Many people who visit the Tararuas will have a copy of Merv Rodgers’ book from 1996, Tararua Footprints, on their bookshelf. Historically it’s one of the more authoritative guidebooks on the Tararuas, talking about river systems and valleys and how the routes fit together. It covers different territory from the more recently published Tararua Adventure Guide, which is a more specific guide to specific things to do in the range.

Lately, Tararua Footprints has become very hard to track down, but very awesomely the author has now donated the text to the Tararua Tramping Club for a new online edition.

Although it’s now 16 years out of date, geography doesn’t change much in that time and most of the information is still very relevant. The longer term intent of the TTC is to turn the online edition of the book into an up-to-date working guide to be edited in an ongoing fashion and be the “definitive Tararua Range route guide”.

It’s certainly worth checking out next time you venture into the Tararuas.

A rescue that may have been inevitable occurred in Tongariro National Park on Saturday, when 16 people were rescued from the Tongariro Crossing, at least four of whom were in early stages of hypothermia. Present media appear to be pushing an angle that assigns much blame to a shuttle operator (who also has a side of the story) for giving the group incorrect advice about weather, although that’s something I struggle to accept. [Update 5/5/2012: This morning the Dominion Post also weighed in with an editorial, which largely blames the shuttle operator, but which I also think ignores much of the problem.]

“It got very nasty very quickly, and we became separated into three groups.

“We had the strong wind at our backs and we didn’t want to turn back into a headwind.”

Their hands became so cold that it became too difficult to open their packs to find food.

It was not until a woman collapsed with hypothermia that they decided to head back, he said.

Two Auckland trampers, Ghaz Jabur and Graham Plows, found the confused and hysterical group late in the morning and helped them off the mountain. They also contacted police by cellphone.

“The visibility was down to 10 to 20 metres; it was a freezing wind and we were crouching behind this boulder when we saw this hysterical person coming towards us,” Mr Jabur said. “We asked him if he was alone and he said he was with a big party who were trapped further up.”

The men grabbed their packs and climbed up to find the group huddled together. “They were hysterical; they had minimal clothing on – puffer jackets, hoodies, jeans, tights and sandshoes.”

The men gave spare clothes they had in their packs to the worst-affected and tried to get them out of the wind.

“All we could do was grab them and pull them down the slope. We did this for about 10 to 20 minutes, it was totally exhausting.

“Two guys and two of the girls were in a really bad way. They were shaking involuntarily, they had hypothermia and their eyes were rolling. They couldn’t put food in their mouths; they would have died for sure.

“The only way we could get their attention was to scream at them one at a time and tell them what to do.”

For me, it’s a reminder that the Tongariro Crossing is one of the wackiest places I’ve been in New Zealand in terms of seeing unprepared people in a wild, potentially very isolated, changeable and dangerous environment. I wrote about this problem of inexperience combined with popularity at the Tongariro Crossing a couple of years ago, and this TVNZ Close Up story from a few months before impresses the extent of the problem.

It’d be premature to try to comment on specifics of exactly what happened with regard to advice given, but I’m not entirely sure it’s relevant. While it’s good to have responsible people on the edges, assigning blame to operators for dropping off and collecting people who aren’t prepared also ignores the bulk of the problem.

That said, it also feels simplistic to just assign blame to people themselves and go no further—there are bigger things happening. Even if 16 people found themselves in trouble and had inadequate clothing and weren’t properly aware of the forecast and nearly died, and even if it is their own fault, they still weren’t doing anything especially different from what a substantial proportion of people have been doing before them and will likely continue to do in the future. In that respect, these people just happened to be the unlucky ones out of the crowd. For me, that is a much bigger problem, and this incident is merely symptomatic.

Operator responsibility

I’ll consider the shuttle operator’s responsibility before going further. Only you, or someone with you and in control of decisions, can possibly be responsible for your safety in an outdoor situation. Furthermore, everyone’s different with different needs and intents. Someone who drives a shuttle can’t possibly be expected to reliably gauge what’s right for every person they meet. They can’t always perfectly judge who they’re transporting, and they can have off days like everyone else. The fact that other people were on Tongariro that day (ie. those who discovered and rescued the group) without issues suggests that a properly equipped and experienced person would have been fine.

It may be that advice from a driver was badly formed or worded, or incorrectly interpreted, or perhaps they just made a mistake. Maybe it was completely irresponsible. I’m not certain we’re necessarily hearing the full story, but I also don’t think it should be a critical consideration. Hanging the safety of anyone on the thin strand of an individual operator’s ability to never make a mistake about a future they have no control over before they wave goodbye at the end of a road is asking for trouble. Those in a group need to be aware of that limitation, and if they aren’t then it’s something that needs fixing. In my opinion it’s never a good excuse to say you nearly died because of bad advice from another person who isn’t there. Once you enter the back-country, you really are on your own and must be prepared to deal with unexpected problems without assistance, at the very least for a reasonable amount of time to allow help to arrive, which could potentially be days away in atrocious conditions.

Should the group have been responsible for themselves and prepared better? Of course, and it sounds as if the people of this group made some extremely bad decisions and nearly paid a very serious price for it, but it’s also not as simple as that. When so many people consistently do something so potentially risky without appreciating or realising what they’re doing, there’s something else happening. In this case I think there’s something uncomfortably wrong with the New Zealand tourism juggernaut when it comes to the Tongariro Crossing.

Heuristic Traps

A heuristic is a rule of thumb that can be used to simplify a decision and measure the differences between situations according to pre-determined rules that are easy to assess. For instance, a road authority might decide which roads to improve by considering the number of reported accidents per kilometre, without necessarily examining the roads directly. “Number of reported accidents per kilometre” is a heuristic that’s easy and inexpensive to measure, and which can allow existing roads to be compared in a vaguely objective way. In outdoor situations, a very common heuristic application is to estimate how long it’ll take to climb a hill based on contour lines from a map. In the groups I’ve been in, we’ll often look at a map and presume we’ll climb roughly 300 vertical metres an hour as a general rule, and for us it usually works, so it’s very useful.

A heuristic trap is an occasion in which an incorrect rule of thumb is applied to assess a situation. The “300 vertical metres per hour” heuristic could become a trap if it’s applied when a group has a very exhausted member, or if the route turns out to be very overgrown and slower than expected. For such cases, it’s advisable to be prepared, such as by always carrying adequate portable shelter. Sometimes heuristics have little resemblance to the situation in which they’re being applied, and this is also very risky. For example, guessing how long it’d take to reach the top of a steep hill by measuring the horizontal distance from bottom to top would be unlikely to produce consistently accurate results, and a party might fail to reach an intended destination by an expected time, but people sometimes do this.

In traditional back-country experiences, the most risky heuristic traps tend to be encountered in situations such as river crossings and avalanche zones, where there’s often a high desire to get somewhere, but a high risk of doing so quickly. These are situations where people often kill themselves or otherwise get into trouble. Some examples:

• “The river looks a high but there’s warm, dry shelter on the other side that I’d rather have than camping out, so I’ll cross.” The safety of the river is unaffected by what’s on the other side.
• ”Everyone else is doing it so it must be safe.” This makes no consideration of the actual danger so much as watching what other people are doing and presuming they know what they’re doing and that you can do it too.
• ”Something moved and I know there are deer out there, so I’ll shoot.” This is a classic way that hunters shoot their mates, and it’s a clear heuristic trap.

Heuristic traps, where people apply irrational reasoning, are recognised in many back-country accidents, which is why there’s so much ongoing emphasis in the wider community for people to become familiar with the common ones. First-hand experience is one of the best ways to better understand and cope with heuristic traps, so as to become more familiar with the risks. For instance, a good river safety course will provide good first-hand and direct experience of how dangerous rivers can be, perhaps by letting people experiment and be swept away in a controlled environment. It will give people a more complete picture for when they’re making their assessments for real, and falling into the heuristic trap becomes less likely (though still possible).

On the opposite side of the equation to understanding risk, it’s also possible to reduce the incentives for rationalising unnecessary risks away. For instance, a common incentive and rationale for taking risks is to prevent friends and family from worrying, so carrying a Mountain Radio, SPOT Beacon or Satphone to retain a link to those at home in case of delays can help avert this incentive. Mentally preparing and equipping one-self to potentially take longer than expected might also help, even if returning late was never the initial intent. Despite so much emphasis, some people still get themselves into trouble having fallen into heuristic traps, even in full knowledge of them.

Heuristic Traps and the Tongariro Crossing

As I stated earlier I believe personal responsibility is paramount and there’s no valid excuse for not accepting it, but the Tongariro Crossing is a weird case because it’s such a massive outlier in terms of the number of people it reaches, many of whom have never touched the New Zealand back-country before and many of whom will never do so again.

The tourism industry, officially and unofficially, routinely spreads promotion of the Tongariro Crossing as one of the best daywalks in the world. You’ll find that claim in popular international guides like Lonely Planet, you’ll find it promoted by a variety of tourism operators, you’ll find people chattering and recommending things informally on travel website forums and (once people arrive and start travelling) in the back rooms of backpackers throughout the country. It’s a major reason for some people to come and visit. For anyone who can only afford or be bothered with a single outdoor New Zealand experience in the North Island without the complications of overnight tramping, it’s one of the most accessible top places on the list. Huge numbers of people walk it, sometimes up to 1,000 people on a popular day.

Nearly 80% of those who walk the Tongariro Crossing are overseas visitors who come to New Zealand as part of a wider world trip, or having been to other parts of the world. Visit a variety of comparable attractions on the popular tourist trails overseas, and you’ll often find highly controlled experiences. You’ll find backpacker tourists being shepherded through hiking experiences with guides, or without guides but still never too far from danger and reliable shelter or help. You’ll find good steps and handrails and reliable cellphone reception in many of the potentially dangerous places. Gates will often be closed to lock everyone out at times when a government or exclusive operator believes there’s too much risk for tourists, and you’ll often find relatively stable climates with dangerous weather reliably predictable well in advance. Even across the ditch in some parts of Australia, it’s common for park authorities to close access or strictly control entry to some parks on safety grounds.

Such things are not the Tongariro Crossing, or nearly any part of New Zealand’s wilderness. Despite having largely open access to the public, it’s a wild environment that’s quite risky on its day for reasons that won’t always be present in people’s experience to date, and it needs to be treated as such. I’m insanely happy that the Tongariro Crossing is not a highly controlled experience as exists in some other places and I sincerely hope it never becomes one, yet the major tourist trail aspect of the Crossing means its perception could be completely disconnected from what it actually is in the eyes of many visitors.

This lays the foundations for a giant heuristic trap, and one that’s in a completely different class from other heuristic traps normally associated with local back-country experiences. Irrespective of the placement of warnings (like bylines in guidebooks and signs at ends of the track), the vast majority of visitors to the Tongariro Crossing are likely to compare both the crossing itself, and the warnings about it, with their past experiences, whether they be outdoors in other countries, or previous occasions in which they’ve walked 20 kilometres. Consider the following:

• ”Today’s the only day we set aside and there’s nothing else to do around here, so we’ll just go today and hope it gets better.”
• ”We were told to take gear for storms but there’s no time to get any. The last three days have been great weather and it looks the same this morning.”
• ”It’s full of tourists, so if anything goes seriously wrong it’ll happen to everyone and we’ll not be much extra trouble for rescuers.”
• ”Up to 1,000 people walk it every day, and we’ve barely heard of any accidents.”
• ”The mountains don’t get much higher than 2000 metres, which is nothing compared with overseas.”
• ”It’s okay, we have a cellphone.”
• ”Those people we met last night said much of it was a boardwalk.”
• ”The government wouldn’t let anyone in if it were too dangerous.”
• ”The bus driver reckons the weather will probably improve.”
• ”We’ve just come out of military training and can handle quite a bit of rough weather.”
• ”Proper boots are expensive, I only need them today, and it’s only a daywalk.”
• ”Jeans and sweatshirt are what I have for winter clothing in case it gets cold.”
• ”The temperature back home is routinely 20 below and I know I can handle it.”

People often have strange ways of weighing risks against benefits which don’t always consider full implications, and there’s a lot of research in this. In this case it’s frequently, but not exclusively, young and inexperienced people who will happily reinforce their decisions by telling each other that things are fine. It shouldn’t be a surprise that people so often read about the risks, consider them in a fallacious mental equation of human nature, and convince themselves that it’s really not so bad to attempt the Tongariro Crossing after all. The tourism marketing machine, officially and unofficially, ensures that people really really want the benefits. The risks, meanwhile, remain exactly the same, not affected in the slightest by hype in the opposing direction, and they’re often not fully understood besides. Rationality goes out the window, and unhelpfully “most” people do get through the Tongariro Crossing without a hitch… until something like Saturday’s event occurs.

Fixing it

I don’t have clear answers of how to fix this, aside for knowing of several things I definitely don’t want to happen, but I do think there needs to be a serious discussion. It needs to involve proper research about where people get their information and how they perceive and weigh the risks with the benefits. Then it needs to be acted on to ensure that when people decide they want to walk the Tongariro Crossing, they’re less likely to convince themselves to take stupid chances with or without realising it. The Department of Conservation has already attempted to change how people perceive the walk. For instance, several years ago it pushed for operators to begin referring to the walk as the “Tongariro Alpine Crossing”. I’m not convinced it’s working, though.

As I indicated in my post a couple of years back, I don’t think much will change around the Tongariro Crossing until an unexpected storm comes along and wipes 50 unprepared tourists off the mountain. I sincerely hope this doesn’t occur, in part for the obvious devastation it’d cause for those involved and also for the knee-jerk responses I think it might provoke. That said, it might be that but for a few fortunate coincidences, the situation on Saturday came close to something comparable happening.

The map, taken from a 14MB PDF hosted on Stuff, doesn’t give much detail and I’m having some trouble matching the squiggles to realistic geographic terrain on the topo map of the area. I think the proposed route from west to east appears to enter the range from Kakariki West Road or nearby, climbs up Pohehe and Ratapu, up to Ngamaia and Conical Knob, then around Massey Knob and Ngapuketurua. From here, I’m guessing the idea is to head down a spur via spot-heights 959 and 851, 675 and 670 to get to Harris Creek, and follow the Mangahao River back to the dams and out to Shannon. Apparently the plan would involve building a hut around Ngapuketurua.

I haven’t been there recently but four or five years ago, much of that area (especially around Ngapuketurua) was a leatherwood jungle. Tough going, but very rewarding in the end, and perhaps resulting in one of my favourite ever visits to the Tararuas thanks to all of the above. On the one hand I think it could be a shame to have the route completely opened up the the standard of letting through bicycles.

It’d be hypocritical to say for certain that the area should remain hard to access merely because that’s been the case recently. There have been tracks cut through the region in the past, and over time they become overgrown if not tended to. Even if this proposal went ahead it’s possible that the same thing might occur again given time, depending on support over time.

There are potential good points, too, and access to some of the northern areas may be one of these. The Schormann-Kaitoke (SK) route that traverses the Tararua tops from North to South, for instance, which fit people sometimes try to walk in fewer than 24 hours, has unofficially begun at Putara Road for some time. When Putara Hut mysteriously burned down in 1977 (allegedly by a disgruntled farmer), access was cut to the slightly more northern entrance point of Schormann’s Track that had climbed straight up to Kareti and Hines. If a more accessible route were opened through the leatherwood, SK-racers could begin their challenge even further north! Perhaps it could also provide an interesting new way for trampers to get into parts of the range and visit that area, by cycling part of the way to wherever they’re going. They’re just thoughts that come to mind.

So far this seems to just be an idea, and judging from everything I’ve seen (which isn’t everything), it appears the main considerations are in terms of economic benefit to the surrounding regions from attracting cyclists. With limited information I couldn’t say how reasonable an idea this is, but I’m strongly hoping that nothing happens without extremely careful consideration of the potential impact of bicycles, possibly a lot of them, in the relatively fragile environment of the Tararua tops. They’re already accessible to people on foot.

For several years now there have been rumours that Kime Hut would be replaced, and they’ve been subsequently quashed or pushed back for one reason or another. (Budget issues and such.) This summer, the rumours seem to be formulating into something that actually occurring. Kime Hut is in a very exposed part of the Tararuas, and serves as a stopping point for some as part of the Tararua Southern Crossing. The hut has a big internal space and its reputation is one of being a very cold place to stay, and although it can keep off the most harsh aspects of a storm, it’s also sometimes referred to as the refrigerator—on this occasion in 2009, Craig measured the indoor temperature to be approximately 1°C warmer than the outdoor temperature. It’s fairly common to hear people pleading for some form of heating in the hut, but that’s never happened.

Last week (after I asked) I was very helpfully informed by one of the local staff at DoC’s Kapiti Conservancy that yes, Kime Hut is going to be replaced during the summer of 2012/2013.

The replacement hut will be in the same location, but not on the same footprint of the existing hut, and it should hopefully be available for use by “this time next year”. The existing hut will remain assembled until its replacement is finished, although I’d presume there’s likely to be reduced space available if a construction team is staying there.

I’ve been informed that there are no plans for extra heating facilities over the existing hut (which has none), but the new hut (based on an existing 20 bunk DoC design) will be thermo-wrapped and fully insulated, with double-glazed windows facing the sun.

There won’t be any official consultation direct to the public, just in case you were wondering. Local clubs and iwi will be consulted and updated through the Tararua Aorangi Rimutaka Huts Committee, so if you have something to say then make sure one of those organisations knows about it. The Tararua Tramping Club in particular (custodian club of the existing Kime Hut) has already been involved for consultation purposes, although won’t be involved in tendering or construction. That club will continue to be affiliated with the replacement hut.

With a day to spare in Wellington, I had a thought of attempting to find Snowy Hut in the Tararuas, which I’d be keen to see some day simply through virtue of it not officially existing. To do so would involve some river travel, though, and with a forecast that would allow little if any room for error or mistake, lest becoming totally screwed by a severe storm due to come in by evening, I reluctantly decided it’d be a bad idea. This led to plan B, which was a jaunt up to Mount Reeves, which is mostly under trees, involves no rivers, and should be easy enough to retreat from if the storm came in early. I’ve never been up Reeves Track before. (Maybe there’s a reason.)

Thus on Friday morning, I drove to the end of Waiohine Valley Road, behind Greytown and near Woodside Railway Station, and parked next to a herd of unrestful cattle. So far, so good. No sign of stormy weather, and a little sunshine.

Date: 2nd March, 2012
Location: Tararua Forest Park, Waiohine Valley Road.
People: Just me.
Huts visited: None.
Route: From Waiohine Road, up the Mt Reeves Track past Rocky Knob to Mt Reeves, then back again.
[Photos]
[Download GPX] [Show map] [Display in new window][LINZ Topographic Map in new window]

Leaving behind the farm.

Soon after sorting my tramping outfit, shortly after 10am, the local farmer drove up on a 4 wheel motorbike. It turned out he was about to move the moo moos to a new paddock. He reckoned where I’d parked the car was fine, but I soon found myself being closely followed up the farm track. There would’ve been a few nice scenic photos of the Waiohine River down below, if I hadn’t been stumbling with camera batteries.

No, they’re not growing on
a 45° angle to the horizon.

Some way up the hill, a DoC sign directs Tararua Forest Park visitors into one of the paddocks. This involves a limbo underneath one of the electric fences, although there’s a good amount of space. I’m unsure if it was switched on, but I think it’s prudent to assume they always are. Then it’s a steep climb for a few hundred metres to the back of the field, another limbo under another fence, and into a steep, slippery muddy pine forest which initiates Reeves Track. By now it was about 10.30am. On this day at least, it was clear that people had recently slipped and slid all over it, and finding good foot-holds was a challenge. Very do-able, though.

I began the day mildly concerned that at the speed I was going, it’d take a very long time to get anywhere. There was one small cluster of onga onga (stinging nettle) in this area, which I managed to avoid, and after some awkward under-pine sidling in a still-slippery and ineffectively benched track, things gradually morphed to a more traditional leaf-covered Tararua tree-root track after about 5 minutes of struggling.

The track towards Rocky Knob and then to Reeves is divided into many discrete lines of different bearings and a few hundred metres each. I think it was a fantastic track for practicing locating myself with a bearing tangent. In most cases, I could very easily verify where I was by taking a bearing of the current direction and comparing it with the track shown on my topo map. Usually I find this trick harder to apply without close attention, simply because so many tracks tend to follow a line for a long time or have many sections that follow similar bearings.

Looking off spot-height 569
towards the Waiohine Gorge.

The upward-ness of the 750 metre vertical climb to Reeves is very pronounced. It rarely stops climbing. I reached spot-height 569 at about 11.10am, which provided the first unobscured views over the range north-wards towards Waiohine Peak in the distance, and several un-named peaks that are much closer. I was studying the map on the way to Rocky Knob, thinking that there could actually be a nice navigation loop heading south off that point down to a saddle and up to spot-height 568. Chances are, being in the Tararuas, there would already be a ground trail for something so obvious.

Sure enough, when I arrived at Rocky Knob (not very rocky and not much of a knob), I nearly walked straight down that trail. It was fairly clear after a few metres that I’d missed the main route (easy to find behind me). The south-ward spur is marked further into the trees with a splodge of blue paint, and it looks as if there are some old axe blazes from many years in the past. Typical Tararuas.

Climbing further past Rocky Knob, now heading north-north-west, the track flattens briefly and the trees open into surroundings of dracophyllum, affording scenes of Reeves not too far away, and other surrounding hills in the range.

Heaps of signage around
spot-height 745.

Back into the trees, and just below spot-height 745 where I arrived about 12pm, an old DoC sign warns that a 3 wire bridge over Coal Stream has been removed. There were a lot of markers here, and another ground trail aiming towards the top of 745. I’m guessing it’s a fairly well known route to head north-east along the spur from that point, cross Coal Stream, and then cross the giant swing bridge over the Waiohine back to Walls Whare—I guess it could be a more direct way back to Walls Whare from somewhere like Tutuwai Hut. That’s not something I’d planned to do this day, though.

Soon after, and with further climbing, the track continues into more open dracophyllum until finally, 45 minutes later, I reached Reeves itself. It’d taken about 2.5 hours to reach here from the car, although it’s a steep climb all the way I think I’m fairly fast compared with some people, particularly when I’m on my own.

Tararua views from Reeves a few hours before a storm.

Tararua Dracophyllum on Reeves a few hours before a storm.

The fire pit and campsite.

I’d considered perhaps zipping down to Tutuwai Hut if I arrived early enough, but it’s a 600 metre drop and at my rate I’m guessing it’d probably add another 2.5 or 3 hours to the day to get there and back. I guess it would’ve been safe, but it could also risk cutting into darkness if something went wrong and with the forecast deluge it also didn’t really appeal. Therefore I pulled out my lunch and started munching, soon to return from where I’d come. Someone’s built a small fire pit on top of Reeves, with a nearby log on which to sit, and I took in the surrounding scenes, dominated by the never-ending length of Marchant Ridge, Alpha Peak and the upper reaches of Quoin Ridge behind, and the Southern Crossing route curving around towads something (possibly Hector) hiding in the clouds in the distance. I can certainly appreciate why some people might prefer to end the Southern Crossing via Reeves Track, even if it’s a bit of a climb.

