AN OTAGO HOLIDAY

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23685, 17 December 1938, Page 21

AN OTAGO HOLIDAY

By L. W. Woods 1 THE MOUNTAINS DRAW NEARER "We've got to be up early in the morning to pack and get that boat" — that is perhaps the resolution of most parties leaving Queenstown for the Head of the Lake. I blinked once or twice—the roof of the tent was certainly showing light. I got up and looked outside. It was dark, certainly, but people were astir in the camp, and there was a light about the horizon. I went for a stroll through Queenstown to await the dawn. " Good-night, son," a benevolent policeman quite took the wind out of my sails, so I hurried on to the Post Office. Five minutes past one. Sense began to grow slowly—my dawn was but the moon setting in the west, so I hurried back to camp and was soon asleep. But when day did break it broke on a Busy scene for five people in Queenstown. Two tents were stretched to dry in the first rays of the sun, and supplies to tide the party over a month in the mountains were being laboriously packed. Weights in those rucsacs were growing, too, but it was a happy party that slung their cares on their backs and went down to await the departure of

the Earnslaw. Queenstown had honoured our departure with a perfect morning, and as the Earnslaw drew out from the wharf the sun was climbing steadily above the blue-shadowed Remarkables, and the park and town looked at their best in the morning Now, of course, was the time to think of what had been left behind, but the Earnslaw made a fast passage, and after short calls at Creighton Station and Ellin Bay, headed for Kinloch. Disembarking there was an ordeal—to cross a smooth gang-plank on an upward grade, bending down to avoid the decking and carrying a 701 b swag on one's back was no light task, and when that was accomplished there was a battery of tourist cameras to be faced. Swags were soon packed on the bus, and we set out soon after mid-day to walk the eight miles or so to Routeburn bridge. At first the road is dreary, as it crosses the swamroy valley, and the sun was hot, but soon Mount Bonpland came into view, towering 80C0 feet above the road on the left, the cascades which fall from its snowfields shimmering in the sun like falling powder as they crashed over bush-clad precipices to emerge

In the green valley and shoot past one's feet or swirl a cooling eddy round one's knee at the fords. Across the Dart River on the right Mount Earnslaw, of which we had had an excellent view all morning, began to wrap herself in afternoon clouds, but beyond, Nox, Chaos, and the Cosmos peaks towered above the Dart Valley. Soon the road turned away from the Dart into the Routeburn, the hot sun gave way to the cool shade of birch trees, and we found ourselves on the grassy clearing that slopes down to Routeburn bridge. Tents were soon up, a Are ablaze, and the party were comfortably camped for the night. Day again dawned perfect, and spirits were high as we swung down to the bridge and followed the track round the bluff above swirling green waters and befjre a vista of high mountains, dark green birch forest, and bright green meadows by the river. But a few 'ards past the bluff we left the track, took a right-angle turn into the bush, and began the steep climb to the pass on the shoulder between Mount Momus and Sugarloaf. The pass is directly above the bridge, and leads from the Routeburn Valley to the Rockburn—the latter, which enters the Dart Valley through a rocky gorge a few miles above the Routeburn Junction, being one of the prettiest valleys in Otago, and our first objective. Up and up, the trail led on over mossy logs with a blue sky faintly glimmering through green trees overhead. But it doesn't pay to dream too much about the scenery —we soon found ourselves with no sign of the trail either in front or behind. We pushed on through a maze of moss-fi.led gullies, the way now barred by logs, now by " lawyer,'" until a clearing was seen to the left. It was not the end of the bush, it told us we were too far to the left, but it gave a majestic glimpse across a steep, rugged, forest-filled ravine to the rocky spurs and snowfields of Mount Momus. We turned again to the right, this time fighting our way through sub-alpin or stunted birch. This was both welcome and unwelcome. It certainly meant the end of the bush was not far away, but it necessitated 20 minutes' push and crawl through scratchy trees five feet to eight feet high, and thickly intertwined. At last a little mountain grass nut in an appearance, the gurgle of

