This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
Mentally bracing myself for “Songs that won the war” only to find that Rockin’ Rog hadn’t brought his tape! Thanks to a derailment at MacKays Crossing, the traffic was backed up to Pukerua Bay. No worries! Roger had a short-cut. A quick U-turn and we were zipping over Greys Road and the Rimutaka Hill. Of course it had been raining since we left and Struan and I had been trying to raise a revolution from a coach full of baboons who make sheep look quickwitted (no-one can accuse me of joining this club to make friends). On Saturday night, Struan’s baboons told us that they thought we were kidding about going to the Onga Onga pub (refer to previous statement pertaining to their intellects). As Roger propelled us northwards through the “Rapa”, to my left were the mighty Tararuas (somewhere in that wall of black cloud), to my right the Haurangis basking in golden sunlight, possibly the only place this weekend that would see the sun. In one last attempt to raise a mutiny that would cause this sheep transporter to head east, I managed to see a slight waiver in our Chief Guide’s grim determination to turn us into amphibians. The doomed ship sailed on. My spirit crushed, I resigned myself to my fate. Disembarking from the bus I had visions of pirates bullying poor souls to walk the plank. Off I stepped into the water. Thankfully, it’s too cold for sharks. After dog paddling to shallow water we set the fly up in the driest puddle we could find. Saturday morning I awake to find that it wasn’t a bad dream —- I really do appear to be experiencing one of these trips Harry seems to collect for the enjoyment of others around a campfire. The original plan was to skip along the tops in the brilliant sunshine as the scent of alpine flowers caress our nostrils while Struan gently guides us to our final destination to camp in a tranquil sun-dappled meadow beside a stream where mighty trout leap from the river to snap at Struan’s lures as he casts effortlessly into the breathtaking Waipakihi. Unfortunately it’s raining and Struan’s outlook on this weekend would make a suicidal manic depressive look cheerfully optimistic. In between fits of despair, Struan has come
Pic night, Orient Express, Roger at the helm.
Dave Garratt
up with a brilliant plan: the tops will be the pits so we will reverse our course and travel up the sheltered valley to a nice warm hut. Brilliant! Baboons away. Into the hills we go. ‘Once off the road and under the trees we wander up a track which is up to a good standard. We stop at the bushline and regroup and swap scroggin. There are five of us and we all have different snacks which make for a good smorgasbord. Struan gave us our final orders and over the top we went. Andrew and I blazed a trail to the summit and claimed it for Queen and country and made a big deal out of our summit (it was a slow day, OK). Then we strolled across Urchin’s bald patch with the wind blowing at our backs, which sure beats having it in your face. We hit the bush again on the other side and I regrouped before plodding down some of those 2foot steps you seem to get on steep tracks. The usual conversation was had when you hit these: “I’m glad we’re not going up these”, which is one of those statements that usually results in your going back up the bloody things the next day due to the weather, which leads to the next statement: “They weren’t as bad as I thought they’d be” when you retreat, because fate likes to prove you wrong. We reached a camping spot along the river a bit and had a poxy lunch stop. Struan asked if we wanted to stop here as the river was a bit iffy and we could set up camp and watch the rain. After a fair and democratic vote it was decided 7 votes to 1 that we would continue as opposed to sitting in a tent fly watching the rain fall. The rest of the afternoon consisted of half a dozen river crossings that got deeper and deeper. The water was quite warm (or else the air temperature was bloody cold) so it was actually fun. It was an interesting valley with a wide river like the AUtt River. Usually they seem to bé quite narrow, in steep valleys. Just to show that Struan still has his magic touch, we were wading through a thigh-deep puddle on the valley floor. It was fresh rain water and clear enough to see the bottom, which was sun-baked clay with deep cracks in it at least 10- 15 cm deep (3 to 4 inches deep, I think, Harry). After crossing a side stream halfway up the valley (which had some pretty impressive standing waves in it) we spent the next hour moving about 1 km onwards on some steepish terrain. I told Struan our rear gunner wasn't looking too flash and the towel was thrown in. We crossed the river one last time (with 3 out of 5 of us floating) and pitched the fly with the added bonus of the rain stopping. On with a brew and off with the wet clothes. During this time the river we had crossed had gone from ribcage height to gaiter-top level as we stood around in a weak excuse for sunshine that seemed _ pretty tropical after the earlier conditions. Dinner consisted of a magnificent curry, which Struan described as pumpkin soup because the rest of the punters had skimped on vegetables, while the pumpkin porter had brought a realsitic amount of vegetables for their appetite. Dessert was simple, but delicious. Cream, a serving of fruit each, and a small bar of chocolate (a single serving size bar is 200g as far as I’m concerned). There was a good mix of fruit, and the blueberries really made it. An after-dinner brew was also had. I tried an organic tea bag that sounded different, and I couldn’t work out why it tasted peculiar until I realised that it had a peaty taste like a single malt whiskey. All it needed was a bit of — — —. > stove fuel added and it might have been a bonnie wee dram. With that the night owls hit the sack and I lay in my pit looking at the stars until the wee hours when I finally got tired. The stars were out which raised my hopes for Sunday and so it was to. be. We woke up to clag in the valleys but it burnt off slowly as the party ate their gravel for breakfast whilst I dined on fruit loaf and a decent cup of coffee. The plan was to bash up the spur behind us to the ridge track. We probably picked the only one in the valley that was 50% slip residue. We tried to think like deer and_use.their-trails.— the Jittle_buggers.don’t make ~ very good trails. But if they did, I guess there would be a lot less deer as the hunters would stand a better chance of keeping up with them.
After going around, through, and even over bush (which caused our token female to show us she could swear as well as the rest of the blokes) we hit the tops and sunshine. We regrouped on the poled route, which seemed like the perfect place for a coffee. As we sat there waiting for our brew, we watched the Fits coming towards us. After morning smoko we gave the Fits a 5-minute headstart so as not to upset their delicate egos. We tried to keep a respectful distance from these super. athletes, but ended up having them spoil our view at lunch. A great view of the triple peaks, Lakes Rotoaira and Taupo, and the Poutu Canal looking very manmade in the midst of it all. After waiting for the pizza that Roger had been ordering on his cellphone (after all, why else would you bring one, let alone wave one of those things around in the wilderness!) we trundled down the track. A road bash back to the Orient Express followed and we were soon whisked back to Wellington via the Akatarawas due to another hold-up at MacKays Crossing. Roger reckons you can get BMWS to fourwheel-drift around the corners but to my disappointment he didn’t manage to slide the twin tyres on the back. I guess he was too busy honking the horn to warn oncoming traffic to prepare to be squashed. <_< > All that’s left to write is that Struan has a well-rinsed pack and tramping boots to dispense of. If you’re interested, I’m sure he will swap it for a stamp collection or train set. Cheers Struan for leading another pack of baboons into the wild. The baboons were: Andrew Squires (silly songs a speciality), Allen Gruenberg (ich bien ein medium tramper), Dave Garrett (what’s the matter with my shirt?), Carol MacKay (token chick), and our leader Struan Little (who has made rain into a lifestyle
PS. Statistically this weekend was a weird one. The Easy trip had a token bloke; the Mediums had a token chick, and the Fits had a token punter.
WT&MC Apri! 1999
[Photo captions and page text that interrupted the story:]
Bb Lac) MRS EE eT
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