Forgotten in the Rain (Dart)

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FORGOTTEN IN THE RAIN A night at the Paradise Hilton, Dave and Elsie Miller's haybarn, barbequed breakfast steaks and the 8 a.m. tractor and trailer to Chinaman's Bluff. What a start! Psyched up by our Leader, for the great Dart crossing, we cut poles and advanced as Bushcraft page 59 only to find the biggest obstacle to progress was the poles themselves. These were soon discarded in about 600 mm of water. "It wasn't like this in 70", claimed our Leader, recalling Paul Green's trip. Remustering on the true right, after a gruelling fifteen minutes traverse of windswept shingle beds, we moved "indian file" into the valley of the Beansburn. The bivvy rock, at the lower end of the flats, revealed our first "Playboy", spotted by Dave Dean but a stiff dressing down from our Leader who regretfully had his reading glasses at the bottom of the pack, drove us to search out a more suitable campsite. This was at the top end of the flats, just above the Burn, on the true left. Our Engineers pronounced it acceptable and camp was erected in the classic Hunt position, tents face to face, with 1.2 metre gap between, and two flies overlapping at the point of entry. The sunny afternoon saw a heroic attempt to divert the main flow of the Burn, down a sideloop, which serviced the campsite. Prominent in efforts to construct a spine wall out into the Burn were George, Paul and Chris, and thanks to them evening ablutions were considerably eased. At sundown an elegant display of Frisbee throwing was given by the old boys of Timaru High and ground coffee, Christmas pud and tinned fruit provided a fitting conclusion to a memorable Boxing Day. After three hours pleasant tramping the next day, Chris Brownie uncannily led us to the Victoria University party, decadently encamp ed with their womenfolk on the banks of the Burn. Our Leader, and he should know, pronounced them pikers and we moved on. By lunchtime it was raining. The Vic. Party's radio had.spoken of two small depressions approaching and it was the first of these we were now tramping into. Above the scrub-line there's an incredible jumble of big, shattered rocks and it was inside this we bivvied for two days, while the depréssion had its way. The Beansburn kea, also nearly had-its way rummaging in the night through our_rubbish and Dave - Dean'si eating irons. There was much playing of Canasta and reading of "pulp 11 and hext day when the author ventured out to ablute, the Vic. Party nearly walked over him, en route to the upper bivvy, on the T.L. Overnight it snowed. Twenty-ninth of Deceaber, in between depressions, we mounted the Fohn saddle, the final fifty metres of this brave ascent being filmed for posterity by Chris Brownie. We never saw the Fohn Lakes, except as fits of blue on NZMS-S113 for depression number two decided to manifest itself, as of small snow storm. So, down we hurried to-the shelter of the 0livine bush with taucelising_Elimpses of Alabaster.Pass, Fiery Creek, the 0livine River, on the way. Surprisingly there was no sign of the Vic. party, which had climbed the saddle less than an hour ahead of us. About four-thirty we reached a small, flat island opposite the mouth of the Forgotten Slit Gorge, and the depression still manifesting itself, camped there. Sterling efforts by Paul Hughes on the fire, Dave Dean and our Leader on the billies brought us dinner in the pit.. We went to'sleep to the roar of thunder, the flash of lightning the falling of temperatures. Two days later on New Years Eve, the depression moved off - and we made our way up to the air drop on the Forgotten River Flats. Snow had fallen to thirteen hundred metres, and even the barren Bryneira Range looked spectacular under its mantle. The Forgotten turned out to be as crowed as Queenstown Motor Camp, with parties from Christchurch, Victoria University, Auckland and "The Land of Things To Do", passing through. Not really my idea of a wilderness area!

