During last weekend I had been on-call, the weekend prior had been too hot. It was still too hot, but my heart yearned to return to a landscape it knew. To get away from the sick animals, the paper work, the long, rolling pastures. I had to return to a forest, a land such as that I spend much of my early childhood exploring. A place deep under trees, away from the feirce sun, surrounded by the call of birds and with the deep smell of earth under my feet.
I set my mind back to places I had already seen here. Only once had a venture been made up into the Tararua Range, south-east of Bulls. Here a group of us had spent a morning walking up a river to spend the afternoon gently floating down its shallow flow, through its defiles, rapids and lagoons. The forest was wilder than that of its northern neighbour, untamed and prehistoric. Searching for the place I had previously been I found what I had been looking for.
New Zealanders, a centuary ago, began building a large number of huts out in their wilderness. These were used by hunters, and still are, attempting to control the population of pests Europeans had brought to the islands. Many of these original huts have collapsed, but there are now a great many replaced, to be used by modern hikers. Some where replaced in the same rustic, simple manner with little more than a wood burning stove and a few mattresses. Others have been sponsored and crafted, made with running water supplied by storage tanks, bunks, tables, cooking areas, verandas, occasionally a long drop toilet. These are mostly maintained by the Department Of Conservation (DOC) and many can be stayed in for the small voluntary fee of $5 (£2.50) per night. It was such a hut that I found, high in the mountains, near to the route I had previously taken. The Waiopehu Hut sits at around 970m above sea level near the head of the Blackwater Valley. It is a sponsored hut with a track leading to it cared for by a local hiking club. The route was described as long and steep, but easy to follow.
The plan was therefore thus. I would leave midafternoon, walk to the hut, stay overnight, then travel via a different route back to the carpark in the early morning. This way I could miss the warmest, worst parts of the day. Such plans can easily fail in the execution, however. Especially if it is hot and one allows oneself to take a wee lunch time nap. It was a warm day, I was tired, the sofa comfortable, I could rest my eyes a moment. After waking the bags were soon thrown together and into the back of the car and I set out and hour later than planned.
The Tararua's stand far above the Manawatu plains, always visible from wherever I work. Slowly, inperceptively, they grew, becoming more defined. The drive was simple enough, yet still took an hour. As I crossed the narrow wooden brige over the Ohau river into the park I saw families milling about as though it were a day at the seaside. In the cool, fresh, clean waters people were swimming and playing, from the bridge two teenagers dared each other to jump in. I drove past going deeper into the the park, up the winding dust track, past the last few meadow fields bordered by wire fencing. And above me stood the great edifices of the Tararua Range. Mountains swathed in forest, peaks clothed in whisps of cloud, deep shadows drawn across their valleys. At the lowest levels a likeness of a rainforest steadily peetering out into the thin sparse trees and then shrubs, the last survivers at such high altitude, battling against the cold winds.
At the entrance to the farm yards was the small carpark. A toilet stood in the shadow of the trees, and by the gate a map of the park. There on it, clearly, was displayed my destination and the track around the Balckwater watershed I would be following. No official notation was given to distance or predicted time. Yet at the edge, in black marker pen was a scrawl: Waiopehu Hut ~ 4.5h, Loop track ~9h. The time was 5pm. By this reconing I could be at the hut by 9.30pm, 45 minutes after official sunset. If I could shave a little time off and sunset be slow it could work out. And if I set out at first light the next day I could be back by 10am, before the day became too hot.
5pm. The track initially leads down into a meadow field, freshly cut, whisps of hay left behind, new shoots of green peering through. To my left, across the field, the Ohau River gurgled on its rocky bed. Beyond it stood mountains and verdent forest. To my right rose a small hill, topped by the farm's barns and house. As I walked further these were replaced by an acre of pine trees, unusually placed at the foot of this temperate forest. Beyond this a fence, a marker, where the domestic lands ended and the wilds of the forest began. Before me was the entrance to a cave. At its mouth flowers grew on either side, sprigs of red and blue. Its floor is covered in small, brown, rotting leaves and mud. Its walls of wooden trunks and strange vines. Above green leaves push to consume the light. And in the centre the humid darkness, where small biting flies positioned themselves in floating balls, and birds sing for love. Within the air is tepid, not cool, merely free of the direct fire from the sun. The humidity grows, and the sweat was no longer instantaneously vaporised from my skin. At this low level the forest is reminiscent of a more equitorial place, but without the poisons, toxins or fruits of the true rainforests. Great hard woods still inhabit these stretches of wilderness, towering over their smaller cousins and the fern-trees, oldest of all the forest's inhabitants.
I picked up the trail at the junction. Left was the route via which I would return. Right lead quickly and steeply up into the foot hills. High steps in the path were made amongst the roots of giants, with the short flats between being thin ledges of mud. I climbed briskly, hopefully, sweatily, expectant of the junction to both the loop track and hut, where I would take my rest. Three descendors passed me, tired from a day in the heat, wondering where I was going. I climbed closer to the ridge of the range, glimpsing the sea to my right, and the setting sun. To my left was the mountain range I would follow back the next day, the shadows of my present position waxing upon them. I had started at 150 metres, checking my map I found the cross roads was due to be at 500m. Nearly half the height would be gained by then.
