Leader: Simon Garton
“Wake up, Ray!” Pat Holland is knocking on my front door at the insane hour of 3am. There is no response to his wake-up calls, so he checks the time–oops! He’s four hours too early. (I am beginning to wonder if our club captain is losing his marbles.)
At a more civilised hour, Pat returns to collect me and my mountain of gear. We rendezvous with other sleep-deprived adventurers at Simon’s house. By 7am, we’re whisked over the Whangamoas, chattering in excited anticipation about our proposed climb.
More than three hours after leaving Nelson, we turn inland up the Awatere River. Clouds of dust follow our vehicles as we follow the Molesworth route to Gladstone Downs.
We’re here, splashing up the Hodder. This narrow ravine cuts through steep, broken hinterland, hemmed in by vertiginous, crumbling walls that rise to a slash of blue sky above. An hour up-river, we arrive at the confluence where the Shin flows in.
Five hours upstream, we are moving as a tight unit, criss-crossing the turbulent torrent as it slices through an ominous gorge. As the landscape steepens, the force of the current on our thighs intensifies, so we team up to tackle the most dangerous fords. I count 92 crossings on our first day.
Topping out of the second gorge, we are blocked by a waterfall. A quirky marker indicates a rough sidle track. Alas, this ‘up-and-over’ is steep and eroded. We clamber onto a narrow path that drops through a copse of totara into the river. A couple of clicks later we spot the twin huts ahead, perched high above the Hodder. Sleep deprivation has us all hit the pit by 8pm.
Day Two. “Wake up, Ray!” Andrea is hitting my sleeping bag at the ridiculous hour of 5am. I soon succumb to the allure of a warm cuppa. It’s a case of mind-over-mattress. We depart by 6:30am.
Half an hour later we’re hopping the Hodder to a prominent rock cairn. Simon locates the solitary marker pole where the track climbs above the mouth of Staircase Stream. Many parties miss this, though the route is merely a light ground trail, marked with spasmodic cairns.
We reach the foot of the first snowy slope. Crampons are fitted to our boots; poles are swapped for ice-axes, as we start a slow plod up the hill. We revel in perfect cramponing conditions, zig-zagging up the 30-degree slope.
Eventually, we clamber over into a broad snow plateau for an early lunch. Behind us the menacing north face of Mt Alarm rears above the head of Staircase Stream. To the west, the rock pyramid of Mitre is equally impressive, being the highest point on the aptly-named Red Hills. Before us looms the summit spire of Tappy – a full hour away.
Five of us are climbing a perfect ridge of firm snow; a sort of dress circle arcing to the east where Tapuae-o-Uenuku rises in a shadowy silhouette. The angle of ascent is only a maximum of 45-degrees – nothing too technical.
A gnarly gut has our crampons scraping to secure traction on the rock. Finally, six hours since leaving the huts; here we are, happy on Tappy. At 2885 metres above the Pacific – this is the highest peak in New Zealand north of the Southern Alps.
From our lofty vantage, we gaze over Cook Strait to the North Island; westward to the Richmond, Arthur and Raglan Ranges; eastward to the Seaward Kaikouras. Then, in an inspired moment of organised spontaneity, our leader produces a golfing iron! Simon sets up a snowy tee beside the summit trig. Our man has balls – five of them – one for each of us hackers to slice, chip or hook into the Clarence Valley. (Or, into the rough, I like I did).
With weather closing in, we down-climb, losing altitude efficiently, glissading down the softer snow to the rocks below. On the very last vestige of the winter’s snow, which is undercut by a hidden watercourse, I fall through the thin crust, yelling a warning to those behind me. “This is the most dangerous place on the mountain!”
Pat impulsively leaps onto the perceived safety of the adjacent boulder field. But his crampon catches. I watch in horror as he skates over jagged rocks. In slow motion this septuagenarian performs an acrobatic marvel; three desperate steps then a somersault into the soft snow. We hold our breath, relieved when our club president stands to his feet. A handful of Panadol and plasters are dispatched.
We make fast progress toward the huts. Still not out of the woods, we must ford the Hodder River before reaching safety. Crossing in jandals, young Andrea finds herself chasing her dubious footwear downstream, with Simon in hot pursuit. Said jandals are rescued from an eddy, and happily reunited with their owner.
It’s been an epic, ten-hour day. Back at our base, the billy is boiled, and rain begins to fall. Sleep comes quickly.
Day Three. Rest days are the best days. As a warming sun inches over a ridge, we do our domestic duties, read books and shoot photos. All is well with the world. Eventually, cabin fever flushes my four friends outside to explore the valley head. By nightfall, the Hodder Huts are engulfed in swirling cloud, as we play 500 and argue over Scrabble.
Day Four. “Wake up, Ray!” Pat is rousing me at the ungodly hour of 3am. But this is no nightmare. He tells me the mist has cleared and the stars are shining. I sluggishly don shoes, beanie, jacket and finger-less gloves, then head outside. A stone’s throw from the hut, I set up my camera and stabilise my heavy tripod.
It’s a moon-less night with no wind or dew. I watch the Milky Way burn through a blackening sky. The wind sings a song through the tussock. The river roars. I am grateful to be alive. Our expedition has been perfect … to a tee.
...BUT THE EPIC DOES NOT END HERE... ! ANDREA CONTINUES...
So how do you cross a River with a cow on your back?
As a tramping club we are starting to be known for our random acts of kindness. Take for example, the time we rescued a last pig dog from Mt Duppa, disentangled a sheeps’ head stuck in a gate on the way back from Mt Hope and stripped off mid - winter to wade into the sea to assist a capsized boat off Marfells beach.
Our four-day jaunt to Mt Tapuae-o-Uenuku lent to yet another animal rescue. En route up the Hodder river, about a hour in we came across a doe eyed calf, barely a week old with its umbilical cord still attached. Obviously without mum, it was very scrawny but too skittish for us to approach. We could do little more than hope we had cell reception to call the farmer as we proceeded on, the Valley sides were steep and we knew cows grazed high above, how this wee one came to its place we shall never know.
Three days passed and with no cell reception and heavy hearts, we expected the worst as we came to the “cow spot”. Amazingly, she had a strong spirit, though it was starting to leave her by this time. Now more weak, she succumbed to the enthusiastic ministrations of the NTC. Within 10 minutes she has a lead fashioned out of an Ice Ax lesh, drank a bottle of milk and was hoisted onto Simons shoulders and striding down the valley with Cow Girl and Sherpa Sue in attendance. That left the rest of us to negotiate carrying Simons pack ( no mean feat!) in addition to ours.
So it was for the next two hours we swapped duties and cow, stopping for another milk feed, lovingly prepared by Raymond, even returning for lost Ice Ax at one stage. In answer to the question, the river crossings (Of which there were numerous!) were interesting. Luckily, the cow was pretty mellow by this stage, quickly trusting of us and making cow gestures with its tongue.
On hitting the road, we stopped a truck driver who initially thought we were a group of townies who had plucked said cow from its mother and embarked on two hour journey up river! We loaded her and Sue into Pats boot and after a short drive found a rather bemused and very grateful farmer.
Apparently, the mother was found but rejected her (How could she, we were practically in love… lucky for cow my Revlon No 85 had worn off or she would have been covered in red lips! ) Alls well though and I can report she is taking greedily to her bottle.
Thank you to everyone for magnificent effort and no Kate, she is not an eating one.
Cow Rescue Team was: Simon Garton, Andrea Cockerton, Sue Henley, Pat Holland and Ray Salisbury (scribe).Thanks to Marlborough Tramping Club for the excellent Hodder Huts (16 bunks).