The tents were efficiently erected, at the bushedge, in a dried up water course. A precautionary drainage channel was hacked out with ice axes, and Paul Hughes created a superb fireplace, by raising a recumbent megalith into an upright position, much as his celtic ancestors must have done aeons ago. As it happened our nearest neighbours were the Vic. party. They'd come all the way from the Beansburn in one day, to get their food drop. Now they were resting up. Their seven-thirty radio sched. said good weather was acoming in! We drank to that from a good bottle of Scotch, devoured the second Christmas pud and hit the pit about nine, manfully resisting the temptation of trading in our alcohol for the Vic. Party's womenfolk. Dave Cook serenaded in seventy-seven, accompanied by random wailing from the Canasta Club, while downwind in our Leader's quarters sleep was elusive. The combination of grog, bacon and macaroni had been too much for them, and they tossed and turned well into the night. With the New Year came the sun, whose very existence we had begun to doubt. From a crisp, blue sky it beamed down, onto the magnificent snow-covered mountains of the Forgotten. Immediately our spirits bounded to be off and away up to the 0livine Ice Plateau. We made the bivvy rock, which looks out on Forgotten River Col, by mid afternoon, and spent the evening drying out socks, throwing frisbees, reading pulp, watching keas, sunbathing and practising knots. From our eyre we saw another party come up the valley and presumably bivvy down by the creek. Also a party of four came down off the Col. to the high snow sidle, then to our surprise, returned whence it had come. We woke at some ungodly hour of darkness and got away in grey light. Slowly the night retreated revealing clouds rolling in from the West, and mist still hanging on the Plateau. Incredibly it took three hours to get onto the Col. - it had seemed so adjacent at the bivvy!

In our Line-7 parkas, Alp Sports puttees, zinc-oxide noses and holiday beards.we made a colourful group as the many photos taken on the plateau testify! The mist drifted around, occasionally blanketing out the sun and surrounding us in a silent, spectral world. Inquisitively we picked around the only snow cave we could see - its entrance marked by al khaki tent. By then we were on our way down, the weather deteriorating. The early bird certainly catches the worm and we felt very smug as we met seven Christchurch, seven Victoria and three Auckland people .'still on their way upo - Meanwhile back at the Flats, Chris Brownie had a meal on for is. This had been done largely from a prone position in the pit, but he seemed quite happy that he had laundered his longjohns and bush singlet, and had whittled a "bird" out of beechwood. The rain started again, first a gentle drizzle then a steady drumbeat on the flies, Philosophically we retired to our pits to sit this one out, playing cards, reading "The Eagle has Landed" or "The Secret Life of Trampers" writing up our memoirs or just plain astral travelling : Throughout the long night it rained. By nine next morning, January third, our dried-up water course had a fair number of cusecs coursing through it, but our Engineers said these constituted no danger. We watched Paul Hughes's noble fireplace drown in a latge pond which formed below our Leaders tent. Redundant packing cases which Chris had so skilfully arranged to snare keas, floated uneasily on brown waters, strangely reminiscent of Bangkok. Hughes, the elder went outside for a leak and number two tent started to ship water. It oozed between the two piece groundsheet, the lap being the wrong way, and amidst general panic our Engineers conceded "this position is untenable". However, deft use of the ice axe soon had the situation under control and we were able to return to our various piking pursuits, secure in the knowledge that once again our skilled team of Engineers had triumphed.

In the evening it cleared though the forecast on the Auckland Party's radio was all gloom. Undeterred Chris started filming. We saw Parish, the extra, clashing ice axes for Take One, scene one, and Murray the Gannet - 'gonging" an airdrop tin suspended from a beech tree. By now it was evident that we wouldn't make the Upper Pyke airstrip to fly south with Jules Tapper on the 8th. No way would we surmount the Four Brothers, Beresford and the Red Hills, if this weather kept up. To underline the point it rained all the next day. The decision to cut our losses and go down the 0livine was unanimous. In ninety minutes we were down on the Olivine Flats, and went down the true right till at lunchtime, still by the side of the creek, it was obvious we'd lost the track. The Gorge being imminent the only way was up and sure enough there was our track, halfway up the mountain, and going higher still. From rocky outcrops we enjoyed a sweeping panorama of the Pyke and Lake Wilmot. It was seven-thirty by the time we got to the bottom of a dry gut and traversed the swamp to a side branch of the 0livine, just above the Pyke. A meat hunting chopper bugged us as we pitched camp