running water could be heard, and we came suddenly into one of the prettiest mountain glades I have seen. Snowy white waters cascaded over a shingle face in a wall of foam, dashed in and out among grey boulders and gurgled through a glade filled with mountain grass, daisies, berries, white clemisia and flanked with flowering veronica and the dark green of the bush. But it was not the pass—that was just over the top, but things have a habit of being just over the top or just round the corner, especially when you are tired and there is a 701 b swag on your back. It would have been a weary climb up the steep tussock slopes but for one piece of good fortune—a hind made a welcome appearance in the offing. A deer stalk! We went up that face with renewed energy, sliding from cover to cover, the rifleman in front. The hind sensed danger, raised her head, but too late—a shot, the first of our tour and success to our arms. The cheer from the party should have scared all the deer from the neighbourhood, but after all it did brighten the prospects of the trip. A few more shots brought down a fawn in addition, and then we joined fellowship with two Government deer stalkers from the next ridge. You pass a friend on the city streets with a polite "Good afternoon," but you hail a stranger in the mountains as a friend of friends. It was the last human company we were to have for three weeks.

Below us and behind lay the forestfilled Routeburn, its meadows and river hidden behind the steep spur up which we had come. Far away the silvery Dart meandered across its wide valley and in the distance Lake Wakatipu lay like a dim sheet in the haze of a sunny afternoon. But a swirl of mist across the pass told of changing weather ahead. ■ , » In front of us lay the Rockburn--at our feet, as it were—but 4000 feet below, down a series of uninviting precipices. On the right the river swirled through a formidable rocky gorge to the fiats of the Dart above Paradise at the foot of Mount Earnslaw which was now hidden in mist. In front of us, across the valley, Mount Nox emerged now and again from a squall to show her white crest, and away to the left ran the Rockburn Valley the upper portion hidden in rain. Immediately on the left three streams flowed from the slopes or Momus, and, joining in a giant shingle fan, disappeared into the bush, Halt a mile nearer, a small spur ran steeply down to a bush-covered saddle lower in the valley, and away to the right, some mile to a mile and a-half further, lay the first flats, our first objective. Below us the mountainside disap-

peared in an uninviting black precipice. There were two possible routes down—either to cross the slopes of Momus above bush level and descend across precipitous but traversable rocks to the shingle fan, or to take the nearer spur ddWn to the saddle. We decided to try the spur, which was about a-quarter of a mile up-valley from the pass. To reach it was perhaps the hardest task, the left slopes of the pass leading into tall snowgrass and giant, sharp-edged speargrasses. Keeping a slightly upward trend, we forced our way along the slope above bush level, only to be confronted by a sharp and deep ravine, on the far side of which lay our spur. The descent to the bottom of this was rather uncanny, sliding on snowgrass, catching hold here and there of a tuft of grass or a branch of stunted scrub, along a series of narrow ledges till the bottom found us just above another precipice in the ravine. To gain the spur was a steep climb made easier by a rough trail where the deer cross, and we plunged through head-high snowgrass and scrub till a deer trail was picked up as it entered the bush. The quarter of a mile from the pass had taken us a little over an hour in squally rain, which was now settling down to a dense mist. The first descent through the bush was easy, but came to an abrupt end above a sheer precipice some hundred feet high. It had one advantage, however—it commanded a good view of the valley, of the impassable black cliffs below the pass and of our present position. The main spur had divided just below bush level, and we had taken the lower division which led by a series of precipices down into the gorge. It was too steep to see all the way, but by the broken nature of the bush it must have been one cliff after another. The upper spur was divided from us by an uncrossable gully, but from the even nature of the bush, one could guess that although extremely steep it -was not bluffed—or at least not bluffed in a manner to prevent trees from growing, though trees can grow in parts too. steep for a man to climb at times. Slowly we retraced our steps, and bore to the right across a fern-covered bluff that gave scant though sufficient footing. At last we reached the spur and found a well defined deer trail leading down it. You couldn't see where you were