Downhill Wairarapa views.

I left soon after 1pm, still without much sign of a storm coming in off the western coast. The scenery in this direction is decidedly different, looking over the flat, wide Wairarapa, dominated by the Waiohine River meandering through the flats before it’s drunk by the Ruamahanga, and by Lake Wairarapa in the distance.

I’d thought it might take about the same amount of time to get down as it did to get up, but it was at least slightly faster. After 40 minutes (1.40pm) I was back at the warning sign below spot-height 745. Following this, on the way down, I strayed a few metres to find the actual Rocky Knob, which I believe is the highest point in the middle of some trees, although it’s in a slightly different place from where LINZ marks it to be, by at least a few metres.

Various sights on the south-eastern
fringes of the Tararuas.

At 2.20pm, I was back at spot-height 569 and looking north’ish towards Waiohine Peak. Just prior to arriving at the pine forest, shortly before 3pm, I stopped as a Morepork flapped past, landed on a branch in front of me and decided to study me for several minutes. Then it must have decided I wasn’t terribly interesting. One awkward mud-stricken sidle later, I was at the top of the farm 5 minutes later, sliding underneath two electric fences.

Without the cattle chasing me around the farm track this time, I had a decent chance to look at the Waiohine River from the top of the bluffs which the track follows. It’s very nice. There was still just barely a sign of the weather starting to change by the time I reached the car at 3.25pm. It came in heavily overnight.

I think this day reminded me just how much I like hopping around New Zealand’s back-country, not that I needed much reminding. There are so many little things. I like the way the ground’s always a little bit damp, even when it’s dry. I like the way there are relatively un-touched waterways that aren’t dammed as reservoirs for economic prosperity so people can live in suburban grid streets built around shopping malls with doormat dogs and big shopping trolley cars, and I like that every fragment of land isn’t being managed to death, except for things like pest eradication.

Chillin’ out in the soon-to-be-flooded Waiohine River Bed.

Courtesy of Morningside Productions for the Open Door Series, the documentary’s available for viewing in the ether, in two parts.

Usually when intuition says one thing and a compass says something else, it means your intuition is wrong. More than a few times, I or a group I’ve been in have had a compass bearing telling us to go one way that intuitively seemed completely wrong, and after some time it’s turned out that we really were meant to push through an area that looked completely un-navigable. A couple of times, my sense of direction has become bizarrely flipped somehow inside my head, only to be corrected by a compass. On occasion, this has resulted in my sitting down in a flummoxed state for a few minutes trying to flip my head over, but it usually works out.

One problem with a compass, though, is that the needle can occasionally flip—the south pole of the needle becomes north, and north becomes south, meaning the red end of the compass points south instead of north. This is exactly what happened to me on this occasion. The needle flipping actually happened some time before I left, and happened to be wrong when I first pulled it out to use it whilst inside visually encumbering cloud at 1400 metres elevation. Flipped needles are often a consequence of exposure to iron, in the same way that you can easily magnetise a pin by stroking it with a magnet a few times. In my case, I didn’t have a clue what’d caused it because my compass spends most of its time sitting on a shelf, but there are many things that might have caused it. Clearly this can be a problem, and if you’re trying to navigate it can also be a little risky if you’ve not realised what’s happening.

There are a few ways to detect this in the field, though, and I’m keen to hear of any that I don’t mention here. Obviously if you know where you are and can see a known landmark, you can compare the compass to see if the needle’s pointing where you’d expect. If you have multiple compasses, you can compare them and at the very least determine if one compass is misbehaving. In my case, the first sign was that it tried to point me directly back the way I’d just come from, but in most such cases I’d still expect a compass to be more correct than my own intuition. Fortunately my GPS (usually packed away) includes an electronic magnetic compass, which I spent a few minutes calibrating, then compared the two.

There’s yet another sign which might be common knowledge, but I can’t find any references on the ‘net so I thought I might share it. What should have been a dead giveaway for arousing suspicion in my case, especially in hindsight, was that the weighting of the needle within the compass was completely wrong.

Baseplate compasses, which you might or might not be aware of, tend to be constructed for use within one of five industry-defined zones of the earth within which the magnetic fields act differently. Zone 1 covers most of the northern hemisphere, and the other four zones make up the rest. Australia and New Zealand, and not much else, both fall into zone 5. There’s a clearer explanation, and a map, over here.

In different zones, the earth’s magnetic field lines (with which a compass tries to align itself) vary between horizontal and near vertical. If a compass needle could do so, it would completely align itself with the field rather than merely lying flat to the ground. Compass manufacturers typically counter this effect by weighting one end of the needle more than the other, so that the needle remains balanced flat within the compass when the compass is held flat. Some flashy “global” compasses have needles for which the weighting can be adjusted, but if you’re a cheapskate like me then you’d probably buy a compass that’s optimised to work in the zone where you spend most or all of your time. In zone 5′s case the south-pointing end of the needle will usually be weighted so as to couteract the needle’s desire to point its north-pointing end into the ground. Compasses often can be used out of zone, but you’ll need to be careful to ensure you’re holding it on an appropriate angle so the needle is free to move.

It’s not always clearly advertised which way a compass has been weighted. My Silva Field 7 compass has nothing written on it anywhere to identify it as a zone 5 compass, even though I know this model also exists for the northern hemisphere. But I know it’s been constructed for Australia and New Zealand use, because when I hold it flat the needle remains flat. Chances are that if you bought a compass in a northern hemisphere country, that’s where it’s optimised for, and likewise with a compass bought in any other zone unless it’s been parallel imported. Incidentally, this weighting has nothing to do with countering the magnetic offset—in New Zealand it’s still necessary to correct by 23.5° to convert magnetic north to grid north, or something else again for true north.

Back to my original point, the give-away factor which should have told me the needle had flipped was that the needle of my compass was clearly weighted all wrong. I couldn’t hold it flat and have the needle sit nicely. This is because with the heavier southern end of the needle suddenly wanting to point north, and the effect of the weighting was acting in reverse. Rather than countering and neutralising the red end’s inclination to point to the ground, it was now the white end aiming for the ground, and the extra weight at that end was doubling the force!

At the time I didn’t appreciate that this is what was happening until after I’d confirmed my compass was flipped through other means. Once I realised what had happened, the weighting issue made complete sense, but in future I think I’ll immediately make myself very suspicious when I see a mis-weighted baseplate compass, especially if it’s my own one and I’ve used it before without issue.

As a general disclaimer, this insight doesn’t apply to all compasses. It might not apply to all baseplate compasses either depending on the details of how they’ve been manufactured, and I doubt it applies in every zone. Just because the needle isn’t sitting all wonky doesn’t mean it’s magnetically correct, nor does a wonky needle mean that it’s incorrect. Maybe you dropped it, for instance, or maybe you’re using it on a part of the earth for which it wasn’t designed. A wonky needle should always be cause to think that something’s not right, however, and it might be that the needle’s flipped.

It’d be possible to keep using a compass with a flipped needle, as long as one keeps in mind that the red end points to magnetic south instead of north, and I kind of just went with that for the rest of the day, but there were at least a couple of reasons why I didn’t want to do this as a rule.

The first reason was the high potential for confusion—I already have several other similar compasses, and I’d hate to forget which one is the flipped one. It’d also mean that if I loaned it to someone, they could read it completely wrong if they didn’t know the trick. If I have a baseplate compass, I want the red end to point to magnetic north, thank you very much.

The second reason was that I didn’t trust the needle’s new-found state of magnetism at all. It was obviously not magnetised as strongly in the opposite direction as a compass would normally be, as the white end would take a few seconds longer to settle on what it decided was north. If I’m using a compass, I want it to be magnetised properly to the manufacturer’s specifications, and for the same reasons I didn’t bother to consider trying to fix it myself.

I did some research for my own compass once I returned and happily confirmed that Silva has a policy of re-magnetising its compasses for free if the needle flips. Getting this policy fulfilled from outside the USA was a small challenge, because I had to take to back to the retailer who’d never seen such a thing before, and grilled me for a few minutes, I think because he thought the obviously wonky needle was a sign that I’d dropped it, rather than a consequence of the magnetic reversal. Once he phoned and checked with the local distributors, though, it was packed up and sent back to the local distributors for re-magnetisation. Just as well, too, because I don’t think I’d want to keep a compass that’s faulty in such a non-obvious way. At best I’d keep it as a souvenir, and stick a massive label on it warning that it couldn’t be trusted.

Sadly I felt let down after some time. Despite the Fox40′s ability to momentarily deafen me any time I blew it, I found it often didn’t annoy people at a distance in an open space, or even reach their ears, as much as I hoped. I put this down to various issues in the bush, like the frequency of corners little hillocks around which sound probably wouldn’t be travelling well, and probably also some audio absorbing properties of thick vegetation. Recently though, I was pointed to some research that’s been done on whistles, and (even better) it’s about the effectiveness of different whistles in New Zealand back-country conditions.

Specifically, in 2006 a group of New Zealand Youth Search and Rescue members ran tests that compared a variety of whistles, as well as a giant honker and “yelling and screaming”. The tests have very recently been updated in 2012 to include comparisons of some extra whistles that were provided by Safety Whistles NZ.

From personal experience I’m not surprised in hindsight that the Fox40 whistle tested badly, coming 6th out of 7 whistles and (after the 2012 tests) being barely comparable with a newly tested Safety Whistle. I was surprised by a couple of things, though.

The first surprise, which maybe shouldn’t have been surprising if I’d considered the physics properly, was that the bush absorbs the sound from different whistles by different amounts. It’s not just a simple linear relationship, and two whistles being equally effective in the open doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll be equally effective in a bush environment. Presumably there’s something happening with the respective frequencies and how they interact with the environmental surroundings. As the testing notes, whilst “all whistles could be heard over a range of 600 metres or more in the open”, there are major differences between their relative effectiveness once muffled by dense bush. “The bush is very good at absorbing the sound and this really does reduce their range.”

The other surprise was that yelling and screaming was, in terms of effective distance, as good as any whistle tested, albeit with the riding issue that it’s hard to maintain extreme levels of yelling and screaming for long periods of time. In some respects you could say that whistle blowing’s also hard to maintain for too long, but probably not to the same extent. If you’re stuck without a whistle, however, and need to get some attention with noise, all is not necessarily lost.

Maybe I’ll look at buying a new whistle so as to see just how ultra-annoying I can really be. From the test results, it looks as if I should be looking at a Storm whistle, or an Acme Thunderer whistle. Both of these were audible at an average of 400 metres after 6 testing sessions… nearly as far as the yelling and screaming test. My poor old Fox40 whistle, by comparison, averaged only 238 metres. In considering these distances, be mindful that the testers also note that the effective range of a whistle might be halved if a recipient isn’t expecting to have to listen for a whistle.

The report is very interesting to read, and not just because the actual results of the testing contradict what manufacturers have sometimes claimed about their suitability for outdoor back-country use. Thank you, YSAR, for pushing some genuinely useful and interesting research.

Returning from the West Island for a week and a half, I found some time to wander more in the vicinity of Eggie—also one of New Zealand’s cultural centres of insane mountain running.

I’d been up to the summit a little over a year ago, and this time the weather wasn’t exactly cooperating for that. Instead, I decided to wander up an easy route towards Pouakai Hut and find somewhere to read my book for the day. For a more complete description of the area, there’s a write-up of a variant of the Pouakai Circuit in late 2010, during which anyone who reads carefully will note it did not rain at all.

Date: 28th February, 2012
Location: Egmont National Park, above Mangorei Road.
People: Just me.
Huts visited: Pouakai Hut (0 nights).
Route: Up from Mangorei Road past Pouakai Hut, up Pouakai Summit, then back and up Henry Peak, and down to road again via hut.
[Photos]
[Download GPX] [Show map] [Display in new window][LINZ Topographic Map in new window]

Having parked at the end of the public part of Mangorei Road (there’s a 350 metre walk along a non-public driveway to the park entrance), I sorted things out and began the climb up the Mangorei Track at about 10.15am, just as the rain began. No matter, as it’s under trees for some time yet and I waved to one of the nearby residents as they drove past whilst I struggled with my raincoat.

Boardwalks

Steps

More boardwalks

The Mangorei Track is one that, when not being used as a track, tends to be a natural waterway. Generally this means mud and erosion, except for where there are slippery tree roots. To make up for those places where there are no tree roots to slip on, DoC has been steadily funding the wooden boardwalkisation of this track. Aside from a section in the middle, the majority of it now seems to be boardwalked. It’s not out of character for the rest of Egmont National Park, which I’m guessing from what I’ve seen to date is probably one of the most artificially board-walked and artificially tracked parks in New Zealand, certainly in the North Island. I guess there are good reasons for this, notably the amount of rain combined with the park’s popularity, being both labelled a National Park which attracts people, and also being so close to New Plymouth. It’s likely that without all the stepping and boardwalking, many of the tracks would be slippery and barely navigable mud-slips, but without meaning to belittle many of the other neat things about the park, I think the ubiquity of boardwalks in this area is one of my least favourite aspects.

In any case, my point was that the Mangorei Track hasn’t escaped the boardwalk craze in this region. Pouakai Hut, which sits not far above the bush-line and relatively sheltered below a crest, is sign-posted as 2 hours and 15 minutes from the bottom. This is probably reasonably realistic, although I found for me by myself (I’m relatively fast) and without stopping much, the climb took about 1 hour and 20 minutes. The trees began to open to a more scrubby environment about an hour from leaving the road, which is about 1000 metres above sea level (460 metres of climbing). Ten minutes later by my time, there’s a reasonable view looking north over the farm-land, towards New Plymouth. I met a few people coming down as I ascended, all of whom I think had only gone up to the hut, possibly since earlier in the morning, and were now on their way back. These were the only people I met out in the open for the entire day, and they were already leaving. Maybe a forecast for afternoon heavy showers had something to do with it.

I stepped into Pouakai Hut at 11.40am just after the rain began to come down rather heavily. It was accommodated by just one chap (recently immigrated from Egypt and in New Plymouth for the local WOMAD festival) in the process of walking the Pouakai Circuit. He was trying to decide whether to finish his walk towards North Egmont today, or sleep another night and try tomorrow. I only had the current day’s forecast of heavy showers and rain, and I think this probably reinforced what he’d already been thinking, especially after I informed him that aside from being a seven letter word with only one consonant, Kaiauai Hut along the way was now nothing more than a bus shelter structure.

Looking along the Pouakai Range
towards the Pouakai Summit.

I still hadn’t fully decided where to go after reaching the hut, but after a quick chatter the rain began to ease off into a damp mist. Without much wind around it seemed like an opportunity to head up to the Pouakai Summit, which is out of the way from most common routes and so I’d not been there before. I wrote in the book, and left into the grey-ness slightly after midday. Pouakai Hut lies sheltered a couple of minutes below the vaguely formed ridge along the top, and as soon as I reached the track junction above I began to wish I’d brought a balaclava. That was really only a small mis-comfort in the end, though, with the slight wind-chill, and the problem evaporated as I dropped below the ridge and nearby peaks again soon after.

The track along here remains fairly good, water pooling excepted, until about the time that the Pouakai Circuit veers off into the swamp towards Holly Hut after about 30 minutes. Holly Hut is clearly visible in the distance from the ridge just above Pouakai Hut, and remains visible on the far side of the swampy plateau for much of the walk towards that junction. After this, the track towards Pouakai Summit becomes more of a less-walked poled route through a tussock landscape below a small peak called Tatangi (1336), until eventually climbing towards Pouakai Summit via some slightly slippery ad-hoc water-eroded ditches through the mud.

Current LINZ-issued Topo50 maps show a junction, about 300 metres short of Pouakai, with another track coming up via spot-height 1375. I reached what I thought was this point and saw no obvious sign of a track junction—it may be that the alternative route no longer exists in a discernible form, or it may just be missing at the top. To be safe, I pulled out my compass to check my bearing, and was immediately confused when the compass directed me back the way I’d come, even after checking and re-checking several times.

Nearly always, if intuition says one thing and a compass says another, it’s better to follow the compass, but on this occasion at least I was able to pull out my GPS, which includes a built-in electronic compass, and compare the readings. Doing this confirmed that at some point, the needle of my baseplate compass had flipped, and the red end now pointed to magnetic south instead of magnetic north. In hindsight there were some other tell-tale signs, which I’ll probably write about separately.

Older signage near Pouakai Summit.

Pouakai Trig.

Enlightened with this knowledge I continued through the cloud, and soon after I spotted the trig station that marks Pouakai Summit fairly clearly. This area is certainly less-managed in recent times, which is clear by comparing the signage just below the summit that marks the continuation of the Dover Track down to the intersection of Carrington and Dover Roads on another edge of the park. By now it was almost exactly an hour after I’d left Pouakai Hut, and there’d still not been much more rain than drizzle—certainly not heavy rain. The conditions weren’t beneficial for hanging around, though, so I turned and went back.

50 minutes later at around 2pm I was back at the sign-posted junction just above Pouakai Hut. The time still seemed too early to go home, and the forecast heavy rain had yet to arrive, unless it had already come and gone with a couple of very short heavy downpours, or bypassed the area completely, so I continued along past the junction for some time longer, hoping to reach Henry Peak. Once again being part of a highly marketed circuit in Egmont National Park, the track is heavily boardwalked in this direction. Other than that it’s a nice section of tops travel.

Henry Peak is a fairly steep climb, made either better or worse (depending on your perspective) by the constant artificial steps and ladders, once again necessary to reduce erosion. It’s a shame about the boardwalks. For me at least, I find the unnatural and consistent hard-ness of the surface leads to higher stress being placed on things like knees, and when artificial steps are involved I often find that they interfere with my natural stride, and they’re more tiring to climb than a more simple slope. I think this is one of the few parks in New Zealand where I’d seriously consider wearing different footwear than regular tramping boots. Tramping boots aren’t well designed for walking on consistent hard surfaces. I don’t suppose much can be done for a place that receives so many visitors, though.

Even more boardwalks.

I was on Henry Peak at about 3pm, on top of which is effectively a wooden lookout platform that affords great views of the general direction of the mountain in the centre of the park. Today that general direction afforded the sight of much grayness. For a few minutes I tried pulling out a book to read, but spots of rain didn’t help and eventually I packed up and went down, returning towards the hut via the boardwalks.

A couple of small tarns exist on the way back, about half way between Pouakai Hut and Maude Peak. These are shown (but not named) on the official Land Information New Zealand Topo maps, and they’re sometimes referred to as “the lakes”.

Here’s one example of a common
rendition, pulled from the web.
(This one’s Creative Commons
Licenced, thanks to
Justine Sanderson.)

For some reason it’s a popular place to take photos of Eggie with reflections, and the Internet is now littered with more than a few variations of effectively the same photo by different people taken in slightly different conditions. For instance, here’s one example and another example. This one even has a person in it, or you could see the mountain without snow if you prefer, or from a couple of metres closer by the same professional photographer, or a different perspective again, or with a clear sky. You might notice a common theme, and even common patterns of mountain tussock, in all of these.

If you get the picture, taking this photo is something that everyone along the Pouakai Circuit, or in the area in general, is meant to do. Most people try to put a slightly unique spin on it, and so I had a go. I’m not convinced that my own effort worked as well as the examples to which I’ve already linked. This is because of the fault in my compass, which made it tricky for me to determine exactly where to find the mountain. As such, the mountain is not completely in frame.

Mount Taranaki seen from The Lakes on the Pouakai Circuit.

Back at Pouakai Hut at 10 minutes before 4pm, I woke up the Egyption guy to indicate I was passing through, just in case he was so demoralised as to want a ride out. He didn’t. An hour and twenty minutes of steps and knee-wrenching boardwalks later, which I began to curse after the first half hour, I was back at the public end of Mangorei Road. Not a bad day out.

Walking down from Pouakai Hut (boardwalks…steps…boardwalks…steps…steps…steps…mud…tree-roots…steps…boardwalks…boardwalks)

Now I’m in Wellington for a few days, just hanging around and enjoying the place.

This morning I wandered down into town from Kingston, behind the Brooklyn Hill, getting a nice southerly blast around every second corner or so with the hills of Te Kopahou Reserve in the back-drop. (I like it how the weather here is so directly affected by the landscape. It’s interesting.) I got a hair cut, cruised around some of the various outdoor shops, was reminded of the recent fancy 3D Tararua Map produced by Geographx when I saw one on the wall in Mountain Designs, and so I walked up to the Dominion Observatory near the top of the cable car and bought my own for $20, decorated with John Pascoe’s famous Tararua-endorsing quote. They were very trusting to a random stranger, along the lines of “yeah, take it, give us an email address and drop $20 in our bank account later on”.

I walked back to the CBD through the University, and bought some replacement shoes. Melbourne doesn’t really do good hybrid-like walking shoes of the sort I like. They have jandals, sneaker-like running shoes, and then it’s straight into the hiking shoes that I don’t really want to waste on hard surfaces, so I’m glad I found some whilst here. I bought a new map case, which might encourage me to actually hold a map in front of me more when I’m trying to navigate (I bet that’ll help), some nice Earth Sea Sky light-weight travel pants of a style which is exactly what I want but is also very hard to get in Melbourne. Then I wandered through the library, dodged the red-light-running traffic on Jervois Quay, and lingered around the waterfront. It feels like home, and it’s nice to be back for a short while.

Anyway, my hair stylist reckoned that with good weather it may be very possible to start at Otaki Forks and get in to the geographically ambiguous Snowy Hut and back within a day. I don’t like my chances, but I may look into the possibility of trying this tomorrow, depending on how things go. Otherwise it’ll have to wait for some other time. I’d probably need to get up early.

This isn’t a Department of Conservation thing, at least in any public way. The suggestion comes from the Ministry of Economic Development, as part of its briefing to the incoming Minister of Tourism, who just happens to be the country’s Prime Minister on this occasion. Such briefings are standard for most government departments after an election, reporting on their current state of affairs, even if their minister hasn’t changed. If you want to see the actual briefing, it’s available here. The relevant area is between about paragraphs 39 and 46, titled ‘Capturing greater value from international visitors’.

It’s important to recognise that it’s nothing more than a suggestion at this point in time, and might easily amount to nothing. Personally I think it’s a bad idea. Something I find most attractive about New Zealand’s back-country spaces is that fundamentally they’re not run as money making tourism juggernauts, although that’s about what MED is suggesting should happen given that part of its proposal mentions taking advantage of people’s “willingness to pay”. Surrounding businesses and concessionaires do that by providing extra things on top, but the land itself is available to all for entry.

Aside from the practical issues of actually charging people, it could also raise questions under the New Zealand Bill of Rights Act if there’s a possibility that people are being discriminated against because of their nationality, even with arguments about whether people pay tax or not, which I don’t personally think hold up in any case. In the past, DoC has investigated the possibility of different charges for hut tickets between some definition of locals versus visitors and, although I can’t find a reference, my understanding is that the Bill of Rights was one of the complications in deciding not to do so.

