tramping new zealand

Another gorgeous day, but I wasn’t ready for an early start. Might as well soak up Dynamo, so after breakfast, I went over to where other huts used to be and back to the Powerhouse, as I know it was referred to.

Having seen and walked along part of the water race that supplied the hydro aspect of the hydroelectric scheme, and rereading all the literature, it all made a lot more sense, except for the audacity of the project as an engineering endeavour.

I could see why it had the highest national heritage classification and is rated as internationally significant.

Eventually, with the sun shining brightly, I turned back down Skippers Creek and counted 21 crossings to get to the Bullendale turn-off. In the meantime, I did some trackwork to smash back the tutu that was covering the track in places. It’s much better to see where your feet should end up.

I stopped for an early lunch at the turn-off to Bullendale.

After 15 minutes, I heard voices on the other side of the creek. It was another couple who were also heading for Bullendale Hut.

Okay, I’ve always got my tent.

The woman decided she wasn’t stopping, despite it being lunchtime, the shady seating place, and my pleasant company. Nope, she was off up the hill.

You do climb a bit, then go down a few hundred metres, steeply at times, etc. It’s not made easier by the motorcycle groove where the wheel has cut deep into the track.

I plodded on, and at the first creek crossing, before the second climb, stopped in the shade. I was rewarded by spotting a hare running up the track about 100 m away, with ears flapping, then doing a cross-country run before getting within 10 m of me, its nose quivering and ears alert. It then bounced away.

After half an hour, I started up the hill.

There was quite a test for motorcycles, trail bikes getting to the creek for a second crossing, but it was more than that. It was the track, kind of a creek/track. My feet were wet from the morning, so that didn’t bother me. It was quite shallow and flat.

Eventually, I made it to the historic area, and the track was at last unrideable. It was super steep, and I wondered how the other two got on.

At least there were footholds and tussock to hang onto for the last 200 m to the hut.

It was empty.

The other two were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they went to the other private hut that I had passed half an hour before, or maybe they would turn up.

A mystery.

It was warm, and I hung my socks up to dry.

Some nearby goats failed to run off.

Don’t tell me I smell like one of them! Maybe they recognise their own kind, albeit in human form.