This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
Sand bagged: - verb tr. US. to coerce through harsh means Jonathan: “Shane you lazy bucket of spew, Ruapehu is sticking its head above the clouds. It’s time to go.” Shane: “You better not be dicking me about!“
I shuffle out of the tent and stretch my under-developed body to its full size.
Jonathan: “OK, now give us 20 starjumps and we'll be off.” Shane: “I think I need a cup of coffee.”
By now the overnight rain has cleared, but a damp nor’wester still races over Ruapehu. Discussion turns to what we are going to do now that we are here. A practice ice climb on Tukino and bivvy out on the plateau look out of the question, but the alternatives don’t look so hot either. A trip through the flooded Okupata Caves isn’t my cup of tea. In the end we head up to Whakapapa Village to check out the weather. In the library like atmosphere of the DOC visitor centre we read the forecast for the usual El Nino crud.
Jonathan: “\'ve been here before in weather like this and we just climbed up above the cloud layer... If the weather isn’t good enough to camp on top we can go down Waihohonu Ridge and come back on the Round the Mountain Track.”
To say no is far too negative so I agree to go to the Top of the Bruce to humour Jonathan, all of the time thinking that maybe I can join Don Goodhue and his band of merry party people comfortably ensconced in the Club Lodge.
The weather at the Top of the Bruce is no better, so Jonathan suggests
“We could just go for an hour and turn back if it gets worse. The exercise will be good training!” I decide that things aren’t too bad especially when Jonathan decides to take the tent and rope in his pack — maybe he is serious about this training business. An hour passes. We continue climbing at a gentle, almost lulling, pace up through the scoria and ash. My cheap sandals seem just the thing for these conditions. Then the coffee and exercise kick in; with a rush of blood to my head I declare, “We may as well carry on to the top, it isn’t too bad after all.”
“Yes! He’s mine, all mine,” thinks Jonathan. “A triumph of motivation and cunning over Shane’s inner slacker spirit.”
We finally hit snow to find it’s in really bad condition with obvious dishing from the rain and icy ribs running through it. As I change my sandals for plastics and crampons I look around to notice strange cloud patterns now flank the upper slopes, and comment that they don’t look right. Shortly after, we are enveloped by clag and a moist nor’wester begins to blow. The snow is broken by large patches of dirty ash and rock. So much for the ice climbing and extra climbing gear I’m carrying. Good exercise all the same, I say to myself. Jonathan's positivity has become infectious.
We finally reach the crater rim and sneak over the ridge for a sheltered lunch spot. The wind is really strong now, no place for a picnic. Rifling through my pack I remember I only bought four pieces of stale pita bread for lunch anyway — this is no gourmet trip.
Shane Connolly
Climbing back on to the ridge we stagger round the crater rim in near white-out conditions. Ten minutes later, something doesn’t seem right. Ridges, by definition, aren’t usually flat. We check the compass, turn to the south, and walk for 20 metres.
Damn! This isn’t Te Heu Heu Ridge at all. We are somewhere in the middle of the crater plateau in whiteout! I consult the compass again and head back on a bearing of due north hoping that we will eventually hit Te Heu Heu Ridge. As we approach it a venturi effect amplifies the now raging wind.
Jonathan (shouting): “Those poor bastards in the lodge. They don’t know what they are missing out on!”
Yes, they are missing out on some experience all right — things are pretty grim now. I’m having problems standing and the wind is blasting ice and scoria through my polyprop longjohns and I have to turn my face to stop the pain. To compound things my left sandal departs from my pack, taking a rapid trajectory towards the Kaimanawas. I quickly link up with Jonathan to prevent myself from heading the same way and together we stagger and crawl the last 300 metres to regain the ridge and Te Heu Heu. After checking the compass again we head off on another bearing, down into the murk, making a fine effort to fall over on the mushy ash/snow combo as often as possible. Once again I don’t think we are on a proper ridge but in the mist and rounded terrain it is virtually impossible to tell. At least we’re dropping out of the wind. Eventually we hit some snow good enough to glissade on and quickly descend another 150 vertical metres.
While stopping for a break the cloud clears just enough to give us glimpses of three major ridges. Frantically we try to check the flailing map, but wind and rain have their way and we are left clutching colourful papier (map) mache. We’re both feeling stuffed, a state which may have some relevance to the next choice of ridge — the one that seems to involve the least amount of climbing. It sort of goes in the right direction, Jonathan reassures me.
We follow the ridge down to its end. By this stage we are down below the cloud, the sun is poking through occasionally, and we find ourselves in dry ash valleys with no water and a dehydration-type thirst. We take a final compass bearing and head off again traversing a number of small valleys until the Round-the-Mountain
Trip Reports
Track thankfully comes into view. It’s about 7.30 pm by now and we both collapse in a heap on a ledge where we plan to pitch the tent. Jonathan: “Those poor bastards in the lodge...” Somehow we get it together enough to pitch the tent and I jump inside feeling nauseous, shivering and with shallow breathing — the mild effects of mountain sickness. Mercifully Jonathan prepares a fine meal and dives back into the tent as the wind and rain regain their gusto. The storm intensifies during the night, ensuring that I get minimal sleep. At 5.00 am I look at my watch and ponder the thought of having to break camp. But at 7.00 am I awake and I am amazed that the rain has stopped. There is a God after all!
We gulp down breakfast and head off on the Round-the-Mountain Track, making a small detour to take in the splendour of the Tama Lakes in heavy rain. “It’s over there Shane,” says Jonathan pointing to a blank wall of mist. The last hour proves painful for me as my left foot swells about the ankle — bruised as a result of wearing plastic boots on a hard track. This gets bad enough for me to wear my right sandal on my left foot, and hide in shame behind Jonathan as we make our way past day-tripping tourists on the way back to Whakapapa Village. Jonathan: “Those poor bastards don’t know what they’ve missed out on.”
The punters: Jonathan Kennet (sandbagger) Shane Connolly (wannabe slacker)