on the dry shingle bed. By nine-thirty everyone slept. Say what you will about the Pyke, the weather at sea level was a bloody sight better than it had been a, thousand metres up a mountain, and in spite of the forecasts, it looked as though it was going to get better. The revised plan of action was to cross the Pyke and to camp on the airstrip, which is about five kilometres above Lake Alabaster. This was accomplished with surprising ease, tramping on the level being something of a novelty and fording the big river at an excellent spot just above the strip, a real pleasure, albeit breathtaking. Very soon the tents were up, adjacent to the Meatsafe and hut. We hoped we might make contact with Tapper and get an early lift-off. Two loaded choppers passed by in the afternoon and at seven a plane appeared. Our leader held up a piece of paper and amazingly the Cessna turned and landed. The pilot wanted to take us there and then, but we had to refuse. He agreed to pass on our message to Tapper, that evening. Our spirits raised by the prospects of a bit of action, the remainder of the evening was spent in a frisbee throwing competition, with ice axes and enamelled plates set out like wickets on the airstip, in front of the "Pavilion" of tents. Opposing teams toiled long hours to tip the plates with the yellow disc. Supper was provided by a luckless Pyke eel, but opinions varied as to its taste, conditioned as we were to T.V.P. and rice. As the first stars sparkled, Madeleine, in the south looked very seductive in her veil of sunset pink. In fact Friday the seventh was a bit of an anti-climax; Tapper never came. Plenty of things were happ pening in the valley, but we were strip bound, Fortunately it was a very fine day and there was much sunbathing, abluting and just plain idling about. George made a plastic kite and then attempted to get it airborne. This it did frantically like a cat chasing its tail. It seemed to have an inbuilt kamekaze urge, so that just when it had lifted - off, down it would drop,hell-bent on self-destruction.. a In the morning,Von Richthofen's black leather double, his wife and fishing gear arrived by jetboat. A Mount Cook plane rendezvoused and whisked them away to Milford or wherever. What it is to have money. And in the evening Paul Hughes nearly wrote himself off, photographing an incoming chopp er baded with deer carcases. Nobody thanked the pilots for the whirlwind which threatened to flatten our tent or for the gore they left in the meat safe. Jules Tapper and his skywagon 185 were indeed a relief! They appeared the following noon, high in the blue over Alabaster Pass. In two exciting sortees they relayed the seven of us down the Holyford to his strip near Gunn's camp. The river, sparkling turquoise, the bush jungle-dense green, mysterious, and the skimming black shadows of our tiny plane riding the undulations of the land below us. That night we camped above Lake Howden on the Greenstone Saddle, which commands a fine view to the south and which being more chan 250 metres off the Routeburn track, you don't have to pay a dollar each to camp on! The views from Key Summit, twenty-five minutes above Howden Hut are indeed mighty and the weather being perfect, we lingered there an hour or so, feasting our senses on the magnificent spectacle of ice, cloud, bush and water. Christina, close at hand looked sup erb, her peaks ragged with mist. Lake McKenzie was a three hour stroll away. In view of all , the "do not" signs around the hut, the hordes of people and the vindictive camping fees, we pitched tents in a secluded spot down by the green, green waters. It was in this tranquil spot, with its gran d view of Emily Peak, that we experienced our first cullinary disaster when Chris perhaps overawed by our surroundings, served apples dressed with salt! It took more than the second bottle of whisky to erase the sickening taste. Unfortunately, Monday the tenth was overcast and we missed the splendid views of the Darrans as we moved onto Harris Saddle for lunch. Our Leader amused himself by making a census of people using the Routeburn Track, and also a list of the many and varied signs, "do this, don't do that", which are flourishing thereabouts. Down to the Routeburn Flats we wandered and there our Engineers set up the flies with great precision. Paul made tea and the rest of us lay in the sun. Again salt and sugar were confused, In a custard, I think. Our last day in the bush dawned very wet, especially for Dave Dean, who was under the flapping overlap of the flies. At Bryants Lodge we had the biggest meal so far, and in between the many I courses, looked on ryely at the strange people of the Routeburn Track. About midday the H. and H. arrived from Queenstown and by seven that night, after steak and chips at the nearest rip-off joint, Alan Parish (our Leader), Chris Brown, George Murray and Paul Hughes (our team of skilled Engineers), Dave Cook, our Master Chef, Dave Dean and Tony Hughes (the author) were all safely secured at Elchardts, sampling the local juices and reliving the highlights and lowlights of another rugged Parish trip.