This morning’s editorial in the Otago Daily Times seems to agree with me that charging visitors for National Park Access is a bad idea. The editorial highlights several of the issues, noting that there’s ambiguity with distinguishing between tourists and locals, many of our parks have numerous points of access such that attempts to collect entry fees would be impractical, charging for visitors would reduce existing good will and create tensions, and overall the drawbacks would outweigh any financial benefits.

An alternative way for implementing such a policy would be through some kind of New Zealand arrival tax which people are required to pay upon arrival, and this is something I also can’t see working very well, if only because it’d charge many visitors with no intent of visiting parks, or not reliably charge visitors who do have such an intent.

Once people are within park boundaries the Department of Conservation’s hut ticket system has already shown how impractical it can be to police whether or not a payment’s been made. Personally I think that system’s a bit of a joke, at least, when the only people being charged are those honest enough to pay, and there’s reason to believe that significant numbers of people (visitors and locals alike) don’t pay at the expense of others and very little is actively done about it. I’m happy to see actual evidence on this one way or the other, but the nature of trying to track people who don’t pay makes it very hard to obtain with certainty, and that’s the core of the problem.

As far as I can tell, there’s been no discussion of areas comparable with National Parks for many activities but which aren’t zoned as National Parks, such as Forest Parks and Conservation Areas. Likewise there’s been no discussion of possible impacts on those areas if some parks require payment whilst others don’t. This doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be considered, given the entire thing’s based on a few paragraphs and little analysis or consultation process, but impact on non-charged areas is something that would concern me in future if the suggestion found traction. Hopefully any attempt to implement something would involve far more detailed analysis, and very careful judgement to match.

I do think it likely that a shift towards any kind of model that involves toll booths at entrance points will eventually result in local residents being charged for entry, irrespective of original claims, unless the whole things’s scrapped through impracticality before that happens. Following from this I worry that it could eventually affect the general freedom people have of moving in and out of such public areas without having to worry about bureaucracy. It’s something to keep watch on.

A point made in the article is that the more traditional use of a map, which in a back-country context would sometimes be augmented by tools such as compasses and altimeters, requires a person to repeatedly refer to the surrounding physical world. It exercises parts of the brain responsible for generating cognitive maps of the surrounding area. Once a person begins to rely more on a GPS, these skills and abilities are lost, and spatial abilities degrade.

The article focuses on metropolitan navigation, for which GPS devices often provide auto-routing information and maps play a minimal role. It’s not directly comparable with typical GPS use in the back-country, which often (but not always) doesn’t make use of GPS auto-routing features that give people step-by-step instructions involving no map. Still, I suspect there are factors with back-country GPS use which, if allowed to do so, can discourage one from paying so much attention to the physical world, and thereby inhibit the exercise and development of cognitive spatial ability.

From my own introspective experience, at least, it’s disturbingly tempting to consult a GPS for positions frequently. I think this is a habit that can easily replace the more traditional non-GPS alternative, which might some day have required careful consultation of the surrounding physical world, closely watching for changes whilst moving through it, then connecting that information back to whatever might be available on a map. Even when a GPS device includes an electronic map, the display of such maps is likely to make less area visible than a typical paper map, or at best show a wider area with very simple detail. Despite having a digital map, the nature of using the GPS in the first place means there’s lower motivation to mentally compare and connect that map with the physical world, as opposed to simply letting the GPS confirm whereabouts on the map you are.

There’s no denying that a GPS is a wonderful tool in the navigation toolbox. I purchased my second GPS a few weeks ago, and it’s great. I especially like using it for making electronic records of where I’ve been. Obviously it’s also good to know that I can get an accurate position if and when I need it. There are times when this can be extremely useful from a safety perspective, like quickly and safely getting out of blizzards or white-outs, and so on. But since buying my first GPS, I’ve been perpetually paranoid of coming to rely on it too much.

I’ve tried to make a conscious effort to leave it stashed in my pack and primarily used for mapping. I’m not a model navigator, and I probably make myself look even worse at navigating when others are around. I have a habit of thinking un-considered thoughts out loud, and of trying things out to see if they feel wrong and the back-tracking, which tends to look less impressive than standing and considering. (Yeah, I meant to do that! ) I do, however, think there’s much developmental benefit in trying to figure things out before consulting the certainty of a GPS, unless there’s clearly no time for messing around.

I don’t think it’s far-fetched to claim that GPSs are likely to be more fallible than other navigational tools, merely due to their complexity and reliance on batteries. I don’t have hard statistical data to back this up with today’s devices and I have met people who believe the opposite, that a modern GPS is reliable enough that they trust their lives to them over and over again without much of a backup, though it’s certainly not something I’d happily do. I don’t think the potential fallibility of a GPS is necessarily the most important point, though.

Any of a map, a compass, an altimeter or a GPS, or some other device, can fail or become lost. When it eventually happens, having the developed cognitive skill and observations to cope with what remains as well as is possible is indeed likely to be nifty to say the least. Sometimes knowing how to get somewhere is even more important than knowing exactly where you are.

As always I’d be keen to hear other people’s thoughts and experiences on this.

A few weeks back, in a comment, I alluded to a thought that the Tararua Hutbagging Competition concept could make an awesome board game. I’m thinking towards the more complex and strategic Ticket to Ride kind of board game than the Ludo or Monopoly kind of board game.

The thought hasn’t really gone away, and since that time I’ve been wondering how such a game might work. The rules could potentially be based on something like those of the recent LandSAR hutbagging competition. eg. Players get three “48 hour” attempts to enter the range, visit as many different huts as possible before getting out again, and tally up points in doing so. Strategies might be similar to what people and teams try to use in the real world competitions.

Maybe there’d be a way to represent unpredictable weather that doesn’t match the forecast, maybe some routes would be impossible with too much sustained rain. Some routes would become exceedingly slow or near-impossible if players were caught there during overnight hours. Players could have various weighting statistics for things like speed, endurance and off-track navigation, with those less-adept at navigation being more likely to lose their way on the tops in fog and get stuck in leatherwood. A player’s team could travel twice as fast as usual for a set period of time if they stand and dutifully sing the lines of a song from the TTC songbook. Bonus points might come from something like completing an SK during a 48 hour period. I asked on twitter a couple of weeks ago, and it was suggested that such a game should take into account the Revolving Table Top and the Kapakapanui Triangle. (Thanks, Ross!)

Rules and mechanisms aside, I’ve also been wondering about a board. I figure that if anyone’s to play this while out tramping, it’d probably need to be light-weight and easy to transport, perhaps a giant A1-size board that can be printed from a PDF in segments and packed reasonably easily for tramping. It follows that whatever other game pieces exist would need to be similarly easy to produce and manage, and light to carry.

The most obvious board design I can so far come up with is a simplified symbolic representation of the Tararuas. With this in mind, I found a diagramming tool (called yEd), and mapped out some relationships between landmark points in the Tararuas, including at least most of the huts, most of the main tracks, and a small number of the more well-known off-track routes. The diagram below, and at the top of this post, is what I came up with after a couple of hours. Click it to get the larger version that might actually be readable.

Obviously this is not a genuine map of the Tararuas for use in the field. It’s clearly not to scale and very geographically skewed in places, and some of the nodes (like North Ohau Hut) appear slightly incorrectly for now thanks to the auto-layout engine combined with my slackness. Instead it’s intended to display access links for landmark points in the range than to represent actual positions. It exaggerates spaces that have things of interest to hutbaggers and some of the routes they might take, so there are large amounts of the western and eastern foothills of the range that are underrepresented because there’s not much of that nature in them. Still, I find it interesting as a way of representing how commonly visited points are linked together. Longer term, I think all the routes would need to be weighted properly so as to represent how hard or easy they actually are in various respects, but I haven’t even bothered to start trying just yet.

So far it’s very early. I’ve almost certainly forgotten some important landmarks and routes for starters, and I’ve left some off intentionally for now, such as North Mangahao Biv. I’d like to include more river and off-track routes, or have some kind of game mechanism for players to formulate their own off-track routes if they have sufficient skills, if it doesn’t become too complex, but doing so seemed too big-a-step for the first effort.

Thoughts are welcome in the comments below, as always, whether it’s nit-picking about the early map draft or ideas about how the game could work. I really don’t know if this will go anywhere, or how long it’ll take if it does, but for now it’s quite an interesting side project.

Yippee.

Earlier, in 1907, Willie Field and Frank Penn (editor of the Otaki Mail) had combined with a botanist, Bernard Aston, to enthusiastically promote and raise funding for the cutting of the track. The track was completed in 1912, and committees were formed on both sides of the range to plan for building of huts specifically so that walkers could stay the night. The committee on the Wairarapa side was more successful in raising funding, with the original Alpha Hut complete by 1915 and Upper Tauherenikau Hut in 1917. Tramping clubs soon began to form—the Tararua Tramping Club having its inaugural meeting in 1919 thanks to the efforts of Willie Field and Fred Vosseler. Young members of a fledgeling Victoria University Tramping Club also exploring, with an allegedly less mature attitude to the more “refined” TTC.

In 1920, to fan the potential of the Southern Crossing as a major tourist attraction, particularly for his own Otaki region, Frank Penn produced a 40 page booklet, forwarded by Fred Vosseler. The first part of the book was titled Across The Tararuas and explains the wonders of a Southern Crossing in detail and with photographs. The second part was titled Beautiful Otaki, and describes a history of the Otaki district. The complete book was designed as a marketing tool to entice tourists to visit the district, and then to take advantage of the excellent railway transport on both sides of the range, and walk the amazing route across the range between them. Scattered throughout the booklet, especially during the latter section, are a variety of enthusiastic advertisements for local holiday businesses and the New Zealand Government (“a holiday once a year is a good investment!”) Tourist Bureau.

Across The Tararuas, the first half which I’ve reproduced below, is one of the very early comprehensive descriptions of a typical Tararua Southern Crossing in existence. The text is clearly written with a marketing intent, from the perspective of an anonymous protagonist being guided in a group by an anonymous guide. The wonder and glory of the Tararuas is expressed repeatedly, albeit with caution regarding how to react in situations of potential bad weather. It’s likely that the photos and descriptions are collected from several experiences. The remainder of the book, although not reproduced here in text, can be read via scanned pages in the gallery below. My personal favourite feature is the one digit phone number in the advertisement for the local Motor Garage and Livery Stables, on page 36. (Phone 7—Otaki.)

The Tararua Southern Crossing suffered some rocky publicity in the first years following publication of this booklet in 1920. In 1922, the Tararua Tramping Club organised its first official club crossing of the mountain range, after a much more cautious approach to exploring the mountains than the nearby university club. It would have been a fabulous event except it turned to tragedy with the death of Harold Freeman during the trip, attributed at the time to heart failure. Months later, Esmond Kime died, soon after rescuers found him alive, 5 days after he collapsed in tussock on the exposed Tararua tops near the Beehives. It’s very likely that exposure (AKA hypothermia), combined with the general lack of experience and safety equipment, contributed to both these deaths, although it was not well understood at the time.

Whilst continuing to be extremely popular for locals, the Tararua Southern Crossing remains exposed to hazardous weather. Even today with improved equipment, knowledge about the range and conditions and rescue response, it still occasionally results in death and close calls. Combined with the increased accessibility of alternatives for visiting wilderness around New Zealand, this is probably a contributing factor towards why it never became the tourism juggernaut for which its promoters initially hoped.

INTRODUCTION

Beautiful Mountain Flowers
in the Tararuas

Photographs can only show in monotone the physical facts of nature—they cannot convey the spirit, and they cannot reveal the great beauty that is everywhere. Somehow in the mountain tramp which this book attempts to describe, the winds, the moss and lichened trees, the cascading waters, the steel-cut stars, the distant views, the mountains, and the birds, all bring their sermon, preached as no preacher can preach. There is a feling of aloofness, of being alone with nature, and the grandeur, the vastness is over everything! You must and will feel it, and will surely retain some of the feeling of reverence that enters.

The solos, part songs and choruses on those very rare and precious occasions when the bell-birds and tuis give forth their praise to Creation are glimpses of Heaven—fortunate indeed is the favoured tramper.

One cannot go the trip across the Mount Hector Track without experiencing new feelings and new thoughts, or gaining knowledge about nature. It makes fresh blood, brain and nerve—it cleanses and tones the system in a thorough and exhilarating fashion, and one is certainly the better for the experience.

If you are of those who find no pleasure in aching muscles, in early rising, in hard beds or hard knocks; in fact, in roughing it and in finding joy in the unconventionality and in living for a brief space much as a neolithic man, well then, stay at home—the mountain rivers and forest do not call for you. This is only a just price to pay—there is no profiteering, and you get the fullest measure your soul is capable of absorbing.

F. W. VOSSELER.

ACROSS THE TARARUAS

That imposing range of snowclad mountains called the Tararua Range, which lies at the head of the Hutt and Otaki valleys, and which adds so greatly to the picturesqueness of the Wellington Province, is part of a large forest reserve, and is likely to remain a scenic spot and an enduring sanctuary for bird, animal and plant life. Under certain conditions all are free to roam here, but not at liberty to shoot, light fires indiscriminately or destroy trees—they must regard the whole as a park and respect it accordingly.

The best route at present to this delightful territory is over the Mt. Hector Track, which connects Greytown with Otaki. This booklet is intended as a guide to those who care to make the trip, and an especial warning note is struck to observe faithfully the various hints that are given as the outcome of experience.

The journey across from the Wairarapa to the Manawatu can be accomplished in two very strenuous days, although to get the fullest enjoyment four days should be taken. As there are four huts on the route good shelter and sleeping accommodation is available. At the present time it is recommended that Greytown should be the starting point. In the coming summer a new hut will be built in the vicinity of Mount Field or Hector, after which Otaki will afford just as good a starting point. From Otaki, however, as matters are now, there is too much hard climbing before the top ranges are reached, and one is rather too fatigued to enjoy the glorious scenery and novel surroundings. More important still, should adverse weather conditions be met with, shelter is not readily obtainable at present. To be caught in a gale of wind or blizzard, particularly when fatigued, can easily be a serious matter.

Starting from Greytown, it is not difficult for a fairly fit person to make the ALpha hut (3600ft) in the first day. A good night’s rest in the snug little whare, and one is ready to continue the journey across to Otaki, making a very early start—say, 6 a.m.—7 a.m. should be the very latest. The crossing from here must on no account be attempted unless the weather conditions are good and likely to remain so for five hours. To make the attempt should it be foggy or windy is merely to invite disaster; better remain at Alpha until good weather prevails, or if time will not permit return to Greytown. The outing will not have been wasted, and the delight of crossing merely deferred—there is nothing to be gained by foolhardiness.

Beginning the Tramp.

One who has crossed Mount Hector Track many times, thus describes the journey :—

We arrived at this picturesque town (Greytown) on Friday evening and put in a comfortable night at one of the several good hotels. Feeling very fit we started off most quietly at 5 a.m. with our swags on our backs—we scorned hired conveyance—for the six-mile tramp to Bassett’s Hut, from which the track proper commences. Reaching here a little before 7 a.m., we boiled the billy, had a light breakfast, and after seeing the fire was properly out, crossed the creek and made over the flats past the Greytown reservoir straight up the hill to the track. This is harder than following the track round and zigzagging, but is quicker—it is quite a climb, and one is apt to perspire freely and feel short of wind—still it is a good pipe-opener and quite the stiffest pinch on the whole journey. Once on the track there is really no danger of getting off, as it is well defined and sticks to the top of the spur. An hour after leaving Bassett’s, we reach the bush, and from now on until the Tauherenikau Hut we only leave it for short periods, when on spurs where trees cannot gain a footing and only the hardier of shrubs survive. At first the bush is rather light—mostly beech or birch—but soon the more familiar New Zealand trees are met with. Looking backward on the way up, the scenery is grand. One gets a fine view of most of the course of the silvery Waiohine, from Holdsworth to where it runs across the Wairarapa plains to join the Ruamahanga. Featherston, the Military Camps, the Lake, Martinborough, Greytown, Carterton, are all in the clear view—even the surf breaking at Palliser can be seen. Resting and viewing must be resisted if time is limited. Our guide has a trick of making us walk twenty-five minutes and then giving us a five minutes’ spell—the walking period feels like an hour and the rest but a few moments. Someone remarks regarding rests, “Tempus jolly well does fugit!” Our next stop is at the old camp just below Reeves’, where there is water. The two water holes by the track side are positively unusable—better water is available further in the bush. The guide decided that the party could not make Alpha without undue fatigue to some of its members, and that the afternoon and evening had better be spent at the River Hut. In conseqeunce, tome was not so pressing, so we boiled two billies of tea, had some biscuits, a good rest and a smoke. Half an hour later, going very steadily, we were on top of Reeves.

3000 Feet Elevation.

On the Tararuas in Mid-Winter.
Mt Hector Centre Picture.

This point, which is nearly 3000ft high (about five times as high as Mt. Victoria, Wellington), is bare of live trees and allows an unrestricted view in every direction—we could see right down to Wellington Heads, out to Palliser, and every township on the Wairarapa Plains up to what we judged to be Eketahuna. We were rather surprised to find that a fine pigeon had been preening itself about twenty yards away the whole time we had been there. This bird had not the least fear of us, and flew off in a leisurely fashion when we approached too closely. From Reeves the old track used to run almost north along the high ridge round to the Cone, but a better and more direct route has been cut—your map probably shows the old route—you merely drop over Reeves a very little way and turn to the left, then the track runs for a very short distance almost west—soon, however, taking a north-westerly direction. This part of the track is along a burnt spur, is easy-going, and well-graded. There are a few steep pinches, but nothing too difficult for a mountain pony. It does not take long to reach the bush, and from now on, until the river is arrived at, we are in a forest of the old time—the closer we get to the river the better the timber, and there are many magnificent specimens of trees that would gladden the heart of any old-time sawmiller and, I am afraid, make envious a younger and ambitious one. The birch here is extraordinarily large, and rimu, kahikatea, totara, tawa, miro and maire are of fair size. The track through has been made by an expert, and is nearly equal to most that obtain in rough domains and public parks of natural bush. An easy hour from Reeves brings one to the Tauherenikau Hut. Personally, whilst admitting its comfort and utility, the writer regards its modernity with a little aversion. In such surroundings a slab whare built on bushy lines, or in the picturesque way of the wood cabins of Canada and California, would be more in character with the surroundings. We would do well from an aesthetic view to ape our American brothers, who have evolved a style that appeals to the artistic sense and fits. However, what it lacks in beauty it makes up in comfort and utility. There are six bunks capable of holding twelve or even more, and there is floor space where some six others could find sleeping room. The hut is partitioned off so that mixed parties can use it. There is a big wide fireplace capable of burning heavy logs, a small table and a rough seat complete the equipment. Water is close at hand. Beyond an old billy or two and a camp oven, there is nothing for the use of trampers—blankets, cooking utensils, food, etc., must now all be swagged. The Tararua Tramping Club, however, has in mind the equipment of the huts when funds permit.

Deer and Wild Pigs.

Mountain Huts on the Track.

The guide takes us along the track to the north and enjoins strict silence, in the hope that on the river flats we shall surprise some deer or other game. We soon get to where the bush ends, and acting on our leader’s hand signals creep noiselessly forward to a club of bushes. From there we can see several fine does feeding quietly. As they cannot get our wind and we remain motionless, we watch their movements at leisure. Unfortunately no one has a camera handy and a picturesque snap is lost. Suddenly an unsuspected stag, with a magnificent-looking head, comes into view, slowly feeding. After watching for some time we leave the deer undisturbed and quietly go back to the hut. We are soon sitting down to a satisfactory dinner. It is rough but wholesome, and consists of a large steak grilled at the end of a stick over wood embers, toast and tea. We top off with a little buttered nut loaf, and emphatically decide that we have never dined better. From the hut another track leads down the river to some large flats. Taking it easily we wander down, making no noise, and are rewarded by finding a mob of a dozen or so “Captain Cookers”—wild pigs—busy rooting. We are only to watch them for a few moments, when up go their heads and they look up windward in our direction with suspicion, remaining perfectly still, and amongst the bushes we are undetected, by sight at any rate. Suddenly there is a stampede and the pigs are off like a shot. They were all sizes, from full-grown to inviting young suckers. We wander down the river and beyond a screeching kaka or cooing pigeon or two see no further game. The bush and river scenery is fine and primitive, something that is, alas, becoming very rare in the Dominion.

Strolling back we come across a young opossum crouching for some reason on the ground. Whilst the sun is still hot we have a delightful bathe in the river. The Tauherenikau is born and nourished in the snows, and spends its brief infancy flowing swiftly through shaded forests so that it is always, if not icy cold, very cool and refreshing. A dip in it bites, so with a few splashes and hurried “ducks” one is glad enough to wade out. Then comes the real preasure—a brisk rub down, the consciousness of cleanliness, and the glow of reaction. After all the perspiration the bath should not be missed, and if you are wise you will change immediately into your fresh undergarments. We then gather firewood for the night, arrange our bunks get tea, smoke, yarn and turn in. Just at daybreak the guide gives us a cup of tea and a slice of toast and turns us out. Whilst he is preparing breakfast we pack. It is very cool, and the air has a nip in it that induces movement. Breakfast consists of boiled rice, condensed milk, tea, toast, and a grilled chop each. Whilst the guide packs, some of us wash dishes, others gather and stack firewood, then the swags are put outside and all hands tidy up. After a final look round to see that nothing is forgotten, that the fire is quite out and doors properly shut, we start on the up track to the river. The river is very low, and we soon clamber up the bank on the other side. We go down a little way, twist and turn a few times and soon reach the foot of the spur that runs all the way to Omega. As the Alpha Hut can be reached in six hours,’ easy going, there is no occasion to hurry. Our guide keeps us moving steadily for fifteen minutes and then gives us a full five minutes’ spell. In this way the journey does not seem very terrible, and we have time to admire the scenery and to note the signs of deer, cattle and pigs, to which our leader frequently calls attention. Arriving at Bull Mount we visit our first tarn, and nearby discover a number of very thin-shelled mountain snails. One of our party gathers a few—which he regards as a “find”—for some entymological friend. Here too we come across a few of the small yellow ranunculus. Bull Mount was named by early-day wild cattle hunters from Greytown. These hardy gentlemen were camped near by, and desiring water sent one of the party with the billies to the tarn. Here he found a large bull who would not be “shooed” away and showed distinct signs of displeasure. Water was imperative, so his lordship had to be shot. From Bull Mount a real good view of the Tararuas is possible. Usually one has to be content with vistas of snowy peaks glimpsed through leaden wrack of storm. A track to Omega has been cut through the bush on account of the swamp over the top, which is really impassable to laden horses.

A Lofty Watershed.

