This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
weekend
Words: Spencer Clubb Pictures: Amanda Wells
Seven keen trampers headed into the Tararuas over the 4 day ANZAC weekend to tackle the classic S-K traverse. There were several possible routes depending on the weather, but all of them looked challenging and exciting on the map.
The first night we hiked for 3 hours to Roaring Stag. This was no mean feat given the enormous meals that we had recently consumed in the Carterton kebab shop. One of our party in particular set a commonwealth record of six minutes for the fastest demolition of a mountainous plate of tasty Turkish fare. Why oh why was the drive to the road end not another hour away, we thought, as we tightened our packs over our expanded bellies. Being the wrong side of the Autumn Solstice, the length of the days was a factor, and Amanda, or fearless trip leader, made sure we were up bright and early each morning by putting a brew on to tempt us out of a our sleeping bags. We had a big day planned, to cow creek for lunch, then up over Table Ridge to Girdlestone and Tarn Ridge Hut.
The morning proved longer than expected, with extended periods of river travel and bushbashing, as orange markers became few and far between. After one climb where the ‘track’ had been overcome by nature, some of our keener members almost ended up on Cattle Ridge. Luckily, with the use of not one but 3 watches with altimeters telling us that we should have reached cow saddle, we managed to slip past the slips and track down the track again. Lunch at cow creek hut was shared with a Search and Rescue (SAR) team on a training operation. Helicopters buzzed, radios crackled and men in orange vests sort of, well, sat around doing nothing, as far as we could tell.
By the time we had eaten lunch it was getting late and we were feeling weary on 5 hours sleep. After a short spell heading up towards tarn ridge hut we thought better of it and decided that there was more to life than struggling along windy tops in the dark. We retreated and headed along the river in much more civilised fashion towards Mitre Flats Hut.
Along the way we came across an enticing area of river flats and decided to pitch the flies and stop for the night. Things were going well. We put up an impressive pitch, some would say almost perfect, and settled down to an evening of tasty food and good conversation. I say an evening, in actual fact, by 6.30 most of the party had already hit the sack and were looking forward to 12 hours of solid, regenerating, kip. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other ideas...
Before long a huge wind had whipped up and was threatening to send us to Oz with Dorothy. What would happen when an unstoppable force met an immovable object?
The fly held well, with only the odd peg being ripped out the ground. But, at 3 in the morning, disaster struck. The immovable object moved. To be precise, the immovable object ripped apart.
After some frantic activity we realised that there was no choice but to take the fly down completely and sleep under the stars. At first this seemed like a rather bad option, and there are photos to prove it, with some party members staring out of their sleeping bags with faces as long as horses and as sour as grapes. However, without the constant flapping of the fly, the night was much more peaceful and I even got a couple of hours kip. Running total for the trip so far: 7 hours sleep, 11hours tramping.
In the morning the wind was still ripping through the river flats. Somehow, Craig and Victoria’s 2-person fly was still up and withstanding unbelievable punishment. For those who are interested, Craig has an impressive video shot on the digital camera of the fly blowing like a crazed animal in the gale force winds. For the rest of us, we hurriedly packed up any objects lighter than about 5 kilos for fear of them flying back to Wellington, and prepared to continue downstream towards Mitre Flats hut.
Despite the traumas of the night before, we were thankful not to be at Tarn Ridge Hut. If, indeed, it was still standing. Later in the trip we met a couple of trampers who were forced to retreat, crawling, off the tops. A good decision to stay low.
The river travel was steady, but after multiple crossings it wasn’t long before most people’s underwear had received a soaking either from the lethal combination of short legs and deep water, or from slipping on slippery rocks. Beware the brown ones!
At Mitre Flats Hut our peaceful and relaxing lunch was disturbed by the rather spectacular arrival of an NZRAF helicopter, complete with action man pilot with square jaw and lazily disguised ego. Not that I’m jealous, of course! The helicopter pilots were part of the SAR operation and asked us if any of us were called Ivan. We weren't. Ivan was obviously a slippery customer, as the searching continued for at least 2 days. We waved goodbye to the chopper and proceeded to gather up cups, caps and other worldly possessions that had felt the second gale force winds of the day — this time from out of the back of the chopper. In the afternoon we made good progress southward, crossing out of one watershed and into another. All of a sudden the territory became more familiar and the tracks more civilised, as we approached Atiwhakatu Hut. For once we could look at the views instead of our feet. That night we ate like kings and slept like babies. Day three was not without incident, with two wasp stings and two saddles keeping us on our toes. By now I was also suffering from serious gear-envy. All of our party except me sported gaiters, over half showed off their ultra-light holey-soles and two people even had the same super-smart digital cameras. A shopping blow-out beckoned! By the time we reached Cone Hut it was dark. We were too tired to go on, but too bashful to share the hut with a couple of love-birds, particularly as we would have to wake them at 5am to make it out on time the next day. In the end we pushed on to Tutuwai and arrived, exhausted, 11.5 hours after leaving Atiwhakatu.
The final day saw us tramp 5 hours in the rain out over the puffer saddle. Weary but exhilarated. On the way we passed 4 youngsters auditioning for the next SAR rescue operation, complete with broken stove, small packs and bad shoes. I hope I don’t read about them in the papers.
Final score: 28 hours sleep, 35 hours tramping. We bow to the fits who do the S-K in two days. We're not worthy.
The trampers were: Amanda (Leader), Spencer, Craig, Victoria, Laurayne, Dirk and Matt