So you thought the Tararuas were wet?

So you thought the Tararuas were wet?

Biil Speight's launch Waituna glides into the lee of a promontory in Lake Te Anau's middle fiord. In the tiny galley, a kettle is boiling. "Lift that floorboard," says Bill, "and get out the chillybin." We eat thick ham and lettuce sandwiches with mugs of tea while rain pelts on the cabin roof. We are to remember those ill opens the throttle for the ten-kilometre run up the

South West Arm. Vertical grey cliffs soar into the clouds. A trough in the mountain wall, full of dark vapour, appears dimly through the rain; and from it an ominous serpent of black water winds through the forest into the lake. This is the valley of the Doon, and it's where we're going.

Of allthe lakes in New Zealand, Te Anau has the largest volume; and almost its entire contents comes from rain that falls on the Fiordland mountains. At Te Anau township some warped enthusiast has put up a contour map showing the westward increase in annual precipitation. It goes from a sensible thirty centimetres or so east of the lake, to several kilometres in the valleys feeding the western fiords. Thus we are now embarking on potentially the wettest trip possible in New Zealand, with the possible exception of a traverse of the lake floor itself. An excursion which seemed not such a bad idea in its conception, now offers, at the point of leaving Waifuna's dry cabin, all the attraction of an unmitigated, cold and sodden disaster. John wants badly to go home.

Bill anchors the launch and ferries his passengers two by two up the first reach of the forbidding, unwholesome Doon in Waituna's thimble-sized fibreglass dinghy. Wefeel

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John Rhodes sandwiches fondly and often during the next eight days.

like ancient Celts adrift, by a strange and ridiculous quirk of destiny, in their coracle in some God-forsaken jungle estuary in a Vincent Ward film. But nobody shouts "Cut!"

This is not a film, it's real.

The wet forest comes to the very edge of the deep, swirling water, for no such luxury as a beach exists here. We step out of the dinghy onto greasy, rotten logs and wave goodbye to our skipper, returning to his warm, dry house near Te Anau. Then we squelch and splash our way through hackless bush in a direction that we hope is upvalley.

This bush-bashing is not of the sharp prickly kind, for Fiordland is the Moss Capital of the World. Everything in this forest, save its leaves and finest twigs, is swathed and festooned in mosses and moss-like leafu liverworts. Carpets of tongue-mosses thickly blanket the ground and vaguely figure the outlines of fallen trees. Tiny umbrella-mosses lift green discs to the light. Wire mosses raise bonsai hee-forms, like forest giants in miniature. Dripping beech trees, darkening everything beneath them, drape their branches in streaming veils and curtains of moss that takes its moisture from the wet air, much as a fish takes oxygen from water. Moss has taken over the valley of the Doon with all the determination and conquering omnipresence q) !

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Tramping and Mountaineeri ng 2001 /2002

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i q r r n - nd, for hing in ad and )arpets aguely sses lift .forms, of an invasion of triffids. And every last bit of it is full to capacity with water, like a sponge that has just been lifted from the bath. The rain added from above merely enhances its aura of complete hydration. To walk here is like balancing on an uneven and saturated, disintegrating mattress with soft wet bits poking up out of it.

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That Bible of southern tramping, Moir's Guide Book, is read by hip leaders and Chief Guides on winter evenings in the comfort of their living rooms as they ponder activities for the coming Christmas. It says a track once existed on the true left of the Doon; but now a bush-bash on the true right is recommended. So we bash the sopping bushes, and they bash us back. The water drips incessantly from everything, seeking especially any alien object, like a tramper or his pack, which might have some diminishing vestige of dryness. Soon three Gore-Tex parkas are as sodden and heavy as only a Gore-Tex parka can become, while one lightweight twenty-five dollar Warehouse parka is keeping out quite as much water as the others and absorbing none, because it lacks the expensive water-absorbing property specially designed into their products by the House of Gore.

Doon lsence

Forthree minutes, the rain stops. Atiny, temporary hole in the clouds aligns itself between the sun and our part of the valley floor. A million drops of water, poised to fall, sparkle in the light like a million jewels, and for a fleeting moment the forest becomes a fairyland of joy and beauty.

The rain returns. We trudge on, squeezing bodies and packs through wet pepper trees growing like mangroves in the valley-floor slush. A trail of sorts leads along a sandy levee beside the brown river, which fills its bed from bank to bank as it rushes out to the lake behind us, where Waituna is now well on the way home. BillSpeight willbe watching the TV news while we pitch our tents in three inches of water. However, in late afternoon, opposite Pisgah Creek, track markers take us to a biwy rock with a fireplace and wood and dry places to sleep. We light a fire and dine and

Tramping and Mountaineering 2OO7 /2002

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S = read Fisher's History of Europe, Vol. 1. While we try to sleep, a weka, angry at being displaced from its house, calls indignantly outside. It rains all night.

In the moming rain is still falling. John hopes for a day of Athens and Sparta under the biwy rock. But his companions pack their swags unconcernedly, as though to walk with a heavy packthrough fallingtonents of water is the most normal thing in the world. Reluctanfly, John follows suit.

