour lunch break we tramped for 6 hours the first day.
cont’d from page 7 Andrew played his trump card by being the only one with a dry, clean pair of footwear in the evenings, though this acted against him going over the saddles. The others settled for New World plastic bags. After a substantial beef stroganoff (using Charlie’s ‘uncooked, smelly, bloody, leaky, two-day old meat), soured cream dip and wine, and the remainder of the Taihape jokes the fly beckoned at 8.30pm. Apart from a noisy low-flying duck early the next morning there was no sign of life from the “Fit” group until 8.30am. The games continued such as “let’s put a rock in the young whippersnapper’s pack without him looking” trick or the “how to throw cow dung at one’s fellow trampers (and then take the tea bag out of your mug with your fingers)” prank.
Making the entry in the Begley Hut book was an equal joke; “Climbing Connors Saddle and over the tops of 2,049m, 2,140m, 1,900m, 1970m and 1750m. Morale high.” Did the Fit group do this? Did we buggery! The same story featured— reaching the relatively steep 1,800m Connors Saddle with the need for ice axes (more of a precaution—safe tramping) we again weighed up the surrounding craggy peaks, assessed the _ extremely close contour lines on the map, and the weather and_ decided to abort our entry in the hut book, however impressive it looked. We settled for a bum slide down the snow and ended up in the Wairau Valley passing a dead cow on the way which smelled marginally more pungent than Charlie’s stewing steak. The total tramping time on the second day was a fast 6 hours. in the valley we discovered the Old Rainbow Homestead, a near derelict mud-built building with veranda, outside toilet, barn, sheep scull in the garden and water tank. The rain was becoming heavier and a majority rule decision ended with the party vote going to the Homestead for the night. Four slept in the barn—was this Bethlehem? No, a virgin couldn’t be found— this was our home for the Fit group for the night. Kiwi ingenuity made the place into a palace: kitchen table made from an old wooden door, three crates as a cooking table-cum-vegetable rack, logs as seats, and the outside toilet even had real toilet paper and a wooden seat. And two boysenberry cheesecakes for dessert. But there was something missing—entertainment: all the Taihape jokes made their second appearance and Roger was the do-gooder by herding a calf, which was on the wrong side of the fence, into a field only to find it was the wrong field and _the other cows resented this new _| intruder (alien calf, not Roger!) and bullied it for the next 10 minutes.
The third day was even less energetic than the other two days— a 40-minute stroll back to the Orient Express to be precise. Not surprisingly we were the first ones back. We studied the map intensely once more which came to no avail as there were no suitable, purposeful day walks in the vicinity. Gary used the time as an opportunity to train for the Coast to Coast and opted for a one hour run in tramping boots and the inseparable camelbak.
Here ends the tail of the Fit group’s antics in Nelson Lakes. This was my first Fit trip and judging by what the other two Medium groups did, perhaps we were the unofficial Easys.
The terrain wasn’t too demanding, though steep at times, the pace was certainly fast but not furious, the three-hour lunch on the snowcovered saddle was just obnoxious, and the Homestead very dry. Tod’s comment summed up the sentiments of the group: “You know what guys, I just can’t believe how much tramping we actually didn’t do this weekend”. I’m not lured into a false sense of security but my first Fit trip for me stood for Farmstay, Fast, I (sand)Flies, Farting and Fun.
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By Charlie Batho
Xmas Party! Club Lodge 15 December 1996