This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
to evoke passionate views from those who have experienced them firsthand. Why then did 3 out of a party of 7 consider it a good idea to revisit this legendary tract of country? For the uninitiated — imagine the worst patch of scoria terrain on Ruapehu, stretch it out for 10 km along a deceptively climbing ridge, throw in leg-eating gaps in between unstable blocks of razorsharp ultramafic rock, no water supply for 8 hours’ walking, a gendarmed approach to a hidden summit (The Red Hill 1702m), paint it all red and you have a mission ahead of you. To balance the above factors the Red Hills, situated just north-east of St Arnaud at the head of the Wairau Valley, hold great geological significance. Namely they are red (caused by a high concentration of certain minerals) and when slid down the spine of the South Island to northern Fiordland they fit neatly with the Red Hills in the Olivines. Coincidence perhaps? Geologists would have you believe otherwise — movement of tectonic plates, fault lines, Gondwanaland, dinosaurs etc — for my part I think the Red Hills have been declared “geologically significant” to entice young naive trampers into a visit. Now none of this helps explain why Jo, Shane and I agreed to revisit. Nor perhaps does it explain why any of the remainder of the party, with perhaps the exception of Harriette, came along for the ride — “young and naive” are not appropriate descriptors (eh John?). Darryl (our ex Otago bus driver) had already showed his true colours by lending his “banana skin” to Jenny for the weekend. This was a good omen. It’s a well-known fact that when a member of your party forgets their rainjacket you can be sure of good weather for the duration of the trip. Apart from overshooting our drop-off point on Friday night our midnight stroll up to Red Hills Hut was most pleasant. I’m sure the numerous stories retold on the hut walls were entertaining to the usual 4WD and hunting clientele but I found them lacking in plot structure and character depth at lam. Saturday disclosed a stunningly moody day with the snow-covered range stretching north ahead of us. Clag slowly retreated north during the day, peeling back to reveal, bump by bump, our route. Sullen skies
I nothing else the mention of the “Red Hills” tends
Andrew McLellan
interrupted by bursts of sun provided a dynamic backdrop. Travel along the ridge is fine for the first two-thirds in good conditions. The last third can reduce the hardiest of trampers to glum resignation. Adda good coating of snow and travel just gets downright frustrating. By this stage (late afternoon) the memories of the Red Hills vets amongst us started to be vocalised. Shane recalled being blown off the ridge by a blizzard; Jo frequently used the word “hellish”. Meanwhile, John was preoccupied with being cold; Jenny interrogated everyone (especially John) on their age; Harriette remained remarkably subdued and Stuart silently contemplated the ignominy of a night out on the tops with the weather about to break. Spirits lifted as we reached the saddle from which a rough route sidles down to Top Wairoa Hut; chocolate nut rations were distributed. We had just been treated to a spectacular sunset — crimson reds streaked through horizon-wide waves of grey. Exhausted torches (or should that be torchbearers?) stumbled from cairn to cairn in the dark. A collaborative effort brought us within sight of the hut candlelight — a beacon that quickly put us off route. Route regained, we plodded into the hut at a reasonable hour (7.30pm-ish, more than acceptable given the 8pm and 10pm arrivals of the FEs and the Fits back in 1992). We shared the hut with two “locals” who had made hard work of it coming in over Ben Nevis. Strategically it rained overnight. The Wairoa was up a bit in the morning, but its cold was worse than its flow. The Wairoa is all gorge at this height with heaps of cascades, pools and bluffs. It was a reasonably pleasant way to spend the morning. Mid Wairoa Hut was a good tea spot — like most huts in the Richmonds, in impeccable order. Plans were changed to head out over Bushy Top (instead of Rintoul) to the Goulter. I could claim wisdom determined this direction, rather than the rate of progress. Our pace slowed further, we struggled to even spook a morepork from its mid afternoon stance as we dropped down through manuka to the Goulter River. A. good frost and clear skies urged us out on Monday, heading up the Goulter as valley mist burnt off. Cool but pleasant travel up towards Lake Chalice.
Trip Reports
Discrepancies in recorded times between huts saw us take the conservative approach of getting out to the roadend on time (a trait alleged by some to not be common amongst fit trips). Ironically if we had dallied a bit longer we may have been better placed to assist in helping the Easy trip.
As it was we had time to admire the view back towards Patriarch and the Red Hills — swearing that twice is enough, you can have too much of a good thing.
Punters: Stuart, Jo, John, Harriette, Jenny, Shane and Pooh.