Pinnacle Ridge, Ruapehu, Tongariro National Park

It was 4am when my alarm blared to life. The bunkroom was dark and quiet. It didn’t last. In one savage movement I flopped out of bed and flicked on the light. Groans eminated out of the other bunks. We were up at the Wellington Tramping and Mountaineering Club’s lodge on Ruapehu with the intention of climbing the maunga. The night before in the Bulls kebab shop we had huddled around a table consulting maps and weather forecasts. The weather was meant to crap out by midday so we knew an alpine start was necessary. For our route we settled on following Pinnacle Ridge up to Te Heuheu. In the lodge’s foyer we wrapped up like polar explorers before venturing outside. The volcanic landscape was sadly devoid of much snow. We wandered between club lodges, picking our way up the spur to the west of the skifield. The morning twilight gradually lifted, being replaced by hues of red and orange. Siloutted against this was the iconic volcanic cone of Ngauruhoe.

After climbing 200m we encountered our first problem. Our intended route was to the east of the skifield, so at some point we knew we had to drop off our spur and join the ski-runs. However, when we attempted to do this we found ourselves at the top of a huge bluff. Begrudgingly, we changed plan and returned to the spur to continue our upward trudge

We began to encounter the odd patch of snow. Calling it snow is generous, it was pretty solid. At 2000m we reached the NZAC hut. There was enough snow from here on our for us to justify putting crampons on. We took the opportunity to investigate the igloo that stood proudly next to the hut.

With crampons on we stomped across to the Knoll Ridge T-bar and then up Knoll Ridge till we were just shy of 2200m. From there we followed the ski trails to the top of the Valley T-bar. This marked the top edge of the skifield. Leaving the groomed trails behind, we began a zig-zag ascent up to Pinnacle Ridge.

Up until this point the day had been nothing but beautiful. This quickly changed as we popped our heads above the parapet of the ridge. A fierce gale zipped over us from west to east. Our sweat quickly evaporated and a hard chill set in.

We had a quick hui and, despite the wind, we continued upward. We traversed on ski-touring tracks to avoid a rocky outcrop. Finding a spot sheltered from the wind, we stopped for a snack and to put some layers on. It was 7.30am.

It was obvious that the wind had knocked the confidence of our less confident mountaineers. Above our snack spot we navigated icy slopes, utilising steps left by someone in much slushier conditions.

Around the 2260m contour we joined the ridge proper and became much more exposed to the wind. The rocky summit of Te Heuheu stood before us tantalisingly close. As the more experienced mountaineer I led out in front, weaving my way up through an outcrop of ice and rock. Turning around I saw the others holding back, trying to shout to me over the roar of the wind. Nicole had almost been blown over by a gust. I signalled them onward, if only to have a conversation about next steps. We huddled against the frozen ground above the outcrop. Nerves were shot. We discussed the conditions and what our options were. Despite the wind, the runout was good if we lost our footing. Time was still on our side too. But in reality I knew we would go no further. People were feeling uncomfortable and the wind was set to intensify. The cafe at the top of the Skywaka beckoned. There were nods of agreement on this. So, with one last glance at the summit we turned back towards the skifield.

Rather than be exposed to the wind we opted to drop into the gully to the west and onto the remenant glacier. There was more accumulated snowdrift here and we were much more sheltered from the wind. Conditions up high proved a bit bumpy for snow-shovel sliding. Our bruised buttocks proved that.

Around 2400m we stopped to admire the scenary and reminice just how nice it was to be out of that wind. I faced the others, soaking up the sunshine. It was lucky I did. Rolling down the hill towards us was a BBQ-sized ball of ice that was picking up speed as it rolled towards us.

“ICE!!!”

As it turned out, I was the only one in danger. I ran to the right and the projectile curved to stay on target. This homing ball of ice was out to kill me I thought. The fact that I am writing this now is evidence that it did not succeed, but it sure did try.

From around 2340m the ice was much less bobbly, making for ideal glissading conditions. On one particulary smooth slope I decided to give the shovel another go. Sitting down on the shovel and grabbing the handle I lent forward. This proved to be an error of judgement. I quickly picked up speed, till I was hurtling out of control desperately trying to keep my crampons away from the slope. At one point I was going head first. My ice-axe flailed wildly behind me. When I did eventually come to a stop I brushed myself off and waved happily to the others. Experience does not always equate to wisdom…

We slid our way down to the Knoll Ridge cafe. Here we found a few other washed up mountaineers heading in for a coffee. Sitting in the warmth and comfort of the cafe we felt a world away from the hostility we faced on Pinnacle Ridge. It made my $6.50 coffee taste that much sweeter.

