Omarama to Hawea - Lost Haloes

My halo’s still there but I'm not in it. Ian
15 2 19

A hitch a walk and a hitch and we are back on TA wandering through tussocky farmland. Te Araroa swerves towards every patch of speargrass. The day is so hot. The rocks in the stream are covered in slimy didymo. I swim anyway.

At last we arrive at the delightful private Old Tin Hut. $10 per night to Longslip Station. Ian bakes tank loaves with butter and strawberry jam then bacon pickle scrolls. Yep. Lucky Pierre the only other tramper in the hut is suitably impressed.

We grunt up the trail to Martha saddle high above the tree line. Then down through rocks and scree to the newish, crowded Top Timaru Hut.

The good weather holds and we follow the trail down through gorgeous mossy beech forest beside the pretty river. After lots of up and down the trail goes mad and heads straight up the hill. No zigzags just brutal straight up for 500 m.  I overheat and rest until the day cools off. I reach Stodys Hut on dusk with hurting muscles. Ian is waiting with the best cup of tea ever.

Stodys is over one hundred years old and has happy memories for me from 5 years ago where I sheltered here in a snow storm.

Dawn is cloudy and the trail easy. We see three deer and two huge spiders. Eat a few snowberries. The wind and rain turn off and on. We arrive at Pakituhi Hut as the rain starts. Ian bakes bread and popcorn and we chat with the interesting Inga and Josh. Inga has a bag of someone's hair that she is weaving into her dreadlocks. Phoebe who I know from Auckland arrives along with her buddy Netty and it is great to hear their tales of sailing the Pacific and the walking Te Araroa.

The morning is misty and the trail drops like a stone down Breast Hill. The schist cliffs and glimpses of blue, blue Lake Hawea are spectacular. Suddenly our shadows appear dancing on the clouds surrounded by a halo. We laugh and wave. Try sharing a halo. Then Ian says My halo’s still there but I'm not in it.
Too true. We crack up. The mist rolls off and the views stretch forever. We work our way down the viciously steep track and the reward is a refreshing swim in the clear cool waters of Hawea.

Twizel to Omarama - Snowberries and clear water

Happily breakfasted we saunter down the road to Lake Ruataniwha, in a lovely grassy spot under the willows we inflate the boats and paddle out onto the glassy blue lake surrounded by brown hills and green willows. Ian is grinning. This is great paddling. We cruise around the corner through the rowing course and paddle sedately towards the mountains for a couple of hours. The paddling gets harder and harder and we realise there is a current in the lake. This seems unlikely since the lake is 300 metres wide. We eventually realise that it is taking all the flow from Lakes Ohau, Pukaki and Tekapo and the current is stopping our progress. We pull out and rejoin the walking Te Araroa. A vigorous walk to Lake Ohau following the perfectly paddleable but going in the wrong direction Ohau River. Then in blazing sunshine and a modest tailwind we jump on the lake.

We steadily work our way across the big lake pleased that this is so much faster than walking.
We cross the 8 km in less than two hours and arrive on shore next to the peaceful willows of Lake Middleton camp where we spend a calm night.

The trail then climbs through beautiful mountain beech forest beside the tumbling mossy Freehold Creek. This is my favourite landscape and we enjoy several cups of tea and a snooze beside clear cool cascades. The cold water tastes sparkly and refreshing.

The trail pops out of the bushline to tussocky tops and views of rocky peaks and waterfalls. Things go bad from there. The trail turns to a swamp, interspersed with speargrass and matagouri and ankle twisting rocks. Soon I am bleeding, bruised and less than amused.

By the time we stagger into Quailburn Hut we are pretty done in. The hut is a beech pole and corrugated iron musterers masterpiece. A cup of tea and the world is a good place again as we lie in the golden grass eating a delicious rice dinner. The next day we stroll along a fine trail through rolling tussock and clear streams to the shingle cliffs of the Ahuriri. The mountains have the last patches of glacier hanging on in the losing battle against climate change.

