Trotting cannot be considered wombling. For me, wombling is characterised by walking along at a reasonable pace, but one which allows sustained conversation, admiration of scenery, and plentiful photo opportunities. As I chased the two more senior members of our party across the aptly named Racecourse, trotting to try and catch up, I began to question how a definition of ‘wombling’ could be so different, and thought that perhaps this should be updated in the next edition of tramping grades.
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| Fowlers Hut |
The said womble originated from a vague conversation at club night about a lovely three day trip from Lake Guyon in the St James conservation park area. Advertised as having ‘a bit of everything’ and probably being mostly hidden from the forecast bad weather, I was in. So a party of four left Christchurch on Saturday morning bound for Fowler hut. After a fuel stop (pies, muffins and sausage rolls the order of the day) in Culverdon, we continued on through Hanmer and over a slightly snowy Jacks pass. Dropping one car at our finish point we arrived at Fowlers hut and were ready to set off by half eleven. A light dusting of snow and some threatening looking clouds made for dramatic photos of the surrounding mountains, their fantastic scree runs obscured by the fluffy white.
Off up the track in the snow but only with need of ice axes for a bit of balance, we made good time to the top where the wind ensured that it was a quick photo stop before heading down the other side. Ice axes came in handy in a couple of slippery areas of the track but perhaps were not completely necessary. As promised Bernhard ordered up the sun in time for lunch next to the stream, where we practiced our tussock lizard technique even though there was still some patchy snow.
After crossing a couple of streams we came to the first real river crossing of the day. The two with gaiters managed to get across with dry boots, I sacrificed mine reasoning that it wouldn’t be the only river all weekend. Uncle B, determined to keep his boots dry, changed into his special safety shoes (orange crocs), ensuring not only that his boots stayed dry, but also that there was no hope of us losing him. Safety crocs are apparently a new acceptable form of tramping footwer, as they stayed firmly on his feet for the next few of kilometres as we crossed the river a couple more times. Unfortunately, his feet didn’t always stay firmly on the ground, as it seems traction is not one of the selling points of safety crocs. We were informed not to worry however, as the one thing he did learn (and excelled at) during his four months of judo classes as a boy was falling correctly. And indeed, he scored a 7 for his slow-mo banana skin fall and a high 8 for the move commonly known as ‘the canadian goose doing the splits’, although his recovery needed some work.
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| Uncle B in his safety crocs |
The flat track made for good walking and soon we were in sight of and passing Stanley Vale hut in the distance. After a quick stop to contemplate the snowy looking storm clouds advancing towards us across the lake, we made it to the four bunk Lake Guyon hut around 3pm having only had the pleasure of a ‘wee gentle rain’. In residence were a couple of DOC guys who made excellent hut mates. The men gallantly said I could take a bunk, Chris opted out and David and Uncle B did paper scissors rock for the other bunk, which resulted in David taking the tent. Tea was eaten, stories were shared, and there were no mice in the hut resulting in a good night as the rain pattered away on the roof.
Next morning dawned crisp and clear, with the sun illuminating the new snow on the far away tops of the Spenser mountains. A perfect day for what promised to be a few kilometres. I had already booked in half an hour ‘horse time’ with the resident Stanley Vale horse that I had spied the previous day, and we had been promised that the owner, Sean, would be an interesting character to catch up with even if he could sometimes be a little reticent. Possibly because he had spent the previous night with only young foreigners, or possibly because it was such a lovely day, we found our back-country man in high spirits and ready to converse for as long as we wanted. Horse turned out to be a lovely fellow, who really just wanted a scratch, a cuddle and to come inside. I think he would quite happily have come along with us, and later that day I would have been appreciative of his pack carrying skills!
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| Horse at Stanley Vale Hut |
We continued on, sadly without Horse, and began the long wander down the river. The track was a little difficult to see, and our leader didn’t seem interested in it anyway, resulting in a few close encounters of the prickly type. But the sun shone through and it was a perfect day for tramping. About this point the interesting motivational qualities of our leader became apparent. At lunch, in a lovely area of tussock by the river guarded by the majesty of snowy mountains, one of us commented on how it had been a while since we had carried a heavy pack. Uncle B told us we weren’t even half way yet. Secretly, I hoped it was some sort of sneaky reverse psychology.
After lunch we began to climb, and Uncle B apparently wishing to further the reverse psychology seemed to decide that off track (away from the lovely snow poles) might be more fun than on-track. The rest of the group perhaps worried by not yet being halfway, decided that snow poles were the way to go. Annoyingly, Uncle B continued to either pop out in front, or catch us up easily every time that we were briefly separated. He even had time to stop and fix his socks several times, and I still had to trot to keep up. I do not have an explanation for this except that I believe that Uncle B may have a sneaky rockets stashed somewhere in his kit (perhaps in the safety crocs) that he uses when no one is looking.