Epilogue

I can highly highly highly recommend checking out the thermal pools in Tokaanu. Don’t skip the walk to look at the hotspring!

Leon Kinvig — Mākāretu Loop, Ruahine Forest Park, New Zealand

I had promised Nicole that I would go tramping with her at the end of August. The allotted weekend was a full moon. We toyed with several ideas, including a moonlit Tongariro Alpine Crossing to a Carkeek picnic. Through weather and lack of commitment our plans settled on a hutbagging mission in the Ruahine. Ellis signed himself up for the trip and suggested a loop of the Pohangina and Mākāretu rivers, bagging up to seven huts along the way.

1. Lunar madness

Packing the car at the ‘tramping club flat’ in Mt Victoria on Friday night after work, James decided that he would tag along with us, making our total four. We left Wellington soon after, detouring via BurgerFuel in Paraparaumu on our way to the start of the track on Kashmir Road. There had been some doubt as to the state of Kashmir Road and the ability of my car to make it to the top. As it turned out, all it took was a bit of rally car style enthusiasm on the accelerator and a bit of luck to make it to the top. The crew wobbled out of the car when I finally parked the car, a little less enthusiastic about my driving. We set off just after 9pm under subdued moonlight, a thick layer of cloud obsuring the fullmoon. Nicole decided to be a party-pooper and put her headtorch on. Ellis soon followed, leaving James and I to stubbornly blunder on in the twlight behind them. The track from Moorcock Saddle climbs steeply up a muddy vegetated hillside, ferns sometimes completely obscuring the track. The spur we were following had a number of steps, each taking us a little closer to the bushline. I insisted on stopping to take shitty experimental long expsures along the way despite the breezy conditions. The result of this was a lot of blurry photos and a grunt to try and catch back up to the others. Around the 1200m contour our climb relented, the track traversing west to join the ridgeline towards Longview Hut. The track along the ridge was indistinct in the subtle light, hidden by large tussock. For whatever reason, I opted to persist torchless, declaring a full frontal assault on the local scrub in my pursuit of the others. We regrouped at the sign marking the short descent to Longview.

We didn't linger, Ellis was desperate for a poo. Dropping down off the ridge, we quickly found Longview Hut (and its longdrop). The hut has a striking and unusual design, a product of the Forest Service’s experimentation with building huts for recreation in the late 1970's. Sitting on the porch as not to wake the occupants, Nicole pulled out a box of brownie that was still warm from the oven. Everyone was in remarkably high spirits, so much so that we decided that we would forgo the certainty of a warm bed in Longview for at least another hour of battling the weather and the bush to get to Top Gorge Hut. From Longview we regained the ridgeline and I finally realised that it was probably worth putting my torch on. The wind was rising, bringing with it intermittant showers. Up until this point I'd been sweating, but now I was seriously considering layering up. We persisted along the ridge, battling the elements and asking ourselves some serious questions about our definition of weekend fun. Yet, none of us felt unsafe and I think we all found a certain joy in testing our endurance late on a Friday night. Our route was certain till the highpoint after Rocky Knob. Here we had read somewhere online about a "cut and marked track" signalled by a white triangle, which would lead us directly down to the hut. We found the white marker nailed to a trap, but no route was forthcoming. No path obvious, we followed our noses through the scrub to the west and into the leatherwood. Along the way we found the odd marker of scrap of flagging tape, signalling that other masochists had passed this way. This track soon dropped steeply into the bush, weaving around treefall and onto a more pronounced spur. Here we tried our best to follow the markers.

With the growing sound of the river rumbling in our ears we knew we were getting closer. This, combined with our tired heads, meant that when we lost the markers next we opted to jusr forge our own path through the bush. This proved surprisingly effective. We soon emerged next the meatsafe, Top Gorge Hut sitting a stones throw beyond in a small clearing. We asked the current occupant to move on (one large wētā) and made ourselves at home for what was left of the night.

2. Mild hypothermia and other fun

Sleep came in fits, the thought of wētā revenge on my mind. We set off from the hut at half-past-eight, quickly finding our way down to the river. From this point we had little option but to embrace wet boots from here on out. The river was initially reasonably open, giving us a false sense of security. Not long into our walk we came across the first of many whio for the trip, a breeding pair.

