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?)