going, you just followed down. At last it levelled out a little—the saddle! But hopes were dashed when in another minute it swung down a very steep bluff. Of the next few minutes I remember little—sliding down, catching hold of a fern here or a tree trunk there, crashing down as a rotten tree-trunk gave way below your weight, turning turtle as you got entwined by a supplejack or " lawyer," releasing yourself only to slide further, and then a small flat stretch, rich fleshy fungi, soft cushioned moss, tall ferns, a cooling stream and chocolate—it was the saddle at last after some two hours clambering and falling, and. needless to say, cursing in the bush. Innocence is a grace sometimes, and luckily, for we little dreamt that a nightmare lay ahead. An indistinct deer trail led at first gently and later steeply from the saddle into the valley, and finally disappeared on reaching the flat. We plunged forward in a sea of bush, now over knee-deep in moss, now chest-deep between fallen logs. For the best part of an hour we pushed through it, till a ray of light told of a clearing ahead. We expected the Shingle Creek, but found only a dry, bouldery creekbed, some fifteen yards wide and eight to ten feet deep. Once across it, the forest cleared a little, and quicker progress could be m .ade until suddenly we nearly stepped into Shingle Creek. It seemed to be flowing in no particular bed straight

through the bush, its shooting bluey white waters proving some two or three feet deep. It was too fast to take any risks, so we put a rope across to steady the party, and just as well, for it proved very treacherous in mid-stream.

On the far bank the deer had eaten the undergrowth, and, making over toward the river, we found a good deer trail leading up valley which brought us out in a few minutes at the first flat. The river encircled the left bank of the grass and veronicacovered flat, bush right down to the river bank on the left side, the trail crossing the river just where the latter enters the gorge. The ford of the Rockburn here is very easy except, perhaps, in very wet weather—some ten yards of slow-flowing water two feet and a-half deep with a shingle bottom on to a bank in the centre, followed by another ten yards of ankledeep water as it ripples over the shingle. The lower end of 'the flats are veronica-covered, but the upper end is park-like grass, with groves, of ribbonwood and birch trees separating the meadow-like stretches of grass. Once you are in the Rockburn you are in a paradise of high, cliff-faced mountains," roaring cataracts —a bush-

filled valley except for the numerous flats which are connected by a veritable highway made by the deer. We soon found a good camp on the first flat, and the next day being overcast and New Year's Eve. we decided to spend a day there. It was a memorable New Year's Eve in that beautiful Rockburn. The river, in direct contrast to the clear green of the Routeburn, is a clear pale blue, its shingle bottom intensifying the colour which is set off against the grey of massive boulders and the very dark blackish-green of the forest in these parts. Here and there the bright scarlet mistletoe shone out through the green, or the first large white flowers of the ribbonwood SDread their sweet scent. The river quiet as it passes the flat, clear and deep in the rocky pools, chatters through the bush or swirls away in the gorge below. Right above the flat a large waterfall crashes down hundreds of feet. Birds were not numerous in the Rockburn—there was the odd melodic note of a bell-bird or tui. and at night the eerie call of a morepork piercing the silence of the night, but there were not as many birds as in either the Routeburn or the Hollyford. It being New Year's Eve we decided to celebrate with a bonfire, for fallen logs were plentiful. Dinner was special for that night, and, in case some may think that a mountain party goes without all the comforts of a modern world, it consisted of soup, fried venison and peas, and steamed pudding with custard sauce. But that bonfire, it was as stubborn as a mule —burn it simply would not, and midnight was fast approaching. Undaunted in spirits we joined hands round it to sing "Auld Lang Syne." Then that fire saw its wicked chance. It blazed lustily and il was with difficulty that we could keep touching hands as we were forced back from its inferno. Three shots, three cheers, for ourselves of course, and one for the weather, and there was ushered in a New Year and for us on the morrow, a new and prettier world, the Upper Valley of the Rockburn.