Hollyford Track
Dunedin - Gore - Lake Howden Hut
First day of Southern Hemisphere Spring 2005, September the first. I awake in my motel room which is actually part of a modified old house on the St Clair beachfront. Last night I was keen to go for a morning swim, when I venture out it is a glorious morning, but still pretty chilly and I know the water here is about the coldest you'll find in the country, so I opt for a hot shower instead. It's about 8am when I venture out, under a clear sky with the sun at one end of the beach caressed by a gentle break it's a moment to feel pity for people who live in the middle of continents.
Today's agenda is to head from the east coast to Fiordland, first back-tracking to Gore where I'll drop in at a well endowed art gallery, then head west all the way to near the start of the Hollyford track and camp out for the night. So I leisurely drive south on Highway One, turn onto Eight, left onto Ninety and I'm in Gore in time to have a bit of lunch at a local cafe before perusing the fine arts of the gallery. The Eastern Southland Gallery, or the Goreggenheim, of Gore, has reached world famous in New Zealand status of late due to its Ralph Hotere collection and a bequeath by legendary sex psychologist John Money of several million dollars worth of stuff. Seeing as in the NZ psyche Gore is more likely to be equated with incest (and I'm sure Dr Money would have something to say about that), the location of a world class art collection there has involved some re-adjustment of perceptions. The Hotere's are cool and the Money collection is made up in part of a few African tribal masks no doubt redolent with Freudian themes.
I hit the Highway 94, last time I was on this road I was a teenager hitching from Dunedin to Queenstown, I remember a long walk and a couple of long waits then arriving in Queenstown at nightfall. I don't recognise anything from then but it's a nice enough road. I pass through Lumsden and on to Lake Te Anau, a route I've taken regularly in the past three years. 94 starts in Gore and ends in the postcard icon Milford Sound. I rate the drive from Te Anau to Milord as the most scenic sealed road in NZ, due to it cutting through the heart of spectacular Fiordland mountains. Today though it begins to rain as I depart Te Anau and there is not much to see. Knowing this rain was forecast and now seeing it wash over my windscreen I have already devised a plan to avoid setting up the tent tonight. Lake Howden Hut, at the junction of the Routeburn and Greenstone Tracks, is just 45 minutes from the road; it leaves only a short drive in the morning to the Hollyford track start.
It's raining but not pouring as I leave The Divide shelter and car park, I hike over Key Summit and down to Lake Howden in the last of the day's light. A couple of young kiwis have the fire going and are preparing their meal. Soon we are joined by an Aussie who's come up the Greenstone. He's from Perth and we figure I lived near him when I lived there in the early nineties. We struggle to fire up damp wood to dry water logged clothes and equipment, it doesn't quite get hot enough but it's cosy being inside the candle lit hut with the steady rain on the tin roof.
Hollyford
The rain has abated in the night leaving a watercolour sky over Lake Howden soaked in the morning light. I make the 45 minute hike back to the car and the 30 minute drive to the terminus of Lower Hollyford Road. I've not been in a rush this morning and it's late morning by the time I throw the tarp over the car and put in the first steps of a planned five days tramp to the coast and back. I'm heading for the Hidden Falls Hut which has a track time of only 2-3 hours, normally I would go for the next hut at Lake Alabaster but it has been demolished and the new one is still under construction. The cloud that is hovering near the tops of the mountains lets through some spring sun here and there. I come across a dry bed of a river where orange red moss has covered the rocks creating a vivid contrast with the deep greens of the bush. The going is easy - a good track keeping to the valley floor - by mid afternoon I come to roar of a waterfall. A short detour track reveals the modest Hidden Falls, and in another five minutes I'm approaching the new hut set out in the open of the grassed valley floor.
American Revolution
I'm greeted inside the hut by three American students who've been there two nights. They'd been heading down the track with two fellow yanks and had split up, three opting to head back whilst the other two headed for the coast. After a couple of hours the other two turned up, one of them wearing a pair of what may be described as bush constructed footwear. His original shoes had been giving him major grief and he opted to ditch them; then using a combination of string, a sack, and a foam mattress made a pair of boots that were comfortable and functional. Amazingly this footwear had served him well for three days, incredible really considering the makeshift construction and the terrain covered. The two had a tale of Lewis and Clarke proportions fulfilling their manifest destiny to reach the West Coast; locked huts, camping out at the coast, and marathon hikes had been their experiences. The five of them were all from different points of the States and were all on a year's study at Otago University. I was in for a good night as they had been gifted some trout by some passing locals and they were using up the last of their supplies including a bottle of Mount Gay Rum and herbaceous smoking material. I got rather plastered and waxed on about American History from about the 15C through to Hurricane Katrina which I had brought the news of to these guys. Eventually they ran out of steam and I got into my cot with my head threatening to go into spin mode, but I hung in there.
Demon Trail and back
It was a beautiful morning the following day, a Saturday, but feeling slightly seedy I couldn't rouse myself till after nine. I was still first up though. I got my stuff together whilst my head cleared, farewelled my American buddies and headed off into clear skies and a view of the mountains rising at all points from the valley floor. As the morning progressed it clouded over and by the time I was crossing over the Pyke River swing bridge a steady drizzle was falling. The track got a little rockier as I made my way round the base of Skippers Range to Lake Hollyford. I came across a grotto underneath a big rock that warranted getting my camera out but otherwise it was a steady pace in the rain, I was disgruntled when I detected that my new boots had started to take on water. As the afternoon wore on disgruntled morphed into irritable as progress seemed slow. It was nearly five when I broke out onto a beach on the lake, I looked out to the mountains clothed in mist and cloud from the lake to their tops. I was well pleased when I came across Demon Trail Hut about a half hour later and set about getting a fire going and drying out. A fire makes all the difference on a cold rainy night in a hut and I was arranged my gears around it. Steady rain through the night permeated my sleep consciousness.