The river is dark blue, sparkly and uncrossble. Not that we couldn't easily cross, just that it would be a crime against gravity not to paddle down such a beautiful river. Soon we are splashing downstream through gravel chutes with big grins on our faces. The river is perfect. Fun little rapids and moving fast. We hit a little bedrock gorge at the Ireland Road bridge which has a few interesting rapids but nothing above grade 2. The didymo makes the rocks slippery so we can slide over them. (There - I said something nice about didymo). We cruise past the famous Omarama Clay cliffs. Towering pinnacles of clay. Then the river braids out and amusing little searches for the best flow ensues. All too soon we arrive at the highway bridge. There is a bench seat and we sit and check the internet is still there.

We walk the Alps to Ocean trail 3 km along the highway to Omarama. A huge burger and chips induces a tired happiness.

We declare a rest and eating day. We  courier our boats ahead to Arrowtown. It is only $16 to avoid carrying them over the high passes.

Tekapo to Twizel - Rolling South

Smash, whose foot we patched in Comyns Hut, makes contact to let us know they have obtained our rafts and will deliver them to us in Tekapo. We offer  dinner in gratitude and a loud hilarious night ensues with three boisterously happy Australian women.

I want to paddle the Tekapo River to Lake Benmore. Ian points out it doesn't have any water because the power company diverts it all into the canals. I reckon there will be enough some long miles down at Fork Stream. Ian is totally unconvinced so we hire bikes from the charming Annie at Bespoke. She gives us shiny mountain bikes in great condition. We cruise the engineeringly perfect gentle downhill beside the canal. An amused roll past the people fishing at the salmon farm and a stop at the Pukaki visitor centre where there are fascinating photos of the old Maori flax and raupo rafts that were used on these rivers and the tough skilful rafters who built and paddled them. We are grateful for vinyl and carbon fibre.

We roll at astonishing speeds compared to walking and in a few hours we are in Tekapo. Saddle sore and happy.

We quickly get about the serious business of eating and buying food. Shawtys Cafe still makes the best big breakfast on Te Araroa. And their coffee is way better than ordinary.

Dreams of donuts - Bush Stream to Tekapo

We decide to not take the rafts for this section because it crosses Stag Pass the highest point of Te Araroa and we are sick of the weight.

We take Wayne's Alps to Ocean shuttle and are soon stomping up Bush Stream in a howling warm norwester.

The places in this area were named by Captain Obvious. Bush Stream is a stream with bush. Crooked Spur Hut is a hut on a crooked spur and Stone Hut…

We have to cross the rocky stream again and again. The didymo makes the rocks slippery. The little patches of beech forest and rocky cliffs make for interesting travel. As rain starts the track goes straight up Crooked Spur. We grunt up, stopping occasionally to nibble snowberries. My foot is feeling better every day as long as I stretch aggressively and with light packs we feel great.

Crooked Spur hut is a rustic old tin musterers hut. The timber is round beech poles. It has great character. Keas squeal high above the valley. Ian makes bread and donuts which he hands around to impress the crowd. Seven in the hut. Mostly kiwis.

The next day the trail climbs up and down tussock gullies with little streams and expansive views of rocky peaks. Lots of skinks wriggle away as we approach. The clear, burbly creeks taste delicious.

Royal Hut is another tin shed masterpiece and we enjoy another night of good conversation. Ian outdoes himself with pickle and chorizo pinwheels and iced Nutella and almond donuts. Ian's baking is becoming trail legend and people I've never seen ask me if I'm the baker guy.

We slowly work our way up to Stag Pass. Tussock, streams and rock. The climb is straightforward and soon we hit the pass. The views to My Cook and the bright blue Lake Tekapo are wonderful and we sit staring under a blue sky for an hour or so. We also make use of the internet coverage but feel a little guilty for wasting precious moments. We follow the ridge down to Camp Stream Hut delighting in the vista and easy trail.

As we look down on the Macaulay and Godley Rivers we have pangs of regret about not paddling, but it sure is nice to carry a light pack.

The hut is over one hundred years old, cosy and much cared for by a local community group. It is crowded so we move downstream and camp in hayfever inducing long grass. The weather has turned southerly and cool and we escape into our cosy sleeping bags.