As we have no fear of wet feet and prefer the view, we take the top and are soon on the old camp site of the track builder. Good water is close at hand. The camp is rather interesting, and again affords evidence of the skill of the track-maker. Leaving here, in a very short while we are on to Omega, and our botanical friends find their first edelweiss, celmesia and ligusticums. Just a little over and we leave the spur we have been on so long, and are now for the first time on the main Tararua Range. We drop a few hundred feet into Hell’s Gates, and when we reach the lowest part of this we are on an interesting razor-back which is the watershed between the Eastern Hutt and Tauherenikau Rivers. These rivers have their sources very close together, and one is standing between them. WHen we have climbed out of here we quite realise the appropriateness of the name Hell’s Gates—undoubtedly we should have been more strongly impressed had we come through all the way from Bassett’s. Another half-hour or so through gnarled and lichen-festooned birch and Alpha Hut is reached. This is a snug little whare of iron, and except in midwinter, when on occasions it is snowed under, and some of the melting snow is apt to find its way down the chimney, is perfectly dry. We find a pile of kindling wood and soon have a cheerful blaze and a cup of tea. The hut is a small one-apartment affair—still, on more than one occasion it has accommodated as many as eight tourists in its five bunks. We settle down to a general tidy-up and a gathering of firewood, which we stack up close handy.

Meeting Wild Cattle.

Having done all the work necessary, we stroll upwards and passing Hugh Girdlestone’s old camp, come to the edge of the timber line. Here is another alpine meadow and flowers bloom most profusely—indeed all along from here to Table Top are hidden alpine meadows—the haunts of timid and beautiful wild flowers. A steep climb brings us up to the trig, and squatting down we pick up points of interest in all directions. Soames Island stands out well, and the hutments at Trentham look something like the surf breaking on the sea beach. Some of our party prove quite romaneers and see the unseeable. Down in the direction of the Quoin, however, we see small specks that the “boss” declares are wild cattle.

Early next morning the guide awakens and stirs up the fire, whereat allegedly slumbering members begin to take notice. On goes the billy and each man is presented with a hot cup of coffee and a slice of buttered toast, and told to get out. We do not relish a wash in the cold, but we feel quite virtuous over the light baptismal stunt and the very vigorous rub-down. The guide has already been to the track for a glimpse of the range, and announces a moderate northerly blowing, and unless matters improve he will not go across, whereat some of the party seem rather more cheerful than is seemly. However, we breakfast on rice, toast, and grilled steak, and are told to do ourselves well, as until we reach the Otaki bush we shall merely munch a few prunes, biscuits and chocolate as we walk. Having packed, tidied up and replenished the wood stack, etc., we shoulder packs and mount the 700 odd feet to Alpha. We find the mist is much lighter and the guide informs us that at any rate we will make an attempt at the crossing. As he has been over quite often we wonder at his hesitation, but later we are thankful of his knowledge and accept his dictum without question. Our morning view from ALpha is unfortunate—we are in the clouds, and vision is limited. Still the mists as they swirl only werathe the mountain tops and bush and have a distinctive beauty of their own. We are soon up to the finger-posts, and skirting the side of Alpha descend to the Dress Circle. Here in a sheltered nook one of the party discovers a a small patch of snow and announces his discovery by snow-balling his companions. Punishment for this attack is duly inflicted. The edelweiss here grows profusely, and for a while one is tempted to step carefully so as to avoid trampling upon the blooms. Soon, however, this feeling wears off and one places one’s foot just where it is most convenient. We are now in the Dress CIrcle, which, too, is aptly named—for the time being we are in the Family Circle, but as it is early morning there is no show on. Really it would be worth the trudge from ALpha to visit this spur on a calm moonlight night, when surely the fairies would provide us wiht unimagined joys and visions of loveliness. This reminds me that a trip at night to the top of ALpha from the hut is also well worth while, particularly if one is favoured either by one of these clear calm nights or by a howling storm. If one is an egotist, try it! You gaze in wonder, become contemplative, and suddenly feel very small and insignificant. You get for once, at any rate, the correct perspective, and discover that your ambitions, petty successes and yourself are merely pinpoints in immensity. The mountains have a corrective power on mental perspective which compels inward acknowledgement.

Mount Hector.

Typical Scenery on the Otaki River.

Table Top.

From time to time we notice pointers—some prone and some upstanding. We make it a duty to re-erect those that are fallen and to see that the pointer is correctly aligned—those that are still upstanding are firmed. Right along until we reach the Beehives is easy going. They guard Hector and act for some time as a delusion that at last we are reaching the highest point. As soon as the first Beehive is surmounted another sets up defiance. They are not so very dreadful, and in time we are clambering up a steep face and to a rounded knob. Here is a small cairn of stones with a few upright sticks, and at last we are on Hector. Casting off our packs we sprawl for a breather in the snow grass. As a reward for our effort the fog, which has never been heavy but quite sufficient to restrict distant views, lifts, the welcome sun bursts through, and we feel that we are very handsomely rewarded for our aching shoulders. Time passes quickly, so putting a card in the bottle we descend the saddle leading to Mount Field or West Peak, as it is called in the map. Here a series of tarns present themselves and the idea suggests itself that they can be linked up and form in winter an ideal pond for skating. Other tarns in the next saddle between Field and, as our guide has renamed it, West Peak, may possibly prove better for this purpose. This is a matter that can be attended to when the new hut, which is to be built during the present summer somewhere in this vicinity, has been sited. This latter saddle appears to be a fine skiing ground, and when well snowed over should afford some very nice, albeit short, runs, as well as some excellent jumps. In a few years this must undoubtedly become a haunt for those red-blooded people who find joy in winter sports.

Leaving West Peak we have a last look at the Wairarapa, and also endeavour to fix topographical features in our minds, as this is one of the danger points, and from Hector it is quite easy to go astray. We leave the main Tararua Range, and it is imperative that one should keep well over to the steep cliffs on the left or western side. From West Peak we descend sharply with just a few upward pinches to vary the monotony. Dennan proves the last steep pull, and we spend a few minutes in a well-earned rest. This knob bears a sign carved “Mount Crawford,” to which is quite an error. At the present it is just as well to climb over Dennan rather than skirt it. Later, however, when the track from Otaki has been completed the climb will be saved.

From Dennan to Table Top proves very trying, and is pretty nearly what one expressive member of the party called it, “Hell!” The whole distance with a few acceptable short breaks, has to be forced through mutton-bird scrub, amongst which is a substantial sprinkling of tough, well-nourished Spaniard. Use your eyes as you will, you must surely be well spiked before you are through, and swear words come easily. A good day’s work, perhaps two, with a grubber from the bush below Table Top to Dennan would make quite a decent track and obviate the only really exasperating bit of country in the whole trip.

A Glorious Walk.

From Table Top to the Forks is another ramble through primitive bush—a botanist’s and scenic lover’s paradise. Almost every variety of tree grows to perfection. Kaka, pigeons, tuis, whitehead and even that brilliant vocalist, the makomako, will be seen and heard. This is truly a glorious walk, and it is well worth anyone’s while to motor up the picturesque Otaki Gorge and spend even a day there. There are few spots like it left in New Zealand, and certainly no other so readily available to the people of Wellington and the Manawatu. Done in this way ther is nothing over-strenuous for the middle-aged or the active-aged, and if fortunate in the day it is something that will live in memory. Our younger generations lack the spirit and enterprise if they fail to visit here, even if only to vision the glories of the past that their pioneering forefathers so frequently speak of. Towards the end of the bush track, but still high up, is the new slab hut built by the Otaki Track Committee. It is a really comfortable whare, and situated in a fairyland of rare beauty. Bird life seems fairly plentiful, and their songs are an added joy. Fifteen minutes from the hut and we leave the bush, reaching cleared farm land and obtaining a panorama of the upper Otaki, Waiotauru rivers, and the Gorge—something to be seen to be appreciated, and well worth the journey. The trip from Otaki to the Forks is too little known, but there is no gorge that can compare with it in beauty anywhere on the coast.

In a short half-hour or so we cross the suspension bridge and are soon on the main road. As it is too late to enjoy the scenery of this gorge and the beautiful river road we, by the courtesy of Mr Alf Knox, ring up Otaki for a taxi, and motor the remaining thirteen miles.

The Mountain Track.

Waihoanga Suspension Bridge,
Otaki Gorge.

Taungata Suspension Bridge,
Otaki Gorge.

The track over the Tararuas, connecting Otaki with Greytown, first attracted public interest in 1895, when committees were established in both Greytown and Otaki with the object of forming a track. These committees have done good work, and are still in existence. The Tararua Tramping Club was recently established in Wellington. The first party to cross the ranges comprised Messrs Murry, C.E., Hobman and Johansen, who walked from Greytown to Otaki early in 1896, taking ten days on the trip. Their return journey only occupied three days. Messrs Herbert Walkley and A. A. Clark, of Otaki, accompanied Mr Murray’s party from near Table Top to Greytown, they being the first to cross the mountains from the Otaki side. Many trips over the Tararuas have been made of the latter years, and in every case those who walked across have been delighted with their experiences. So far as we have been able to ascertain, the record trip from Otaki to Woodside was made by Messrs W. H. Field, M.P., B.C. Aston, E. Atkinson, and Frank Penn, who walked from the Taungata bridge to Bassett’s hut in two days (21 hours 20 minutes actual walking). This was in March, 1912.

Between the 30th and 31st of March 1912, Messrs W. H. Field (local MP for Otaki), B.C. Aston, E. Atkinson, and Frank Penn successfully crossed the range on foot between Otaki and Greytown, walking from the Taungata bridge to Bassett’s hut in two days. It involved “21 hours 20 minutes actual walking”, just in case you were wondering. They were all members of the track committee, which had just completed building of the Tararua Southern Crossing Track intended to make the route feasible for regular people. They were the first to use it, and it’s what made all the difference. Their time over two days was a record for the day. They were the first people recorded to cross the range at all since investigations for a stock route in the mid 1890s.

The initial success was buried as part of the Local and General News on Page 4 of the Wairarapa Daily Times. There was no headline, and the section had begun with a paragraph noting that the local carpenter’s daughter had broken an arm having fallen from a swing. Publication had come nearly a week after the event:

Dreams were abound of eventually building a road across the range to link the two districts that were already so close if it weren’t for a mountain range in between, but for now the track remained a tourist attraction. Soon after the successful crossing, tourism committees on both sides of the range commenced plans to build tourist huts. One would be near Table Top (eventually becoming today’s Field Hut), and the other in the Tauherenikau Valley (roughly near where Tutuwai Hut is today). It was anticipated that the track could become one of the most popular tourist tramping tracks in the entire Dominion, considering how accessible it was to railway transport on both sides. There’s more about this tourism push in a separate post.

Two weeks before the success, an earlier attempt had been made by two parties to leave from either side and meet in the middle. It was thwarted by the weather. At that time the same newspaper had more enthusiastically published details of the failed attempt. The lengthy article was likely a carefully crafted publicity campaign to attract attention to a new government-supported tourist attraction for the Otaki and Wairarapa regions, and to entice local people to have their friends and family visit the area.

The crossing described in both these articles is the more original route, which followed from Alpha down into the Tauherenikau Valley, and out of the range via Reeves Track into Greytown, rather than continuing along Marchant Ridge to Kaitoke as many people do today for reasons of transportation practicality. I’m ashamed to admit that I still haven’t walked the Tararua Southern Crossing during the daytime, but there’s a trip report of an overnight Moonlight Tararua Southern Crossing here (following the Marchant Ridge variant).

I don’t closely know anyone involved, but that club and its members have never been far from influencing my own experiences in positive ways. I guess it was also a reminder that no matter how much care, preparation and planning might go towards reducing the chance or possible impact of a mis-hap, these things can still happen. I think this hit closer to home for me than a variety of other sad outdoor incidents to occur during the period.

If you follow this blog (yippee!) or perhaps if you’ve just stumbled upon it, there’s a reasonable chance that you’re a user of New Zealand’s Back-Country Huts. You might like to consider taking part in an online survey for some researchers working on a project within the University of Auckland’s School of Environment, who are “seeking to understand the significance of tramping huts to their users”. It’s being conducted because they “are interested in the role of tramping huts as symbols and resources within New Zealand’s ‘back country’ landscape and the way they facilitate a particular type of tourism”.

It’s 21 questions, with plenty of space to comment with thoughts about old huts versus new huts, obligations of hut users versus providers, Great Walk huts, hut prices, and various other aspects of New Zealand’s back-country-hut network and its use.

Enjoy, and tell your tramping and hunting and tourist and other hut-using friends to answer it too.

That said, there’s an interesting discussion developing through Federated Mountain Clubs, and highlighted in the November 2011 FMC Bulletin. In it, FMC have published a condensed edition of a report by Brian Wilkins regarding the fording of rivers. It’d be fair to say that Brian is very critical of the Mountain Safety Council’s training materials for the past 20 years which focus on mutual support methods for crossing rivers, and he proposes a return to sufficient training for rope use as an option. The abbreviated article in the printed FMC Bulletin is diplomatic, but FMC have also made the complete 32 page write-up available as a PDF downloadable from their website, and certain parts of it certainly aren’t diplomatic.

Before continuing (and please remember this when reading what follows), I should stress that the New Zealand Mountain Safety Council has since responded to Brian Wilkins’ article with a statement issued on 9th December 2011 (PDF), explaining why it pushes mutual support methods and avoids rope techniques. In short, mutual support methods have been carefully developed by experts over a long period of time, after many trials it was decided that ropes can become very dangerous unless used correctly… which few people can do, and “it was concluded that ropes can give people a false impression of their abilities and can tempt people to try unsafe conditions”.

The entirety of the debate is an interesting read.

For some time now, the New Zealand Mountain Safety Council has been pushing mutual support methods as the best and safest way for groups to ford a river, both in its training material and in its river safety courses. Many variations and specific techniques of mutual support crossing methods have evolved over time, but in essence mutual support for river crossing is where a group of people are connected side-by-side in a line when entering the water, most recently by passing arms between each other’s backs and packs. When applied correctly, the person on the end that faces side-on into the current splits most of the force of the water’s current—whether it should be a heavy person or a light-weight person in this position depends on the specific variation being used—and this effect then eases the force of the water off the others in the group. The group as a whole then helps itself to cross the width of the river in a unified line.

Just as it’s been recommending mutual support methods, the Mountain Safety Council strongly recommends against the use of ropes, which were popular until several decades ago, noting that they can create major and seriously bad situations if something goes wrong. Brian Wilkins, however, has challenged this assertion, claiming that people should be trained in rope use as part of river safety, and that ropes (when used correctly) can often be more safe than the mutual support methods that are presently taught as standard.

Brian Wilkins was a member of the Otago University Tramping Club in the 1940s, for some context of his background, and his article is divided into three parts. Within it, he examines the history of river fording instructions, investigates reports of deaths using particular methods, and eventually presents his own favoured techniques involving rope use and comparably recently available technology, of which he’d like to propose for further research.

The chronology in Part 1 confirms rope techniques as being very common in early instructional literature for fording rivers. The author then notes that from about the mid to late 1980s, instruction material of the Mountain Safety Council (which by then had become the recognised authority of back-country river safety in New Zealand) very suddenly stopped publishing information and techniques for rope use in rivers. Where references to rope use existed, they claimed that ropes were dangerous but, at least in the references presented by the author, presented little evidence as to why they were less safe than the promoted alternative close contact mutual support methods. The author gripes that by the 1990s, much of the training material had become dumbed down and unrealistic, and had an unjustified anti-rope bias.

The latter section of Part 1 is spent looking at statistics and case studies, of several paragraphs each, of river-related fatalities. The author attempts to compare deaths that involved mutual support methods with deaths that involved rope methods. An interesting observation which he suggests from the case studies is that when people were swept away from other groups, they were often observed to be unconscious very soon after, presumably from head injuries. There’s a point made that being unconscious would ultimately mean that attempts by the subject to recover from such an event are not likely to be possible. Thus he argues that being swept away from a mutual support crossing—which involves no anchor to anywhere on the shore—is (on average) likely to be far worse than being swept away from a rope crossing in which the subject is anchored or tied to something that will prevent them from being completely lost.

Whilst there’s undoubtedly valuable information and insight to be gleaned from these case studies, it occurred to me that it can only ever be a partial study. What remains largely undocumented, both for rope crossings and for mutual support crossings, are all cases for which there was no serious incident, or for which there may have been an incident but no fatality. Apart from people’s recalled anecdotes, we really have no idea how many times people might have been swept from a mutual support crossing, recovered successfully and continued on their way. It’s simply not reported or recorded anywhere. Likewise, there’s very little information about crossings involving ropes that had no casualties.

The author ends this lengthy section arguing that the Mountain Safety Council has essentially blinded itself to lessons of the past, and has taken an irrational position in favour of pushing and patching mutual support methods further and further as its official recommendations, even though the author believes they are inherently unsafe when compared with appropriate use of rope techniques. He believes that much river fording technique can be re-learned from the past, ultimately involving rope use, and improved upon. He suggests that current fashions might be a consequence of the recent divergence of tramping from climbing. Trampers typically don’t carry rope, as they used to, and many trampers aren’t skilled in using tools, such as carabiners, which alpine mountain climbers and rock climbers often carry. He then suggests that techniques for crossing rivers with ropes could be made very safe if people were trained appropriately, and if certain items of equipment became more commonly accepted.

Section 2 is a discussion of Brian Wilkins’ proposed techniques, building on fairly recent technology, which he’d like to be evaluated further. He’s identified a 7 mm diameter polypropylene rope, which floats (rather than sinks) and absorbs very little water. He proposes crossing techniques (such as the pendulum technique) that combine ropes, climbing tools and climbing techniques (such as belaying by a person standing on shore), and innovations that include harnesses made with lengths of tape. The article describes some initial field trials for the technique that were carried out in the Hutt River, with generally positive results.

Section 3, short by comparison with the two earlier sections, is an examination of “the third leg”. Many current visitors to the back-country will already be familiar with the use of sticks and walking poles in rivers, and how they can aid with stability when crossing. In this section, the author takes a second look at this history of crossing aids within New Zealand. Continuing with the earlier theme of the divergence between tramping and climbing, he notes that back-country visitors frequently carried long ice-axes which suited the purpose very well and even more suitably than the presently-common walking poles, but many trampers no longer carry ice-axes at all, whilst climbers now often carry shorter instruments that are less appropriate as crossing aids. With further analysis he concludes that there could be room for a new variation of product based on more light-weight materials, able to be lengthened or condensed in size.

There’s no doubt that golden rules about river encounters still apply. If a river is in a flooded state then it’s typically a bad idea to get into it at all, and from its above-linked response, the potential that people might be falsely encouraged to attempt a rope crossing where none should be attempted at all, and that ropes might somehow make an unsafe flooded crossing “safe”, is clearly one of the issues that the Mountain Safety Council is concerned about when it decides what to recommend and how to arrange its training. Portable shelter is easy enough to carry these days that there should be no excuse for endangering oneself and friends by entering a river without waiting for the water level to go down.

That said, I found it an interesting topic and the author’s loosened some of the ideas that had previously been strongly glued into my head regarding rope use. For one thing I think I’d like to learn more about rope crossing techniques when the opportunity arises, even if only to more clearly understand where they might be appropriate and what the likely dangers are. For anyone wanting to learn about river safety, I’d strongly recommend attending one of the MSC’s River Safety Courses, either directly or through a club that utilises its training material. Get into rivers in controlled conditions with experts nearby, ask lots of questions and get used to them. Despite the controversy that this article has raised and where it might or mightn’t lead for future techniques, there’s no substitute for that kind of training and experience.

Graeme Kates, the now-former chair of Arthurs Pass Search and Rescue, has just resigned his chairing position, and also his front-desk DoC visitors’ centre position, in protest over the change, claiming that the decision will cost people’s lives. Mr Kates is well known in SaR circles, running a comprehensive website for Arthurs Pass Mountaineering on which he continually documents accidents and rescues, and which I’ve cited from here on several occasions. He’s documented his concerns on his site in more detail.

One of his biggest concerns is that high numbers of visitors to the area are international tourists, whom he’s noted often have trouble with the intentions system and providing sufficient and accurate information. The web system doesn’t reliably check data that’s been entered inaccurately, and it doesn’t assess plans that might have safety issues, both of which occur when people leave paper intentions forms with DoC staff.

I’ve rarely had interaction with the DoC intention system. It’s not implemented anywhere near as strongly in the lower North Island where I’ve spent most of my time, and in these places which are less touristy, there’s already a higher expectation that people will be more responsible for themselves and their intentions. As far as I’m aware, the Department of Conservation doesn’t have any clearly dictated responsibility to be responsible for people’s intentions and tell them what to do in the outdoors. Many people would find it patronising if it did, but I can appreciate the concerns in places that attract large flocks of international visitors of little experience combined with overwhelming enthusiasm. If there’s nothing to reliably moderate what such people try to do and encourage them to have clear contact with those who can assess and provide advice on their plans, it’s probably reasonable to expect that there will be more bad decisions, more accidents, more SaR call-outs which could well have to work on less reliable information, and most likely more deaths in the outdoors.

Rather than involve DoC or its Visitor Centre staff in the process at all, the Adventure Smart Website guides people into providing useful intentions to their own trusted contact person. This might be by providing structure for an email (which will then be sent to a person they nominate), providing a structured form that can be printed, filled in and handed to a “trusted person”, or directing them to the RoughPlan website. The website then allows the person to enter information and configure alarms that will be triggered for their “trusted contact” (in the form of emails and text messages) if they haven’t checked in by a certain date. All of this appears to rely on the person themselves deciding whom to trust, and to finally get things right.

I haven’t seen DoC’s side of this argument and it may also be a strong one, but I think I can appreciate the concerns that many people who might otherwise leave intentions through a paper system in a DoC office as they leave simply wouldn’t bother doing any of these. Just as likely is that they might try to create intentions (particularly through using the website) but not properly complete the process.

For instance, it’s reasonably easy for an unfamiliar person to create a record of a “trip” on the RoughPlan website, but leave the trip in a state where a trusted person won’t be contacted, or forget to fill in critical parts of the intentions, or enter an emergency contact’s email address incorrectly (which might go unnoticed by the automated system), or perhaps not realise that the maximum 5 text message alerts per year have already been used up. In fact, it’s completely possible to create a record of a trip with full intentions recorded, but to accidentally leave that record in a state where nobody else can see it or become informed of it at all. I’m absolutely happy to be corrected on these assertions. I’ve not yet used the RoughPlan website myself except for idle playing around.

The RoughPlan website has been in development for some time and it looks to be a brilliant tool for collaboration in planning outdoor activities, and for leaving intentions for those able to become familiar with how it works. That said, I’m not sure how much in parallel it compares with the existing DoC paper-based intention system. This is especially the case when considering people who might be travelling alone, who may have limited English language skills, and who may have limited internet access—one of Graeme Kates’ points is that there’s no free internet access at Arthurs’ Pass.

Despite good intentions on the part of DoC who are pushing for the change in intentions’ systems, it seems as if this change may have been pushed through on short notice without much interaction or sufficient consultation with DoC staff on the ground who presently administer the paper intentions system for visitors. As of today, 30th November 2011, DoC has temporarily retracted the removal of the paper-based intentions system in Arthur’s Pass National Park. Hopefully it’ll allow more time to assess the issues and address them appropriately.