The river winds through the marshy valley, and we taipse wetly along its banks, covering half as much distance again as a direct route but with fewer obstacles. From time to time sheams joins from the left. We have to guess whether they come from the valley side, in which case we should cross; or whether they are branches of the main flow, in which case we shouldn't. Mostly they prove to be branches of the anastomosing Doon.

At the foot of Campbell Creek, an easing in the rain allows a stop for lunch and for war behveen Greece and Persia.

Moir (who is really Robin McNeill in disguise) says we should go up the true left of the creek until a waterfall comes into view, then cross. However, Campbell Creek carries the entire outflow of ten square kilomehes of cenhal Fiordland on which rain has been falling heavily for the last three days. Crossing is impossible. Travel up the true right is our only option. This, says Moir (McNeill), looks "even rougher" than the left.

We battle logs, tree roots, rotten branches that come away in our hands, and giant, greasy boulders with cavernous holes between them that can swallow a hamper without trace. We pull and stretch and reach and teeter and grunt and slip and swear and backtrack and pass packs. Yesterday's ham and lettuce sandwiches in lrVaifuna's cabin seem a distant dream. We inch our way up through the nearvertical bush beside the roaring, raging cataract, aiming for the 580 and 600 metre contours. They are separaied on the map by a few millimetres, holding out hope of a place to camp. Meanwhile, it rains.

At the top of the fall, on the other side, is a flat place. CampbellCreek is kind, and splits into three channels. We cross, pitch our tents, throw off sopping parkas and get in out of the rain.

That was one of my more difficult tramping days, says John.

The morning brings drizzle, not rain. Grant says the weather is fine above the cloud. John says the weather has been fine above the cloud for the entire trip. Why else does Grant think people become747 pllots, he asks?

By Fiordland standards, druzle equates to a fine day. It must be taken advantage of. Campbell Creek flattens out in the way glaciated valleys do; and the travel, on shong deer trails, is almost easy. By midday we're out of the bush above the south end of [-ake Wapiti. This is the biggest mountain tarn most of us have seen - two kilomefues long and a kilometre wide.The drvzle clears, and we can see back down the creek to a little bush-girt lake perched above the main valley. We walked past it this morning without realising.

We need to get to the head of the lake, and its sides are steep. Moir (McNeill) says snowgrass ledges can be followed. While we sidle, snow begins to fall. John remembers FMC Bulletin reports about people slipping to their deaths on fresh snow in bluffy places like this. But Moir (McNeill) promises a biwy rock near the lake-head, and the thought of this makes him careful. Who would want to plunge to his death in Lake Wapiti when the alternative is a cup of tea under a dry biwy?

The ground at the head of the lake, which looked flat from a distance, is lumpy and boggy. Our search fails to reveal the biwy. We camp on the only flat place. In the morning snow covers the tents and the weather is definitely not good enough to go on. A whole day for the rise of the Roman Empire and for Constantine to become a Christian!

The pass to Twin Falls Creek has no name. We can see it from the camp. It's 7237 metres. You can go higher than that in the Tararuas, but in the Tararuas you wouldn't need ice axes on New Year's Day. Here we do, and we haven't got them.

From the pass, a jumble of grey nameless peaks stretches south and north under a dark sky. Twin Falls Creek, now before us, looks like the Valley of the Shadow of Death. To get into it seems not only impossible, but highly undesirable. But Moir (McNeill) shows the way. Soon we're descending a deer highway through steep bush beside a cascade. It leads to a flat reach where the river is shingly and the crossings easy. Behind us, beyond the hacery oftreetops, towering bare walls of rock disappear into mist. It seems impossible that anyone could come into this forhess valley from above. Unless they are very inhepid, of course.

Standing up through the moss and liverwort carpet, like forest canopy trees above the undergrowth, are the ferns: delicate Hymenophyllums hardly bigger than the mosses themselves, cheerful red-leafed Blechnum, and crown ferns with new pale growth almost luminous in the forest darkness. There's Prince of Wales fern too, and scratchy Polystichum. Ferny glades on tenaces above flood-level invite us to camp, and recently-fallen beech branches with dead leaves say "Firewood! Tea!" But the Stillwater calls. and we qo on.

Beech trees festooned with ribbons and streamers r moss close over the creek, which becomes a green gobl tunnel winding below the cliff-castles of the valley side We expect that around every corner a Hobbit will appea or more probably Craig Potton with a tripod and 6 x Linhof, turning all this green wonder into calendars an fifteen-dollar posters.

Another steep descent, another deer highway, and we't in the main valley. The Stillwater is quiet and inoffensiv We camp on a sandy beach, confident it will not floo< John makes a fire. Attila rises and falls, and the Saxor conquer Britain. Best of all, the drizzle stops, veils of mi hang about the slopes, and patches of light appear on th scrub far above. It's the sun! We last saw it in Christchurc nearly a week ago.

