When we arrived at the hut it was basking in afternoon sun.  The wisp of smoke coming from the chimney showed that someone was already there, stoking the fire, always has a welcoming feel.

We had a snack and a cuppa, and headed up the valley towards that snowy mountain, now called “Falling Mountain.”

Here’s the Falling Mountain rubble. We chased that warm sun all the way up the valley but never caught it before we decided to turn around and head back towards dinner at the hut.

The last of the day’s sun, reflected off a peak.

There was a good hard frost that night. Note to self–next time fill the cooking pan with water in the evening, before the tap freezes.

The next morning the fire’s warmth was all gone, and we waited for the sun to crack over the hill before setting off on our day adventure.

Carrie’s husband gets excited about routes and maps, and he had picked out a creek bed near the hut that, based on the aerial photos and the topo maps, should be climbable without needing any technical gear, as long as we exited the creek bed before the bluffs at the top.  We left most of our stuff in the hut and set off with day packs, crossing the river and pushing through a little bit of friendly scrub to the frosty creek.  Just for reference, “unfriendly” scrub would involve the well-armored  matagouri and speargrass, which we luckily didn’t encounter.  Jeremiah often comes home from his hunting trips picking bits of thorns out of his skin, but “bush bashing” through spines and prickles holds no appeal for me!

Creek icicles!

The hut below looks both close and far away.

In the end we climbed up that rocky bit, which we could have avoided if we’d come out of the creek earlier, but which turned out alright in the end.

After our unexpected rock scramble near the top of the hill, we finally popped our heads over the crest, and our vista suddenly expanded. “It’s like the Sound of Music! I called to Carrie, delighted not only with the view but also that we hadn’t gotten ourselves into trouble on our chosen route.

We strolled along the low alpine grasses, and had an early lunch by this frozen tarn. “We should have carried our stuff, we could have gone down the other side to Lake Mavis, and back along the Mingha!” I enthused, regretting that we had to turn back down to the woods so soon.  Consulting the map, we realized that I might have been a little over-enthusiastic with that plan. It would be a fantastic mission some day, but we had a whole lot more ridge to go along before we could even see Lake Mavis.

As we turned back down the hill, we chose a different route to avoid the rocky bits.  I always feel tentative lowering myself down through sections that would be really difficult to back-track up, in case we meet a cliff and get stuck.  But this time we were fine.  And again, no speargrass!

Lewis Pass is just east of the divide, and the forests get a lot of rain. As we moved into the woods, the green enveloped us from above and below. The noise of the road faded behind us.

We moved at a leisurely pace, stopping for photos and to fondle the moss and lichen coating every surface.

The diversity of non-flowering plant life is staggering. I’m reminded of a package my college roommate once sent me, a parcel of tree top greenery fallen from the western Oregon forest, soft textured greens palpating with the will to grow.

We crossed various side streams on their tumble down to join the Nina River, gentle little babbling affairs. You can drink directly from these streams.  Teena later told me that balancing on the rocks and picking her way across was a good challenge, and I must say she rose to it well; clueless me didn’t realize that she was concerned.

The weather for Lewis Pass was cooperative and Nina hut is a straight-forward three hour walk into a nicely situated 12 bunk hut, with a potential climb to a saddle another couple hours beyond the hut giving options for the afternoon. The two river crossings have swing bridges, another important consideration. Here Teena is, enjoying the luxury of teetering ABOVE the water rather than splashing through it.

This one was more of a seep than a stream, the moss obscuring much of the water flow.

Dryad Teena!

We at lunch at the hut. It is situated on a clearing in a knoll some way above the river, a cozy hut with double glazed windows and a good wood stove.

We took a short walk in the afternoon up the valley. The trail eventually comes out at a saddle with a gorgeous little two bunk hut, though we didn’t go up that far this weekend. I wanted to stay there a couple years ago after a walk along the Sylvia tops, but it was inhabited already, so I had taken the track on down to Nina hut for the night. I hadn’t remembered the trail being difficult to follow at the time, but this time we had to keep a keen eye out for the orange markers to avoid going astray.

We passed a few more picturesque streams.  They always remind me of my Dad, who loves woodland streams.

Luckily, on our afternoon walk we passed a tree that had been blown down a few years ago, its branches held safely above the forest floor.  We eyed it up as good fire wood, and returned to it later. The hut woodshed had an excellent saw, which is unusual for a hut, so we soon had an impressive stock of firewood ready.