About a kilometre downstream from Top Gorge Hut our progress slowed as the banks of the river closed in on us, signalling the beginning of the gorge proper. This required acceptance that not only would our boots be wet, but also potentially our shorts and undies.

The gorge was a series of stony river banks punctuated by log jams, waterfalls and long pools. Often these pools could be negotiated through careful shuffling along the rocky margins, but not always.

One particularly deep pool after the stream that drained Tunupō forced a rethink of our strategy. We looked hopefully at steep sides of the gorge. The true-right looked the most promising, so we scrambled up the muddy slope clinging to the scrub growing over the precipice.

Higher up we reached flatter ground littered with the odd marker, leading us to reflect that maybe we should have climbed earlier where the stream met the Pohangina. Rejoining the river, we let out a sigh of relief based on the assumption that was the worst of the gorge over.

The gorge had other ideas. Not far from where we rejoined the river we came across a log jam. I explored the true-right and found a rock ledge with a short gap that would get us around the pool downstream from the jam. Grabbing a sturdy leatherwood branch, I hoisted myself up and started to swing myself over the gap. The branch then made a sickening jerk down, followed by the whole shrub dislodging myself. I found myself plummeting, narrowly avoiding the pool to land on my feet on the far side. With the branch no longer in play, the others opted for a brief dunk instead.

Not far from this we encountered more log jams, requiring an exhilarating beam balance to negotiate.

We were now tantalisingly close to where the map promised the river would open out again. Yet, not long after the balance beam we reached another impassable section, next to the waterfall draining pt 1288. This required us to climb steeply on the true-right, continuing upward till we were above the waterfall.

With the necessary altitude, we traversed, only dropping back to the river when we met an old slip further downstream. The river turned a bend following this slip, before opening out with stony banks on either side. The 1.5km section of gorge had taken us about two hours to traverse.

After a brief stop for some sour squirms, we continued our journey down the Pohangina. Now that we were out of the gorge we started to make better progress, averaging about two to three kilometres per hour. Despite this, there was plenty of river left to go, the bends seeming to continue endlessly as we marched onward.

Soaked to our midriffs, there was no little enthusiasm for stopping for lunch despite it being well past noon. After several hours we were in the river directly east of Te Pohatu. Turning a great hairpin in the river we were confronted by a large pool of unknown depth, the bottom hidden deep below. No one wanted to make a decision on what to do next. There was little appetite for swimming across. This left going back and climbing up and over the bend, or continuing to the southeast up and over the rise to hopefully rejoin the river on the far side.

Tired, hungry and frustrated, James made a call and began ploughing up the hill. We followed in tow, wading through scrub and climbing over rotten trees in our ascent. After five minutes we were over the top and sliding our way down the steep slope on the far side. We were all relieved when we discovered an easy entry back to the river at the bottom of the hill. From here it was about a kilometre to the old site of Leon Kinvig Hut. The hut had sat on this site for 60 years until Cyclone Gabrielle undermined it in February 2023. Over 2024 and 2025 the hut was relocated to its current site 600 metres downstream by DOC and BCT.

We left the old hut site and continued down the river. From here the river was wider and more gravelly, something we were all quite pleased about. About a quarter of an hour later we faced one last waist-deep crossing of the Pohangina to reach Leon Kinvig Hut. I say waist-deep, but Ellis decided for some reason to go for a little swim with his pack on. Dripping and tired, we dumped our packs on the porch of the hut, happy that our time in the Pohangina would soon be over.

Leaving our packs, we assembled inside around a boiling billy keen to warm ourselves up and get some food into our systems. We still had a key decision to make, would we continue on over the hill to Mākāretu Hut? Despite the ordeal we were all in good spirits. With some coffee onboard the world seemed a little brighter and we made a group decision to labour on. From Leon Kinvig we recrossed the river (Ellis avoiding a swim again) and found the large orange triangle marking the newly cut track up to the tops.

The feeling of mild hypothermia soon became a distant memory as we slogged our way up the hill. The treetops swayed violently above us, the wind rising with our altitude.

It wasn’t just wind rising with altitude. Our enthusiasm had rebounded dramatically since the gorge and we were feeling determined to make it to Mākāretu in good time. After half-an-hour we made it to the junction with the old track and we were climbing up through goblin forest.

Soon we were out of the forest altogether, fighting the wind as we wove our way through a maze of leatherwood and turpentine scrub.