Te Araroa is a magnificent effort that’s been in progress for decades now since it was conceived as one of the goals of the NZ Walkways Commission in 1975. Since 1994 the goal has been administered through the Te Araroa Trust (combined with several regional trusts), to link the length of New Zealand with one continuous, officially recognised walking trail. People have walked (or run) the length of New Zealand using various routes and for many reasons throughout history, and in the last few years the unofficial Te Araroa route has been walked more than a few times. This official opening is symbolic of the route’s “completion”, after nearly endless work, frequently by volunteers, covering manual labour, legislative changes, negotiations with national and local government entities, private landowners, clubs and organisations, and any number of other problems, to allow for public walking access along the entire route.

It’s an impressive feat by all involved that this connected walkway exists at all. Few people will walk the entire length of New Zealand (although some certainly will), but countless people will benefit from all of the walking access opened as a consequence of the project.

The PCE was in the news in June, at the release of an evaluation of the use of 1080 poison for pest control in New Zealand forests. The findings were very positive towards its use, and strongly encouraged a big increase in its use, as long as it were being done with due care. This inflamed criticism from some areas because 1080 poison is controversial in some communities, particularly parts of the hunting community.

The PCE’s speech from last night re-iterates her strong belief that, by a large amount, the biggest threat to the conservation estate is the onslaught of pests—particularly possums, rats and stoats. She then draws lines between this problem and some of the proposed solutions that include commercial involvement, and how they might be impacting on the rest of the estate, for better or worse.

I won’t try to pre-empt the findings of a report for which work has barely begun, and obviously you should read the entire speech if it interests you, but the speech gives some insights into the issues that have prompted this investigation. Some paraphrased quotes from the speech that I find interesting are:

On commercial use:

I have no quarrel – in principle – with commercial use of the conservation estate. It is an enormous asset and there is no reason why there should not be a monetary return on that asset. [...] If we are to restore the dawn chorus to our mainland, we need a lot more money. And most of that is not going to come from taxpayers. [...] But – and this is a big but – it must be done well. It should be based on principles, not done in an ad hoc way. [...] Conservation is the priority – therefore – at a minimum — there should be no net damage to conservation.

On mining:

Mines do not appear to be dealt with in the standard concessions system. [...] I was really surprised how little money appeared to be paid by companies that were digging up gold and coal and other minerals on conservation land. Miners with access to many hectares are paying access fees in the low thousands. My staff have had a look at some of the access agreements for mines.

I am concerned because there is a confusing mish mash of different kinds of payments:

• one-off payments,
• dollars per year,
• dollars per hectare,
• administration cost recovery,
• dollars per mature tree killed,
• dollars per square metre of vegetation removed,
• bonds,
• in-kind payments such as track maintenance.

Maybe there are good reasons for this mish mash, but maybe there aren’t. I’m not picking on mining here—it’s just seems to be different from the other [concessions] and I’m curious.

On revenue from concessions:

Revenue can be money or it can be paid in-kind – pest control, track provision, track maintenance, hut use. Money is very attractive because it preserves flexibility – it can be spent in different ways as priorities change. But Treasury will take it back if you haven’t spent it at the end of the financial year. And in these straitened economic times, it will inevitably be used to offset cuts in base funding. [...] So I think there may be a great deal of merit in in-kind payments, and the kind I’m interested in is pest control.

My thinking is that DOC should get on the front foot – take control of the negotiation, not just respond to an offer made by the company applying for a concession.

On stewardship land and land swaps:

Stewardship land is the only land that can be swapped. And really the term “land swap” is very unsatisfactory. The conservation estate is not just land – it is trees and birds and tussocks and snails and eels and geckos and mosses. It’s tramping and camping and kayaking and climbing mountains and just sitting and looking.

I have heard stewardship land described as an invitation for not just commercial use, but for any kind of development. It is not legislatively protected in the same way as other land managed by DOC. And some of that stewardship land may well have greater conservation value than much of the land in National Parks. It’s time to have a good look at what’s in Phillip Woollaston’s holding pen.

On anomalies in legislation around wilderness areas, and heli-hunting:

There are eleven specially designated wilderness areas on land managed by DOC. They have no tracks and no huts. Those intrepid souls who go there have to tramp for days from the end of a track to get to them. You are not allowed to get a helicopter to fly you into a wilderness area. If the experience of being in a wilderness area is interrupted by the thud thud thud of a helicopter, it is probably heli-hunting.

Heli-hunting for those of you who don’t know is the pursuit of an animal to the point of exhaustion, then shooting it. Usually chamois or thar – in order to get a fine trophy head. So why is heli-hunting allowed in wilderness areas? It’s because it is considered to be pest control under the Wild Animal Control Act. You couldn’t get a concession to film a movie in a wilderness area but you can chase an animal—noisily for miles—and shoot it.

The report is due to be released next year. I’ll look forward to reading it.

Normally I wouldn’t worry about getting muddy when sliding through a 30 centimetre entrance of a flapping tent fly at 1400 metres, but a moment of realisation hit when I began to piece together a continuum of past and likely future events which might prove a problem during the 5 overnight hours I’d have to get my gear clean and dry before checking into an international flight. Back to the beginning, though.

Dates: 21st – 24th October, 2011 (Labour weekend)
Location: Ruahine Forest Park, Masters Shelter off Mangleton Road.
People: Illona, Kevin, Amanda, Richard and me.
Huts visited: Aranga Hut (0 nights), Ruahine Corner Hut (0 nights), Ikawetea Forks Hut (1 night) (aka Ikawatea Forks Hut).
Route: From Mangleton Shelter up Golden Crown Ridge, around past Aranga Hut and 1406, 1407 and over Piopio to camp just below (next to tarns) on Saturday night. Then to 1503, north-west along ridge around 1370 to Ruahine Corner Hut. Across to 1234 trig over bluffs, north to 1206, then following taped trapping line north-east past 953 to Ikawetea Forks Hut for Sunday night. Straight up to Tauwharepokoru (1403) via marked track, then approximately following poled route past the road leading to No Mans Hut and south-west over Ohawai (1368) back to the top of Golden Crown Ridge. Then down to Masters Shelter.
[Photos]
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What better way to spend the long weekend of the Rugby World Cup Final than isolated in the second best mountain range for tramping in the world? I certainly couldn’t think of a better way, and it was easy to wing my way back to New Zealand for a few days and head into the Ruahines! I stapled myself to a trampey club trip being organised by Illona, with some personal goals being to bag more DoC asset numbers, and to keep my tramping gear sparkly clean for getting back into Australia.

Over three days we’d loop around through the high point of Piopio (1437m), Ruahine Corner Hut, and Ikawetea Forks Hut, and back to where we began. The route follows around the circumference of some private Maori settlement land at the northern end of the range. It’s mostly conservation land, despite some being outside the official Ruahine Forest Park boundary. Although we saw no signs to indicate as such, we discovered later that we weren’t certain if the entire route remains on public land, although the Walking Access Mapping System suggests there’s a marked DoC route across the sliver of private land at the northern end. Best to check with DoC to be certain in future, though.

Ready to leave from Masters Shelter.

Richard and Amanda near the lower
part of the 800 metre climb up
Golden Crown Ridge.

We arrived at Masters Shelter, roughly west of Hastings, from about 11pm. There’s no drinkable water available at the shelter, only a stream that flows through the neighbouring farm, so we’d each obtained several litres of flavoured tap water from Carterton. A light drizzle arrived in the night, and when we left at 8am for the 800 metre climb up Golden Crown Ridge, the morning was providing a general greyness. It wasn’t too murky, though, to obscure the dampened scenes of the surrounding landscape with its reds and browns and greens of the dracophyllums and tussocks into which we were entering. I was relieved to discover that 10 months in the generally flat Melbourne hadn’t crippled me too much to reach the top. Until now I’d been mildly concerned that the only accessible up-hill I could find for preparation was an inconvenient fire escape stairwell. Not long after leaving, I realised I’d forgotten to search for my first asset number at Masters Shelter, a slightly demoralising beginning but at least I could nab that one on the way back.

Aranga Hut is very run down.

Two hours after leaving, we’d reached the upstairs level of the Ruahines from where it’s often possible to skittle in all directions with little undulation. I bagged my first asset number for the long weekend at the track junction at the top, on the back of a DoC sign—DoC signs are a common place to find asset numbers. From this 1300 metre elevation we shifted from a bit of an up-hill grind into a coasty roll along the tops. I bagged a couple more asset numbers as we ignored a route left south towards Parks Peak, and our first main stop (for lunch) was Aranga Hut. It’s an old Forestry Service hut, now in private hands (as part of the settlement deals), though there’s nothing on the hut to indicate this. Sadly it’s fallen into serious disrepair, with vandalism and holes in the wall. Someone’s hung a bright new clothes line across to the door, and there’s a shiny 10 cent piece taped to the wall for some reason, but the mattresses that remain are disgusting. We hid from the drizzle for lunch, but nobody wanted to put anything on the floor. I replenished my water from the tank, despite most of the gutter that feeds it being busted, but only after shuffling up the hill to check there aren’t any dead possums or snakes or crocodiles on the roof.

I was resigned to finding no asset numbers at Aranga, with it no longer being a DoC hut, and nearly missed bagging the number on the back of the nearby sign that pointed towards Kylie Biv. The sign had a digit which recurred 3 times in a row. It was a 5!

We continued over the generally flat plateaus in the muted shallow ridges of the northern Ruahines, passing a small trig that marked an otherwise undistinguishable 1406m high point, through a saddle to 1396m, over to 1407m, and across to the 1437m high point of our weekend (Piopio) to see a sprinkling of leatherwood. During this time, we contemplated maybe visiting Kylie Biv as a reprieve for the overnight weather, or even pressing on to Ruahine Corner. An assessment of how people were feeling combined with uncertainty about the camping outside Kylie Biv led us to decide that the original plan was a better one, thus at the next significant tarn we reached—at about 3pm and about 500m beyond the high point—we created a small campsite for ourselves.

Richard gathers water
from our nearby tarn.

At least, we tried to create a small campsite. Illona and Kevin discovered that the pole on their borrowed club Huntech fly was snapped, and I found that the pole on my own borrowed club Huntech fly was missing the knob thingee that lets it fit through the eyelet on the fly, and that the fly itself was missing a couple of the plastic attachments for pegging it to the ground. Only Richard and Amanda had a fully-working fly—and they’d brought their own. Fortunately we were able to improvise, despite the non-ideal conditions in a moderate drizzley wind in an exposed place 1420 metres above sea level.

Home sweet home. Mine is the one on the right that looks as if it’s been flattened by a train.

Damp conditions meant that it wasn’t great for walking around outside. Also as two of the three flies had been set up with a low profile, which is what you get when people are too cool to use walking poles, it was difficult to slide in and out a 30 cm gap without disrupting the pegs. Richard and Amanda improvised by dismantling Amanda’s pack and using part of the frame, and I leeched off their effort, but in the end I’m not sure it made much difference. We had a yummy but generally anti-social dinner from each other that evening, with Illona cooking a vegetarian quinoa and pomegranate molasses. It was about the time that I was thinking I should pull my fly pegs out again by sliding out, and volunteer to do some dishes, but my luck prevailed as I heard neighbouring Illona volunteer Kevin for the task.

With a light southerly, we’d set up the Huntech flies facing with the backs directly into the wind as is manufacturly recommended so the air will flow over them. I woke at about midnight to the angry melody a fly rattling noisily in the light southerly as it sucked the fabric upwards whilst flying over the top. I found this mildly disturbing, mostly because I wasn’t confident in how well I’d pegged it, even though I’d ensured the three most important pegs which bear most of the pushing force from the wind were well in. I really hadn’t considered the sucking upward force on the pegs at the other end.

I convinced myself things were okay until I woke again at 2am, by which time the aerofoil effect was gone, and instead the wind was just pounding the already low profile and sopping wet fly straight down onto my sleeping bag, fortunately surrounded by a bivy bag in my case. Instead of a light southerly, there was now a moderate northerly, and the flies were set up facing completely the wrong way. I learned a lot about the aerodynamics of Huntech flies that night.

For all its annoyance, the low profile was seeming to help. At least, I’m assuming the profile combined with the static bubble of air inside was the main thing that prevented the wind from simply sliding underneath and scooping the thing up from the front. Some time after I woke, I heard Richard up and about a few metres away, “heroically” re-hammering some pegs. The memory’s a blur but I think in my concern for destroying my own fly’s fragile structure with a reckless act such as crawling outside, I instead tried to avert my guilt by making conversation. I don’t remember him offering much chatter in return.

The dark night eventually rescinded to another murky morning when I scraped together a cold breakfast, donned decent storm gear, packed everything except my groundsheet and fly, and sat crumpled inside the cramped arch of a cocoon that was slowly deteriorating as it was pressed heavily from above, waiting until Illona, Kevin, Amanda and Richard had done the same. Sliding out was a muddy activity, not conducive to keeping my gear sparkling clean, but once outside it was clear that the wind wasn’t as bad as it’d impressed. The fly had been pulling hard against the three forward-facing guy ropes all night, and they’d held well enough. Amanda and Richard had also suffered a similar angry-fly effect but without bivy bags now had a couple of damp sleeping bags to show for it.

Amanda and Richard.

Kevin climbing to the plateau.

After a speedy grab and run exercise to collect the final bits, the five of us were away again just before 8am, continuing to a mushy plateau of tarns before turning more north-west-wards to find a couple of signs that confirmed our way towards Ruahine Corner—the sign half-buried in a leatherwood bush wasn’t in DoC’s database. The route took us slightly down into more dracophyllum and eventually fern-covered landscape, before eventually, by 11am, climbing to the big plateau where one can find several more DoC asset numbers and Ruahine Corner Hut.

Ruahine Corner Hut.

Ruahine Corner hosted a couple of hunters down from Auckland. They’d flown in a few days earlier, but had preferred to sit inside the hut with the cosy fire than spend any time outdoors. The hut is a cute standard forestry service box, though earlier this year some helpful DoC employees have dressed it in a deck and veranda to fit the latest fashion trends. Supposedly most people fly in, and there’s an airstrip outside, but it’d be very accessible by foot with a long day for reasonably fit people and not much stopping, certainly from Masters Shelter. We exchanged greetings, I photographed the hut’s number inside the door, stopped for lunch, and they gave us some loose directions for finding a warratah-marked route through the clouds and tussock to the 1234m trig across the plateau, which was about where we wanted to head.

This is the furthest north I’ve been in the range. It feels different from the southern end which (whilst still allowing one to cruise around the tops all day) has sharper and narrower ridges. In contrast, some of the ridges we’d already encountered here are a good 500m wide on top. The topo maps don’t show many close contours around the plateau north of Ruahine Corner, but there’s still a shallow landscape to circumvent. Active navigation and wayfinding can be a significant part of the journey, especially with the weather we experienced.

The 1200 metre high flats of Ruahine Corner.

The bluffs are more overhanging
rocks than high cliff-faces.

We pushed our way through the tussock, first to the furthest 1234m trig, then along the tops of the bluffs to 1206m, under which we sat snacking for a little while as the sun desperately tried to break through the clouds. The bluffs indicated on the maps aren’t all big cliffs so much as a series of overhanging rocks, which provide several places where it’s possible to scamper down between with no technical skills. Illona had good information about a trapping line from spot-height 1206 down to Ikawetea Forks Hut, and it worked. Not far inside the bush-line, there’s a left-to-right line of orange markers which looks as if it’s there to catch people no matter where they slip in as long as it’s roughly below that point. The line leads to the top of a trapping line that’s been marked to death with pink tape nearly all the way down the spur towards Ikawetea Forks Hut. We followed it to a little gully just west of the hut, where we dropped down to Ikawetea Stream on a steep route. This led to our first significant river encounter of the long weekend, with the hut somewhere on the far side. Not knowing exactly where to look, Kevin and I checked up-stream slightly, and discovered a messy steep track that could be uncomfortably clambered up with the help of some tree roots. It led to a heliport, and from there we found Ikawetea Forks Hut, and also the much more sane route we could have used if we’d followed the river in the other direction.

Ikawetea Forks Hut.

Ikawetea Stream.

Nobody was home at Ikawetea Forks (DoC Asset 43453) when we arrived, but a couple of hunters had left some things. We couldn’t tell if they’d be back that evening or not, but arriving became a relief because we weren’t in a completely good state. Amanda was still feeling unwell, and Illona had copped a rock on the back of her leg during the last steep drop down towards the river. It was when all our gear was spread outside, desperately trying to dry under the cool shallow sun, that I looked up from frustratingly scraping the mud from my un-sparkly gaiters, and saw the two hunters stumbling awkwardly through thigh-deep water. I waved and smiled, trying not to give an impression that they’d have a full hut tonight. They’d been away for three days, were due to fly out the next day, and (so they said) had successfully crawled back with 50+ kg packs full of meat. As a 7-bunk hut, there was enough mattress-space inside even with the five of us. The two chaps were locals from Hawkes Bay. They were happily chatty enough so we learned more about local routes in this part of the range, and they tried to pass themselves off as vegetarians when Illona’s curry-laksa meal came out—at the chef’s directive nobody mentioned it was tofu. I snuck down to the river a few times that evening. It’s a nice place. My turn for dishes.

Illona following Kevin up
towards Tauwharepokoru.

We woke on Monday morning and evidently the world hadn’t realised that this Monday was a holiday, because the sun was allowed to come through nicely. Keen on not getting home too late, we were away soon after 7am, waved goodbye to the hunting chaps (one of whom was heading up behind the hut for a final outing), hopped across the river, and began the second 800m climb of the long weekend, though it’s really only steep for about the first 500 metres and then it shallows out before the final upward jump. I frustrated myself trying to figure out where I was with the modern LINZ Topo50 maps. Most of the Ruahines had improved representation in the Topo50 world, but this particular area crosses the map boundary between BK36 and BK37, and for people like me who didn’t bother to print out a more convenient hand-held version, the trip included a lot of trying to compare maps side-by-side. We heard 4 shots from across the valley during our ascent, so maybe the guy was topping off a very successful outing.

About 2.5 hours into the day, having emerged from the bush-line underneath the mighty Tauwharepokoru, a famous 1403 metre peak of the Ruahines, we stopped in the morning sunshine for a few minutes, relaxed in the make-shift tussock-laden couches, and gazed north-west toward the lesser snow-sodden hillocks of Tongariro National Park.

Around SH 1314.

From here it’d be a straightforward walk around the circumference of the tops. The route is mostly well marked with a combination of waratahs, foot-trails and 4WD tracks, though could be exposed on a windy day. We were momentarily lost when trying to follow waratahs early-on, I think in the sludgy muddy area around Ikawetea which we later discovered is private land, albeit seemingly with a DoC route marked through it according to the Walking Access Mapping System (WAMS). There was a mediocre wind, which I took advantage of by sequentially hanging things out to dry off the back of my pack, and it worked well. Only one climb along this section is notable, which is about 100m up towards spot-height 1314 shortly before returning to the top of Golden Crown Ridge, where we arrived about 6.5 hours after we’d left in the morning. All that remained was to get back down the hill to where we’d begun, another 90 minutes, bringing the Labour Weekend to an end, with 16 distinct asset numbers documented.

I was too anxious to search for an asset number on Masters Shelter, which I’d forgotten about on Saturday morning, to remember to wash the mud off my boots as I passed the farm-tainted stream at the end of the day. I couldn’t find one, either, which was mildly annoying, and the muddy boots left me with a tougher scrubbing job later that night. Fortunately it seems you have to argue with Australian biosecurity people to get them to bother to check your gear, and I lost the argument.

The Reverse Engineered New Zealand Department of Conservation Asset Register, table 2.0
An addendum to table 1.0.

• DoC Asset 068223: DoC sign at 3-way junction at the top of Golden Crown Ridge.
• DoC Asset 089428: DoC sign #1 at ground-trail junction south-west of Golden Crown Ridge, pointing between Parks Peak Hut and No Mans Road.
• DoC Asset 089429: DoC sign #2 at ground-trail junction south-west of Golden Crown Ridge, pointing towards Ruahine Main Range.
• DoC Asset 068555: DoC sign outside Aranga Hut, indicating route towards Kylie Bivvy (“4 hours” away).
• DoC Asset 084765: DoC sign on flat 1.5km south-west of Piopio and slightly north-west of spot-height 1503, indicating route west-north-west towards Ruahine Corner Hut, Waikatore Biv and Colenso Hut. (Note: A second sign pointing towards Lake Colenso and Ruahine Corner Hut that’s up-lifted and lying on top of a Leatherwood Bush does not have a DoC asset number. Naughty naughty.)
• DoC Asset 084290: DoC sign #1 on junction between track and ridge south of Ruahine Corner Hut, pointing along “Ruahine Range via Main Range Track”.
• DoC Asset 084764: DoC sign #2 on junction between track and ridge south of Ruahine Corner Hut, listing directions towards Ruahine Corner Hut, Potoe Trig, Waikatore Biv and Colenso Hut (via Potoe Creek).
• DoC Asset 084293: DoC sign east of Ruahine Corner Hut, at edge of flats, pointing towards Waiokotore Bivvy, Main Ruahine Range and Colenso Hut.
• DoC Asset 084119: DoC sign outside Ruahine Corner Hut, pointing towards Main Range and Colenso.
• DoC Asset 042582: Ruahine Corner Hut. (Note: This asset number plate is marginally dirty under some cobwebs as of 23rd October 2011 and could use a scrub.)
• DoC Asset 043453: Ikawetea Forks Hut.
• DoC Asset 068542: DoC sign across river from Ikawetea Forks Hut, directing between Ikawetea Forks Hut and No-Mans Hut. (Note: The DoC sign spells Ikawetea as “Ikawatea” on this sign and elsewhere, which is inconsistent with spelling by Land Information New Zealand.)
• DoC Asset 068553: DoC sign east of Tauwharepokoru (1403) that directs between Shutes Hut, Ikawetea Forks Hut and No Mans Hut. (Note: The DoC sign spells Ikawetea as “Ikawatea” on this sign and elsewhere, which is inconsistent with spelling by Land Information New Zealand.)
• DoC Asset 089127: DoC sign outside Masters Shelter, pointing up Golden Crown Ridge towards the Main Range, Parks Peak Hut and No Mans Road.
• DoC Asset 089137: DoC sign 100 metres from Masters Shelter, indicating border of Ruahine Forest Park.
• DoC Asset 089129: DoC sign on gate on farm-land near Masters Shelter, indicating direction towards shelter and requesting that people please close the gate.

Topographic maps worldwide often appear utilitarian, if not a little boring graphically. By comparison the new 260s were stylish and modern without losing any utility. They were undoubtedly among the best looking topographic maps in the world.

—David Balm, In Order to Make a Good Impression: Printing 260 series topographic maps, 1976-1984, (reproduced in the book being reviewed)

This is a review of Graeme Jupp’s recently published booklet, titled “NZMS 260 and 262: Our Metric Topographical Heritage”, which was published in February 2011 as part of the CartoPRESS series by the New Zealand Cartographic Society. I’m not giving a complete qualified review, because I’m neither a cartographer nor am I very familiar with much of the history the material to comment on accuracy. It’s more of a perspective from someone who’s enjoyed using New Zealand’s topo maps over the last few years from a tramping perspective. If anyone notices mistakes in some of my comments to do with mapping history or technical issues, please feel welcome to correct me in the comments below. An alternative review by Shaun Barnett has been published in FMC Bulletin 184 from June 2011 (see here for a download link), which has been republished by the NZ Cartographic Society.

