"Quick - flag down that ute!"

"Quick - flag down that ute!"

New Zealand has experienced some extreme weather lately. A number trips I have been on into the hills have been hit by particularly bad conditions, and these trips have confirmed to me the value of a certain indispensable item of outdoor equipment that the well-prepared tramper should always have at his disposal. I refer not to boots or packs or parkas or anything as mundane as all that; I refer to that essential but oft Trip One: Cape Palliser

First up was a solo cycling trip out at Cape Palliser last December. The Cape Palliser coastline is one of my favourite places and the forecast was looking good, so on Friday I threw my bike on the club bus as a T.O. and headed out to the Pinnacles campground with the trampers.

Next morning I set off around the coast. It was a glorious day - the sun was shining, the sea was sparkling, the cycling was a joy. A superb, care-free weekend was promised. I soon reached the lighthouse and continued on along the four-wheel drive road. Dropping off my gear at Stonewall Stream, I continued on, laboriously wheeling my bike through the loose sand and gravel of the Ngapotiki fan, down to Ngapotiki Lodge, and round to White Rock Bay. Here I spent a superb afternoon exploring the bay and the fascinating limestone rock formations out on the point to the north before heading back to Stonewall Stream to camp for the night. But as I cycled back the weather changed and it began to blow.

View over White Rock Bay from the top of White Rock (Harry Smith)

Tramping & Mountaineering 2004

Harry Smith overlooked item of tramping gear known as the "ute".

That evening as I sat down by the beach eating dinner I could hear the wind roaring over the top of the Haurangi Ranges behind me. Every so often a ferocious squall would smash down on the water in front of me like a blast from a giant's bellows and race out to sea, punching the water with savage fury, whipping up spray and whirlwinds. Any yacht caught out in those conditions would have been instantly flattened. Where I was camping under the trees was in the shelter of the hillside, but even so, every so often a wind blast would reach there, rolling down the hillside, howling like a banshee through the trees above my head. Cripes, I thought, and this is the sheltered side of the range! What must it be like back around the Cape? Next day I found out.

Even cycling back to the Lighthouse in the lee of the range was hard enough, but once I rounded the corner I was caught in the full fury of the nor-west gale. Just past the lighthouse I was almost blown off the edge of a narrow section of the road and into the sea. I had a brief respite in the shelter of the hillside near the Mangatoetoe Stream, but then I was out into the full force of the gales once more. I found myself being blown all over the road, down in granny gear, struggling to make any forward progress on the flat. And to make matters worse, I was being blasted by stinging sand. It felt a bit like a scene in an Antarctic blizzard, with wind-blown sand taking the place of snow and ice.

Finally I gave up, got off my bike, and began walking. There seemed something ludicrous about pushing my bike on the flat, but even walking I was struggling to make forward progress into the wind.

After a long trudge I eventually reached Ngawi. Here, on a short section of tar-seal, in the slight shelter of the hillside, I managed to ride for a few more minutes before being forced to get off my bike and walk once more.

This was going to be a long afternoon - it was nearly 20 kilometres back to the Pinnacles, something like 6 hours if I was forced to walk the whole way, and I was due back there in less than 2 hours!

I struggled on into the sand-blasting gales on foot, pushing my bike before me. Once or twice I attempted to ride again but I found it impossible to get on the bike and start off without being blown sideways across the road and into the grass and scrub at the side.

Would the bus wait?, I wondered as I battled onwards. Perhaps they would come looking for me, I thought optimistically. But on the other hand, I worried (quite irrationally), perhaps they would simply give up on me and head back to Wellington, deciding I had changed plans and continued on around the Haurangis into Martinborough.

Just as I was contemplating with black despair the awful possibility of having to struggle all the way back to Wellington, salvation occurred. A car with a trailer pulled up in from of me. "Throw your bike on the back", the driver shouted out, and I wasn't about to say no! Hallelujah! What a relief! I hopped into the car, immensely thankful to be out of the gale, and in next to no time we were back at the Pinnacles. The car belonged to a nice elderly couple from Greytown who turned out to be friends of John Rhodes! I didn't get their names but I don't think I've ever been so thankful for a ride in my life.