The clouds flew past quickly, occasionally parting to reveal the landscape beyond. Travel along the tops felt wonderfully fast compared to the river. It didn’t take long till we had passed the turn off to the Apiti Track. From there the track undulated easily along the ridge, giving us a false sense of confidence.

Trotting along the ridge we began to eagerly anticipate the turn-off to Mākāretu. Given we had been making such good time from Leon Kinvig we were in general agreement that we should take the old shortcut track down to Mākāretu Hut. It was obvious when we reached the junction, 500 metres south of Te Pohatu. A large wooden sign reading “Makaretu Hut” pointed off into the scrub. It was less of a track, more of a smattering of markers hidden in the bush. The upper portion was steep, descending down through overgrown scrub. Around the 1000m contour we lost the markers, accidentally beginning a descent into the gully to the north. We caught ourselves before we ventured too far, correcting our heading to get back onto the spur.

Now back on route, we stomped our way downward having a good luck following the sporadic markings. This became harder as the light faded, the sky transitioning through various shades of pink and purple before dimming to black.

At the 700m contour the spur split and we headed west, in line with the words “Mākāretu Hut” on the topomap. Every time we lost track of the markers we faced a decision between reobtaining certainty and just bulldozing a path in the general direction of the hut.

As it approached hour eleven since leaving Top Gorge Hut we were rapidly losing enthusiasm for our adventure. Luck was on our side though. The forest started to open up and we could follow a coherent line of markers to stumble into the hut clearing.

Gear exploded across every surface in the hut. Soon Nicole had a billy-full of rice rissotto on the cooker. The box of wine that I had laboriously carried down a gorge and over a ridge now had pride of place on the stainless steel benchtop. Soon the fire was crackling and we were laughing around the dinner table. This is what it is all about.

3. Happy days

Some of us woke with a headache. Our plans for the day were a little more relaxed than the previous days’ slog. We left Mākāretu just before nine, setting off across the river and off in search of river’s north branch.

The Mākāretu was a completely different beast to the Pohangina. Ankle-deep water separated gravelly banks, open forest flanking those. Progress was swift. The weather was confused, one minute we walked in beautiful sunshine and the next fine drizzle fell sideways.

It took us about an hour to reach the confluence with the north branch of the Mākāretu. Nicole, Ellis and I wanted to bag Happi Daze Hut, but James had already been. Given that, we left him in a patch of sunshine with our packs before climbing steeply away from the river. The rough track then traversed across a high terrace, leading to a slightly dilapidated orange shed in about 15 minutes.

Happi Daze Hut sat in a large grassy clearing surrounded by an assortment of rubbish. The hut was built in the 1970s by Stacker Johnston for the New Zealand Forest Service. Since then it has obviously had a hard life. We enjoyed the sun outside, taking some time to search for some prescription sunglasses someone from ‘Tramping in New Zealand’ had lost. Before returning to James we took the opportunity to check out a larger private hut from the safety of the forest park boundary. It was a quick trip back from there to our packs. Reunited at the confluence, we set off up the north branch.

We passed our time tickling trout and following an absurd amount of flagging tape. The north branch was even better travel than the south. In its upper reaches it opened our onto wide alluvial flats, sun soaking the riverbed. At the end of a long straight stretch we found our next objective. Nestled in the forest lay a house of cards, a delicate stack of iron that once bore the name Black Stag Hut.

A stones’ throw up the river we found a hut in a much better state of repair. Awatere Hut stood proudly in its clearing, a striking orange symbol of what community love can do for a hut.

It was lunch time so we took the opportunity to have a proper break for once. My food bag came out of my pack with a large thump. James laughed. A rock sat on the floor next to my pack. Bastard.

Once we had demolished the remainder of our food we decided that we ought to walk up the track to the car. We quickly crossed the river before starting the stiff climb up to Moorcock Saddle. As the trees thinned we were exposed to the wind for the first time in the day. This only grew worse when we lost the shelter of the scrub.

As the conditions became more unpleasant we only became more determined. We were on the ridgeline only half an hour after leaving Awatere Hut. Barely able to stand, we had little motivation for to move slowly.

Somehow we managed to avoid being blown off the ridgeline. Not even the stinging rain could stop us. Around 1.30pm we stumbled into the carpark. The trip ended like it began, with Ellis running to the longdrop.

This trip was hard. There were points where I wondered why I was doing it. Fighting the rain around midnight on the ridgeline, wading through the Pohangina Gorge. Yet, there is a special pleasure in challenging oneself, one that is only magnified when the challenge is conquered as part of a team.