If you’ve spent any of the last several decades using New Zealand’s official topo maps to plan interesting trips, you might find a moment to turn an eye to a short collation of recent cartographic history. This book combines a history with a comprehensive tabular appendix of maps. The combination of the history and the tables means it will make a handy reference item to have on the shelf for many people with an interest.

The 260 and 262 map series’ are now obsolete, having respectively been replaced by the Topo50 and Topo250 series’ as of September 2009, but until that time they became extremely popular, and many are still in circulation today. As concluded by the editor, more than 2.8 million maps of the 260 series, and a further 408,000 maps in the 262 series (which shared the same geodetic datum but was drawn to a different scale) were printed between 1978 and 2009. Production of the 260 and 262 series’ provided a platform, and also established techniques and technologies upon which New Zealand’s topographic map-making continues to be built. The influence of this period of time in the production of maps in New Zealand seems hard to argue with.

About the book

The book is an attempt, generally successful as far as I’m concerned, to compile a history of the production of the first sets of metric maps to cover all of New Zealand, and also to document every batch of maps produced. The title of the book suggests that it’s about the NZMS 260 and 262 series’ of maps. This is correct, but it might also be true to say that it’s a history of the map projection and map grid which these two series’ of maps shared. The projection was designed for these maps during the early 1970s, and it was made obsolete by the replacement projection for the Topo50 and Topo250 maps which are now in use.

At the time of writing this review, it can be ordered via the NZ Cartographic Society’s website for $25 plus postage. Being in a niche of cartographers and those in the industry, only 150 copies have been printed, but there’s plenty in the book to interest casual map users who just want to learn more about what happens behind the scenes. Looking at my own copy the layout is clean, the printing is excellent, the binding is tidy, and it’s a very handy light-weight academic journal style of booklet to carry around. From an editing perspective I didn’t experience any distracting spelling or grammar errors.

Less than half the content (pages 1 to 42) is text. This text is composed of several articles, each covering a different topic relating to production of the NZMS 260 and NZMS 262 series’. Two of the articles are written by the editor, and the rest have been written by various authors. The remainder of the book (pages 43 to 95) is composed of a tabular list that details all maps produced. The tables have been compiled from a variety of official and unofficial sources, but now provide a definitive list of every printing of every edition of every map in the NZMS 260 and NZMS 262 series’, complete with any relevant notes and descriptions of milestones achieved by particular maps, revisions or printings. The history articles in the first part of the book are interesting enough. For the tables alone, however, it’s a very useful reference book to have on the shelf.

A quick history

New Zealand adopted the metric system in 1969, which was a trigger to do away with the earlier NZMS 1 series of official topo maps, scaled at an “inch to the mile”, or 1:63 360 and giving elevations in feet rather than metres. A new series, starting from scratch, could be an excellent opportunity to revise how things were done. Besides being drawn at an inconvenient scale, NZMS 1 had evolved from the earliest maps that were created soon after wartime years, when foreign invasion had been a prime concern. Different maps in the series had inconsistent symbols and features, and some maps didn’t even match along the edges.

When the metric system was adopted, however, NZMS 1 was still incomplete with large sections of Fiordland still having no maps at all. For this reason, following much debate, a decision was made to complete the NZMS 1 series whilst meanwhile, in the background, the replacement series would be designed.

The new series, with its metric scale, would require a new projection to project a curved surface of the Earth onto flat pages, and this would have been a mathematical challenge in itself. The result was a projection to go with a 1:50 000 scale series of maps, where 1 kilometer would be represented by 2 centimetres. Furthermore, the newly designed projection could now be applied to both main islands of the country compared with NZMS 1 which had needed a separate projection for each island. The design and look of the maps was debated over several years, but ultimately the opportunity of a new series meant that symbols, layout and printing could be clearly standardised from the beginning, with standards being built on everything that had been learned from the past several decades. These standards were then consistently adhered to for a period of more than 30 years of map production, despite some significant changes behind the scenes in government restructuring, technology and procedures.

From the late 1970s, a 1:250 000 scale series (NZMS 262) was created based on the same map projection, largely using data originally compiled for the NZMS 260 maps.

General Overview

From my own mostly-tramping perspective, I found much of the content both interesting and informative. I hadn’t realised the Bill Drake, who oversaw production of the maps from 1970 to 1992, was also an experienced mountaineer and tramper, and that this strongly influenced the revised designs so as to make them more useful outdoors in the field. In his re-printed article from 1983, he explains how the proposed designs of the maps needed to be tested in the field, and intelligently take into account the most useful presentations for some very different kinds of terrain, such as mountainous back-country versus rural plains or densely built cities. Prior to this book, it hadn’t occurred to me just how much thought has to go into seemingly tiny details that aren’t typically noticed by a user, some of which can’t even be seen except with close examination, to make a map useful.

The editor directly contributes two articles, respectively about the 260 series and the 262 series, written from his cartographer’s perspective since becoming involved in 1990. He includes much specific detail about particular challenges and changes during production. Issues such as oversized sheets and wasted space, the introduction of dual naming, the experimental printing of maps S25 and S26 (covering the Tararuas) onto double-sided high wet-strength ‘tyvec’ paper in 1984, and the delays in producing sheet H36 which was in progress during the rock-slide that shortened the height of Aoraki Mt Cook during the early 1990s. Between his two articles, he refers to the commissioning and execution of a fully digital 1:250 000 database in 1989, which “laid the foundation” for the digitised 1:50 000 database in the mid 1990s, which has since evolved to produce the most recent Topo50 maps.

A perspective on the printing of the maps is given in a shorter article by David Balm. He discusses the processes and challenges involved with getting the colours and alignment, and how the re-think of maps allowed them to take advantage of new printing technologies. Craig Gear then expands on issues that arose with choosing and sourcing paper, and printing standards that were put in place to let the process be streamlined.

Criticisms

I won’t criticise this book in any serious way. Partly because I don’t think I’m qualified, but also because I couldn’t see much to complain about. I think any of my criticism is more to do with a mis-match of my expectations than with shortcomings in the book. With the right expectations, it’s a great book.

Datums and digital databases: Something that stood out to me, as a layperson who’s spent a little time trying to learn about geodetic datums and digital mapping technology, is that the compilation did not include much discussion around either the changes in map grids and geodetic datums, or the introduction of digital technology. Whilst the rest of the book contains extensive material and documentation of presentation information, design and shadings, and printing issues, only a few short paragraphs mention these two topics which must have their own significant place in the production, maintenance and eventual demise of these maps. When these topics are referenced, it’s essentially to say that “it needed to be done”, or “was done”, and that “someone else did it”. In retrospect, I now wonder if the content might have benefited from a couple of additional articles written on the topic of designing map projections, and on digitising the geographic information, and expressing how these topics applied to the NZMS 260 and NZMS 262 map series’.

The end of lifetime: Extending from these topics, the book included little discussion about the end of the lifetime of the maps. At least as I understand it (again as a layperson), the datum and projection, and compatibility issues with various international technology, was a significant reason for Land Information New Zealand to drop the series’. Thus we now have the Topo50 and Topo250 maps produced today, which are based upon a different geodetic datum and with a different map grid. In reading this book, it should be understood by the reader that it’s foremost a compilation about the reasons for and production of the maps of that period between about 1970 and the turn of the century. It’s less of an explanation of why those maps were eventually replaced.

Less attention to the NZMS 262 series: I suggested earlier that this book is as much a history of the map projection—or at least the time period in which it was used—as it is of the two major series’ of maps that used that projection. With this in mind, I felt there was a lesser amount of discussion about the 262 series than was implied by the title. My initial expectation from the book’s title was that both series’ would be treated roughly evenly, but my impression was that the 262 series had been described almost as an afterthought to make the book more complete. Most of the articles refer primarily to the 1:50 000 260 series, with the 1:250 000 262 series being allowed about 4 pages of text authored by the editor, after removing several graphics (compared with about 22 complete pages of text in total).

I think this “afterthought” impression really was a consequence of my expectation of equality from the book’s title. The heavier content on the more popular map series is almost certainly because the 260 series seems to be where most of the action and major decisions happened, whilst the 262 series was a less visible derivative that probably didn’t have anywhere near as much history to document. Ultimately, the history of the two series’ are tied together.

Table of Contents

• NZMS 260 Sheetlines, first editions. (Page 2, inside front cover)
• Foreward — The Maps of the 260 Series: Our first topographical base map 1:50 000. Geoff Aitken, President of the New Zealand Cartographic Society. (Page 9)
• The 1:50 000 Topographical Map Series. Bill Drake; reproduced from the New Zealand Cartographic Journal, Vol 13, No 1 (1983). (Page 11)
• The 260s—a Cartographer’s Perspective. Editions, extensions, insets and idiosyncracies. Graeme Jupp. (Page 19)
• In Order to Make a Good Impression.
  • Printing 260 series topographic maps, 1976-1984. David Balm. (Page 29)
  • Papers, Printers and Presses. Craig Gear. (Page 32)
• NZMS 262 Sheetlines. (Page 34)
• The 262s—a Worthy Companion for the 260s. Graeme Jupp. (Page 35)
• Definitive Lists of the NZMS 260 and 262 Series Maps Compiled by Graeme Jupp. (Page 43)
  • NZMS 260 1:50 000, North Island. (Page 44)
  • NZMS 260 1:50 000, South Island. (Page 66)
  • NZMS 260 1:50 000, Chatham and Auckland Islands. (Page 90)
  • NZMS 262 1:250 000, New Zealand. (Page 92)
• Further Reading (Page 97)
• NZMS 260 Sheetlines, 2009. (Page 98, inside back cover)

The competition’s only open to people associated with LandSAR, but the rules and points table are amusing to read all the same. As well as bagging huts and points of interest, points are being awarded for providing GPS tracks, and for logging in Mountain Radio Skeds. There seems to be nothing in the rules to prevent a team from calling into all three of the Wellington, Central North Island and Hawkes Bay skeds in an evening, but I guess they might also need to decide if it’s worth another 10 points to stop moving for another 30 minutes, given how long it can take to properly get a mountain radio aerial up and down.

The most valuable listed huts are Carkeek (100 points), followed by Arete Forks, Burn, North Mangahao, Dorset Ridge and Dracophyllum, Arete, Dundas, Kapakapanui, Mungahuka, Mid-King, Nichols and the Oriwa Ridge water tank, although it’s probably worth noting that points are evidently also being structured on how easily a hut fits into a 48 hour point-hungry trip as much as how difficult they are to reach. (Burn Hut isn’t far from a road, but it’s ages from anywhere else.)

I still think these competitions should award bonus points (or double points) for arbitrary challenges that add another dimension of planning, like only visiting huts in alphabetical order, but maybe few people agree with me.

This list follows from the enactment of the Freedom Camping Bill, now known as the Freedom Camping Act, and which I’ve posted about previously [1] [2]. Among other things, the Act provides for DoC and for Local Authorities to issue instant fines for people found camping in places where camping has been prohibited or restricted, under the Act, by either DoC or the relevant Local Authority depending on who manages the land.

As might have been expected, the DoC list is mostly composed of carparks, picnic areas and occasional lookout points, where DoC has supposedly encountered or has good reason to expect problems. This is consistent with the marketed intent of the Bill to give power for authorities to restrict tourist-style camping in problem spots. An odd exception to this list seems to be the inclusion of “Aoraki Mount Cook National Park (except at approved camping sites)”.

Yes, DoC has actually stated that Freedom Camping is prohibited in The Entire National Park. [Update, 7th October 2011: Some helpful people at DoC have clarified a few things which I've noted in this comment.]

There’s a need for some legal translation here, because with intent or without, DoC has been unclear and misleading about its legal jurisdiction by including the entire Aoraki Mount Cook National Park in its list, as if camping is simply not allowed unless it occurs at approved campsites. If a blanket ban through the entire park is what DoC is trying to do, it’s unprecedented and disturbing because it inhibits the recreational value and freedom of visitors to experience the park on their own terms, which is one of the great things about our conservation estate. I’ve sent an email to DoC asking for this to be clarified.

As written, I don’t believe the Freedom Camping Act legally provides for DoC to impose a blanket camping ban on an entire national park, or anything similar. So far this also seems to be the consensus in the NZ Tramper thread linked from the start of this post.

According to the Act, Section 17 describes how DoC is allowed to define places where “Freedom Camping” is restricted or prohibited. Use of the term “Freedom Camping” is very significant, because Section 5 of the Act has previously defined it as “to camp (other than at a camping ground) within 200 m of a motor vehicle accessible area or the mean low-water springs line of any sea or harbour, or on or within 200 m of a formed road or a Great Walks Track”. Technically, “freedom camping” can be banned in the entire park, but the camping is not “freedom camping” unless it’s within 200 metres of the edge or meets one of a few other criteria.

What’s more likely is that DoC wants to prevent anyone from camping on the fringes and entry points of the National Park, and maybe it’s just been stated very lazily in its list of prohibited areas. Assuming there’s no intent to restrict camping throughout the entire park, I still find it concerning that a restriction can be stated in such a misleading, blanket non-specific way, and especially by DoC which is a large enough organisation to be expected to have the skills and experience to understand the law and be clear about this kind of thing. For one thing, it might suggest to visitors that there’s little reason to take a tent or alternative portable shelter which could lead to higher risks. Most importantly though, a blanket ban—even if not enforceable—contradicts the way in which the Freedom Camping Bill was sold as something that would allow specific problems to be addressed where they occur and only with clearly justifiable reasons.

Being allowed to camp in wild places on public land is part of a New Zealand experience, and wherever that right is removed there should be a clear and justifiable reason. Hopefully this is only a small slip-up that will soon be corrected. but ideally DoC will remove the item entirely and reduce the ban to the very specific and clearly specified parts of Aoraki Mount Cook National Park which it believes will be subject to Freedom Camping problems. Prohibiting camping within 200 metres of all roads, simply because that’s everything the law allows DoC to prohibit, doesn’t cut it for me. It’s very hard to justify and sets a bad precedent.

Forty years ago, in 1971, the New Zealand National Film Unit produced this educational video designed to terrify young people with the horrors of “exposure” (aka hypothermia) and, with luck, teach them how to avoid it. I was never subjected to this film during my educational years, but as recently as 1997, some schools were reportedly still petrifying their youth with the words:

“Thomas Cougan will tomorrow night be DEAD!”

Two years ago, NZOnScreen digitised the film and put it online. (There’s a press release here.) Happily the entire thing is available for all to see, from mountain mules, disgusting breakfasts and fashion of the late hippie era, to a relatively young Ray Henwood who draws concise diagrams on a blackboard as he expertly pronounces the symptoms and causes of “exposure”.

The digitisation comes in two parts, followed by the credits. (Part Two is below if you’ve clicked into the full post, or you can just wait for Part One to finish.)

The theme of the film remains relevant today, even if modern clothing technology has gradually reduced the number of hypothermia deaths relative to other causes. At least, I think drownings during river crossing attempts are now a more frequent cause of death than hypothermia.

The film opens by panning over newspaper clippings that describe a 1968 accident in which two of three teenagers died of exposure when crossing Biggs Top in the Kahurangis (see Carl Walron’s excellent book Survive for a more complete telling of the story). Next it shifts into a brief presentation about the facts of hypothermia, before a more lengthy dramatisation that follows five young people, who lack experience for what they’re trying to do, to their ultimate demise.

I can’t figure out where it was filmed, partly because I can’t hear the commentary properly, but I expect somebody knows. It reminds me of Nelson Lakes, but that could also be my limited experience talking. After four decades, the production and acting is amusing to watch, but it was also produced with the intent of highlighting certain things to viewers more-so than as a brilliant production. See how many classic mistakes you can count, including at least one heuristic trap.

As you watch it, keep in mind that some of the knowledge about hypothermia has advanced since it was made, for better or worse. Notably, the statement that most body heat is lost through the head has lately been put down to a fairly flunky US Army experiment, and it’s since been shown that any surface area of the body will lose heat roughly equally, if it’s exposed. I checked further on this, however, and there’s a more detailed summary over at Wilderness Medicine Newsletter which discusses the points in detail and notes that this concept of even heat loss over the entire surface area of the body really only applies when a person is at rest. Things change once a person starts exercising, though mostly in a way that evens it all out. There’s a brief period at the beginning of exercise where more heat is lost through the head, before the rest of the body starts saying “hey, give me more blood” and all areas start losing heat equally again. This is apparently what was misunderstood from the army experiment. Very importantly, however, if a person is already hypothermic and shivering, heat loss through the skull can be up to 55%! If they’re not hypothermic and shivering, the head is of a more similar importance (in terms of heat loss) to the rest of the body. So if things start getting really bad, ensuring the head’s covered seems like a very good idea.

Of course, I’m not medically qualified to assess this advice and I’m really just regurgitating random advice I found on the internet, so as usual I welcome any feedback in the comments section. That way even more people can regurgitate random advice they found on the internet, but at least it’ll be clearer to them if it’s controversial.

Once you’ve watched part one, here’s part two.

Just a general kind’a day when the weather’s not so happy.
This eventful day, where our actions were strongly influenced by conditions, was the 27th of June 2010, near McKinnon Hut in the Ruahines.

For instance:

• 23rd July 2011: A couple of people were rescued having spent “a week” stuck at Kime Hut (Tararuas). If you read past the inexplicably incorrect headlines whose authors seemed to ignore the text of the articles, the more correct version of the story is that they left home on Tuesday and were collected on Saturday (4 nights). Asking around further, it turns out that they were really only stranded at Kime at all for the last three nights (two of them unplanned) prior to being walked out by a SAR team. Still very unenviable and risky circumstances, but the media seems to have been over-hyped, maybe encouraged by a highly publicised (and less happily-ending) incident near Kime Hut a couple of years ago.
• 24th July 2011: A group of kayakers spent an unplanned night near Tauranga, having run out of daylight. Two girls were airlifted out on Sunday morning whilst the remaining two men paddled their way out.
• 24th July 2011: Three men who were out pig-hunting in Marlborough got lost, spent a night outside, and were collected by a helicopter.
• 25th July 2011: Two trampers were rescued from Cass Saddle, in Cragieburn Forest Park near Arthur’s Pass at 10am, having spent a freezing night in the open and then been stuck in the small Lagoon Saddle Shelter for three additional nights. Graeme Kates, who publishes records of incidents near Arthur’s Pass, notes that flying conditions were marginal, it took two attempts to reach them, and walk-in LandSAR teams were on standby in case flying turned out to be impossible. I’ll get to this one later.
• 25th July 2011: A young 17 year old hunter became lost, separated from his father, and spent a freezing night outside between Opotiki and Gisbourne. An overnight search failed to find him, but he was located at 8am and air-lifted out by a helicopter.
• 27th July 2011: A small Alpine Cliff Rescue team spent a cold night on Mount Taranaki having shown up at 10.30pm, after a 90 minute walk from a helicopter drop, to rescue a stranded and disoriented snowboarder. The man was flown out, but deteriorating weather meant the rescue team was left on the mountain until the following day in a night they described as one of the worst they’d ever had.
• 30th July 2011: An injured 13-year-old tramper was collected from Nelson Lakes, between Speargrass and Angelus Huts, after he fell about 1 or 1.5 metres.

There will have been other call-outs during the same time-frame which haven’t been reported. That last one, which involved an injury evacuation, occurred several days later and I just threw in for show. Out of all of these media reports that describe distinctly different incidents, the 30th July incident was the first to describe a rescue from a situation that probably couldn’t have been easily prevented. The rest all involved bad judgements or decisions, and people losing awareness of where they were. In short, big storms sweep the country and many people who are unfamiliar with the conditions make mistakes.

I think it’s great to go out when there’s stormy weather, for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes I only notice it once I’m back, but I appreciate seeing places in ways that many people simply don’t see them, plus it can help to gain and retain familiarity and a better appreciation of what the environment can really be like when it’s not playing nicely, as well as how to cope with it. That said, stormy weather presents new risks and challenges that need to be managed very carefully. Decisions need to be taken with great care, and that’s a separate issue which I wrote about some time back in a post titled The Next Three Hours. I’m fortunate that I’ve been able to build up a collection of friends whom I trust my life with and learn from. In my case it’s been through my association with the Wellington Tramping & Mountaineering Club.

With this post, however, I wanted to focus on the 25th of July rescue near Arthur’s Pass, listed as the fourth bullet point above.

This incident stands out not for the fact that two people made some unfortunate mistakes, or that they were described as “experienced”. People who make mistakes are often experienced just as people who drive badly have sometimes been driving for 40 years—I don’t think there’s a correlation between experience and safe practices. Of more relevance, the Police Sergeant in charge of the rescue has been quoted on the record as saying “This is a classic example of how incidents like this can be resolved successfully, due to the missing party observing the cardinal rules of back-country travel.” As I read that, he seems to be implying they did everything right. Apparently things just went badly for them, at least according to the quote which (let’s be clear) may have been presented out of context. Really though, I think if they’d done everything right then they’d likely not have needed rescuing.

One of the two people involved was kind enough to speak to Mary Wilson on Radio New Zealand’s Checkpoint programme last Friday. As I write this, the entire seven minutes can be streamed from the Radio New Zealand website, though it will probably be removed soon. I have, however, transcribed much of the interview. Note that Mary Wilson’s introduction isn’t completely accurate in its description of how long they were stranded:

Mary: An experienced tramper who was stranded for three days with his wife in Canterbury’s high country in freezing weather will lose his big toe to frostbite. Chris [surname] and his wife, Sally, set out for a two night tramp in the Cragieburn area near Arthur’s Pass last Wednesday, but the couple encountered heavy snow and had to survive a night outside as well as two nights in a small hut before they were rescued by a helicopter yesterday.

[--snip--]

Mary: Did you not realise how bad the weather might be?

Chris: It wasn’t the weather that Christchurch and the coast was subjected to that was the problem. We were aware of the southerly coming in on the midnight of the day we went tramping. You see, we’ve experienced winter tramping before. We drove out and found no problem with the roads, the weather was good when we got to the start of the track. It was sunny, clear of snow, beautiful blue skies, but when we had gone a couple of kilometres along the flat, and then started ascending. Then we met the snow, and it got deeper and deeper and deeper, but because we had done this tramp twice before, we were familiar with the route and we felt that so long as the snow was probably patchy we would be able to manage it.

Mary: So you didn’t realise how much had already fallen?

Chris: Exactly. Yeah, that was the issue. The snow in Christchurch was just something that we discovered later, really. It could have affected the rescue, of course, if the helicopter had not been able to get out, but it did.

Mary: Spending the night outside sounds pretty grim. Tell us about that.