Trip Two: The Papatahi Crossing

I was leading this trip across the Rimutuka range back in February. The plan was to cross over the top of Papatahi from the Orongorongo river to the Wharepapa river on Saturday and come back via Mukamuka stream and South Saddle on Sunday. This trip includes a nice section of coastline from Ocean Beach around to the mouth of the Mukamuka, and I had visions of an idyllic lunch in the sun on the beach and a pleasant swim in the Tramping & Mountaineering 2004 sea. Alas, it was not to be! This was the weekend before the big southerly storm which hit the country on the Monday, causing massive flooding in the Manawatu and Wanganui region.

We headed in from the Catchpool on Saturday morning with a certain apprehension. Although the weather was fine, it had been raining heavily in the last few days and more rain was forecast. When we reached the river I breathed a sign of relief: although up, it was still perfectly crossable.

We made out way upstream. In places we had to link up to cross, and at one point the river ran swift and deep against the bank and I chose to take to the bush to outflank it - a serious mistake, as we ended up floundering around in thick, tangled jungle before being spat out battered and scratched and having to tackle the crossing anyway.

I began to think about changing the trip, not going on over the range but camping somewhere on the west bank near the end of the Whakanui track instead. But when we reached North Boulder Stream and stopped for lunch, the sun came out, everything suddenly seemed right with the world, and I made the decision to continue.

In retrospect I have no doubt we should have stayed. My wiser mind always knew it was an unwise decision to go on, heading across the range and committing us to being on the wrong side of the Orongorongo River when heavy rain was forecast. But it was a trip I had wanted to do for a long time and the temptation to complete a scheduled trip is always strong. And although I knew the forecast was for more rain, at that particular moment the sun was very pleasant. Maybe the forecast was wrong, I allowed myself to believe. And anyway, even if worst came to worst, at the back of my mind I knew I always had an escape route: back around the coast to Cape Turakarae and across the bridge at the river mouth.

The track up to Papatahi was steep but well defined. Down the other side it became a lot less distinct, and for much of the way we were basically following the markers, rather than an actual track on the ground. While some people must climb Papatahi from the Orongorongo side, clearly not many people come in from the east or do the full crossing. Halfway down we lost the track and spent a while floundering around in thick kiekie before relocating it. Eventually we reached the riverbed - just as the heavens opened and it began to bucket down.

We were soon at the hut, only to find it occupied by a hunter, his two teenage sons - and their dogs. I wasn't pleased to see them and I don't think they were pleased to see us! ”Are you heading on out?”, the father asked, obviously hoping we were. But at that time of the day, in that weather, we were staying, whether they wanted us or not!

That evening the rain continued to thunder down and the river - really no more than a large stream - steadily rose. I began to have serious doubts whether it would be possible to get out down it in the morning, or how long it would take us even if we could. To make matters worse, the weatherman on the hunter's transistor radio was forecasting 180 kilometre per hour southerly winds for the following afternoon.

I spent an uncomfortable night on the floor, disturbed by the hunter's #@*$#@ dogs. Normally I might have asked him to put them outside, but they had arrived first and we felt a bit like unwelcome intruders as it was, and I didn't want to force the issue.

The rain continued throughout the night. Next morning, one look at the river outside the hut told me everything I needed to know. If this stream was up like this, the Orongorongo river back across the range was almost certainly going to be uncrossable. Short of somehow trying to arrange a ride back from Ocean Beach (which I briefly considered, seeing how utterly miserable it looked outside), our options were reduced to one: my emergency escape route back around Cape Turakarae. Even then, I wasn't totally sure that we'd be able to cross the Mukamuka.