Songs of the bog — twelve days in Fiordland National Park, New Zealand

Continued from part four. Read that here.

XI. Better a bog than a bluff?

The day of our departure had finally arrived. We woke at 6am, the hut quickly descending into a state of chaos as we packed. By the time we set off the sun was showing promising signs of revealing itself. It was an easy walk up to the three-wire bridge over Katherine Creek. The creek had come down significantly from the day before, filling us with hope for the day to come.

From here the track gradually climbed, traversing above the creek towards the outlet of Lake Katherine. The path was mostly clear of obstruction and we made good time to the lake. Grey clouds threatened as we snacked on the shore, but by the time we had inflated our rafts the sun was beginning to shine again.

Paddling across the lake was a breeze, a little treat that enabled us to avoid some of the chained sections of track on the lake’s southern shore. When we beached we leapfrogged Marius, something that we would be doing for the rest of the day. We scrambled out among the reeds and through the mud, pressing through the undergrowth to find the track.

Track is a generous term, from here it became more of a loosely marked route. We paid special attention to every marker, they were easy to lose in the dense horopito. Eventually the route started climbing through more open beech forest, passing by the occasional waterfall.

Our trudge up the forested valley was punctuated by overgrown landslides and swamps, these offering a glimpse of our distant target of Henry Pass.

We soon began climbing more steeply, the valley rising to a higher basin. This was hard work. When this showed signs of relenting we stopped for a break, making the most of a small flat clearing in the forest. After our break we continued up (and sometimes in) the creek.

The climb to Henry Pass itself started gradually enough, following the slopes in the direction of Mt Murrel. Higher up this steepened into real ‘hands and knees’ action. Somewhere above the 500m contour the route cut abruptly to the northeast, traversing along narrow ledges and through a system of bluffs.

As we neared the pass there were a couple of steep sections up through stunted trees till we broke out onto open scrubby tops. Behind us we could see our morning’s work laid bare, ominous clouds hovering on the horizon.

We enjoyed a short burst of sunshine while these gathering clouds grew closer. By the time we were on the pass a cold wind had sent the temperature plummeting.

Too cold to stop, we skirted the edge of an unnamed tarn before quickly descending back to the safety of the bushline on the far side. Regan was really motoring ahead and it took shouting at the top of our voices to get him to stop for lunch! We sought refuge from misty rain under the fleeting protection of the dwarf beech trees, taking a moment to tuck into our meagre lunch supplies. We could only dream of having a pie. Despite these sub-optimal conditions, we were alll feeling rather chipper. It was only 1.30pm and it looked like we had made good progress. Based on the DOC sign at George Sound it should’ve only been another 3–4 hours to Lake Thomson Hut. With this in mind, we began our descent. Our route cut a line through steep terrain that somehow still managed to be quite boggy.

After a knee-jarring several hundred metres we found ourselves entering our bog era proper. The landscape around Deadwood Lagoon was waterlogged, one big scrubby bog that threatened to suck us under with any misstep.

This might’ve been tolerable had it only lasted for an hour or so. Instead, we found ourselves in what felt like the world’s longest bog. A never-ending stretch of brown danger. This proved too much for the group, who began to break out in bog-inspired renditions of popular songs.

“and through the booooog” Regan screamed (to the tune of Angels by Robbie Williams) as he crawled on his hands and knees under a log.

No words can really adequately describe our bog-induced delirium. Maybe it was the swamp gases. A clearing on the horizon gave us some hope, surely this would be Lake Thomson.

Yet, when we emerged into the clearing we found it instead to be a colossal landslide that had wiped out 100 metre long section of track. Lake Thomson was nowhere to be seen. Regan collapsed in defeat. I wondered if I’d ever be able to get him moving again. Only the knowledge that our ride to civilization was tomorrow could motivate him.

On the other side of the slip we found the track and again and pushed on towards the promise of Lake Thomson. This track eventually began to descend steeply alongside the appropriately named Rugged Burn. Markers were few and far between so we had to keep our wits about us. As we neared pt 355 it felt like we were finally on the home stretch. It was at that moment that we discovered an orange triangle in the middle of a lake. A monster bog. The bog to end all bogs. We were confused but unsurprised, give the state of the track thus far.

