We left the coast behind and barreled across the country following the Buller
River. This river runs all the way from St. Arnaud, where our major 3-day tramp
was scheduled to begin, to the coast. It was a long drive, and the weather
deteriorated as we approached the starting point for the 3 day tramp. At St.
Arnaud, at the northern end of Lake Rotoiti, Alison and her family, along with
Greg, peeled off to do a mountain biking trip in the Marlborough Sounds area. We
all had a choice of three options for this portion of the trip – sea kayaking,
mountain biking, or a long tramp. No one opted for the kayaks, and the rest of
us went on with the bus to the trail head to start out.
We’d all packed light throughout the trip. But at this point “light” took on new
meaning. We were fixing to be on the trail 3 days. We had to pack food, as well.
Nev had made the rounds the night before to help us cull unnecessary clothing,
while making sure to have the right gear on hand for what could be, and proved
to be, changeable weather even in the summer here.
Now, in moderate rain, we made last preparations amid a
crowd of other hikers who seemed to all be finishing, rather than starting,
tramps. We weren’t sure this was a good sign, especially as we saw the skeptical
looks as they eyed us and our preparations. The first leg was advertised as a 2
hour easy track along the lake side. Our destination was Lake Head Hut, a DOC
hut from which we’d do the full day serious tramp the following day.
It might be a short, easy hike in fair weather. But for us it proved to be
tougher and longer. We were on the trail about 3 hours. By the end we’d again
become completely amphibious. You could hear us
coming
by the squishing sound. Parts of the trail had disappeared completely into
boggy, over-the-ankle wetlands. We just bulled through, confident Kiwi trampers!
The track was mostly a ways in from the shore. The trees were mature, there was
little underbrush, and tuis and bellbirds called as we passed. When the track
veered close to the lake we could
catch
glimpses of the clear water and the far, forested shore. We spied waterfalls
across the lake, and the glistening raindrops pending from the evergreens gave
everything a jewel-like sparkle.
We emerged from the bush through a final rushing ford and arrived at Lake Head
Hut. DOC maintains these huts all over the country. Some are on the so-called
Great Walks and have to be reserved ahead of time to manage the traffic. Most,
including ours, are first-come, first-served affairs. Everyone staying needs a
“hut pass” that can be purchased from DOC offices and wardens. If a warden comes
through and you don’t have one, you have to buy one on the spot at a premium.
We arrived late in the afternoon and must have been a
sight to those already snuggled in. Fourteen sorry, soggy trampers arriving
practically all at once. In a stroke we doubled the hut’s little population. The
outer room was festooned with parkas, socks, pants and everything else you can
imagine, in an optimistic attempt to dry them out. Most of the good spots had
been taken, so we crammed our stuff in as best we could. Inside there was a
pot-bellied coal stove going full on. Again, the good spots for hanging clothes
above had all been taken. But the warmth was welcome after the frosty weather
outside.
The huts have bunks laid out along the walls, with one lot above the other in a
loft-like arrangement. They’re open affairs with one long plastic covered
mattress running the entire length; very communal.
It’s
pretty much “come as you are,” rolling out a sleeping bag where there seems to
be space to reserve a spot for the night. There was running cold water in both
huts we stayed in, provided by cisterns that collected rainwater. A latrine
periodically serviced by DOC helicopter was about 50 meters away outside. A
cistern provided water outside for personal washing-up; inside was reserved for
cooking and utensils. Everyone had to have their own cookstoves, and several
were going at any one time. Most popular trail dish: Ramen noodles. No kidding!
Quick, easy to prepare, plenty of built-in seasoning, and lots of carbs. Nic,
however, collected bags from various backpacks and prepared a wonderful meal
from scratch with fresh cooked veggies, some chicken, and rice. She’d even
brought a bladder of wine! We got lots of sideways glances at that table! As
twilight descended around 9:30 pm we were all preparing for bed, and by 10 I
think everyone was bedded down.
Endurance
We all went to bed hoping for clear weather. But the wind and rain continued all
night, and we awoke to sheets of irain sweeping across the meadow outside Lake Head
Hut and obscuring any view of the mountains beyond. Nev
fretted at the weather as other trampers began to leave. Most were heading back
to St. Arnaud, having finished their tramps. One UK group gamely headed up the
same trail we were planning to take. Our planned route would take us to the top
of the ridge above us, to a height of about 6,000 feet, just below Mt. Angelus.
We’d first have to ford the river running in front of Lake Head Hut, and along
the way get past a waterfall near the final pitch to the summit. The rain had
swollen the river past fording, and Nev was worried the waterfall would be
impassable. That could mean having to tramp all the way there only to be forced
back to Lake Head in the end.
Nev had us wait an extra hour to see if the weather would clear. It did a bit,
and we shrugged into damp gear and soggy shoes and headed off into the misty
weather.
Because the river was too high to ford at Lake Head Hut, we took the track
another 2 miles up the river on a detour that led to a swingbridge.