The Demon Trail is well named as this section is both rocky and undulating and is made even more difficult in wet conditions. Creek crossings can be dangerous - take extreme care. Use the walk wire crossings where provided. Hokuri Hut (12 bunks) is near the lake shore at Gravel Cove.
With that track description in my DOC guide I set off in the near constant rain for a long wet day to the next hut. Only a couple of minutes along the track I came to a bridge that crosses a small stream, only with this rain it was more of a raging torrent. What is more the volume of water was up over the track at the end of the bridge and there was no way of getting to dry track without taking boots off and wading. I pondered the three or four days I would take to return to this point and my current situation; my dwindling food stocks, the above track description, this raging water, the continual rain, and my solo state - I opted to return to the hut and sit out today and head home tomorrow. I spent the Sunday in the cosy hut reading great swathes of The Worst Journey in the World and snacking on my food supply that now only needed to stretch two nights. The rain stopped occasionally but looking out across the lake at the myriad of waterfalls coming down the near vertical Fiordland mountains I was not regretting calling this quest to the west coast off. There'll be another time, next time I think I'll arrange to get jet boated up river from the coast back to the road.
Homeward Bound
It is not raining as it had yesterday but there are some extended showers during the morning as I make my back to Hidden Falls. In a nice reversal Pyke River appears well before I expected it, some how I have contracted the time. Not far from the swing bridge I ditch the pack and head off down the track to Lake Alabaster and the new hut there. It's raining again, the sound of a generator and power tools penetrate the bush, the hut and Lake Alabaster appear. A builder is making some toasted sandwiches, we have a chat about things, they are a team of four that helicopter in from Wanaka for two weeks at a time. The hut is near completion in time for the summer. I farewell the bush carpenter and take a been there seen that shot of the lake in the grey of the steady light rain. More of the same damp tramp eventually gets me back to Hidden Falls Hut. It seems no one else has been there since the yanks departed and they have left a few morsels of food which I filter out the tastiest from and indulge myself. Another fire is lit, wet gear arranged around it, a meal prepared and eaten then settle down for another solo night with my book and thoughts. It has already been dark for a couple of hours and persistent rain when I am surprised to hear boot steps on the verandah. A young member of the work party at the Alabaster Hut heard I was heading out and has come to ask for a ride. No problem. He has heading back to Queenstown to see his girlfriend off overseas, the rest of the work party helicopter out at the end of the week. His wet weather gear is rudimentary and his small pack and sleeping bag are drenched beyond the point of the fire drying them out tonight.
Gunn Camp
The morning promises some respite from the rain but eventually delivers more of the same, perhaps even slightly steadier and heavier than yesterday. After nearly three hours it is good to get to the car. I take the soaked tarp off and hop in, I have parked it up the road a bit so if I had any problems starting I could crash start if need be. After several failed attempts at the ignition I take the crash start option fearing killing the battery completely. I try not to think of it not starting as it is ten kilometers to 'Gunn's Camp'where a legendary loner runs a shop, museum and accommodation set up akin to a Wild West outpost, I'm not sure if anyone would even be there at this time of year. As fate would have it I can't get anything to fire as I roll down the hill towards the road end, with a sinking feeling I put the brakes on. At one of the more remote road ends in the country in pouring rain my ever faithful (till now) Audi becomes a redundant machine. My new mate and I try to push it as far back uphill as we can and try a few short runs to crash it, but to no avail. We resign ourselves to the long walk out, 10 k's to possibly deserted Gunn's Camp, or about 16 k's to the sealed Te Anau - Milford road.
I calculate the cost of hitching to Te Anau, staying a night, getting a new battery and hiring a car to get back out here, driving back to my Audi - but how do I get two cars back to Te Anau? I try not to think. We make a steady pace along the road in the constant rain, every now and then I place myself in the Audi and wonder where I'd be by now had it started. I think of what I know of Gunns Camp, I'd seen a news story about the old guy who runs it a few months back, he must be in his eighties and had been living at the remote outpost since the fifties. It was a collection of huts originally used to house the workers who put the road and tunnel through to Milford. I'd noticed the hand painted signs claiming a museum and shop and accommodation at the place but had doubted the veracity of such civilized institutions in such a wild setting. Even if it were all true would the old man be there. Finally after a couple of hours the camp came into view, our eyes looked keenly for any signs of life. Yes, a car, and amazingly the shop was open with an elderly gentleman inside. I explained my predicament to the man in the shop, turns out the legendary keeper of the camp - Murray Gunn, son of Davy - had broken a hip or something a few months back and this gentleman was kindly minding the enterprise whilst Murray recovered in Te Anau. Amazingly this ramshackle assembly of weary huts attracts a steady trade of tourists and the accommodation is well booked out in season.
We tried to jump start the car but with no success so ended it up towing it back to the camp. As I was towed I left the car in gear to try to crash start it, for the first few k's each time I put the clutch in the engine would die out immediately, it seemed the wetness had saturated and killed my Audi off. With the camp approaching I tried again, clutch in and revving the accelerator - Houston we have ignition. After profuse thanks to the angel of Gunn Camp we hopped back in the idling car and headed back to civilization.
I'd been keen to make it back to the Routeburn, perhaps spending a night up the Kepler, but this car scare and being all over damp made me just want to get back to Invercargill and head back to Wellington. I'd had a hell of a time the last six weeks up and down the South Island and over to Stewart Island, it was time to call it a day. I dropped my passenger off in Mossburn to hitch on to Queenstown and I heading down to the plains and the southern metropolis.
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