Regan led out in front, being the tallest so having the greatest chance of making it across the bog of unknown depth. The rest of us followed, gingerly lowering ourselves into the murky water. After some sloshing we hauled our dripping bodies on the far side. Here we found more obstacles, trees strewn over the track. Where was this hut??

After clambering over the trees we descended down a short distance to a small metal bridge. This unassuming bridge spanned a yawning chasm. Upstream an incredible volume of water rushed through this confined space in a terrifying display of force.

We hadn’t intended to stay here but we were feeling thoroughly beaten by the bogs. We were at our bogus maximus. This slightly disheaveled hut would have to do. This was still doable on our timeline, just. We’d just have to hustle to the boat on Lake Hankinson Hut the following morning.

There was no sign of Marius at the hut so we assumed that he must’ve walked on to Lake Hankinson by himself. Wet gear was soon hanging up on the hut’s every nook, creating puddles on the floor. I set about lighting the pot belly stove, eager to revive both our feet and our spirits.

We were surprised to hear a noise from outside. Curious, I went out to discover a distressed and dripping Marius. He had lost the track next to the Rugged Burn and had been wandering around lost. Luckily, he eventually stumbled upon the bridge and then the hut. We welcomed him into the safety of the hut and stationed him next to the fire.

XII. Time for a pie

We sprung into action at 6am, propelled by a fresh sense of urgency; the lure of civilisation’s trappings. We were out of porridge so we gobbled down peanut butter wraps instead. It was just after 7am when we latched the hut shut, making our way towards Lake Thomson. It took a bit of scrub bashing to get to the water but it was worth it. Paddling out into the lake, we were ecstatic to not be in a bog.

Marius dawdled taking photos, but with a ride to catch we weren’t risk missing it. We told him we’d see him at Lake Hankinson Hut and then paddled on our way. At the outlet of Lake Thomson we had a tricky time deciding where to haul out. We ended up climbing out on the true-right of the outlet. Regan led us on a bushbash through the trees till we hit our old enemy the boulder-field. My backseat navigating wasn’t appreciated and I ended up in the front. Navigating down between giant rocks we eventually found the three-wire bridge we were looking for and the track.

Once at the bridge it was a simple matter of following the track down the true-right. Despite moving as fast as we could we were still all freezing from our time on the lake. The track would’ve been rough by anyone else’s standards but given our experience over the last twelve days we found it delightful. Following behind Tess, we soon reached the lower three-wire bridge over the river.

Crossing, we caught our first sight of Lake Hankinson Hut. The end was within reach. It was an easy walk down the true-left of the river to the hut. A man in a life-jacket was waiting for us there, making us feel like we were about to win the Amazing Race. The way we were feeling we might as well have, he was our skipper, waiting to whisk us back to Te Anau Downs where our adventure had begun. It was 9.50am.

Crossing Lake Hankinson required ferrying in a smaller boat, so Ellen and I stayed behind at the hut to wait for Marius. Over a quarter of an hour passed and there was no sign of him. We hoped he knew that, despite our fondness for him, we would leave without him. Without a care in the world he sauntered out of the forest, greeting us with a smile. Together, we wandered down the track to wait for the boat on the shore of Lake Hankinson. It returned and we were soon reunited with our companions in the confines of the boat that left us in the wilderness twelve days earlier.

Epilogue

It will be a surprise to no one that our first stop on returning to civilisation was the Milford Road Merchant. We hobbled into the shops neat and tidy interior, choosing to act oblivious to our obvious dishevelment (not to mention smell). Feeling kind, we found a table outside to sit on, eating our messy pastry there where the fat sparrows could pick at the debris. It was difficult for us to process the enormity of the last twelve days. It was a trip of intense lows and even greater highlights. For every boulder-field there was a kea, for every bog there was paddle. Perhaps our greatest achievement was managing to get shit done even when we were shitty with one another. It was hard not to be running on minimal sleep and enduring long mentally draining days. Each of us had found our time to shine, our moments where we had carried each other over the ridiculous challenges that Fiordland put before us. One word sprang to mind, ‘camaraderie’ — a spirit of trust and goodwill among people closely associated in an activity or endeavor. I took a bite of my pie and asked the others if they wanted to go find somewhere to shower.

Escaping the Stillwater and a fishing holiday — twelve days in Fiordland National Park, New Zealand

Continued from part three. Read that here.