But conditions outside didn't seem so bad once we were out in them, and despite having to link up a few times, the travel out down the Wharepapa proved easier than I had feared. After the first hour we were able to leave the riverbed and take to the Leaving Kime Hut on a fine Sunday morning (Harry Smith)

Tramping & Mountaineering 2004 farmland. Down at Ocean Beach it was grey and drizzly, with huge waves - not the pleasant idyllic swimming conditions I had mentally envisaged the week before. We were trudging along the four wheel drive road past all the baches when what should pull up beside us but a ute. "Hop in the back", said the driver. "Yes!" I thought, mentally envisioning a motorised trip all the way back round Cape Turakarae. Unfortunately he was just going to Corner Creek, only a couple of kilometres away, but I suppose one shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Back on foot again, I set a fast pace. It was a long way to go and I was worried that if we were forced to walk all the way up the road to the Catchpool there was a danger we would not make it before the gates were locked. When we finally rounded Cape Turakirae and reached the road bridge, the river was up and raging like I had never seen it before. I was thankful I hadn't decided to risk going back via the Orongorongo valley. I read in the paper a day or two later that dozens of trampers stranded in huts on the far side of the river had had to be rescued by chopper.

Thanks to the bridge we were safely back on the right side of the river but we still faced a two or three slog back up the Wainuiomata valley road. Just then - what do you know? - up pulled a ute! We hoped in the back and fifteen minutes later we were back at the Catchpool. The helpful guy even drove us in up the valley to where our car was parked!

Trip Three: Southern Crossing - Quoin Ridge

It's not often I get lured into the Tararuas, but a Southern Crossing via Quoin Ridge was a trip I'd wanted to do for a long time. So, not without a certain instinctive apprehension at voluntarily committing myself to a trip into the Ranges of Everlasting Mud and Misery, I signed up for this trip back in March.

As expected, the weather on the Saturday was completely miserable. Rain, wind, mud – why was I not surprised? After a break in Kime we pushed on to the top of Hector, where conditions were so bad we could hardly stand up. We struggled on for a few more metres, but after being forced to crouch down in the trench of the track and hang on desperately to the tussock to prevent being blown away, we retreated back to the hut, where we spent a day in the pit as more parties arrived and settled in.

Next morning the weather was clear. After consulting the map we estimated we could still get across and out on time, so most of us elected to continue with the crossing. All went well, and we had a pleasant trip across the tops and down Quoin Ridge, stopping for lunch in a large open clearing resulting from an old forest fire. After the miserable weather of the previous day, it looked like the trip was going to work out well after all.

Alas, it was not to be. We stuffed up the descent off Quoin Ridge down to the Hutt River. There is a marked track down a major spur but we missed the Descending Quoin Ridge with the Hutt Valley in the distance (Harry Smith)

Tramping & Mountaineering 2004 turn-off. We ended up on a narrow spur which dropped steeply before petering out. We sidled over to another spur; this seemed better at first but also petered out. Then to make matters worse we stumbled onto a wasps’ nest. Fleeing in multiple directions, all of us except our leader received multiple stings. We slid and blundered under logs, down a slip and into a creek bed. Climbing out the other side, we at last found ourselves on the correct spur, and we were soon down at the river.

Unfortunately all our blundering around had cost us a lot of valuable time and we had little time left to get out to the Kaitoke waterworks road where we were due to be picked up. Before us still lay a tedious 350 vertical metre slog out over the fourwheel drive track - a good hour and a half of road walking at least, a depressing prospect at the end of the day.

But heaven smiled upon us. In the carpark was a group of hunters we had met earlier on up on Quoin Ridge, and standing beside them, beautiful in all its motorised glory, was – you guessed it - a ute! Piling our packs and ourselves aboard, we bounced and groaned our way up the track and down the other side. In twenty minutes we were out, sitting on the grass awaiting the arrival of the Orient Express.

So there you have it - three different trips in three different places, all saved, or at least assisted, by the timely appearance of a motor vehicle. And the moral of our story? As the old saying goes, when the going gets tough .....flag down a ute!!