Dora Didn't Mind

DORA DIDN’T MIND Even though we had met only a few hours before by TONY GAZLEY M ountains have always had their stories. Once upon a time they told of the evil spirits that dwelt among them, or the gods that lived on their summits. Nowadays they are usually tales of derring-do, seemingly impossible ascents and ski descents, of heroes, fools and the occasional tragedy. So as I wandered up the Clarence Valley at the head of Lake Tennyson one very hot summer’s afternoon I decided to make up my own story.

They would be sisters. Dora would be the younger although she was the taller of the two—even if only by ten metres. She seemed more outgoing and rougher and to have more friends than her older sister Guinevere, which is often the case with a second child. Guinevere was certainly more elegant but somehow appeared remote and aloof and stood apart from Dora and her mates.

I had seen them both from a distance a long time ago and always thought it would be nice to meet up with them. But at the moment I was having trouble going anywhere. It was just so bleedin’ hot. There is no shade in the upper reaches of the Clarence—all the trees are long gone, burnt by the early run-holders or maybe even before. All I wanted to do was find some water for a swim, or even some shade would do. But there was neither. Even the main river was gone. For a long length of flats it was underground with only the dry stones of the riverbed hinting at where it normally flowed.

So when I spied a large boulder with an overhanging edge I headed straight to it. Sure enough there was just enough room to lie in the one shady patch in the valley. It was so comfortable in the soft grass I decided to stay for the remainder of the afternoon—I would make up the lost time tomorrow. I read, made lots of cups of tea from water collected from a side creek that was running above ground if I climbed up high enough.

It was actually a pleasant way to spend the remainder of the day. Once the sun dipped behind the hillside and the temperature dropped I could comfortably move about and prepare my tea. The night was calm and peaceful with a big nearly-full moon rising above the peaks and flooding the valley with a light bright enough to easily make do without a torch.

The next morning I wandered up to the start of the climb to Paske Saddle. It was hot again so I took my time on the uphill—after all I was now carrying enough water to last the day and also for the evening meal as I would not be passing any more streams, and I wanted to avoid sweating too much and needing unnecessarily to drink extra of my precious water.

I reached the saddle and could look down into the pretty Paske Valley and to the peaks beyond—it seemed a nice enough place for lunch so I made myself comfortable. Then later I started up the last climb to the ridge towards my storybook sisters.

The ridge was just as I expected for that area—lots of rotten tottery rock. But the view in every direction was wonderful and there were even a few mildly tricky bits to stop getting bored. I reached a high point and ahead the ridge narrowed with many wobbly looking towers. To save time I decided to drop down and traverse the scree slopes below the ridge—which turned out to be a lucky choice as just before the final climb to the peak there, hidden from the sun in a small hollow, was a patch of snow. This was great. I stuffed snow down my shirt and under my hat to cool off and then filled my empty water bottle. Revived and happier I carried on—and before too long there I was—face to face with Dora.

‘Well’, I said, ‘how are you? It’s so nice to finally meet you’. I imagined the pleasant welcoming reply before sitting down to take in my surroundings. And the first thing I noticed was what a miserable looking affair the summit cairn was. It was almost inconsequential and seemed to be saying quite clearly that hardly anybody ever came this way, and I immediately felt sorry for Dora for receiving so few visitors. But the view Dora had was quite spectacular with peaks and valleys extending to the horizon in all directions. Maybe that made up for some of the loneliness.

I then looked around for an area that would make a flat sleeping place but there was nowhere suitable. So I set about moving unwanted rocks and replacing them with more suitable ones until I had a reasonably flat bench. I built a low wall around the two sides I thought would be upwind if there was actually going to be any. Once that was completed the next issue was to find a way down—at least without going back the way I had come.

My ideal choice was to drop down into the stream towards the east which was actually the headwaters of the mighty Wairau River. From there I could head through a low unnamed saddle and get back to Lake Tennyson. The map seemed to show this was possible but the reality was a bit different. What the map didn’t show was the cliffs and bluffs that separated the scree slopes that ran almost from the ridge to the valley floor. I paced back and forth peering over the edges to try and find ledges that could be used to join up the screes. Eventually I picked a route from top to bottom—except for one place where it was impossible to tell if there was way of getting from a high scree to the next lower one. But it was the best I could do—I decided I would go that way tomorrow and just see what happened.

The evening and night on the summit was magic. A glorious sunset was followed by the rising full moon Even the Clarence River was dry Not a spot of shade anywhere ...

... except for one handy boulder

Heading down the ridge from Mt Dora Butterflies feeding The nicest swimming hole and the surreal light it cast over the landscape. The sky was an ever changing kaleidoscope of high wispy cloud that added to the picture. And it was mild and absolutely calm. I stayed awake a good bit of the night entranced by the whole scene. And Dora didn’t mind me staying over even though we had met only a few hours before— although I was dissapointed when I found that she wasn’t very snuggly.

Breakfast next morning was leisurely—for there was a glorious sunrise to watch at the same time. Then after a long goodbye to Dora I started down to the topmost scree. I was soon at the first crossing to the next level scree that I had spied from the summit. This turned out to be as easy as it had looked and I was again making good time sliding down among the avalanching stones and rocks. This scree ended abruptly at the bluffs I had worried about. I had guessed that heading to the left was the way to go but now I wasn’t so sure—to the right looked better although there were two rather nasty runnels to cross to get to the final scree that went to the valley.

The first runnel was a bit of a shock—deeper and wider than it had first appeared it suddenly let loose a volley of boulders that thundered down in a cloud of dust just as I pondered how to cross. I climbed up then down looking for somewhere I felt happy with and eventually by a combination of dicey granny steps and a hopeful leap I made it. The second runnel was crossed in a similar way and then I was at the top of a final scree to the river below. This was fun—long easy sliding strides took me down the last couple of hundred metres in a few minutes.

The remainder of the day was mostly an easy stroll, firstly down the grassy U-shaped valley carved by a glacier 20,000 years ago, then over its small terminal moraine where there were scrubby trees and many insects flying about including some pretty butterflies. Then an easy climb up to the un-named saddle where I could look down at the northern tip of Lake Tennyson. The valley down towards the lake was easy to start with but then it closed in and dropped steeply through a narrow gorge. I decided to follow the stream rather than sidle through the nasty looking scrub and as it turned out it was a good decision even if travel was awkward in a few places.

I popped out the gorge onto the grassy slopes above the lake, but as so often there was a final obstacle—a band of matagouri that seemed to stretch every-which way. So the only option was straight through, which was slow and painful but I eventually made the other side and the clear grassy slopes leading directly back to the lake.

And the closer I got the more inviting it looked. Clear, cool and deep. I was sunburnt, hot, grimy from the dust off the scree, and scratched from the matagouri. I stepped out across the last kilometre of grass, arrived at the beach, threw down my pack, raced across the sand to the water and without hesitating jumped in.