The next day we get moving early to climb a hill before the sun hits. Ian spots a wallaby. Soon we are walking the road and hitch a ride into the touristy delights of Tekapo. I have walked the road before so the rules of this trip allow hitching

Comyns Hut to Geraldine

The Te Araroans stride off with their tiny packs and superfit grace. I am jealous. Five years ago I was here, fit and carrying 4 kg. Today we work our way up criss-crossing the bouldery stream and patches of thorny matagouri. Ian is suffering more than me. His old ankle injury hates the rough terrain. Our food is stored in the long tubular dry bags that fit inside Ian's raft. We grunt as we load them into our packs. We have named them the hell sausages.

The day gets hotter and the hill steepens. I go slower and slower as the heat gets the best of me. Soon I am breathing shallowly and resting every twenty paces. The views back down to the Rakaia are wonderful. Ian is waiting for me on Clent Hills Saddle and I rest in the minimal shade of a tussock. Not feeling well at all. We move slowly, sidling scree and tussock until a small flower lined waterfall comes into view. I sit, hug, lie in the cool water. After half an hour I am feeling more normal. We carry on losing the trail in swamps and giant speargrass groves. Finally we collapse on the flats. Too tired to walk the remaining kilometres to the hut. Today has been a bad day. Sandflies chew on us. The hot wind smacks the tent all night.

We leave Te Araroa and follow the Shin Track across rabbit-ravaged flats toward Lake Heron. The last 200 metres are desperate crawling through matagouri and swamps. I predicted that from the aerial photos but failed to avoid it. We put on our dry suits as white caps appear on the lake. Ian paddles north. Me south. The wind holds me stationary as I strain to make progress. His longer protected route makes sense now. I inch forward making progress between gusts as I fall further behind. Why wasn't it calm today? Finally we push out of Harrison's bite into the main lake and the wind is side on then coming from the stern. The waves get bigger and are starting to break in foaming rushes that require turning tail and surfing them. In the middle of the lake falling out would be serious and this is not fun. We paddle grimly and strongly staying close together mostly. My arms ache. The shore creeps closer and we surf into the beach.

As I strip my gear Ian marches off. He says he'll find the campground. I pack and walk the shore and road. In a grove of willows is a grassy picnic area and a burbling stream and fifty caravans and tents. But no Ian and no people at all. It is spooky. What do they know that I don't? Has there been a tsunami warning? I lie down watching the trout in the stream. Ian wanders in and we conclude the caravans are used in the weekends. We declare a heat of the day rest. We eat, wash boats for didymo. I repair gashes in my paddle blades. After five hard years the rock slapping paddling had finally broken them. The valve on my raft seat has worn a hole in the raft floor. I turn the seat over and glue on a floor patch. We lounge on the grass in the shade until evening. Then trudge the long road to the historic Maori Lakes where travelling parties traditionally stopped to resupply on eels and weka.

The next day we head across grassy flats to Lake Clearwater and Mount Potts station. Nothing interesting happens. The snowy peaks that I love at the head of the Rangitata appear. I tell Ian of our desperate youthful naive trips onto the Garden of Eden and the marginal and worse river crossings in the Rangitata that developed our skills.

At the Potts River bridge we inflate rafts. Julia rolls up in a yellow van. Maybe I'll write about Julia later. The Potts River is small but sticks to a single channel. We cruise past three Te Araroans camped on the edge of the Rangitata hoping to risk a crossing in the morning. We wave knowing they wish they had boats.

Ian grins as we splash down the Potts. Soon we paddle out into the kilometres wide gravel plain of the Rangitata. The first braid is clear, the next is blue with glacier silt and the next grey with glacier ground silt. The river is huge and gentle. The miles slide away for hour after hour. There are no rocks or logs, just dividing and combing braids. As the river drifts towards the road on the southern side we jump out before the gorge.

We start hitching but there are no cars, so it is not really successful. So we camp on the edge of the Rangitata.

Dawn sees better hitching, one car, one ride a wave to Julia as we pass, and soon we are overeating in the eccentric and eclectic Running Duck Cafe. (Really, who needs a disco ball in the toilet?)

Harper to Comyns Hut. Crossing the Rakaia

At Harper Hut it is didymo time again and we wash our boats.

A fit looking European tramper arrives, strips off all her clothes in full view and washes at the outside sink to the bemusement of those standing nearby.

