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?)
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