Perhaps we are getting the hang of Fiordland. It's just matter of patience. Statistical probability says that if yo tramp in the rain for long enough, eventually it will give u - at least temporarily - and you'll see Fiordland in i alternative (one can hardly say natural) state. Fiordland like a woman. Hang around her enough, and sooner c later she'll take her clothes off.

This is an all-male trip, and such thoughts are permitte< Next morning we paddle slowly up the Stillwater, sou and spirits attuning to a paradise of water, tree, cliff an sky. Splashes of rata enliven the green, and clear sidestrear tumble down from hidden cirques above. On this exquisil day the Stillwater is utterly perfect. It is as God made i and we have it all to ourselves.

Today we have to get into an unnamed north branch < the valley, which may be difficult. But in a place like thi womTing is out of the question. There are whio to be watche and photographed, lunch to be had, a papacy to b established in Rome, and monasticism to spread throug Europe. Pitiable indeed would be the man who could nc be happy here.

The north branch enters the Stillwater steeply. Twent thousand years ago it held an ice-fall. We climb away fror the river on a rock-face colonised by moss and scrub, the sidle left, watching the altimeters. Where we reach the rive again (no deer hails, somy!) we find a camp-spot in the hee

Two fine days in a row? This can't be right! Moir (McNei says go upstream a bit, then climb out to the left. We dc It's nail-biting steep, with tangly scrub at the top; but th day is so beautiful nobody minds.

Now we're on the tops, among sparkling tarns edged b emerald moss. Patches of old snow lie on scores of nameles grizzledpeal<s. The lack of names in this magnificent counh shows how much attention it gets. We can see the whol world, or at least all of it that matters right now. Th "stuaighfonvard climb" of Moir (McNeill) is further up-valle5 We tried to equate his NZMS 1 grid reference to our NZMI

260 map, and got it wrong. Never mind! Some vandal has put a radio mast on a mountaintop t the east, our first sign of human presence since an old boc and a waratah under the biwy rock in the Doon. We find offensive. We didn't come all this way to see radio masts.

Fingers are busy on shutter buttons. At a bump in th ridge, 1160m, George Sound and Lake Katherine com into view, a stone's throw away. Soon we'll be on the tracl the day's work is almost done, and it's only lunchtime

Tramping and Mountaineering 2001/20O

Viking raids, Alfred, Canute and Edward the Confessor claim our attention.

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We descend a ridge littered with huge angular boulders to Henry Saddle. Halfway down, a track crosses. It comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. Much later, we realise it's a kakapo trail. At the saddle we pick up the George Sound track. Walking it is a rock-androot-conquering mission. John's feet are sore, and he's tired. He drops hints to Grant (who pretends not to hear) about a float-plane ride out from the sound. . It seems a very long way to George Sound. At B.30pm, Glynne and John are nearly there. The track leads through giant kamahi and rata. A bellbird calls. Flat water shows through the trees. The square shape of a hut appears. Grant and Morgan have already done the radio sked.

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This hut is essentialequipment. Without it, sandflies would tear an unprotected tramper limb from limb, scarcely pausing to spit out the bones. When they have gone to bed, we drag our exhausted bodies the few yards from the hut to the water. It's as placid as a lake - mitted. r, souls tiff and ;teams quisite rade it, but this is a lake with seaweed. Water and mountains are in shades of blue and grey. A half moon and the tiny golden sphere of a planet hang in the sky.

We go inside and shut the door and read in the hut book about the mussels and seals and dolphinsthat others have eaten andwatched here. John says, when I am old and rich I shall come back on the Milford Wanderer and anchor out there on the water, away from the sandflies.

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Two days laler,we're at Lake Hankinson. A taciturn man called Vern takes us in a tiny boat to where we can walk across the isthmus to Lake Te Anau. There's a strong breeze, and Vern's Lake Te Anau boat is hardly bigger than his Lake Hankinson one. The Te Anau waves are a great deal bigger, though. Vern seems unconcerned. Either he lacks appreciation of the hazard of drowning, or he has done this many times before. The latter, we hope.

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Postscript: Some observations about young trampers

When I started tramping, most trampers were old. Today more and more young people are taking up tramping. Some of these people are less than thirty-five!

whole r. The valley. NZMS

Here is my contribution towards an understanding of youngtrampers:

To young trampers, japara parkas, Tararua biscuits, bush singlets and Mountain Mules are unknown. Young trampers drink cold water or herbal teas. They dry their socks (or try to) at the end of the day. They have strange sleeping bags with no down underneath. Their shorts are long and heavy, and get very wet in the rain.

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Young trampers light no fires. They cook on gas stoves. They have shiny billies. Their packs have separate sleeping-bag compartments with zips to let the water in.

Young trampers take five pairs of underpants.

in the come l track; htime.

And yet with all these handicaps young trampers cover, Ltnaccountably, the same territory as ordinary trampers!

Tramping and Mountaineering 2001 /2002

1/2002

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Mt Henry from Coote/Murrell tops (Grant Newton)

From Te Anau Downs we look back across the lake. The sun is low and cloud gathers above shadowy mountains. Fiordland seems unattainable, impenetrable, and very far awav.