Open Writing

I think I had only been teaching at Toko High for about four months, when I was approached by a bulky, athletic looking male, who said he had heard that I knew a bit about walking and climbing mountains and would I join the fifth form on their annual trip over the Routeburn.

I had done most of my tramping, we used to call it hiking in those days, over the Yorkshire moors, usually in pouring rain or soaking drizzle, and being lost on Holme Moss more times than I can count, during our "courting" [what a lovely word] days. I can vividly remember steam rising from our frozen legs, on the bus back to Huddersfield.

Happy days.

Later, when we moved to Scotland, mountain climbing and skiing appeared on the scene, so I suppose I was pretty clued up on the ‘great outdoors’ and said yes, OK.

The Routeburn, what a name to conjure with and what a place to go. A three, or better four, day walk, over mountains from Mount Aspiring National Park, on the drier Queenstown side, to Fiordland National Park, on the wetter Te Anau side.

But first the preparation. We had talks about "benched in" tracks and "traversing" and "saddles"and such things. We taught kids how to cross rivers, linked together. We dragged them up the MacNally track, a big hill at the back of the school, at regular intervals. I began to wonder what "this bit of a walk" was.

However the fateful day dawned, and at its crack, 4.00am, forty odd fifth formers and six teachers picked up their forty pound packs and set off in two mini buses, in opposite directions, to attack the Routeburn.

This was the first time I had been on one of these big walks and I was surging with as much excitement as the kids, although, at the back of my mind, lurked "benched in".

We hurtled through Queenstown round about breakfast time, and on up to Glenorchy, at the head of Lake Wakatipu. Then further on, over the Dart Reece rivers, to the start of the Routeburn.

Mountains all round, the Routeburn surging down from its source in Lake Harris, and the ever present beech forest. Boots on, insect repellent and sun screen applied, sandwiches devoured and you hoist the forty pound monstrosity onto your back, say goodbye to the mini bus, and set off.

Help! There’s this ‘one at a time,’ two plank bridge, with a couple of wires to hold on to, to cross. It is swaying over the raging river and, as each person crosses, it begins to swing.

The boys find the harder they stamp their feet the more it swings. The girls start shrieking "don’t do that." And we teachers bide our time and hope nobody drowns.
Finally onto the track and the next obstacle. This particular bit of the track is pretty unstable, loose schist rock, chalky and slippery, forms a scree from high up which ends in the river.

A small sort of sheep track, about one boot’s width, meanders across it and, strange to say, half way along a lone tree grows, great to hang on to and reduce panic level, or the only place to pass if some fool decides to approach from the other end.

"Keep your cool, Glen," I said, and staggered on, under the weight of my pack, to the other end, looking as though I did this sort of thing every day. Truth to tell, it’s a very short distance, but I am always glad to see the back of it, then the real enjoyment can begin.

Once that is over, we are on our way on a broad wide track, over flat land through the beech forest. You can stride out, find your rhythm, get used to the feel of your pack and watch the kids splitting into groups, the more energetic boys taking the lead and setting a pace I had no intention of emulating.

So far so good. The beech forest is lovely, as always, and the birds so fascinating, showing little fear, as they escort you through their territory. There are fallen trees all around, covered in mosses and brightly coloured fungi, for nothing is ever moved in the forest, everything is reclaimed by nature.

We cross little streams, on board walks. Admire reflections of mountains and trees in still pools. And get to know each other better than we ever did in the classroom.

Then this thundering, great, boulder strewn river bed appears, with sort of trickles and streams through it. This has to be crossed. No flat well marked track here.

"See that red blaze on the tree over there? That’s where we are heading." So boulder hopping and stream jumping, with the extra forty pound, is the name of the game. "What Fun!"

And finally the blaze is reached.

No more flat bits. The track is narrower and starts to bend up the side of the cliff with the river below, and I discovered that "benched in," means hacked out of the rock. It is perfectly safe and wide enough for two to walk together, so what was all the fuss about.

I could do with a bit of down hill though, however there is 4,000ft before the end of the day, so I suppose it is onwards and upwards.

The river either roars many feet below you or joins you, in nice blue pools. The girls want to pause for a bit of a rest, but we must keep moving.

We trudge along the track, deep in the beech forest, then suddenly we are out. A big valley opens before us, "The Routeburn Flats." Lots of nice grass and an inviting broad river.

Boys jump in, packs come off, feet go up and we tuck into bars of chocolate and have a well earned breather.

"What’s that I see at the end of the valley?" "A hut!" "Could this be our resting place for the night?"

"No, that’s for the ones on the way down hill." "Ours?" “You see that big waterfall, right up there at the top of the mountain. Well, that’s the Routeburn Falls hut. We just have to bend round this valley and climb up to it."

So that is exactly what we did, when we dragged the boys out of the river. We plodded ever upwards, on those "benched in" tracks, and finally reached our haven for the night.

This Routeburn had been growing on me all the way up, but I fell in love with it at the Routeburn falls, thus ensuring I would go back again and again.

Picture yourself sitting on a veranda, looking out over a vast valley far below you, a roaring waterfall at your side and snow clad peaks all around. The sort of scene you see on chocolate boxes. On other occasions, when we have walked the Routeburn on our own, we have sat and watched the sun set and felt at peace.

Once an American came up and asked if we could let him have some sugar. In exchange he gave Martin a can of larger. Nice shiny top, and don’t Keas like nice shiny things. Up one hopped and looked at us. Martin tipped the tin. The Kea drank, then came back for more. The sight of a drunken kea trying to land or fly upside down has to be seen to be believed.

So what are tramping huts like? This one had three big rooms, two bunk rooms and a central cooking and eating area. Gas rings to cook on, a pot belly stove for heat and sinks to washup in. Only cold water and a ‘long drop’ at the end of a track. Hardly the Ritz but very welcome at the end of a long day.

Since those early days the huts have been upgraded because of the increase in overseas tourists now walking the tracks.

Take your boots off, but don’t leave them outside or the keas will have them.
Food time, and having allocated cooking duties, we left them to it. You would be surprised what emerges from trampers’ packs, some produce best steaks and chops, others rice and noodles and every type of dehydrated food.

People look over each others shoulders and pinch ideas. All your rubbish has to be carried out with you, so is put into plastic bags and before you leave the hut, in the morning, it must be swept out, benches washed and dry kindling left for the next lot coming in.

The hut warden wanders in from his or her cushy billet with shower and proper cooking stove, but, as they are here for months on end, they deserve some comfort. They check to see if every one is alright, collect hut fees and ensure that the hut book is signed with your destination for the following day, so you can be searched for if you don’t appear. Things are pretty well under control up here.

Well it’s been a long day, so I think I will put my feet up on the bunk and drift off.

No such luck, our fifth formers have got their second wind, a pack of cards has appeared and we have to be enthusiastic about euchre and listen to endless shaggy dog stories.

Then, by some unwritten law, at 9.30pm, the hut settles down and the snoring begins.

I snuggle into my sleeping bag and wonder what tomorrow will bring.

Glen Taylor