There is enough water after the storm to paddle from Harper junction below Hamilton Hut but the rapids are continuous with no breaks so we walk down a few kilometres before putting in and soon are blasting downstream. Fun grade 2 with little walky bits. The Avoca boosts flow and things speed up. We find a happy campsite in the grass.

In the morning we paddle down the Harper moving well. Grade 2 with some bouncy rapids and channel hunting. All the channels lead in towards the cliff on the true left. A bit of artificial digging has changed the braids. I can't see round the corner so I pull out in a tiny eddy and walk. 90% of the flow is sucked through sluice gates into a Trustpower canal. Getting sucked against the gates would be deadly and some deft paddling would be needed to avoid them. There were no warning signs. We walk around the intake but the remaining river is too small to paddle.

There is nothing for it but to walk the hydro road for a kilometre to the Oakden Canal and put back in to the Harper. Soon we join the huge Wilberforce River and are flying along in wide easy braids. This beats walking. We pass Algidus Station and as the Rakaia Valley opens in front of us we take the first braid heading across the Rakaia Valley. Big mistake. Soon we are dragging our boats along into tiny gravel channels for hours before we finally hit the huge Rakaia braids. Snowy peaks break the skyline. We head right across the river as fast as we can. Ferry gliding and taking the big braids and about 20 minutes later we are across to the far bank and not too far downstream. Te Araroans without boats have to hitch all day and night down to the bridge and back up what we paddle in minutes.

We pack up the boats and trudge across the gravel, push through matagauri thorns, wade across a pond, push through a swamp, scramble up a gorse covered cliff, stumble through long grass hiding random boulders, pull up through very steep bracken and thistles before collapsing on the road gasping for air and bleeding in multiple places. Hmmmm. We probably should have gone downstream a little further to the easy road access. We wearily walk the road through Glenrock Station and camp in dry long grass beside the Te Araroa trail as night falls. We have worked our bodies hard and are sore in lots of places. But we are happy, so happy.

The next day we climb Turtons Saddle following a rough 4WD track high into tussock and scree. The packs hurting us and slowing us. Lots of little skinks scurrying away from us and gorgeous fields of wild flowers and spearheads. We savour sweet wild snowberries. The wind howls as we reach Comyns Hut. A vintage corrugated iron musterers hut. I make my special cheesecake and share it with the enthusiastic Elle and Smash from Australia, Paul from Idaho and Gareth from Canada. Smash has a nasty ripped blister on her heel and we make suggestions and pool medical supplies to protect and heal it.

Bread and Storms. Arthurs to the Harper

After a day of eating, food buying and catching up with Anton we bus back inland to Arthurs Pass. We walk a few hundred metres out of town and inflate the boats. Big mistake. A few minutes fast travel then the Bealey River splits and we are left dragging boats and searching for water. Fast little runs are interspersed with energy sapping drags. After a few hours the river soaks into the gravel leaving us hauling boats toward the distant Waimakariri River. We hit the Waimak in all its glory and finally make good time to the Mt White bridge. We get out on the wrong side and drag ourselves through the scrub, across the railway to the road. As the day ends we trudge the highway to the Cass Track and camp in long grass as rain begins.

The next day we drag our enormous packs (mine is around 21 kg) with ten day's food through pleasant beech forest. The abundant birdlife seen in the Lake Sumner area is reduced here. Twice we have seen stoats running through the forest. Cute and menacing.

I am for surging on but Ian wants to stop at the decrepit Cass Saddle Hut. Thunder rolls and that settles it. Ian bakes astonishingly good tank loaf which we devour with butter and jam. He then makes donuts in his little pan with icing and dried apricots. As the storm shakes the hut, thunder rolls and creeks roar we sip soothing black tea and munch donuts. Happy. We are very happy and sleep contentedly.

The morning dawns fine as the mist burns off and we climb above the bushline with giant prickly speargrass and alpine views to Cass Saddle. A good track takes us beside a pretty creek to the fine Hamilton Hut. Debris from last night's flood lines the river. Te Araroa trampers swap tales of their encounters with flooded rivers and suddenly rising streams.

