Open Writing

A skittering on the tin roof and insistent pecking at the windows brought us to life, shortly after dawn. The keas wanted breakfast.

Soon the hut was filled with the smell of porridge and burnt toast and even the aroma of bacon and eggs and fresh coffee filled the air.

We were up and on the move. Hut cleaned, boots on and packs lifted and we were on our way for the second day on the Routeburn.

We walked up along the side of the waterfall, then a stiff climb over a few cliffs and a bend round a bluff, brought us out into a high, alpine meadow. No tour buses come here. This is strictly for the hardy.

We spread out, moving at our own pace, through this vast valley. Spaniard grass grabs our legs. Mount Cook lilies and their cousins, backed by yellow celmisia and anisotome, huge patches of hebe and rocks covered in the southern edelweiss, so like the northern one, surround us.

The river braids out, in its slow progress from Lake Harris to the falls. We enjoy the morning, with our eyes on the distant white peaks, which mark the Harris saddle. It is pleasant and easy and tightened muscles loosen.

Rare blue ducks nest on small mountain lakes, harriers and keas circle the cliffs and a paradise duck calls to its mate.

The valley ends and a mountain-goat-type scramble, over rocks and round cliffs and buttresses, with little between you and Lake Harris, which has suddenly become a long way down in the meadow, [ “Here we go again Glen!”] and we are on the saddle.
Four thousand feet below is the Hollyford valley and to our right is the snow clad peak of Conical hill. It is the half way part for the day and our rendezvous point with the other group.

We sit and wait, until the first head appears below us from between two rocks. Then everyone is making a great noise and swapping stories.

We dispatch the more energetic, with the muscular young teacher, who fancies himself as Ed. Hillary, up Conical hill, to do a bit of “snow work” and the more sensible among us reserve energy, eat lunch and comment on how great the kids are. Then we swap keys and vanish in opposite directions. Ours, the traverse along the Hollyford valley, theirs, the falls and Routeburn flats.

Some traverse! A sheer slope straight down to the river and a goat track wandering across it. A large boulder, half way along, in the distance, indicates the start of “Dead man’s track,” the escape route off the traverse, down to the valley. Not for me, I don’t think, except in real emergencies. Ah well, it’s all in a day’s work.

Then round another huge bluff and Paradise. Will this country ever stop surprising me? The Emily saddle. Two pure white peaks, stark against the sky. Scree slopes sliding down, below the snow, to the blue, green, glacial Lake Mackenzie. The odd bit of bush edges the lake, for we are still above the tree line, and glaciers poke their heads over the tops of cliffs.

Places like this don’t exist, they are the product of dreams, yet here it is.

Don’t hang about, straight down. Knee wobbling, hair pin bends, one after the other, soon bring us to the lake and our stop for the night. The Routeburn Hilton. No little hut this. Two stories, flush loos and wash basins but no hot water. Luxury indeed, even a wood fired range to cook on. You could make a roast dinner here, if you were stupid enough to carry the ingredients in and wanted to waste your time cooking it.

The day is still young, so we grab bunks or rather mattresses, placed side by side in the upstairs area, unpack, and then jump in the lake. We then jump straight out again as it is only slightly above freezing.

We wander about a bit, explore, drink coffee and get to know the place. Finally a good meal, [what was that I said about roast dinners?] a game of cards and the sleep of the just.

Next day we are on the way down. A steady walk out to Howden. The hut where three tracks meet, the Caples, strictly for the mountaineers, the Greenstone, a three day stroll back to Queenstown and the Routeburn.

In amongst all these peaks, there are people, carrying packs, just like us, and knowing exactly where they are going.

We pass through “The Orchard,” a grassy area full of ribbon wood trees, for all the world like an English parkland, and we watch fallow deer. We cross roaring streams, under waterfalls, clinging to fixed wires for support.

We see the ever present glaciers, looming over us and we reach the bush. Now the rain forest of the west, with its mosses, lichens and many types of vegetation. The birds of the bush return and we lose the open views of the high mountains, as we descend to Howden.

We stop for lunch and exchange stories with trampers from the other tracks and even day walkers, easily identified by their lack of packs, for two and a half hours will see us back in civilisation, and I think of the early pioneers, who first found these routes through the mountains. What intrepid people they must have been.

Our final leg of the three day walk, how I would have loved another day at Mackenzie. A bit of steep hill out of Howden, then down hill all the way. Slips, caused by avalanches, open up views of the mountains across the valley, a side track leads up to Key Summit, with its panoramic vista, and twenty-one hair pin bends, through deep bush, brings out through the ‘hole in the trees’ on the Milford road. Who would have thought such adventures, such laughter and such beauty lay inside that hole, another world.

Whew, gee, I smell. Three days back packing does nothing for B.O. I head down stream, and, thinking myself hidden from view, strip off and jump in the river, armed with a bar of soap. I’m greeted by wolf whistles from the bridge as my fifth formers take note.

The quickest bath I’ve ever had, then back to the rabble. I’ve watched them jump in lakes, fall in rivers, scramble over rocks, slip on scree and plough through snow. We have laughed together and fooled around; we have slept side by side on floors. I have eaten the food they have cooked and washed dishes with them.

They are no longer the horrors who won’t do their homework, they are my kids and it’s been great. We have taken only photographs and left only footprints and I will be back again and again.

The key fits the mini bus and we are off to Te Anau. We drop the kids at the chip shop at the top end of town and head for the restaurant at the bottom, beside the lake. Crisp, white, table cloths, silver cutlery, crystal glasses. Fillet steak, cooked to perfection, fresh vegetables and crisp chardonnay.

Well earned!

We relax. Then the restaurant window is filled by grinning faces and hands clutching large bags of steaming fish and chips. I do hope they won’t start that “Song that never ends” again, on the way home.