tramping new zealand

It was good to have a relatively easy day to test my leg.

In retrospect, a choice of hut with Mount in the name was possibly not the best option for my first overnighter at the end of my year-long rehab from two Achilles tendon tears.

Finding myself in a hut after a long year’s break was a great feeling. My previous hut had been Nardoo Bivvy, and that felt an age away.

Almost at the bottom, I ran into a couple who had two weeks in New Zealand and had decided that a walk in the woods behind Woods Point was the exact place they wanted to be.

I discovered this was my fifth longest day in seven years of measuring my steps, a big 41,000 of them, or 28 km.

I staggered in to find the hut taken over by two 16-year-olds, off to climb to Bob’s Camp Bivvy. Every horizontal surface inside the hut was covered with something.

I guess my body was silently complaining.

Time for a change of scene for a few days in Christchurch.

Having overexercised the previous week, it seemed like Christchurch would be a good place to sort out my gear and resupply on some fresh food.

I crossed the Rakaia River on my South Island Te Araroa expedition a long time ago, and later explored the Wilberforce River, and it was about time I had a look at the lower reaches.

Option 2 was to postpone the return aspect and enjoy a second night at Tribulation Hut.

I concentrated on where my feet were going on the old sheep trail through the tussock, rather than looking up at the house-sized rocks that perched precariously 400 m up the Mount Hutt foothills.

I remember Gorilla Hut had some graffiti from famous New Zealand climbers, including Ed Hillary, and Frida du Flaur who had just made a first ascent of a nearby mountain in 1909. I foolishly added my name to the wall of mountaineering luminaries, what’s more, in a ballpoint pen, something I was relentlessly teased about by a friend who noticed it for years to come.

Climbing 1100 m in one straight hit can go on a bit, particularly while carrying an overnight pack that includes a tent and sleeping mat, so let’s say I’m feeling well-exercised.

My steps counter claimed 26 km for the day, which may be about right. I’d walked for most of the 10 hours since I left the hut.

Not a cloud above, but I picked out a tiny one on the horizon.

Suddenly, I was cold, so I persevered up the hill at some haste.

Just as I locked the car, a four-wheel-drive vehicle cruised up, and Jack and Pedro asked if I needed a lift to the top.

Yesterday, all cloud, snow imminent. Today, not a cloud all day and an early morning frost.

If the previous days had been solitary, today was more social.

This was my mountain range, and I was enjoying my exhilarating day, looking down into the Clutha River Valley in one direction and over to where I had walked the day before, along another ridge.

Around 6 30 am, half a dozen 18-year-old women who hadn’t yet gone to bed came down to the lake and freshened up by stripping off and going for a swim, about 50 m from where I was conspicuously located.

There’s something about being up in the tussock areas with the natural stone sculptures all around, with blue skies above and not too much wind.

I could confirm the cold aspect had arrived, and I spent much of the day in my sleeping bag with my puffer jacket on with the hood up, as well as my beanie.

I was running out of jokes, such as, If you’re lost, I can’t help you. Is this the right way to Queenstown? I answered the question of whether there was anything I needed. Yes, a scone and a hug from my mum.

I soon realised my folly. There was no place to turn back, and I came to the conclusion that I had made a huge mistake. No chance of getting to the camping site at the old Skippers township, where I anticipated going.

As it turned out, most of the stress was in anticipation. Okay, there was the 12 minutes it took to drive back up the perilous road.