Moana to Greymouth

Breakfast is a meat pie and coffee at the gas station then back into Lake Brunner and into the Arnold River. The Arnold has a steady flow, balanced by the lake, and at first it passes gently through old wetland forest. Then willows close in and we have to be careful to avoid little currents where the willows choke the river threatening to trap rafts and swimmers. "Watch out for swirlies" I call to Ian at one of the few tricky spots. He promptly falls out. He quickly self rescues hauling himself into the boat. The river widens with a simple takeout on the river left before the dam. The dam is spilling spectacularly.

Below the dam the river develops rapids. Some long with lots of rocks that need to be avoided. The willows lining the river make a swim dangerous in a way that makes the stretch more serious than the grade 2 rapids imply. It is fairly intense fast paddling with assorted relaxing bits.

I plough at high speed onto a rock I don't see coming. Tottering on top wondering how to get off without tipping I dip my paddle in the current and spin to facing upstream still tottering precariously. I lean hard, grab the current and brace strongly, flopping back into the water upright and breathing hard.

Soon the clear Arnold River merges into the brown-grey of the Grey River. The Grey is huge and intent on going somewhere fast. No real rapids but huge swirls that play with the unwary. I drop into a whirlpool - only about 500 mm deep on the surface but twisting fast. My feet are pointing at the sky and I am spinning wildly as the tail of the boat pops in and out of the hole. I paddle furiously away from the sucking centre as I rotate around its orbit and finally escape to see Ian looking alarmed and amused at my discomfort.

We knock out 53 kilometres of travel and are soon paddling the grey surge into Greymouth. The derelict chimneys, collapsing grey wood wharves, spooky smashed port cranes and roaring surf provide a grim post-apocolyptic feel.

We enter the fishing boat harbour and gently investigate the modern and ancient boats in the grim industrial landscape. We poke upstream in the urban estuary, ruined structures and mudflats. Tyres float past us on the incoming tide. It is hard not to be struck by the determined ugliness of it. To the point it has a certain dark charm.

Eventually we can paddle no further and drag the boats up the weedy stopbank at the sewage overflow warning sign. We strip off the scungy wet dry suits, roll the boats and walk the last kilometre to Anton's welcoming home.

Happy Paddlers

Today the packrafts made us happy.

The day started with little rushes down Taramakau gravel chutes and searches for the biggest river braid. The river got bigger and faster. Clear and bottle green with splashy fun rapids. Soon it joined the Otira, turned blue and we were swiftly carried downstream, occasionally walking the shallow patches.

The Alexander Creek waterfall with its blue pools caused a hundred photos.

We race along beside the highway moving many times walking speed with big grins. We could follow the Taramakau to the sea but we have an optimistic plan to jump catchments to Greymouth. We portage at Inchbonnie, a five house town where chatty old couples are happily mowing their lawns.

Four kilometres of flat roadwalking sees us at scenic Lake Poerua. It is flat and surrounded by towering kahikatea trees. We paddle happily across the lake to where it empties into a pretty wetland of rushes, huge trout, herons and assorted waterfowl. We explore happily the reflections of the forest and our boats flickering on the dark water. The wetland empties into the tiny Poerua River with barely enough water to float and we explore like kids excited to see what is around each corner. Sometimes we have to get out but each sidestream boosts the flow.

We camp on a sandy grassy floodplain and the rice and salami tastes like heaven. Weka make passes at our scattered possessions.

The next day willow stumps make the little river annoyingly dangerous and we are glad to float out into the wide Crooked River. We float smoothly Class 1 rapids through dairy farms, willows, wetlands and kahikatea into the wide, wetland and forested Lake Brunner.

We paddle firmly across the lake to the holiday town of Moana. As we deflate on the beach locals enquire about the boats and we proudly tell them we have come from Lewis Pass. A storm is coming and one of them, John, offers us a house for the night. Pay it forward he says.

It is a hundred year old cottage. With beds. We feel so lucky. We sit on sofas, drink tea as the rain drums on the old tin roof and rattles against the windows.

Karen leaves us here. Her Alaskan Canadian Scandanavian world spanning life is fascinating and her independent views make for great conversation. I love her little stories of Alaskan raft guiding.