The
tramping was somewhat more demanding than the day before, but not as tough as
the Robert’s Point hike to the glacier. But the water was everywhere. Boggy
patches alternated with rocky pathways slicked by rain. Every little stream or
rivulet was in freshet, pouring across and often along the track. Somewhere
along this part the UK group passed us coming back. “Couldn’t ford the bloody
river,” was their only comment as they passed. We splashed along gamely to the
bridge. It could support only one person at a time, and was dodgy going even
then. It clearly was not meant as a thoroughfare. On the other side, we soberly
assessed that we were several hours behind our plan. Nev urged us on and we
backtracked some ways on the opposite side of the river to catch the Cascade
Track that would take us to Angelus Hut.
Shortly after we set out again Nev halted us to reconnoiter a crossing where the
trail was completely obliterated by rushing water joining the main current from
the forest to our left. This is normally an easy, shallow crossing. But as he
gingerly stepped across it he stumbled and lost the foot track, and slid up to
his butt in the water. He was able to scramble back up, but we faced a real
decision. The water was deep enough that some of our group could risk genuine
danger if they couldn’t follow the track. Loaded down with packs weighing as
much as 30 pounds, it was not a happy prospect. Nev was frank and direct. In the
end, we explored some ways further up the stream coming from the left and
discovered a safer, shallower crossing there. We took this, but it was another
detour adding perhaps 30 minutes, and a lot of anxiety, to the trip. We headed
on, and shortly met a fellow coming down from Angelus Hut. “What’s the trail
like further on,” we asked. “Awful,” he replied, reporting that the DOC Warden
staying at the hut had turned back on her trip back to St. Arnaud that morning
because the waterfall crossing was impassable. He himself had bushwhacked down
the river bank to find a safer crossing. We were sobered.
I’m not a wet weather person. At home I get cranky when it rains. I’m not big on
going outdoors when it’s wet. But we’d been so practiced by now, and the spirit
of the trip was so embracing of activity in any weather, that it didn’t faze me,
or, I think, any of the others. It was inconvenient. It was uncomfortable. But
we had good gear, we had practiced this before, and the surroundings we so
gorgeous and the company so supportive that none of us really complained except
to cheer each other up. As we faced each new hurdle, each stream that was even
higher than the next, we all just plunged in and helped the next person along.
It was great. Left click on the thumbnails below to see more shots of this
part of the tramp.
Summitting to Angelus
By mid-afternoon we emerged into a narrow meadow in clear view of our
destination ridge.
This
was supposed to have been our lunch stop. But we’d eaten that long ago. We were
now nearly
6 hours along, and the hardest part of the tramp was ahead of us. The weather
was beginning to break, though, and we could even see some sun bathing the tops
of mountains behind us. It was still raining, but the heart seemed to have gone
out of it. Or so we hoped.
The Cascade Track lived up to its name. By this point water was sluicing down it
constantly, and we were hiking straight through it. We could see the steep rock
strewn path we’d have to take as we climbed above the bush line. The waterfall
grew larger and larger as we glimpsed it above us along the way. When we finally
reached it, Nev tested the path and urged us on. It must have lowered some since
the morning as the rain had tapered off. Though higher than normal it seemed
passable.
We
splashed through, total waterbabies by now, and crossed to the track above the
bush line that followed only fluorescent markers on steel poles as it snaked up
a scree-covered slope pitching steeply up. One of our group was flirting with
hypothermia, and we got him some polypro gloves. Another was having real trouble
with the climb and Nev took their pack himself and carried his own as well, rock
hopping like a goat. The rest of us plodded along, at different speeds, craning
up always to the summit as the angle of the trail increased steadily.
This was not technical climbing. In years past I’d done as much or more. Many
reading this will have done worse in less time. But after 7 hours, with rain
soaked boots and clothes, we were feeling our limits and when the crest of the
trail appeared at last after 9 hours of steady tramping, we were all proud of
ourselves, exhausted, and glad it was over.
Angelus Hut sits aside Angelus Lake, a large tarn, or glacial lake. The weather
was still raw, and the ridge trail we hoped to take out the next day was totally
obscured by cloud and rain. At times the lake itself was obscured. There were
folks at the hut, including the warden who’d turned back at the waterfall that
morning, who’d been trapped in there all day because the weather made going on
along the ridge too dangerous. Again, the outer room was hung with steaming
clothes. We added ours to them and crowded around the stove to warm up. In the
all-day driving rain even the clothing we’d bagged inside our packs was damp,
but it was still a pleasure to put on something woolly and drier and stand
around the stove and steam! Nic quickly brewed up some “Milo,” or Kiwi Ovaltine,
as well, and that warmed us from the inside.
At least an hour later, two young women appeared at the hut. They sat with us
and the warden and shared some of our food. They were not well kitted out, had a
single duvet to share instead of a sleeping bag, no stove and no hot food, and
seemed for all the world as if they were just on a stroll. I thought the warden
would have a heart attack as they told of their trek up the ridge track in
clouds so thick “we couldn’t really see the track, just the markers as they
loomed out of the clouds.” This was the same track that had kept people trapped
in the hut all day because of the danger of traversing it. It was a lark to
them.
