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aster 1998 was one of those
Fr sicremse arrangements — work... no work... work... no work. Too late to meet up with the T&Ms and too disorganised to do anything serious closer to home, I set off late on Saturday to explore the -‘upper-reaches of the Macauley River. The Macauley River rules our lives at Lilybank. Low and clear for days _ onend, as.soon as staff are due for leave, or we need stores, mail or guests transported, it rains in the back country and the water turns a dirty grey and flows up to a metre higher. This has the effect of making a 200-metre crossing into a kilometre-wide barrier. A 4-hour walk on Saturday took me to Boulder Flat. This is an interesting area of river flats dotted with huge rocks, big enough to rival the size of the Krull Street laundry pile after a weekend tramp. It’s a place of strange beauty. The river valley is over a kilometre wide, mostly grey gravel and striped by braided streams. Huge scree- and tussockcovered slopes rise steeply from the valley floor, dominating the landscape and forming a stunning alpine landscape. The colours are strong, golden tussock, the hue enhanced by ripening seedheads, and black rock contrasting strongly with the grey of the matagouri. The gradient is steady from source to outlet, gentle enough to be barely noticeable whilst walking, yet giving a briskness to the river which can be deceptive. Finding a campsite in a sheltered spot with a flat rock perfect tor cooking, tT} organised myself before dark. I was in my pit and reading by candle-light at 7.15 pm. At 8.30 the Easter moon popped over the horizon, giving a silver sheen to the landscape. It was very still and beautiful. I was soon asleep, to be woken some time later by a possum, checking out my billy and being generally nosy. He took some persuading to leave, and by
then I was wide awake again, so I read for a bit longer. Sunday dawned clear and cold, with heavy dew but no frost. This was new country for me; I had reached the campsite area several times before on day walks, but previously had to turn back to make home before nightfall. A blister or two slowed me somewhat, but I plodded on up the valley, _ thankful for the light covering of cloud keeping the temperature down. The landscape changed suddenly when Toms Stream met the Macauley. The Macauley burst out of a small gorge and appeared to change its character completely. The track took me over some low rolling tussock-covered hills which I surmised were the remnants of a long-gone glacier. A pair of paradise ducks called their panicky greeting as I checked out a small tarn which was marked on the map. As far as tarns go, it was quite ordinary, but worthy of a photo as the reflections of the hills above showed clearly in the calm conditions. A couple of hours later and still the head of the Macauley was not in sight. The low hills gave way to shingle riverbed, but with a tussock- and matagouri-covered plateau alongside, which made for more pleasant travel than the rough footing of the riverbed. Being unsure of campsites ahead, and now being off my map, I made a tactical decision to make camp and explore more quickly without my pack. Time was against me, but after a longish lunch and a snooze in the sun, I search of the head of the valley. With time pressing on, I spied an area of tussock flats ahead and decided to turn back at that point. Of course, upon reaching that point there was another equally tantalising target ahead. This really had to be it, or I would be searching for my campsite in the dark, and I didn’t like my chances of finding it too easily.
Marilyn Dufty Right around the corner was my reward for persistence. A breathtaking scene lay before me. I was surrounded by mountains, with permanent ice fields showing the effects of summer. The scale of the place made me feel very small indeed, and the unusual -calm_and distinctive_cry of. keas far above gave the landscape an eerie quality. It was stunningly beau- _ tiful, and worth the blisters and tired shoulders to be there. I clicked away busily with my camera, trying to capture the vista on film knowing it would never be the same after processing, but wanting to take something home to review in my old age. My ambition was to see the source of the river, and here it was only a metre across. I took a photo, with my map placed on a rock to show scale, to show where the mighty Macauley was only a foot-step wide. Definitely time to head back now, I set off to find my pack. What a surprise to reach the spot and find my fly already up! On closer investigation I met a group (also with a blue fly) of Alpine Club trampers, mainly from Wellington, who had climbed Mt Sibbald that day. My campsite was 50 metres further up the slope. We exchanged greetings and tales and went our separate ways. The night was clear and calm, with the same glorious moon and array of stars. My bivvy bag struggled to combat the cold, and in the morning there was frost both inside and outside the bag. With an 8-hour walk ahead of me, I made a an early start. This time I followed the river’s path eG LE Lam LE through the gorge, where water action had rounded off the boulders. It was still easy travel and a very different river to the one which meandered through its braided path to the lake. What a glorious walk! I was home by 3.30pm, happy that I had achieved what I set out to do and confident to tackle further expeditions in the fields of the golden grass.
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