Drongos in Westland 1976

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DRONGOS IN WESTLAND 1976 But. we-only-icame) because.we thought it might.be fun A warm breeze plays up the tussock flats. I sit on the stones by the river and watch the water slip away into the black of the valley. In the darkening sky above me a hint of pink slowly dissolves into night. Candlelight spills out of the Styx Hut, long shadows sweep the grass beneath the windows; like oars. The door opens with a blast of light and Rob's off down to the river to fill the water bucket, I turn my back to the night and go inside. Back in the hut, everyones winding down after our first day of yet another Christmas trip. Simon's rapping off jargon as only he knows how, mumbles of dirt-bwenty-eights, knobby tyres and bendy bars, with Richard filling in the gaps with chortles and guffaws. Russell and Dave are lounging in the sag of a bunk giggling and carrying on over some private joke. Rob's making a hell of a racket over by the stove, smashing and breaking up wood until it stuffs into the firebox, and then forces the door shut and opens the throttle. I'm not too sure just who's cooking tea, it might be John, but then it could be anyone. I'll give the billies a stir in passing (see if I can't slip in a few mouthfuls on the sly). Curses, Rodger's watching. Hang around till he buries his head back into his cowboy book and now John's padding into the room, a splatter of wet footprints trailing him over here, to the stove. He declares tonight's culinary masterpiece has boiled to desirable consistency and is promptly surrounded by outthrust bowls and scrabbling bodies. "O.K. fellas - let her go!" "Hey! I Remember that salami I-gave you?" "Please sir? Can I have - some.more?" John dollops_out the grub like a belligerent Father Christmas, beef and mushroom stew thuds convincingly into the waiting bowls.

And then we retire to the shadows of our bunks and stuff ourselves into a bloated stupor. Silence reigns (pig-pen silent?) interrupted only by spasmodic reports of passing wind and contented grunts. There isn't any.sky, just a close and endless grey slush of clouds and a cold, buffeting wind. Browning's Pass will come when this uphill slog levels out. I don't give a. stuff anyway under all these layers of storm gear, but It'd be good to stop and rest awhile, tucked behind some large rock and roll a cigarette. It's no fun picnicking in the teeth of a howling southerly, wet - strands of hair flicking at your face and butter that won't spread. We pack up and skirt around the lake, staggering along with gutfuls of Tararua biscuits and inminent indigestion, before R zig-zagging up the track to the top of the Pass., Stretched'out: below us lies sheep-shit and scrub, four-wheal-drive tracks and rusting tin huts; the barren and bleak Wilberforce Valley. It's a straight down scree scramble from the Pass and we're managing to get in some great turns before crashing to a heap at the bottom, hot and laughing. John, Rob and Richard head off'down the river to find a campsite while the rest of us just hide in the tussock getting our knees together. Three days have rolled past and the monotony of the Wilber- TO force is now out of sight and mind. We came down north stream yesterday, over from the unknown and found this ideal campsite in Moa Stream. It looks like a bad accident at the moment with mangled tins,, smouldering straw, and piles of food strewn about the clearing. Dave's tucking into first prize for finding the elusive a sixth sack of the airdrop. 11f L Food sorted out, theres nothing to do but lie around under all that sun, sooffing sweets, rolling smokes and just generally pushing the mindto it's limits. True to, form all good things must come to anend and the day turns to rain. We tum to the tents and ooze it all away. "Yeah I know. The weather's bloody, terrible". "Not the best is it?" "May,a as well forget it eh?"