Slowly the foliage changed. Jurassic Park relented for something nearly English. The forest began to open up as the rule of giants faded. A few still clung on, but in a smaller form. All that had pushed for greatness lay toppled and rotten, broken by past winds running over the range's crest. Tall grasses stood either side of the path, cutting off the small, thin trees from the light that came through the incomplete canopy. Large ferns had grown here also, yet where their branches had fallen into the trail the leaves had been torn from their holdings and plastered with mud. I reconned this to be about 400m, as the gradient reduced, and slowly leatherwood came into view. Leatherwood is a form of fern found at altitude in New Zealand. It is strong and hard, a rough foliage able to tear cloth and skin. Harsh and rugged, to match its home. Here it was sparse, but as I climbed I would enter its true habitat.
I found the cross roads, with sign post, at 6pm. It had taken me an hour to climb to 500m. The time given by the sign for returning to the carpark was 1 hour. And from here it estimated 5 hours to the hut. I thought I was making good time. How could it take 5 hours to do the rest? Only 500m more to the finish. 17.5km, apparently. Sunset was 2 hours 45 minutes away. I looked up at the track before me. It was wide and obvious. I wiped the sweat from my brow. I fallen tree gave me a space to sit, drink, eat, and think. As I sat behind me the sun slowly slid towards the Tasman Sea. Below it the town of Levin stre sun slowly slid towards the Tasman Sea. Below it the town of Levin stretched across the plains, and in the distance Mount Taranaki stood above the clouds, a marker of New Zealand's most westerly point.
The leatherwood began to take over the forest floor, occasionally relenting for moss and mud pools. I had reached the 700m point. Along the route I noted places I could possibly sleep overnight if I didn't make the hut in time. There were a large number of them, moss lined dips where i could sleep under the stars. The trees continued to become smaller, thinner, yet the canopy closed over. Mosses began to hang from the branches. I was leaving the English forests and entering Fangorn Forest.
The land began to unhelpfully undulate, dropping 30, 40, 50 metres, then raising again, yet it didn't feel as though I was climbing as much as I was falling. By this point I was exhausted, only the though that I was possibly nearly finished kept me going. I began another climb, and it continued. There was no further fall. Fangron relented. I emerged amongst tall shrubs with wide leaves of pastel green. The path was broad and dusty, no longer covered in leaves. Ahead of me, just before the summit of the mountain, stood the large hut that would be my accommadation. To my right the sun hovered over the sea.
The relief was enormous when I finally made it to the hut. Two other hikers were staying there and had not expected anyone else to arrive. I unceremoniously dropped my equipment, removed my boots and refilled my water bottles. Both of my fellow hikers were from the local town of Levin, coming up the hut from different directions. We chatted about the day, our trips, the weather. They were surprised that I had managed to get to the hut in 3 and a half hours, just in time for sunset, which was when the show began.
Our wooden accomodation had a large veranada which allowed one to look out onto the south west coast of New Zealand and into the heart of the Tararua Range. Behind the few adventurous trees that held the mountain's western summit the sun bid its last fair well. Above these same trees a sliver of moon hung, the rest of its shadowy form still visible. Along the line of the horizon the sea glowed orange. Our range cast shadows into the valley and onto the tomorrow's mountains. These shadows steadily grew deeper as the evening continued, the sky darkened and stars began to appear. In its last moments the sun shone through gaps in the forest to our left, looking as though a troop of Tolkein's elves had strung up their lanterns for the evening. Ahead of us, in the north, lights began to appear in the plains, Levin below us, Palmerston North further north, beyond the Tararua Park. These lights flickered, some moved, appearing as strange stars below us as the Milky Way appeared above us.
The stars here are phenominal. With so little light pollution they are even wonderful on the plains. In the mountain, however, one is far above any interference from other lights. The forms are similar to that which I recognise from home- Orion, the Plough, the North Star. But also one can see the line from the disc of out galaxy, the area of greater density of stars. Some areas are so dense they appear simply as a glowing white region. Below us burned the yellow embers of the civilised lands. Above us the universe burned at a billion points. And in the quiet darkness of New Zealands mountains we stared out at the dark world. Slowly about us animals made themselves known. Russles in the the leaves. The "More Pork" cry of the More Pork Owl (seriously, that's its name). The scrabbling of the Possums.
Finally we turned away from it all and made for our beds.
Sunday lunchtime was spent in McDonald's, or "Macca's" Kiwi. I had out done myself on the Saturday, and Sunday morning had been a gruelling hike slowly returning to the car. It had been hot and sweaty from the moment I left at 6.30am to the moment I got into the car and maxxed the air con at midday. I had seen more of the mountains and walked alongside the Ohau river. All I wanted though was a drink and some incredibly unhealthy food. I downed a litre of my water, ate the remaining gummy bears and headed for Levin. I got my two new Kiwi Macca's specialities- the Kiwi Burger- a burger with beetroot and a fried egg- and the Frozen Coke- basically a Slush Puppy of coke. I stared out of the window, hands covered in hiking dirt and beef burger grease, sweaty and trying to shovel salty fries into my face like I hadn't eaten in two days. There's no wonder the two beautiful German girls wouldn't even reply a "hey".
Sunday's Photos
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