AN OTAGO HOLIDAY

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23707, 14 January 1939, Page 19

AN OTAGO HOLIDAY

By L. V/. Woods

PARK PASS AND UPPER HIDDEN FALLS

January 1, 1938, dawned a very mixed “ vintage ” —a good indication for the very mixed year it ushered in. A dense white mountain mist that was really the “ tail end ” of a West Coast no’-wester that would be soaking the other side of the Alps in drenching rain, could not quite make up its mind what to do. It hesitated between heavy raindrops and a light drizzle, but finally broke into watery sunlight about ten in tho morning. Ten o’clock is too late to tramp in the mountains, but we decided to move up the valley a short distance. Tents were hung in

the sun to dry—their dry weight was 101 b combined; wet, they touched nearer 20! Shortly after eleven we bade farewell to, the Lower Rockburn and followed the well-worn deer trail that led in and out through grassy glades and under wet trees. As the mid-day sun was very hot, we were glad of the shelter. A quarter of a mile from camp the flats came to an end, and the trail led down to the river and could be seen taking up on the other side. But the crossing was not of the best. The river flowed very fast in a rocky gorge, and it was difficult to estimate the depth of the churned waters. The only clear pool was a good 10 feet deep. We forced our way, therefore, up the right bank. For a while trails seemed to come and go unannounced, and a little rock-scrambling above swirling waters became necessary. Scrambling is a pleasant occupation when your intention is scrambling and there is only yourself to scramble, but when you have the

clinging companionship of a 701 b rucksack and you want to get somewhere, scrambling is likely to get under your breath or under your tongue as the saying goes, unless your mouth is still full of moss and earth gathered during a fall. They say a rolling stone gathers no moss, but I have always found that a rolling body always manages to annex a goodly share of moss, earth, thorns, etc. After 20 minutes of this procedure, somebody suggested we had lost the trail! Necessity is a mother of invention, and usually the best thing to set a wrong right. So, on coming to an obstinate cliff, we climbed higher up the bluff. In a twinkling we were on a welldefined deer trail that led zig-zag in places along ledges of rock. Higher and higher it climbed above the river, leading like a path through a wild fernery, on and on over chattering streamlets and through sticky bogs until almost alarmingly it took a descent down a steep bank into dark forest. At the bottom it seemed to vanish mystically, but we had learned to recognise that sign. Deer trails are well defined and easily followed

through forest-filled gorges, or up and down precipitous ridges; on the flat they are less distinct and frequently peter out completely when nearing an open clearing. We pushed through some scraggy firs and emerged among flowering veronica and a rocky terrace overlooking the giant Amphitheatre flats. Amphitheatre flats are very well named, for above and below they are walled off by massive rock bluffs where the river plunges through uninviting gorges. High peaks scattered with threadlike snowfields which cascade tassel-like streams down bare slabs, fall away on either side to a narrow strip of mountain birch and a 500-acre flat of tussock and mountain grass. Shut off from civilisation, Amphitheatre flat was a world unto itself, but nevertheless we felt inclined to eat. As it had taken an hour to corpe from the lower valley, we had that peckish feeling that usually chimes mid-day to a timeless party. Some people, however, being never

satisfied with nature in all its primitive beauty, the lady members of the party insisted on removing the very odorous retnains of a departed kea, I said “removing”—the kea actually could have removed itself had it felt inclined, for it had reached an advanced crawling stage. We lunched in the sun and then we lazed. Powdery mists drifted down the valley, dusting the blue ceiling or clinging to a peak. Cataract after cataract thundered through space with a deafening roar—but otherwise stillness and silence! Time passed unnoticed, and the sun had begun to sink towards the mountains before we made a start. We had intended to start much sooner, but sunny afternoons u&ually promote laziness. If only we could have started when we had proposed to start, or if we had decided to stop once we had dallied so long, all would have been well, but alas! we did the wrong thing—we dallied and then started.

It was very pleasant walking across the flat and would have been more so had what lay ahead looked more inviting. At the head of the flat a bluff jutted out across the valley, but there was a low bushcovered saddle where it joined the mountain. Our advice from a previous party was to cross the river and find a deer trail through the scrub. We decided to follow the advice, but it was a costly mistake. Our predecessors had travelled the valley in bad weather and probably missed the saddle. The deer trails across the valley are subsidiary, ■and the main trail must cross by the saddle, probably taking about 15 to 20 minutes to reach the too flat. We took two hours to reach it on the far side of the river. The crossing of the river here is very easy, as it flows round the foot of a giant shingle fan coming from the slopes of Mount Sommers. This dam is covered in dense, stunted scrub, but by following up the old watercourses to the apex and then taking another one down the other side it is possible. That was our predecessor’s opinion, but let any follower beware. We chose a watercourse

and followed it for about 200 yards until the boulders became too big to clamber over with heavy packs. For those who have not tried it, boulder-scrambling may be recommended as the opposite to a holiday. Feeling rather weary, we followed an indistinct trail that appeared to lead straight across. We soon lost it. Our way was barred by thorny scrub. As you pushed through, your feet would suddenly disappear into an overgrown watercourse. As you slipped through the scrub your pack caught and you remained suspended most uncomfortably with lagged branches sticking into you. To help yourself was impossible, and it was no pleasant or easy task for anybody to come to your assistance. At length we came to a densely scrub-filled washout through which we literally barged our way. Fortunately, it was the last, but we were wellnight exhaus-ed when we sat down on a large boulder to recover. The track now became clearer, and led in and out among boulders under stunted mountain

birch, till we emerged suddenly in the middle of a swamp. There was nothing for it—we “ ploughed" through. By this time weariness had taken possession and might have claimed some victims. But we still aimed for Park Pass —there was time to get there if we could only muster the energy. A short deer stalk took us to the upper flat in double quick time, and a successful shot brought a new air of happiness. Fresh meat again! Nevertheless, it really added to our sorrows as well as our joys. We laughed heartily at the efforts of two of the party to act as butchers in an ever-widening circle of entrail and gore. Success was theirs, however, and we carried with us some 201 b of venison side and rump steak. But that was another hour gone, and the sun had already set. Moreover, it was getting colder. We traversed the flat quickly, crossing back to the right bank. Here the river divides in two—one branch flowing from Mount Amphion. We crossed this and, skirting a bluff, entered the bush again in a narrow gorge. The

steep uphill climb showed how tired we were. Ten yards upwards and then a rest! We knew it was the last bush in the valley, so we pushed on up a 300-feet high cliff, cutting a tent pole as we went. We came out of the bush in dimming light—only to be flabbergasted by the view. The valley opened out into a snowgrasscovered basin, slowly rising and ending a mile away in the steep slopes of Park Pass. The worst of it was that we had to descend about 200 feet to reach the valley above the gorge. We literally plodded oh —one foot after another, wishing that the next step would see us there. The river had to be crossed for the last time at the foot of Chasm Falls, where it dashes from the terminal of Park Glacier. The last 500 feet of very steep snowgrass, an effort that almost exhausted us; but in a mingling mass of twilight and shadows we gained the top. The lowest part of the pass (the centre) has a tarn or lake and is about 4000 feet in height, but we had ascended the north end, and were right under the face of Mount Poseidon, our height being a little over 4600 feet.