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.