Happy and Disturbed

(We are eating, sleeping and recovering in the bustling metropolis of Geraldine but this blog is still a week behind at Harper's Pass. Good writing is incompatible with bone crushing weariness and exhaustion)

A short day to Hope Kiwi hut. We rest as the rain falls. Ian and Rosamund are volunteer hut wardens with lots of interesting tramping stories. A handful of Te Araroa trampers gather. They are fit, sleek and moving fast 2000 kilometres into their quest from Cape Reinga to Bluff. Alex from England asks each of us interesting probing questions about our journey.

The next day the sun is bright and we wander down to Lake Sumner. Tiny Lake Marion is full of native fish, protected from hungry trout by a barrier. We inflate our packrafts and paddle Lake Sumner for a couple of happy hours in fierce tailwinds.

Hurunui hut is clean and restful. We meet the Germans again. Anya gives me helpful foot massage advice. My foot is sore but still making steady progress.

We are changing catchments so it is Didymo cleaning time. We mix detergent in my boat then soak the other boats and all our wet gear, before wiping down the outside of my boat. Didymo is a pest organism that smothers whole river beds with slimes that feel like tissue paper and look like snot. It is ugly in the Hurunui River below Lake Sumner. It is now on my Least Favourite Organism list, along with leeches and typhoid.

We roll along to the famous Hurunui hot waterfall. A little hot pool in the forest halfway down a hot waterfall. We soak blissfully, getting cleaner and relaxed. It is some forest magic.

As the day heats up we move our heavy packs upriver. Lying in the cool river to prevent overheating. We snooze briefly at the run down Cameron Hut. Grassy river flats and open pretty beech forest.

Night is spent camped next to Harper Pass biv then over the Harper Pass with its expansive mountain views.

At Locke Stream we inflate the rafts at last. Not quite enough water and we bounce off little rocks grunting and dragging the boats. Not fast but more amusing than walking. The river gets bigger then opens into braids too small to paddle. We drag the rafts across the gravel flats and yellow grass for a kilometre searching for water before we reach the big Otehake side stream. Suddenly there is plentiful water and we blast along happily staying in the biggest braids.

The grassy flats have gone and as dusk appears there are only gorse bushes and gravel to camp on. We push on and high above the river we find a perfect campsite nestled under beech trees in dry leaf litter.  Weka shriek nearby. These flightless birds stomp around the forest and constantly threaten to grab your stuff and run.

Start slow and taper off

We're not rushing into things. We spend two days in Christchurch catching up with old friends, buying gear and food. Plotting routes and mistakes.
I'm reluctant to make a big deal of our plans, there are so many things that could stop us before we start. My foot is injured and healing (plantar fasciitis) and I worry it will stop me.

Steve, bless him, dropped us off at Hanmer Springs and the Meetup. The Meetup was cool. Paddlers from all over the world. It was great being in a crowd where you weren't the only weird one.

We got sage advice from Jeremy Platt who two years ago magnificently converted his paddle into a scooter and scooted and packrafted the length of the South Island. (No really, he did. Google Titter Platt Traverse if you don't believe me).

We paddled the great Waiau, Acheron and hurunui Rivers and learned some new skills.

The original plan was to  start in ship cove and finish in Bluff following approximately the The Araroa (TA) route.  But a realistic assessment of days available and my plantar fasciitis foot injury and the desire not to be rushed and to allow time in Fiordland and save days hitching to Picton we decide to start where we are at Lewis Pass. Among the cool packrafters we meet at the Meetup is Karen an Alaskan. She joins us for the first section through to Lake Brunner.  She is a tough old retired Alaskan rafting guide.

Martin and Emma kindly drop us at Windy point and with heavy packs maybe 17 kg we follow the orange triangles through beautiful open beech forest. I drink straight from the pretty creeks running over mossy rocks. We walk in silence. Then we walk telling our stories.

It is nearly five months since I last tramped. I move slow and steady. My foot hurts a little and the pack feels heavy. I am happy to be here. So happy. We breeze past the haunted Hope Halfway hut. The rain starts soon after and we have regrets. We camp between showers beside the river.

So here we go.

"He who is outside his door has the hardest part of the journey behind him". Old Dutch proverb

So here we go. Adventure awaits and no one knows for certain where the trail leads.

This is Ian. He is paddling towards the waterfall of doom but is smiling because he doesn't know it yet. 

Ian and I are packrafting the wilds of the South Island for the next few months. And these, these are the records of the journey.