Climbing Out on the Ridge
We were up really early the next day, as Nev was anxious to get out as soon as
possible to ensure we’d make the whole trek out to St. Arnaud down the ridge in
daylight, with time still to get Danny, Winnie and their sons to the Blenheim
airport in time for them to fly out that afternoon.
What
a sight as we saw the sun rising in a clear sky, with ragged clouds ranging in
the valleys below us! Fortified and with packs lighter by three meals, we headed
out into frosty weather, wearing most of our gear in the early cold. The route
out was right up more scree and boulders to a ridge line that would take us all
the way out heading north back to St. Arnaud along the opposite side of the lake
from Lake Head Hut. The views were breathtaking. We stood on the narrow crest
and looked down miles of valley dotted with tarns, clouds drifting low as they
dissipated in the rising heat of the sun. The tramping itself was challenging,
often bouldering from rock to rock. But in the clear weather it seemed easier
than the day before.
As we passed through the bush line again, just above a ski field that has been
operated by a private club for years, we could see across to the northwest to
Mt. Owen (inspiration for LOTR’s Mt. Doom and setting for some filming) and
further to the east the sea beyond the Coastal Kaikoura Range. To the west was
lush farmland in the valley. It was a stark contrast to the land to the
southeast, on the other side of the ridge we trekked, so mountainous and
forested.
The last part of the tramp was maybe the worst, with more than an hour of
switchbacks down the slope through forest and then scrub. It was hell on the
knees, and pretty monotonous, all downhill. But the view of Lake Rotoiti in
bright sun with drifting clouds, changing constantly with the elevation and
angles, was worth it.
We paused briefly at the lake to soak our feet, and the more adventurous
actually went in the frigid water. Nev had stashed some beers and soft
drinks in the bus and they were mighty welcome.
The dash to the airport, the rush to get all the gear together and see off our
friends is another story I won’t tell. We were reunited with Greg and Alison’s
family along the way, and headed to Kaikoura with the original
Braemar Nine for the night where we showered for the first time in 3 days,
washed smelly, damp clothes, and pigged out at a restaurant called “Musselboys”
that served just what you’d guess.
Swimming with Seals
Our last day started with an early morning trip to the seashore to snorkel and
hopefully swim with NZ fur seals that have colonies there. We put on 5mm
wetsuits and walked along the hardpan shore, passing lone seals or groups
basking on the rocks. The fur seals were an important food source for the Maori
and one of the early attractions for European settlers, who also established
whaling stations in NZ. The seals were over hunted and the population collapsed
only a few years after their arrival. They’re protected now and coming back.
Our guide instructed us to follow him into the water and to quietly drift into
the seal colony area. If the seals were interested, they would come to us.
The water was freezing cold. That first flash when the wetsuit flooded
was….bracing! With the heat from kicking along and the neoprene insulation, it
became tolerable. But that first contact made your face ache. The view under the
water was lovely. Kelp forest stretched to the floor, sheltering rockfish, cod
and others. Lots of snails, sea urchins and some anemones were about. It’s too
cold for coral; this diving was more like Monterey Bay in California. We drifted
slowly into the seal colony’s sheltered lagoon. In a few moments they began to
flit about, dive bombing us and turning away at the last moment, crossing in
front of us and playing. I could have stayed there for hours watching them, and
they seemed to be enjoying it just as much. But we had to turn back after about
15 minutes and make our way back to the beach. Along the way some other seals
joined us. They would come from behind and just totally surprise us as they
zoomed by.
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
We piled into the bus again and headed south from Kaikoura to Christchurch.
Alison and her boys, along with Allen, had flights home scheduled for that
afternoon. We had reservations overnight at a B&B in Kaikoura, back up the same
road. Everyone was quiet on the ride down, admiring the coastal road we’d
traveled down two weeks’ earlier but that the others were seeing for the first
time. Nev passed along a “memory book” for each of
us to record any thoughts for him. Eli and Amelia made up two lovely cards for
Nev and Nic that we all signed, too. At lunch midway down, in a lovely shaded
arbor behind a small former train station converted to a restaurant, Nev gave
each person a handwritten card from him and Nic detailing something about each
of us and the trip we’d had. It was a really touching personal thing for the
trip leaders to do, and we were all quiet as we read them and absorbed the fact
we were at the end of our journey together.
coming
by the squishing sound. Parts of the trail had disappeared completely into
boggy, over-the-ankle wetlands. We just bulled through, confident Kiwi trampers!
catch
glimpses of the clear water and the far, forested shore. We spied waterfalls
across the lake, and the glistening raindrops pending from the evergreens gave
everything a jewel-like sparkle.
This
was supposed to have been our lunch stop. But we’d eaten that long ago. We were
now 