Chris: Yes well what had happened was we were on route from the first hut that we stayed at, Hamilton Hut, thinking that the journey should be about four and a half hours to the next shelter where we were actually stranded, and then a couple of hours… two and a half hours down to the exit, but what happened was the snow was so bad that we got caught and the problem was then that we got lost in the dark and we had to go down to the river and follow it because we knew according to the map that the river would lead to the shelter, and by wading through the river, of course, and in glacial conditions, it was really terrible. We were climbing over icy blocks, boulders, snow fallen trees, logs in the river, all manner of obstacles. We got very wet, very cold, and then because it was about eight o’clock at night, decided we were not getting to our destination that night. We’d have to sleep out, and so we managed to get higher up to a reasonably flat spot amongst the trees, on the snow of course, put our packs down, put our plastic survival bag on top, put our sleeping bags in that, and squashed ourselves like sardines in there and tried to survive the night.

Mary: What was it like?

Chris: It was terrible, it was. You get very stiff, you want to move but you move and you just, your partner, virtually impossible to turn around but we did. If there’s ever a synchronised sleeping bag event in the Olympics, we’d be winners, I’m sure.

Mary: Were you starting to get hypothermic?

Chris: Well if that means, sort of slightly losing your mind, no I’d say not, but we were very very cold, and we thanked the light for finally dawning on us the next morning. But everything was frozen. Things that had been wet through the river the night before were solid, like boots for example. I could not get my boots on again. My gloves were just frozen ice blocks.

Mary: So, Chris, what did you continue tramping in, then?

Chris: I happened to have, well you described me as an experienced tramper, and we take things that we need like extra dry things. I had some trainer shoes, which I put on and I had just a thin pair of socks because I’d been through my two pairs of tramping socks.

Mary: Did you ever think you weren’t going to make it?

Chris: Oh yes, oh for sure. When we got to the shelter, we had not the two nights that you described, but in fact Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday night, and we used up all of our gas for heating up any liquids. Now liquids, of course, were formed by melting snow. There was no water. The hut purely had a bench to sit on, and some thin rubber mats that we put on the floor and huddled up in sleeping bags side by side to get warm.

Mary: What was it like seeing the rescue guys eventually?

Chris: Just, I’m not one who gets overly emotional, but even I burst into tears. It was such a relief. Yes, with no food left we’d spent the previous two days on just simply one pack of noodles per day. Initially we had a cup of soup each, but after that it’s just a pack of noodles, pack of noodles, and that was the entire meal for the day.

Mary: All-right, quick question, Chris. Would you ever go winter tramping again?

Chris: Yeah we’ve talked about that, and I know…

Mary: Please say no…

Chris: …at the time, my wife said probably our tramping days are over, but rationalising it I think our winter tramping days will never occur again. It’ll be summer time.

Mary: Good to hear, good to hear, thanks very much. That is Chris [surname] who has survived five days in freezing weather in Canterbury.

Given detail, there’s no doubt that these people took some good steps in the immediate circumstances having discovered they were in trouble. They identified a shelter on a map, they thought clearly enough to realise that despite not knowing precisely where they were, they could still follow a river to a known place. They budgeted their available food and resources to make what they had last as long as they could, and they’d left their intentions so that having eventually been reported overdue the search teams knew roughly where to look for them. Finally, when they were stuck outside in the freezing cold with no shelter whatsoever, they put their sleeping bags inside their one and only only plastic pack liner/survival bag, which was all they really had, to keep them dry.

Despite demonstrating good reactions in the circumstances, the narrative above also reads as an account of initially mis-judging the weather and conditions, continuing to do so during the trip even whilst realising that conditions were unfamiliar, and then not being prepared for the unexpected when it befell them. All of this combined to create the situation in which they found themselves. I did stop to wonder how this situation might have turned out if they’d had a reasonable tent to match the conditions. It wasn’t mentioned, and I presume there was no tent or anything similar, which is a shame because a tent likely could have kept them warm and dry for as long as they needed it. They seem to have done the same thing that many complacent people do outdoors in New Zealand, which was to completely rely on back-country huts and neglect to take any useful form of portable shelter. I wrote much more about this issue in a post titled The Hut Fallacy.

It’s sadly common for people to leave portable shelter behind, but it’s also a very risky thing to do in New Zealand, no matter what the conditions and irrespective of the scattered presence of back-country huts and the blind intentions people have of always reaching them just because it seems like a good idea for things to work out. Without such shelter, it really only takes a single mistake or misfortune to find one-self completely at the mercy of the weather. Over those few nights, all over New Zealand, at least 10 people were reported to have found themselves stuck out in the open without having been prepared. It would have been 11 if not for the Alpine Cliff Rescue team that located, walked for 90 minutes through deep snow, and eventually evacuated a lost snowboarder on the side of Mount Taranaki. Although the man was whisked away in a helicopter late in the evening, deteriorating weather meant that the 3 rescuers were left on the mountain. People die in these circumstances. It’s not an uncommon thing, and if the dice fell differently then those few days might have had a significant death toll. Those people were extremely lucky that the weather didn’t do anything worse than keep them cold until morning.

This will always happen, of course. People make mistakes all the time, frequently under the radar and in ways that nobody but themselves ever realises. I’m certainly no exception when it comes to making mistakes, though I do my best to try and think carefully about what happened when I recognise them. Ideally as many people as possible will constructively learn from their own mistakes as much as from other people’s. What gets me with this specific case at Arthur’s Pass, however, is the way that these factors about decisions and preparation weren’t publicly questioned or even mentioned by the party themselves, by any of the media, or (apparently) by the Police Sergeant who ran the rescue and was then quoted to suggest that they’d done everything correctly.

I don’t think it’s necessary to stick people’s heads on pikes or otherwise embarrass them when criticising mistakes, and I’m not trying to point fingers. I may be the next person to screw up in public, but I hope not. It’s important to acknowledge mistakes, however. Not acknowledging a combination of avoidable mistakes, and indeed presenting such an incident as if it was a perfect execution of safety rules, broadcasts an impression that this was an unfortunate coalescence of uncontrollable events whose greatest significance was a vicious battle with the elements and a tale of survival. It doesn’t convey that this would have been avoidable with better preparation, care and decisions, and it doesn’t do justice to all the people who go to lengths to be safe and not require rescue.

It also doesn’t help to inform the general public that it’s possible to be safe in the outdoors despite unfortunate weather, and that discourages people from visiting and appreciating the outdoors.

The current alert from DoC is published as part of the Wairarapa Alerts.

I’ve no idea to what extent the damage is. If anyone happens to know (or has any photos they don’t mind sharing), please feel welcome to comment here.

Edit 24-July-2011: Ross Browne has posted a couple of photos [1, 2] (from a third party) on the Tararua Range Facebook page.

Edit 25-August-2011: As Liam noted in a comment below, the hut now appears to be repaired (although the main track in is still as washed out as it’s been for a while).

I’ve included my submission in the rest of this post. It was something of a rush job in the end, and I re-wrote about two thirds of it this evening having given myself a few more days to think. I hope it came out okay. [Update 7.55pm, 28-6-2011: There were a few grammatical and cut/paste errors towards the end that really annoyed me, so I made some small changes and resubmitted. Hopefully they'll take the revised one instead.]

Freedom Camping Bill Submission

A submission for the Local Government and Environment Committee to consider in relation to the Freedom Camping Bill.

This submission is based on the Freedom Camping Bill at its first reading.

Thanks for the opportunity to submit on the Freedom Camping Bill.  I think the intent of the Bill is a good one, in that it aims to give local authorities and DoC the practical ability to police their own bylaws. That said, I also think some parts of the Bill need careful reconsideration.

The concerns I raise relate to how current wording of the Bill might affect back-country tramping and (in particular) tramping clubs that presently spend some time camping on road-sides. This is despite the Bill’s introductory text which claims that it does not target back-country users. I also believe the wording includes some inconsistencies which should be clarified.

My perspective comes from several years of back-country tramping with a tramping club based in Wellington, although I’m not representing any particular club here. I’ve lived in Melbourne for employment reasons since the start of 2011, but still have a strong interest in happenings in New Zealand.

Burying waste on Conservation Land

The Freedom Camping Bill states that its intent is not to target back-country campers, but in Clause 5(1) the Bill also defines “Freedom Camping” as (among other things) being camping “within 1km of a formed road, [or] a vehicle accessible area” whilst on DoC land. The intent of this clause is presumably to cover areas on the fringes of roads where people might stop and camp, but as written it also appears to cover (for instance) some areas fairly deep into parts of the Tararua and Ruahine Ranges to name a couple of examples. These ranges include vehicle accessible areas in the form of 4 wheel drive tracks, often public roads. Some conservation areas can also feel relatively like back-country whilst still being close to a road. The walk to Rangiwahia Hut in the Ruahine Range, for instance, is signposted as 3 hours due to steep and awkward slopes, but the Hut itself is still less than 2km from a road.

Problem: Waste restrictions seem to contradict existing DoC rules

Camping within a significant proportion of Conservation Land that is traditionally treated as back-country by its users might, in fact, be defined by this Bill as “Freedom Camping” despite the policy statement which indicates it “does not target” back-country campers.

For the most part this definition probably doesn’t create practical problems, because most of the Bill’s changes would require for DoC to implement rules in those areas where Freedom Camping might occur. Presumably DoC is unlikely to do this unless it has good reason as defined under the Bill. In at least once case, however, the Bill seems to be inadvertently re-defining back-country policy in these areas with no action from DoC.

Specifically Clause 18(1)(h)(ii) does seem to create a new rule that applies on DoC land for these “Freedom Camping” zones, irrespective of what DoC says. The clause states that it’s an offence to deposit waste onto land unless it’s into a waste receptacle. This is consistent with the existing law for regular rubbish which trampers must carry out, but it’s not presently the case with human waste which the Freedom Camping Bill also targets with its clause. Even according to DoC’s own guidelines [1], toilet waste can be buried in a suitable place as long as there’s no toilet nearby and that doing so meets sensible guidelines, such as being away from waterways. The Freedom Camping Bill seems to change this, saying that it’s no longer okay, but (apparently) only if the perpetrator happens to be camping at the time.

The clause, therefore, seems to be changing New Zealand’s back-country management policy without clear consultation on the change.

Suggestions

Suggestion 1: Carefully consider the Bill in the context of how it might affect back-country management policy through a clause that really seems to be being targeting tourists who camp next to easily accessible roads.

Suggestion 2: Re-consider whether Clause 5(1) should include infrequently used 4 wheel drive tracks on equal terms to regular roads when it refers to “vehicle accessible areas”.

Suggestion 3: Presuming that DoC’s existing guidelines for burying toilet waste are still considered reasonable on conservation land, the Bill should make it clear that digging a hole counts as a suitable “receptacle” as referred to in Clause 18(1)(h)(ii) in such situations, as long as it’s a back-country area.

Bylaws around road-side camping

Many back-country users, particularly but not limited to tramping clubs, camp on the side of roads prior to entering back-country areas. A common scenario for a tramping club might be for a group to leave after work on a Friday night, arrive at a conservation area access point late at night, camp until the following morning, and then start tramping. Arriving at the start of a tramp on Friday night is often desirable so as to maximise weekend time for tramping. Furthermore, the nature of tramping clubs’ interest in visiting obscure places means that it’s often desirable to start and finish trips at uncommon locations which don’t necessarily have reasonable campsites either on or off DoC land.

The most obvious location for camping is sometimes on the side of the road, or (more frequently) at the end of a road that leads into an access point. These roads are nearly always rural, and tend to be well away from popular tourist zones. I can’t speak for those I’ve never met, but it’s my belief from those I have met that members of such clubs are responsible and aim to have minimal impact on any local authority land, just as standard practice on DoC-managed back-country areas is to leave no traces.

The Bill makes clear that when road-side camping is restricted or disallowed, it is Council Bylaws that do so rather than the Freedom Camping Bill itself. As the incoming framework for such bylaws, however, it’s important that the Freedom Camping Bill is consistent and clear about how bylaws should be designed and enforced.

Clause 11(2) of the Bill says that new bylaws must be justified to protect an area, to protect health and safety, or to protect access to an area, and that they must be the most appropriate way of addressing a problem. Furthermore, Clause 11(5) clarifies how local authorities must go through consultation processes when considering Freedom Camping bylaws. These are good rules, but they appear to be contradicted in certain ways by other parts of the Bill.

Problem: The Bill suggests “perceived problems” may be suitable to justify bylaws

Specifically, Clause 11(2)(b) uses the phrase “perceived problem”. Use of the phrase suggests that it may be acceptable to create a bylaw that restricts or prohibits Freedom Camping without having clear evidence that there actually is a problem.

Suggestion: The phrase “perceived problem” should be removed from Clause 11(2)(b), and replaced with text that’s consistent with being clear that problems being addressed must be backed by evidence that proves they exist. Otherwise it suggests, for instance, that bylaws could be justified by exaggerated media reports or anecdotal claims not backed by empirical evidence, and that would be unfair to responsible Freedom Campers who’d like to make use of the affected areas.

Problem: Risks of bylaws being created across-the-board

Schedule 3 and Schedule 4 contain lists of incoming and existing bylaws that will be administered under the Freedom Camping Bill. Many of these bylaws are described as disallowing “Camps other than in designated areas”. I’ve not had an opportunity to read the bylaws in detail, but I’m concerned that at least some councils seem to have decided to restrict or prevent Freedom Camping across the board (with the exception of those specific places they designate), without necessarily considering locations on specific a case-by-case basis.

This may be a practical thing to do when confronted with trying to define places where the problem types of Freedom Campers may choose to camp and cause problems, but such an across-the-board approach, both with the existing bylaws and future bylaws, could result in Freedom Camping being prevented or restricted unnecessarily. It may also contradict Clause 11’s requirements that justification of bylaws be established, particularly if some locations covered haven’t been shown as being likely to experience problems without the restrictions being in place.

Suggestion: Ideally the Freedom Camping Bill would ensure that by-laws could not be made in such ways that restrict or prohibit camping everywhere “except for designated places”. If practicality makes it necessary to allow local authorities to make across-the-board or otherwise wide-reaching bylaws, however, I would like the Select Committee to consider an addition to the Bill that would require councils to consider reasonable requests for exceptions or permits, and to do so in a predictably timely fashion.

Ideally there would be a clear procedure that provides for individuals and organisations to make such requests, and to generally expect a positive response as long as the specified location is one that doesn’t typically experience problems, such as the end of a rural road, and as long as the individual or organisation does not have an unacceptable track record of previously causing problems.

To be useful, such a system needs to guarantee responses from local authorities within reasonable time-frames, preferably within a week or less so as to allow for recreation clubs and others who wish to plan ahead to know when they can expect a response and finalise activities accordingly. Unfortunately it would still not provide for those who simply want to stop wherever they are on short notice, but it would mean that:

• Those who depend on road-side camping at specific places could arrange for it in advance with a reasonable expectation of a considered response.
• People likely to Freedom Camp anyway would have a clear method of asking local authorities for permission with a reasonable expectation of acceptance, rather than being encouraged to do it below board.
• Local authorities (and DoC) would have a more complete idea of where to find people on a night-by-night basis, and if appropriate could check up on them as part of their regular patrols to ensure people are being responsible.
• In cases of a discretion being discovered, such as rubbish being left behind, it would give local authorities (and DoC) starting points for locating those responsible.

This concludes my submission.  Thanks for your consideration.

References

[1] Minimising your impact: Keep streams and lakes clean. Department of Conservation Website Page, available 27th June 2011.  http://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/plan-and-prepare/care-codes/nz-environmental-care-code/keep-streams-and-lakes-clean/

I really hate both terms. The “freedom” prefix implies that camping and tramping aren’t already free and independent things to do. Camping and tramping were free and independent long before tour operators and journalists decided to explicitly label them as such, as if independence was a more novel thing than paying thousands of dollars to have a multi-day guided tour in an area that’s completely free to enter courtesy of New Zealand citizens. I’d much prefer that camping was camping and tramping was tramping, and that the operators and journalists could have adopted a novel term for what they do rather than what everyone else does. “Premium-priced guided walking” would have worked. Whatever.

Sadly one of my two pet hate terms is about to be formalised into New Zealand Law, thanks to the incoming Freedom Camping Bill 2011, which was introduced to parliament a couple of weeks ago. Without this Bill being passed it’s only been possible for local authorities and for the Department of Conservation to pursue the annoying breed of Freedom Campers through courts, which is often far less practical than simply handing out fines (like parking tickets), and so its progression is much to the joy of a lot of local body authorities who should soon be able to police their areas more effectively. DoC and Internal Affairs published a joint Regulatory Impact Statement with reference to the Bill, which can be read here.

It’s likely that the Bill will be pushed through fairly quickly because the government is keen to get it in before hoards of freedom-seeking transients arrive from overseas for November’s Rugby World Cup. Scanning through the text of the Bill, it seems unlikely that this law change will strongly affect back-country tramping experiences, but there’s some crossover potential and a few things to be aware of, perhaps even concerned about, which I’ve listed below.

In essence, the Bill aims to address reported problems whereby increasing numbers of people, allegedly foreign tourists, have been touring around New Zealand and “freedom camping” irresponsibly on roadsides, scenic lookout points, and various other places like public carparks. The consequence, which has become a main driver for this law change, is when these people dump rubbish and (in particular) human excretement along roadsides and scenic viewing points. Probably at least some of these problems have always existed and have been caused by irresponsible New Zealanders, but at the very least there’s anecdotal evidence that backpackers from overseas have made it considerably worse in the last few years. This is the main publicised reason for the law change, anyway. There may also be some concealed interests in forcing tourists to pay money to accommodation businesses rather than getting the camping and accommodation for free down the road.

Local authorities can already make by-laws to control camping in the areas they control, but until now these bylaws have often been fragmented, inconsistent and hard to police. This is especially the case since many people who “freedom camp” are transient, and the requirement to pursue them through courts is difficult, time consuming and expensive. The Freedom Camping Bill doesn’t make it specifically illegal to camp in any part of the country, but instead aims to unify the process by which local authorities make bylaws, issue infringements and issue fines to offenders without needing to take people to court every time. Supposedly this should make it clearer and easier to deal with the supposed problems nationally. The Bill retrospectively recognises a lengthy list of existing bylaws as continuing to be valid, to allow for a smoother transition.

Rather than occuring in the back-country, the most publicised problems occur on land controlled by local authorites and on the fringes of the conservation estate, such as near DoC-controlled camp-sites. Two particular reasons I think this Bill might be relevant for back-country tramping, however, are:

• As well as giving certain powers to local authorities over land they administer, the Bill gives similar powers to DoC over land it administers. For the latter, these powers are mostly intended to be administered only in places that don’t form the main part of the back-country, and section 14(4) specifically says that restrictions can’t be put in place unless it’s consistent with the purpose of the land and any management plans in place. On the other hand, it’s still changing some things around the conservation estate…
• On occasion, people who go tramping will camp on public road-sides before or after entering the back-country, especially in tramping clubs. As a tramping club member, I’ve often camped on public road-sides, typically after arriving at the end of a road late on a Friday night with the intent of getting away early the following morning. Encouragement for local bodies to create unnecessary bylaws might make such camping illegal when it presently isn’t, even though it’s nothing to do with the stereotype “freedom camper” for which the legislation is supposedly being introduced.

Here’s a list of points, and possibly concerns, that stood out to me when reading the Bill.

Burying waste: Section (18)(1)(h) states that waste, including human waste, must be placed into a suitable receptacle when “freedom camping” on conservation land. “Freedom camping” for conservation land is defined as camping within 1km of a vehicle accessible area, or within 1 km of the coast. In other words, this Bill will now make it illegal to bury toilet waste within 1 km of a road-end. In some places this isn’t far to travel, but in others—particularly those with lots of steep climbing—it can take a long time to get a short distance. Rangiwahia Hut in the Ruahines, for instance, is only 2 km from the road but is signposted as a 3 hour walk, and often is. Parts of the Tararuas, to name another example, have 4 public wheel drive vehicle tracks injected quite a long way in, even though it’s close to a back-country experience. If interpreted to the letter, this would be a significant change in back-country management policy, because that 1 kilometer from roads in which any camping is defined as “freedom camping”, and the coast for that matter, juts a significant distance into some parks. It also contradicts DoC’s current advice about burying toilet waste.

“Freedom Camping” allowed by default: Section 10 specifically states that “Freedom Camping” is allowed in any area unless it’s explicitly restricted or prohibited. On DoC land, for instance, it’s necessary to explicitly define a section of land where camping’s not allowed, and only a restricted part of conservation land (around the coast, near roads and near Great Walks) is even eligible for this.

New bylaws must be justified: Section 11(2) states that a local authority may only make a bylaw to block “Freedom Camping” if it’s satisfied that it’s necessary to do so “to protect the area”, “to protect the health and safety of people who may visit the area”, or “to protect access to the area”, and if the bylaw is the most appropriate way of addressing the “perceived problem”, and the bylaw is consistent with the Bill of Rights. Hopefully this will be interpreted to mean that every individual part of the land being restricted has to be clearly reasoned, but I have a feeling it might be interpreted to allow councils to continue creating broad and lazy restrictions on all of their land with only loose reasoning, similar to the long list of existing and upcoming bylaws titled things like “Camps other than in designated area” in Schedule 3 and Schedule 4.

“Perceived” problems: Section 11(2) uses the phrase “perceived problem” which, to me, suggests that we’re on track for encouraging restrictive bylaws for things when there’s really no real proven problem at all. This is especially interesting because when describing how the Bill applies to DoC, there’s no such mention of the word “perceived”. It seems inconsistent to me, and designed to let councils off the hook for badly researched and badly justified bylaws.

The specific offences: Section 18 is worth reading, because it describes the specific offences, which in summary are:

• (a) Camping in a local authority area where it’s been restricted or prohibited.
• (b,d) While Freedom Camping, damaging an area or dumping waste (except into a suitable waste receptacle) in any local authority area.
• (f,g) Camping on DoC land where it’s been restricted or prohibited.
• (h) While Freedom Camping, damaging an area or dumping waste (except into a suitable waste receptacle) in any DoC land.

Defining areas: A point of concern I’m wondering about is the way in which the Bill describes how both DoC and local authorities can create restrictions for camping on their respective lands. When doing so they can provide either a map or a description or both. Sections 11(4) and 15(4), however (being sections that respectively pertain to local authorities and to DoC), state that if there’s any contradiction between the two, the description is authoritative, and there’s no clarity around how specific the description needs to be. In other words, official maps that describe where you can and can’t camp wouldn’t necessarily count for anything. Personally I’d prefer that if either were more authoritative than the other, it was the map. Generally speaking, maps are far more clear and objective.

Consultation required: This was probably happening anyway in many cases, but the Bill confirms in Section 11(5) that local authorities have to go through a special consultation process when considering changes to “Freedom Camping” bylaws.

Other details: The latter parts of the Bill refer to details around penalties and defences. For instance, if your car breaks down and you have to spend the night on the side of the road, it’ll be considered a reasonable excuse and you’d likely be let off. Other notes are that a fine can be up to $10,000, and a further $5,000 if one tries to interfere with the law enforcement process, such as by giving false details. Section (32) states that an enforcement officer must produce his or her warrant of authority whenever reasonably required to do so by any person. So if they try to kick you out, you can ask to see their authority. As far as I can tell, the Bill doesn’t allow for regular police to come along and evict people. Enforcement officers have to be appointed by local authorities or by DoC (as relevant).