I had forgotten how satisfying it is to make a nice fire! It’s a skill I want to teach my kids, I reflected. Maybe this year would be a good one to get them tramping again. Jeremiah had suggested it only the week before and I had recoiled in haste, remembering the coaxing and energy-sapping cajoling it took to keep them moving on past trips. But maybe….maybe I can muster the umph again. And maybe they’ll be better now that they’re a bit older.

After dinner Teena taught me a new game, after which we basked in the wood stove warmth on top of our sleeping bags on the bunks. So much for being worried that we’d have to compete with hordes of trampers for bunk space! We had the hut to ourselves, so we yip yapped like school girls for a couple hours before we called it a night.

Teena’s enthusiasm for the experience was gratifying. She enjoyed the peacefulness of the forest, ate well, slept well, was not eaten alive by sandflies, remained bouyant after tripping and sliding on a section of trail, and coped well with a stomach ache (not related to my cooking!). I enjoyed seeing the tramp through a new tramper’s eyes, and I felt a renewed energy to bring my kids out into the woods.

Thank you, Teena, for reimagining the tramping experience with me. I’ve gained renewed sense of wonder at the lush forests and streams we’re so privileged to have in our NZ back yards.

Here’s our hiking route: Pink is the first day, hike up the forested ridge to the alpine saddle, then stay at Mole hut a little way back down the creek valley. Day two hike up to Mole tops and have an explore, then walk down to Tiraumea Hut for the night. Day three walk over to Durville Hut at Lake Rotoroa, where Carrie’s husband would meet us with his dad’s boat and bring us back around to where we left the car. Winter days are short, same as in NY winter, but the distances were achievable with the daylight available.

The first bit of the walk was in lovely mossy beech forest, with old man’s beard lichen clinging to the branches as we got nearer the alpine zone. It was probably 10 C, perfect temperature for climbing, and our conversation ranged over all the important topics; relationships, kids, work, and the best color for a car.  

There was no wind when we popped out of the tree line and looked down at the hut in the valley below, so we loitered up there, brewed a cup of tea, and basked in the sun.

As we turned down the valley, the shaded bits had hard frosty ground, and we expected the hut to be in a cold pocket near the creek. But whoever situated this little hut had winter sun in mind–it caught the last of the afternoon’s warmth through it’s window and when we poked out heads inside it was toasty warm. Unfortunately, it was also occupied by three sleeping bags, and there were only 4 bunks. Shucks. We amused ourselves for a few minutes trying to guess the nature of the party who would return there that night–there were foot traps hanging in the porch, but also a bag of Hummingbird coffee, and a couple Harrington’s pilsners stashed below the step. Hunters, but not bogans, it seemed.

Fortunately we had a tent, so we set it up in a little flat space and started our dinner in the hut before the occupants returned. As hunters, we expected them back after dark, but they surprised us by trooping it around 5:00, having seen no animals on the tops all day. They were very civil though, and good company, but the hut had no extra space and we soon retreated to the warmth of the sleeping bags in the tent, a round of Quiddler by headlamps, and an early sleep.

It was a clear frosty night, but we stayed reasonably warm and waited to get up until the hunters had vacated the hut, so we could us it for breakfast. Taking down a frosty tent is cold-finger business, so we were relieved to climb back up to the warmth of the morning sun.

We left most of our gear at the saddle and climbed with light packs up to the alpine tops. Once you climb up it’s remarkably easy going, with low grass and tiny alpine herbs to walk on. With no wind and full sun it’s like strolling along on the roof of the world.

We kept remarking how dazzlingly lucky we were with the weather. Could have just as easily been blowing a gale and driving snow and ice….but we got lucky.

The tops there are like a big undulating plateau, pocked by tarns, with the mountains drizzling off in steep scree runs on the western side.

Despite the sun’s warmth, the tarns were iced over pretty solidly and they weren’t melting at all. Not strong enough ice to walk on, but still solid enough to make the watery world underneath absolutely still.   It was so clear that I watched a tadpole wriggling along, and wondered how it could be so seemingly energetic in such cold water!

We peaked through a window in the ridge at the mountains beyond, looking up the Durville valley to the south and planning future routes.

Sometimes the ridgelines are narrow and brittle with sketchy drop on both sides, but we found a simple scramble route up to an old trig point where we sat and observed other people walking about below us. It was remarkably busy up there; at least 9 other people besides us were striding around, taking advantage of the primo weekend.

We finally left the tops in mid afternoon, with just enough time to walk down to Tiraumea Hut before dark.

The frost was still crinkly hard on the low pockets of the clearing and the mist was creeping in, but when we opened the door to a very tidy little hut with several inviting stacks of dry kindling left by previous considerate trampers. We spread out the wet tent to dry, cranked the fire, and played a round of Quiddler after dinner.