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| Racing across the Racecourse |
The terrain evened out as we popped out of the scrub onto the tussock expanse of the aptly named racecourse, and indeed the senior members of our party seemed to take the name to heart. The wind picked up somewhat and we watched as the grey misty rain swept past us in the adjacent valley, providing spectacular lighting of the surrounding mountains, but leaving us thankfully dry. Across the racecourse we joined a recently cut but not benched high sidle around the end of the spur heading to Charlies Saddle, to drop down into the Edwards stream. Finding our own short-cut route avoiding a longer route to the saddle took us onto the super-highway cycle trail and into Scotties Hut around 4pm. But was it really Scotties hut? Apparently a hut with an identity crisis, as it was marked with a different name on Uncle B’s map (although this map also read in feet…)
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| View down Waiou river from high sidle |
Three more kilometres to camping at the hot pools, navigating in the twilight, or guaranteed bunks for all in the hut? The bunks won out after a satisfying day chasing the senior members of the party. While this discussion was taking place, our leader’s motivational powers again surfaced, as while we were discussing the possibility of trying to find a campsite in the darkness he reassured us that it would be ok as the sun would definitely come up again the next morning. I was disturbed he thought it might require daybreak in order to find the campsite. David again lost the paper scissors rock competition to Uncle B and ended up on the top bunk – but with no ladders how to ascend to bed for the night? Karen confidently went to demonstrate her ‘bend and wriggle method’ of the night before, only to encounter a low beam and have to resort to the ungainly snake method, much to the amusement of the others. David didn’t laugh so hard when it was his turn to fold himself into the cosy bunk!
We assembled outside the hut just as the first rays of sun threatened the ridges above us. A quick group meeting agreed (or we thought we did) that today would be the day of the yellow brick road, following the 4WD track to the hot pools and then all the way back to the car. So we were surprised when our intrepid Uncle B made a 90 degree turn off the track and headed straight up the hill very shortly after embarking on the journey. Unfortunately he was already ahead of us mere mortals and we didn’t have much choice but to assume a shortcut and follow. During the climb and sidle the sun came up through the end of the valley, lighting up the tussocks in front of us indeed making it seem as if we were walking a yellow tussock road. After being faced with the prospect of some serious matagouri bashing and some map consultation, it was decided that perhaps the next valley would reveal the hot pools. Indeed upon cresting the ridge of the plateau it was clear from the smell of sulphur and appearance of mineral on the rocks that we were heading in a better direction (not to mention the tents perched on the hill opposite), and that the yellow brick road (4WD road that is) would have led us here without any climbing, sidling or matagouri. But it made us feel like we had earned a soak in the hot pools which we duly took advantage of.
Someone has put some work into these pools, with a series of slightly terraced pools giving the choice of temperatures from very hot to something suitable for summer. There was plenty of space and we all piled in to enjoy the warm water, while the sandflies enjoyed our warm flesh. Apparently the safety crocs also act as excellent flotation devices.
A happy party departed the hot pools, again forbidding our leader from straying from the track. Again this lasted about five minutes, though this time the short cut was successful and we soon found ourselves on a very well formed 4WD track heading for the end of the valley and Peter’s pass. About this time the wombling took a serious turn for the worse as our other senior member of the party decided it was time to stretch his legs, and for me at least, we covered some good ground on our way to lunch. It didn’t help that my lack of gaiters had led to a veritable symphony in my boots with water, mud and stones all vying for position with my feet, a symphony audible to anyone else who happened to be walking in my vicinity (obviously not the senior members of the party), and apparently quite amusing.
Lunch was just shy of Peters Pass, where it was again reiterated the desire to stick to the track. So we were not surprised when after 20 minutes of walking up towards the low pass our leader again lost his blinkers and headed off in a different direction. Upon gaining the low pass and the view up the valley we decided that perhaps this time it would be wise to follow the leader to shorten the circuitous route of the track, although I also wondered if this had something to do with my sweeping statement at lunch about my uncanny ability to fall on my face every time I was faced with bog – our new route had to cut across the tussock bog at some stage. It turned out that staying on the solid hillside to the left of the valley and sidling for a time leads to a not too boggy crossing of the flat area, and the track can be regained quite easily on the right hand side. More mud in my boots, but credit to our leader for sniffing out a short cut. The wander down the track in the sun was most pleasant, and probably the most relaxed walking of the weekend. We arrived back at the cars around 3pm to find a sign saying 45km for Lake Guyon Hut to the carpark (the last two days). Uncle B with his leader’s psychology assured us it was definitely not that far.
Overall this was a lovely trip characterised by golden tussocks, snowy sentinel mountains, and wonderful company. At the core, tramping is walking in a sustained and purposeful manner, surrendering to ourselves, and allowing connection and solace with nature. And with this in mind, this was tramping at its absolute best.
The womblers were: Uncle B (lead wombling extraordinaire), Chris McG (senior wombler), David S (wombler in training) and Karen T (apprentice wombling reporter).