VIII. George Sound or bust

Lightening cracked around the thin fabric shell of the tent. Thunder boomed, Ellen and Tess woke up, instinctively grabbing for the closest thing around them, each other. However, we did not float away in the middle of the night. I listened to the rain ease towards the morning, kept awake by the lump under my bed roll. By the time I had finally worked up the courage to stick my head out of the vestibule sunlight was beginning to filter through the trees. What a difference a day makes.

As the river dropped our moods lifted. Coffee was put on and gear was flung out to dry. We set off around mid-morning, leaving our camp to follow deer trails further up the river. This trail soon led us across an old slip, its vegetated slopes relatively easy to traverse. The forest upriver from this was chaotic. At some point a tempest had a uprooted many trees, throwing huge limbs across the forest floor. This was a mess to negotiate. We found the travel easiest by the river, any diversion simply leading us into dense undergrowth or impenetrable swamps. We soon encountered the stream draining pt 1041. It had a deep flow, leading to much indecision amongst us on how to proceed.

In the end we simply waded through the murky brown water, which was waist deep at worst. After our dip we briefly deviated from the river, following the edge of a large swampy clearing and enjoying the relative lack of undergrowth.

The same could not be said of the end of the clearing, which was guarded by a dense web of spikey scrub. With little choice, we pushed through this to get back to the river-side deer trail. Further upriver we passed the site where a 3-wire bridge once spanned the river, a relic of the same 1949 expedition as Caswell Sound Hut. Coming out of the trees we were basked in sunlight and, in desperate need of the loo, I tried to convince the others that we should stop here for lunch. It didn’t take much.

After lunch we walked a short way upriver, our eyes scanning for a spot where we could cross to the true-right. In lower flows we had read of a shingle bank being used as a ford, but with the recent rain we decided that we would use our rafts. We soon found a suitable launching spot with a steep sandy ramp down to the river. Rafts were awkwardly inflated in the confines of the undergrowth. We had some apprehension about the river’s flow but this turned out to be unfounded, floating out into the river we easily paddled over to the other side. Sandflies encouraged us into a rapid repack on the true-right. Leaving the water we followed the bank upriver, soon nearing where the Stillwater River came out of a short gorge. The river cascaded over boulders creating a small waterfall and a large pool. Here I voluntold Regan that he was on navigation duty. Begrudgingly, he took on this responsibility. He led us with his usual keen deer-sense onto a well-defined trail, following a ramp up onto the terraces to the south-east of Ethne Saddle. When this trail began to peter out we turned to the north-west and made a beeline for the saddle.

The terrain began to steepen. We soon found ourselves at the foot of small forested bluffs. We ummed and ahhed about the best way to tackle these, eventually settling on a muddy scramble up a bank assisted by a few questionable trees. Once above the bluffs it was an easy saunter to the small clearing on the saddle. We celebrated this victory, despite all feeling pretty spent. A rest was in order. We devoured our rations of snacks, knowing the day was far from done.

On the far side of the saddle we were met by precipitous terrain. This took us by surprise, sapping at our already depleted mental energy. We clambered over fallen trees traversing to the north-west in search of a decent way down. This ‘decent way down’ came in the form of a steep spur, which, with some scrambling, took us to the valley floor. Our trials were far from over. At the valley floor we met a familar foe — the boulder-field. Weaving around the seemingly endless mass of moss-covered rock was taxing. At one point I managed to go up to my thigh in a hole. We had the motivation of another night of forecasted heavy rain pushing us onward. The boulders were eventually replaced by friendlier forest and we found good deer trail down the true-right of the stream. Lower down this was punctuated by smaller streamlets that offered more variety to the travel.

As we neared George Sound the valley narrowed and the true-right bank becoming steeper. This prompted us to cross to the true-left and onto the trail of another deer. We followed this trail the best we could, noses to the ground, trying our best to think cervidaen thoughts. We were soon led steeply down through the forest and away from the stream. Light began to shine through the undergrowth. George Sound at last! It was just after 6pm, the thoughts of the coming storm weighing heavily on our decision making.

We knew that we would have to dig deep if we were to paddle out of the South West Arm, but another night in a wet tent was not an option we wanted to seriously consider. We scoffed handfuls of snacks, inflated the rafts and pushed off from the shore.

The wind was blowing in from the north, making progress hard fought. Tempers frayed and cheerful chat all but stopped. It was time to dig deep. Battling the wind was unpleasant and as we got further out waves began rocking our boats. Turning around the headland, we were blasted by the cross-wind. Doggedly, we pushed our weary bodies to keep paddling. There was no shore to pull up on even if we had wanted to, the outcrop separating the Sound’s two arms being sheer-sided. It was a great relief when we rounded the last buttress of this obstacle, turning our bows to the south-west. The change was instant. Now with the wind to our backs we barely had to paddle.

