This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
pert, but having spent a weekend in the Tararua Ranges, I feel I have some useful advice to offer to other greenhorn trampers. Basically this comes down to three essentials:
I certainly can’t claim to be an ex-
- Waterproof your sleeping bag; 2. Wear stitched, not glued boots; 3. Never go tramping in a G-string.
The Bushcraft Weekend started auspiciously when we jumped off the bus into the nearest available mud puddles. Some of our party looked like they knew what they were doing, managing to fling their packs onto their backs without throwing themselves into the mud. We set off up the road, ohhing at ahhing appropriately at the joys of nature, glow worms, gushing water, and other marvels. We made the most of the last bastion of civilisation (aka flush toilets), delaying the inevitable familiarity with the joys of the longdrop. Greeted at the hut by a gaggle of children, a monster-sized dog, and despite the heat, a blazing fire, we decided to sample the joys of fly camping. No amount of searching would reveal the items which appeared to be missing, namely the ends of the tent, the built-in groundsheet, and the tent pegs. We had a lot to learn! Tying the flies to the grass produced all number of creative knot-tying interpretations and squawks of alarm throughout the night as our shelters attempted to become airborne. Intermittent rain during the night created interesting problem-solving techniques. I simply took my wet sleeping bag and jumped between I my fly-mates, wishing somebody had given me piece of advice No. 1 about waterproofing. Those in the small fly made a lean-to type arrangement which sunk inwards whenever the wind blew, sticking the wet material to their already wet sleeping bags. After breakfast in bed, we met for a talk about necessary gear. Despair set in as cash registers rang in our heads. Busy counting the cost, I barely heard the warnings about the absolute necessity of a good pair of boots. Let’s just say, I was to learn the hard way. We set off, taking a route which seemed to go straight up, straight across, and straight down, ending up a couple of hundred yards upriver from where we'd started. We set up camp, putting into practice the wealth of experience gleaned from the previous sleepless night, and got down to the serious business of feeding ourselves — again. We ate frequently and with determination, totally committed to lightening our packs, if only by the seemingly inconsequential weight of a single Mars Bar. Fully refuelled, we huddled under the shelter of the flies, to explore a world as perplexing as the frontiers of space — the humble topographical map. Confidence was high before perplexity set in, as we headed off to test our new-found skills in reading contour lines and compasses. We came across some very interesting sights, not all of them marked on the trusty map. These included a ... er ... very happy man coming towards us on the swing bridge in a very tight pair of bright orange speedos, and off in the distance, the advance group of map readers struggling through a swamp of knee-deep mud, guided by our resident orienteering — and — map reading expert. During our travels, the front of my boot decided to part company with the sole, casting me flat on my face ona spur which I couldn’t see on the map anywhere. The boot made a great puppet, but
Hence piece of advice No 2. Day 2, we were feeling reasonably staunch. We stumbled blindfolded across the boulder-strewn riverbank, to simulate murky river crossings, and then tried out the new river crossing technique designed by the Mountain Safety Council. This involves forcing your arms into the
I wasn’t much use tor bushiwhacking, I
Ali Everts sweaty ‘space’ between the back and the pack of the people beside you. Designed with maximum discomfort in mind, the thinking seems to be that breaking both of your arms is preferable to being swept away. By this time my sole was grimly hanging on to a mere heel, and the shoelace, hair tie and sleeping bag cord tied to hold the rest on, made the precarious footholds even harder to retain.
Keen to practice the real thing but wary of the rain-swollen section of the river we were camped by, we set off to find another spot. Here’s where piece of advice No 3 comes in. Basically, just don’t do it OK! On the way up the rocks to the plateau, all emergency shoe-repair measures frayed and snapped, plunging me headlong into the bushes, creating impressively scabby knees — surely the ‘undeniable mark of the hardy tramper, which I now proudly display on Wellington’s suit-congested streets. The sock I put on over the flapping boot gradually became decorated with pieces of assorted fauna, a look well-established on the catwalks of the ranges. We spent a few hours wandering around a well-groomed loop track, occasionally coming across casual strollers in sun-dresses and sandals, putting an end to our hard-core illusions. We slid down a bank and after some organising, fearlessly plunged into the quiet, knee-deep water. We slipped and slithered our way across, much to the amusement of picnickers calmly crossing on the sturdy bridge 20 metres downstream. We boot and sole finally parted company for good and floated off down the river. A quick swim for all, and it was back up the road to the bus, via the much revered flush toilets. Halfway up the road, my other boot disintegrated into 3 sodden pieces. Tired, barefoot and happy, I left my sole in the Otaki Gorge. Make a great song title, wouldn’t it?