"May as well I neat: Another rest day!" "Bung on another brew?" It's a slow night, the rain holding candlelight and conversation in the tents. Lying there with durry in hand, I can hear the others talking and laughing in their adjacent tent, snatches of rough hewn recorder music and the distant rabble of the river. Dave and Russell are lying dead to the world, far off in the land of nod, and Rodger's reading, lit by the warm glow of the candle and only moving to turn a page or relight his pipe. Like the steady drum of rain on the fly, we talk from one thing to another, drifting, the candle burning low, until finally fading into sleep. I'm slowly being pushed out of the tent : You can't put these things off forever you know. (But you can sure as hell try). Time, and food (time is food here anyway) could no longer be ignored and besides, we were in grave danger of our tobacco supplies running dry (visions of cold turkey in the Mathias). The time had come to extricate ourselves from this bliss and embark on the big move into the Mathias. Having already recce'd the route out over the Pass, at least we were prepared for the long grunt up ahead of us (albeit somewhat of a mixed blessing) - The rains letting up and a watery sun points the way to a fine day. Labouring under airdrop replenished packs we stagger up the still swollen Moa, the ominous grey scree slopes to the Pass looming high up on our left. Zig-zagging upwards, we merge into the rocks I for all the world alone on this mountain.- until you pick out someone moving, a snatch of colour or a voice, and then you somehow just feel small and alien, special too - I guess not every bastard chooses to spend his holidays careering around the hills like this. Oh for the beach and a few dozen beer. C A slow snow grunt up the last stretch to the top (funny - that avalanche debris wasn't there two days ago!) And a full frontal exposure to Mathias winds cannoning up from the valley below. Bumslides and arsechristies down in a mad rush to find some sheltered spot for lunch. By late afternoon we're still sidling down this creek, the nails in my downhill boot driving me into silent painfulled ecstasies. I 1 The Mathias welcomes us with an aggressive little storm (he said, artfully dodging flying boulders and lithely sidestepping the occasional windborne tree ...). Stuffed out of our heads we set off up the river, resigned to hours of boulder stumbling and lured on only by the vision of that eightiman hut and nothing more to do but wait for the brew to boil. Funny how the enthusiasm washes out in a storm - where you just want to hole up and forget = stuff the view! "Where the hell is it?" "Arr dunno. Map reckons it's about right here." "Hang on, hey look. There's a dog kennel, the hut must be somewhere around here." ..After much forraging around in the leatherwood and scrub "Nope. Can't seem to find one - unless - . =1 "Awww, can't be - yer bloody right though, you know what this means don't you?" Grazed navels and bloody knees but in all fairness Dave and Richard did deserve sleeping rights to the hut. I > mean, why should they have to weather the night outside, and remember who was it who cooked breakfast this morning anyway? And afterall, who made tea last night while everyone else was too lazy to get off their chuffs? And SO it was a unanimous and overwhelming decision that they should have the luxury of the hut and that we would quite happily fend for ourselves outside. (Who the hell invented two man bivvies anyway?) Enthusiastically we ventured back out into the icy cold wind and rainito tether pregnant tents against the moving landscape. With a drainage system to beat your average Tongariro power scheme and several tons of boulders to maintain contact with terra-firma, we retreated from the night I fugitives in a glorious reprieve of warmth and shelter. Meals con wheels (wind blown dirt and dehy) was delivered from Dave and Dicks "Takeaways" by the red-nosed pair on their first of many trips from the cookhosue to our accommodation wings. Bed, breakfast and room service (and most delightful waitresses "I'11 have the blonde tonight" I "Get knotted, she's mine, you'll have to get by with the buunette sorry mate") and all at very reasonable prices, look out T.H.C! It was a smug feeling lying there in warm pits, listening to the weather and watching the walls of the tent whipping in and out, and then hearing the squelch of boots, a muffled curse, and a bedraggled face would peer in through the maze of storm lashing bearing bowls of steaming hot food or another brew. Yeah, from the look of things we were sure as hell getting the best deal tonight, the poor bastards - and then the bloody tent blew down. To be a recurring and uncomfortable menace for the rest of that whole murderous night. "Foul swine!" "Me???" Boom! Crash! Rip! "Hell Rodger! I think its high time you hade a quick trip outside mate!" Rumble! Thump! CRRRASH! "Onions?" "Egg more likely." Rumble! Crash! Boom!!! "Lovely! Honestly you'd think that in these confined quarters . - SHIT! THE BLOODY SKIES FALLEN IN!!" A thunderstorm to end all thunderstorms. The tent levelled by one of those blasts of wind that spends half an hour winding up in the head of the valley to come ripping down in a roaring crescendo of pent-up energy and tough luck if you're in the way, followed up by the blockbuster responsible for malfunctions in tent poles and stitching, dropping straight out of the sky to hit us like a ton of bricks. The weather lulled to force 10, and next day, it was obvious this forced retreat had taken its toll. "Bugger me! There's nothing left! - It's all been blown away!" "Open yer bloody eyes Simon. 11 "Aww year." And another day got off the ground. A hairy sidle up above the Canyon Creek gorge soon got us going : . "That is the River between my legs isn't it?" "Sure as hell is boy.' I "Thank goodness. For a minute there Brilliant sunshine up Canyon Creek, snow showers over the Pass, rain down the Hokitika, and clear again by the time we reached Bluff Hut, perched above the confluence of the Hokitika and Mungo Rivers. It's a long haul down the Hoki from the Pass and by the time we finally made it to the hut we were feeling a bit pooey-eyed. And then to find the hut chockerblock with bloated Catholics, food locker torn asunder and two-thirds of five-eights empty - . . bang goes our chance of a night in the comfort of a hut! However, gluttony being a second favourite sin of ours, and after several polite no thank yous we cracked under the pressure and succumbed to a barrage of "You sure you don't want to tuck in this corned beef?" and "Try some of this pudding mates?" Consciences put aside we had a true and blue guts-up. We were on our feet again in time to pitch the flies on this perfect campsite we found just above the hut. Nasty feeling waking up first thing in the morning and seeing a chopper hovering against the midday sun, waiting impatiently to land where you lie. That campsite was cleared at the speed of light. An injured C.T.C. (tarnished brain I think) was fbwn out to Hokitika and it was some time before we felt safe enough to sleep again. "Damn! I forgot to see if the pilot had 1 any smokes on him - à . never mind." Little remains to be said: A quick trip down to the Mungo, washed out at Poet Creek and a physically mutilating grunt through the mists and over and into the Toeroha. Head above scrub, this is a great river, and all bodily damage aside, travel is not out of the question. In fact the lower reaches I reckon rate among the best and Cedar Flats are worth keeping in mind for a less energetic sojourn sometime. Then it was just a straight rap out to Hokitika and hame (via Totoranui) for a more proper sort of holiday. Anyone (Rob, Richard, Russell, Simon, Rodger, Dave, John and myself in particular) who calls this sort ofcaper a holiday is a bloody drongo. K. GALLAGHER ProrTprt ETOR -