LIVING THE HIGH LIFE
by Ray Salisbury
In early April, accompanied by club members Uta Purcell, Marie Lenting and Bob Janssen, I embarked on a self-guided quest in Marlborough’s Awatere Valley.
A relative newcomer to the plethora of private walks in New Zealand, the Tussock Track was opened for business in 2007 by Simon Harvey on the steep hill country of Glen Orkney station.
Leaving behind the rows of vines and wineries, we arrive at the road-end late in the afternoon. Simon and Lynda are both present to give us a warm welcome. When we’ve settled into The Cottage for the evening, the couple return to give us a briefing. We make the most of their rural hospitality.
Next morning, after a hot shower and hot breakfast, we don day-packs and make a sluggish start strolling along the road. We soon find ourselves sweating up a steep spur, throwing off excess clothing, gulping down cold drinks. This is no walk in the proverbial park, I realise. The rude awakening sees us follow more marker posts, ever upward. We’re trudging through rolling tussocks on a bearing due south, over saddles, sidling ridges of golden grass. Chasing rabbits, scaring hawks and herding frightened flocks of woolly sheep.
Eventually, a lonely 4WD track snakes up a secluded gully, past an iron dunny, to top out at the lunch shelter – minimalist in design but sufficient to provide much-needed shade. Bob is a generous gentleman, and breaks out the Bundabergs, one for each of us! We quietly sip ginger beer, drinking in the breath-taking vista beneath our feet; an endless Grahame Sydney canvas.
Dropping down a 4WD road into the headwaters of a creek, the autumnal sun is raking over the scorched earth like a searchlight. We are fugitives, hiding from the heat in a scrap of regenerating bush to a thoughtfully-placed a bench seat. Bellbirds serenade us while fantails frolic overhead.
Another farm road cuts through rugged ridges of bleached tussock, diving in and out of narrow gullies, meandering onward until we reach Cregan Hut at 650 metres altitude. Our chillybin and packs have ‘miraculously’ been deposited here by unseen hands.
Our hosts haven’t cut any corners in constructing a first-class luxury lodge in a sun-drenched basin at the back of their property. Cregan Hut is the crème-de-la-crème of tramper’s huts, sporting a barbeque area, north-facing balcony, twin bunkrooms and a fully-equipped kitchen. Solar power provides electric lights and heating. The cabin is built from macrocarpa and gum trees milled on-site; the rough-hewn timber contrasts with a minimalist, modern aesthetic.
Full of praise, we indulge in the decadence of hot showers and cold beer. Gazing out the window at a postcard-perfect panorama of blue and gold.
Dawn heralds another perfect day as we prepare for the adventure ahead. It’s a tough, uphill grind, hauling leaden legs up relentlessly steep tussock slopes toward our distant objective: the 1203-metre Twin Peaks. Cabbage trees punctuate the terrain, the Marlborough rock daisy, along with the odd snow totara. We peer upward, searching for the next marker post which leads us along little ledges, up rocky staircases, weaving a precipitous path through towering bluffs . We reach the top, then, timidly step over the edge, sliding down scree toward Billy Goat Saddle.
Above us looms the shattered face of Mount Malvern. Morning has morphed into midday when we sneak along the eroded northern slopes of the mountain, our nerves tested on unstable scree.
Dancing through a mine-field of cowpats, we discover Top Hut and dive inside to enjoy the rustic atmosphere. A large teapot is boiled. It is a pleasure to imbibe the rare beauty of unbroken quiet.
There are yet more tussocks to traverse; this time it’s a sidle under the shadowy walls of Big Cregan, through a pocket of podocarp, to complete the circuit.
Our fourth day sees us depart ‘our’ hut, squinting into sunshine as it breaks out above Big Hill, firing the tussocks into golden glory. A shearing shed is explored, then we arrive at a musterer’s hut for morning tea; this place reeks of human history.
Ducking into a gully of second-growth natives that’s protected by a QE2 covenant, the abundant birdsong is evident. Uta and Marie are revelling in the identification of native plants endemic to this region. It’s a botanist’s paradise.
Grunting onto the tussock tops, we sidle along sheep trails for an age. Farm tracks take us back to the homestead where the Harveys are waiting.
In conclusion, we heartily recommend the Tussock Track to any battle-hardened tramper or seasoned adventurer who isn’t too proud to relinquish their heavy swag for a light day-pack; to swap dehydrated food for a chillybin of fresh food; to trade boring beech forest for open tussocky tops; to be a pampered tramper, if only for three blissful days of living the high life.