The change in conditions brought with it a change in moods. It felt like a triumphant final paddle towards the hut. As we neared it, a figure clad in black came clambering out and onto the shore. It was Marius, who after a week of being by himself was eager for any company he could get.

A chill quickly seeped into our bones as we hauled ourselves ashore, our bodies relaxing after an ardous day. We quickly discarded our wet gear, rushing inside towards the sound of a crackling fire. Bless Marius. Rows of wet socks soon lined the hearth.

That night Ellen prepared a big dinner which was demolished no sooner had it hit our plates. After dinner we set about collecting dry driftwood along the beach, preparing ourselves for the coming storm. Once we were satisfied with our efforts we retreated to the hut, feeling warm, safe and secure.

IX. The father and son fishing trip

The rain arrived as predicted. We spent the morning lazying about in bed, enjoying the absence of necessity. Around 9am I crawled out of my sleeping bag and started the fire. This not only provided warmth but also the essential service of deterring sandflies from flying down the chimney. When we were all finally up a ‘hut-loving’ tasklist was compiled.

Walls were scrubbed, cobwebs were cleared and rubbish was collected. By the time we were finished it was lunchtime. After lunch we reattempted the unfinished crosswords that we had carried (mentally and physically) from Robin Saddle Hut. There was little additional success. I had a growing sense of cabin fever. To combat this, I persuaded Regan that it would be a shame not to go fishing, even if the weather was a bit yuck. Before we could set off Regan had to give Marius a fishing lesson. It was a quant moment of paternal bonding. Lesson and subsequent bait preparation complete, we could finally head out.

The shore provided little opportunity for casting so we launched the packrafts. This was done with care, I didn’t fancy my raft’s chances should it come into a confrontation with a hook. The tally for the afternoon’s fishing was one line lost and one blue cod landed. Cold and wet we paddled back to the hut, intent on warming up by the fire. Regan expertly cooked our catch and over the flames. While this crackled we pondered the facts. Any escape plan had to contend with the rough reputation of the George Sound Route, likely numerous river crossings and further forecasted rain. Given this, we opted to make a call in the morning. That settled, we ate the steaming blue cod and accompanying curry.

X. The mega cod

Alarms went off at 7am. I got up robotically to light the Jetboil, mind locked on coffee. While I was doing this, Regan sought out another weather update from his InReach. The forecast looked wet, albiet drier than the last few days. We digested this and after much deliberation settled on another day at George Sound Hut, saving the march to Lake Hankinson for the following day.

With that decision made I crawled back to bed. Unfortunately, the sandflies were now awake and were delighted that we were still in residence. We lit the fire in an effort to remedy the sandfly situation before getting stuck in to the hut’s stack of ancient National Geographics. When I grew bored of the late 1980s I thought of another way of entertaining myself — pestering Tess to come fishing with me. Tess eventually relented, so, after a lunch of hot beans and rice, we set sail into the sound accompanied by Ellen.

We started by paddling over to investigate the impressive 55m Alice Falls that drained the hidden Lake Alice. When we could paddle no closer we turned back and cast our lines into the water. Tess caught a scarlet wrasse off the bat, setting her up as the fish-master of the evening (despite not liking being near the fish once they were out of the water!). When Ellen had had enough of being eaten by sandflies she paddled back to the hut, leaving Tess and I to our business. For me this business meant a lot more time taking sea perch off Tess’s hook than actually having a line in the water. Then, when I was ready to give up and head in, Tess began fighting with the line. Was it a snag? She reeled with great determination, a mega blue cod soon breaking the surface. Fish-master indeed. When we returned to base she proudly presented this to the rest of the crew.

The downside of all this fishing was the insidious fishy odour being exuded from my clothing (and body for that matter). I set out to fix this with a visit to the nearby stream. After my wash I joined the others to chill out in the hut and warm up next to the fire. When dinner time approached Regan filleted and seasoned our catch before frying it over the fire.

It was a worthy end to the mega cod. Every last buttery morsel was devoured. This was followed by a main course of dahl and chocolate mousse for dessert. With bellies full to bursting, we couldn’t help but reflect on the highs and lows of the trip thus far. Yet, it was still far from over.

Click here to find out about our escape to Te Anau via the George Sound Route on days 11 and 12.