Generally it seems good with the intent, but I guess it’s a mixed bag. Some of the concerns I’ve noted may be nothing to worry about, but I’ll need to dwell on them for a while. Thoughts from others are welcome as always.

As a parting thought after reading all this, I’m thinking that if DoC is to be able to issue instant fines to people caught “freedom camping” irresponsibly, why not give DoC some more clout to issue instant fines to people staying in huts without paying hut fees? There would be a bucket-load of instant fine income from warden-avoiding tourists around Tongariro!

What I find most interesting is the media’s reporting of his use of a “Spot-Me” device, although I think it’s far more likely that they meant to say he was using a SPOT Beacon. (Google tells me that a “Spot-Me” device would be a kind’a dumb thing to take into the Tararuas.) The technology in use is interesting because whilst EPIRBs and SPOT Beacons both report positions and can be used for locating a person, they work differently and are generally intended for different purposes.

Unfortunately the reporting’s been unclear and inconsistent about exactly what technology was in use here, but it seems clear that a SPOT Beacon was in use, although a Herald article from this morning specifically states that he also had a “Personal Locator Beacon”, which probably means a 406 MHz EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio beacons, the current standard for requesting a rescue). Some sources (such as that article) state that both beacons were activated on Friday night despite no signal being received until the following afternoon, whereas other sources (such as this article from the DomPost) state that the “Personal Locator Beacon” wasn’t activated until Saturday afternoon. [Edit: Thanks to Heather, there's now a more complete and detailed description of the sequence of events in the comment thread below.]

Whatever actually happened, it’s a nifty excuse to discuss the differences between a SPOT Beacon, and a 406 MHz EPIRB. SPOT Beacons are sometimes touted as drop-in replacements for EPIRBs, but they’re really not. Despite having learned informally, I’m not an expert on the differences between these two devices, so if anyone notices any errors or omissions in what’s below, please feel welcome to leave a comment and I’ll do my best to correct things. (In this respect, thanks Craig.)

Until very recently it was normal to head into the bush without any emergency communications technology at all, except perhaps a mountain radio and for various reasons they were few and far between. It’s no less safe to do so than previously simply because new technology is now available. Certainly in New Zealand’s back-country, safety is the responsibility of those taking the risks. In this case it’s hard to know from limited reports for how long the officer would have survived on his own, but at the very least it sounds as if he was prepared to survive for longer had he not been rescued so quickly, even if not in comfort.

The revolution with improving and more portable emergency communications technology is firstly that it allows for emergency assistance to be requested immediately when there’s an unexpected situation that’s either urgent (such as a head injury or possible secondary drowning) or otherwise means a party can’t get out by themselves. It also reduces the amount of time, resources and expense required for search and response services to locate someone prior to a rescue. For better or worse, this technology also makes it faster and easier to locate and rescue people who are otherwise less prepared than they should be.

Despite having some similarities, SPOT Beacons and 406 MHz EPIRBs are different devices intended for different purposes. While an EPIRB is a device meant never to be used until an emergency arises, a SPOT Beacon is designed with an intent of leaving it switched on for lengthy periods of time to continually indicate one’s position to outside observers. To achieve this, a SPOT Beacon will regularly transmit position information (obtained via GPS) using the Globalstar Satphone network. The associated service then plots these positions, as received, and makes it available through a website for people to follow. SPOT Devices provide a function to send pre-programmed “I’m OK” messages via SMS, and a popular use of a SPOT Beacon is to reassure people at home of where you are at any particular time.

A SPOT Beacon is not primarily designed as an emergency device, however. The emergency function for a SPOT Beacon is more of an appendage rather than part of the fundamental design. An emergency SOS button can be used to request an emergency response, but this signal is not monitored directly or officially by New Zealand emergency services. It gets sent to a company in Texas which then takes responsibility for notifying emergency services in the appropriate country of your position, and that you’re in distress. Batteries are subject to running out as a consequence of needing to leave the device switched on for the more primary uses, even though this might depend on how a person chooses to use the device.

Probably the biggest difference of SPOT Beacons, in an emergency situation, is their method of transmitting via the Globalstar Satphone network. The Globalstar Satellites are low orbit satellites, and consequently they cross any given localised part of the sky relatively quickly and therefore work most reliably when a large part of the sky is visible. Furthermore, a SPOT Beacon requires an adequate GPS signal to know its position if that position is to be transmitted. If the sky is obscured by terrain or otherwise (like if you’re in a deep hole or valley), satellites might not be immediately visible either for GPS, or for receiving transmitted messages.

SPOT’s technique of only working in one direction (transmitting to the satellites without receiving) also makes it impossible for the beacon to know if a particular transmission has been received. Except for an emergency signal which is transmitted continually, a SPOT Beacon will transmit a position 3 times, then it stops trying. In certain parts of the world this works better than others, and (sadly for us) New Zealand tends to be near the edge of the reach of Globalstar satellites meaning that satellites are more likely to be nearer to the northern horizon and obscured by hills or mountains. One response to this post [from Craig] reckons that about 70% of SPOT Beacon positions tend to get through with typical use within New Zealand, compared with near 100% in Texas or California.

This is fine for the SPOT Beacon’s primary purpose of non-emergency situations, for which it’s reasonable to presume it unlikely that a person will remain in an obscured location for long, and it doesn’t matter too much if some transmissions aren’t received. If it’s been a while since a transmission managed to get through, however, and an emergency occurs, then it might not be practical to reach a location where the SPOT Beacon can either receive a suitable GPS fix, or adequately transmit a message.

EPIRBs, on the other hand, are designed to almost never be used, until there’s an emergency. As long as the device has been serviced properly, the battery shouldn’t be a problem when activated. A 406 MHz EPIRB will transmit to the Cospas-Sarsat satellite system, which includes both low-earth orbit and high-orbit geostationary satellites. The satellites are more visible and so it’s more likely that a signal will be received soon after activation. Unlike SPOT, if an EPIRB cannot obtain its position via GPS, the source of a 406MHz signal can still be derived over a period of hours by analysing the signal using a Doppler Shift technique.

The down-side of a 406 MHz EPIRB, compared with a SPOT Beacon, is that EPIRBs really are meant for emergency distress signals, and nothing else. They’re designed so a charged battery can be left inside for years at a time, knowing that it’ll work well if it’s ever needed. Then if and when something happens, you’ll have the best chance of getting a useful signal out, directly to the most relevant people and and irrespective of the availability of GPS. The device can’t be switched on for convenience beforehand to do other things, however, as is the case with a SPOT Beacon.

Generally if you activate an EPIRB (as with a SPOT SOS signal), you should expect to inconvenience many people and cost someone money. In New Zealand, it’ll nearly always be a combination of taxpayers’ money and often the voluntary time and resources of sponsor organisations and regular (but trained) people taking time off work. The good news is that you’re likely to be found and assisted from whatever bad predicament you’re in, within a matter of hours if weather allows. If it wasn’t activated it for a needless reason, the people involved will usually be happier to have helped out than not. Generally though, people are expected to prepare with the intent of not needing it for anything besides real emergencies, and that doesn’t include problems such as being delayed or inconvenienced behind swollen rivers, for instance.

In this particular instance the reports suggest that “It is not known why the technology signal failed”. Behind the scenes, if both devices really were activated on Friday night, it seems most likely that he was probably in a location without a clear enough view of the sky. Or perhaps the SPOT Beacon was activated initially with an I’m Okay signal and the EPIRB was only activated following day when it was clear that many people were out searching regardless. Maybe someone in the know who reads this can clear it up. Irrespective of the details, either of these devices has potential to succeed or fail, but an EPIRB is most likely to succeed in getting out an emergency signal quickly, or at all. It doesn’t make it a critical device to be carrying on any and every trip, but it’s always a good idea to consider what’s appropriate in the context of where one’s going, how many people are involved, conditions, and endless other circumstances that can affect things. Maybe you’d even be better off with a Mountain Radio.

Update, 1.44pm 9-May-2011: Shortly after posting this I noticed that this explanation has popped up on Stuff as of a couple of hours ago, courtesy of the Manawatu Standard. The Police Press Release about the incident also clarifies some things. It confirms that the officer was happily continuing (though possibly ‘happily’ is an overstatement), and presuming that the SPOT Beacon was transmitting the “I’m OK” signals based on the device’s instructions which indicated that only a clear sky was needed. It turns out they weren’t getting through, and he activated his EPIRB at 2.40pm on Saturday once he correctly inferred that overhead helicopters were searching for him, helping them to quickly find him and avoid a drawn out search effort. Given the search was already underway, it was a good idea to activate the EPIRB.

This Thursday will be the 16th anniversary of the Cave Creek Disaster. Besides the impact it had on many people and families, the accident also had a profound impact on DoC and its management of much of New Zealand’s outdoors. At the time it was the most serious accident to have occurred in modern times on the Conservation Estate, short of aircraft accidents. The implications were not shaped just by the accident itself, but in the numerous factors and fundamental faults in DoC’s design from the beginning. These flaws created a situation that would very likely have led to a serious accident sooner or later.

From time to time I’ve met people (often from outside New Zealand) who needed explanation of what happened at Cave Creek. Despite having followed news at the time, and remembering bits from a television documentary that screened in 1998, I was also young when it happened. It’s only after trying to explain the significance of the event that I found I really didn’t know as much detail as I thought I did. Therefore I’ve tried to research things from (easily) available sources, and collated it here. I’ve attempted to present things accurately and hopefully opinionated bits will be easily distinguished. With a few exceptions I’ve removed names because I don’t think they’re relevant, but all of that should be fairly easy to discover for those interested. As always, I welcome any comments or corrections in the comments section.

THE ACCIDENT

In 1995, Tai Poutini Polytechnic continued to develop its Outdoor Recreation course for those wanting a career in outdoor pursuits, with training in a wide range of outdoor activities. That year 40 students took the course, and to make things manageable they were split into two groups of 20. Between the 27th and 28th of April, Group A and then Group B would take part in a field trip meant specifically for non-recreational studies. In essence, it was a guided visit to the bush, to learn a few things and foster an appreciation of the environment in which they’d likely be working. This time they’d visit an area that included the Cave Creek Resurgence, and a platform located 30 metres above a chasm would allow viewing of the point at which Cave Creek emerged from an underground cave system (here it is on a map).

On the day before the accident, Shirley Slatter, the Information Manager of DoC’s Punakaiki Visitor Centre, accompanied course tutor John Skilton and 20 students of Group A to the platform. As people stood on the platform, Ms Slatter thought she noticed it move slightly. This concerned her, and afterwards she managed to persuade Stephen O’Dea, the new manager of the visitor’s centre who’d not yet seen the platform, to come along with Group B the following day and check it out. Ms Slatter even went as far to suggest that people probably shouldn’t be allowed to crowd onto the platform at once. It simply never occurred to her that the situation had been so serious, and for then at least she was content with reporting her concerns.

At about 11.25am on Friday 28th April, Ms Slatter had been held up at the back of the group, with Mr Skilton (the course tutor) and three students. Meanwhile Stephen O’Dea and most of the students in Group B crowded onto the platform. Several students began to jump up and down, shaking the platform for some fun^*. Unexpectedly the platform surged forward and dropped, then fell 30 metres into the gorge below. Everyone standing on the platform fell with it. Ms Slatter, Mr Skilton, and three remaining students who’d lagged behind, reached the location shortly afterwards. At first only the two adults realised there should have been a platform, but soon they all began to hear shouting coming from below.

Youtube’s hosting a short video that shows the area into which the platform fell.

The events of the rescue and recovery that followed are a detailed public record in Part Two of the Commission of Inquiry Report, linked above, and I’ll not dwell on them here. A total of 18 people fell with the platform. 14 of them, including DoC worker Stephen O’Dea, died either immediately or very soon after impact. The other four students who fell survived with injuries, mostly serious and of a nature with which they continue to live.

Immediately after the accident, inspections were carried out on 520 comparable structures throughout conservation land^**. 65 were closed for repairs due to their assessments being inconclusive or worse. DoC also established a toll-free “safety watch” phone, with which people could report actual or potential hazards observed during their visit to conservation areas^***. Today, as was even the case soon afterwards, it’s no big secret that Cave Creek wasn’t a freak accident, or unpreventable. It was a tragic consequence of the way that the Department of Conservation had come to be organised and operated from its formation in 1987 through to eight years later.

A BRIEF AND SELECTIVE HISTORY OF DOC

In 1987, after several years of consultation, the government of the day folded together the functions of the New Zealand Forest Service, the Lands and Survey Department, and both the Wildlife Service and the Archaeology Section of the New Zealand Historic Places Trust from within the Department of Internal Affairs. The resulting Department of Conservation also absorbed responsibilities of other smaller entities such as the NZ Walkways Commission. The change would mean that one combined entity could finally manage and balance the conflicting interests throughout the conservation estate with a unified approach, addressing a variety of problems that existed previously where several government entities would sometimes have conflicting interests. Unprecedented for government departments at the time, DoC even had a legislated role to advocate for the environment—a reason why (to this day) DoC applies its expertise to submissions on major resource consents.

Recreation users, in part represented by Federated Mountain Clubs, were optimistic about the potential benefits of a single department with a unified approach, albeit cautious of some of the details, and a weekend seminar of clubs concluded the following (among many other things):

FMC people have long experience of working with Forest Service and Lands and Survey staff, especially rangers. There should be a much greater commonality of purpose now with the formation of DoC. Our concerns for the future administrative relationship are three fold: (1) that the input of amateur users like ourselves is not lost; (2) that the principle of user pays is publicly evaluated before anymore implementation; (3) that DoC is given the skills and finances to pursue conservation objectives formulated through public consultation.
- Federated Mountain Clubs Bulletin 88 (December 1986).

What was created was a very de-centralised department with a massive and diverse task but a small head office, and in which regional offices were almost entirely autonomous in many respects. A DoC publication from 2007 exemplifies how tricky it was to run things in the beginning:

Compounding the issue was that DOC had been launched with no central financial system; the eight DOC regions around the country and 34 districts operated more or less autonomously. It was difficult to track overall expenditure, at a time when offices were being set up, and physical assets divvied out in the environmental restructuring. The State-owned enterprises Landcorp and Forestry Corporation were believed to have taken the good vehicles, leaving DOC a motley collection. There was a tendency to grab assets whether needed or not, and wheeling and dealing became popular at district level: in one transaction, a grader was traded for a photocopier.

Those who could splashed out on flash office fit-outs which incurred instant public condemnation from the environmental NGOs: the money was supposed to have gone on conservation gains, not Maurice Kain fabrics and pink-and-grey corporate interiors. It was partly for this perceived extravagance that government would come down so heavily on the Department.
- A short history of the Department of Conservation (2007).

When a new government came into office from 1990, its priority was not to foster conservation or recreation, and certainly not in a way largely funded by taxpayers. The Conservation Vote was allocated to Denis Marshall, only a Junior Minister outside the Cabinet, and with little influence in advocating for funding and resources amongst other ministers. Where emphasis existed on recreation, it tended to be targeted towards a small slice of ventures expected to pay for themselves. This was the birth of highly maintained “Great Walks”, predominantly targeted at overseas tourists and often nick-named New Zealand’s tramping super-highways by local users of the back-country.

Over time it became apparent to stakeholders of the conservation estate that the Department of Conservation was less effective than its predecessors, if not completely ineffective, in many areas where it was supposed to be carrying out statutory functions as declared by law. For example, Ron Bennett of Federated Mountain Clubs commented on the intentions of the NZ Walkways Act that had previously been managed by the Walkways Commission, saying:

…experience has shown that with its great diversity in areas of responsibility and demand on its diminishing funds, DoC has not been able to service the walkway system adequately. [...] At the present time DoC is forced to confine much of its maintenance activity of walking tracks to areas where there is likelihood of some cost recovery, hence the concept of the “Great Walks”. This has led to some overuse of such tracks, and while popular with overseas visitors, most New Zealanders having tramped these “Great Walks” once or several times seek other areas of interest.
- Federated Mountain Clubs Bulletin 121 (August 1995).

In its first few years, during which time the fatal platform had been conceived, designed and built, the Department of Conservation had never recovered from being an entity that was decentralised, inconsistent, internally disorganised, under-staffed and under-funded, despite the absolute dedication of many of its employees, who’d often work voluntary overtime to get the jobs done with minimal resources.

INVESTIGATING THE COLLAPSE

On 8th May 1995, within weeks of the platform collapse, District Judge Graeme Noble was appointed as a Commission of Inquiry to investigate the cause. The inquiry sparked controversy before it began, because its formal terms of reference as defined by the Prime Minister and Cabinet did not specifically ask the Inquiry to follow trails related to the department’s resourcing and staff turnover. This was much to the frustration of several groups such as Forest & Bird and Federated Mountain Clubs. These groups strongly believed that government policies of funding cuts were almost certainly a root cause in the state of the department and consequential accident. Later, FMC President Hugh Barr (rarely one to mince words) angrily wrote under a heading “Government Coverup”:

From the time of the tragedy, information thoughtfully provided by club members on the Coast showed DoC’s West Coast Conservancy grossly under-staffed because of inadequate funds. There were at least fifteen vacancies over the whole of the Coast, and a constant turnover of staff, especially at Punakaiki. TV showed clearly, too, that use of nails rather than the usual nuts and bolts was the primary cause of the collapse. Four confidential reports available only to [Cabinet] addressed the cause of the collapse, an internal DoC assessment, an external DoC report, and reports from the Police and Labour Department (Occupational Safety & Health). Based on these, the Cabinet decided to hold a Commission of Inquiry into the cause of the collapse. They took almost a week to carefully narrow down the terms of reference on DoC, and the direct causes of the tragedy, and avoid the underlying causes due to Government, such as underfunding and high staff turnover.
- Federated Mountain Clubs Bulletin 123 (March 1996).

The report was released in November 1995. Despite the restriction on formally questioning funding and staff turnover, the Commission of Inquiry still found reasons to comment on how the department was under strain when carrying out its required duties. For instance:

A lack of money was not the cause of the Cave Creek collapse. None of the department’s witnesses suggested it was. Neither do I. But in my view, the inadequacy or otherwise of funding is highly relevant to this inquiry in providing a background against which the evidence and submissions can be judged.
- Section One, page 43.

The position at the Punakaiki Field Centre well illustrated the under-resourcing/under-staffing dilemma. It is clear from the evidence that the prevailing culture was one of seeking to do more with less and of working long hours in order to cope with changing priorities—shifting the goal posts, as one witness put it.
- Section One, page 50.

As the “dominant” cause of collapse, Judge Noble found from engineering evidence “that the platform was not constructed in accordance with sound building practice. This resulted in a total and catastrophic failure”. Besides the dominant cause, however, he found over 30 “if only” circumstances, which all came together. Six such circumstances were properly identified as secondary causes, whereby if things had been done differently the accident would not have occurred, or at the very least would have had less casualties.

One of these secondary causes, and the first mentioned, was the failure to provide qualified engineering input into design and approval of the project. Essentially, the platform had not been either designed by or approved by an appropriately qualified engineer. The height and steepness of the cliff face meant that a geo-technical report should have been sought about the site prior to design, but was not. The design documents were also not suitably specific, and weren’t even known to exist by those who eventually assembled the platform on-site.

Judge Noble stressed that these causes needed to be carefully considered against the diversity of services provided by the Department, its structure to this point, the resources available, the staff and pressures being placed upon them, the adequacy of resources, and increasing demands. With these in mind, it’s easier to appreciate how the design and building of the platform was carried out by workers in the West Coast Conservancy who weren’t qualified engineers or adequately familiar with New Zealand Building Standards, despite being extremely dedicated to their jobs and prepared to do “anything asked” of them towards getting more done with less. Staff in the conservancy were responsible for activities and facilities within its boundaries, but nobody in the chain had sufficient training to even recognise that specialists needed to be consulted. Short staffing problems fostered further mis-communications when it came to approvals of plans.

Construction of the platform occurred at hap-hazard intervals as time allowed between other duties, during the months between December 1992 when a pre-fabricated structure was flown to the site, and April 1994 when concrete steps were finally poured. When the project of the platform and surrounding tracks had been stalled for a while, a working bee was called from about 20 DoC staff within the area. Most had had little to do with the project until this point, the platform’s construction was seen largely as just another part of the related track upgrade works rather than a structure of its own, and this is when most of the on-site assembly occurred. No plans were taken to the site, nobody on-site considered there might even have been plans, and there was no clarity about who was in charge or taking responsibility for the work at the time. The platform that was finally built did not represent the original plans. A seven metre section of steel, intended as a structural link between the platform and its counterweight of concrete steps, had never even reached the site. When the concrete was finally poured next to a platform that was believed to be already completed, it went completely unrealised that such a critical component for the original design was missing. A bag of bolts which had reached the site was never used.

The report concluded that the platform should have been designed by a qualified engineer, the plans should have been followed, that construction should have been carried out by suitably skilled tradespeople, and that the project should have been properly planned, sequenced and managed. The do-more-with-less culture within the department had led to none of this happening, however, just as it led to nobody considering that it even needed to happen.

One of the Commission of Inquiry’s findings was that the Department of Conservation had clearly broken the law, both the Building Act, and the Health and Safety in Employment Act. As a national entity, the Department of Conservation had been slow to react to the recently introduced Building Act of 1991 which introduced the requirement for Building Consents. The decentralised structure meant that some conservancies had things well in hand, but others didn’t and communications from head office had been confusing. When a person within the West Coast Conservancy who was knowledgeable of the relevant part of the law discovered that the platform existed, and realised it had no consent, it was found that the original plans had little relevance to the structure anyway. New plans were hastily and retrospectively thrown together, on a small budget, with the help of a volunteer exchange student from Germany, but the plans made incorrect assumptions about the inadequate design of the foundations of the platform, which would have been impossible to determine without pulling it apart. In the end, the retrospective application was never even submitted, because a misunderstanding with the Buller District Council caused the DoC staff member to think that it made no sense to submit a building consent application for a structure that already existed.

In hindsight, submitting a consent application would have started a paper trail within the Buller District Council that might have led to a better inspection of the structure taking place by qualified engineers. Even so, it’s unlikely that the fundamental problems would have been discovered given the incorrect plans and the impossibility of examining underneath without dismantling it. With the Building Act being so new, Judge Noble found that demoralised, overworked and ultimately unqualified staff didn’t clearly understand how a building consent application was a safety device, or anything more than additional perplexing paperwork of a similar nature to a resource consent, thereby being something they could work out themselves with less bureaucracy. Believing that submitting an application would be pointless, the plans were eye-balled and it was decided they were good enough, despite no physical viewing of the structure. The only registered engineer employed within all of New Zealand by the Department of Conservation “first became aware of the Cave Creek platform after it had fallen”. _{(Part 1, page 90)}

When considering the issue of inspections, the Inquiry noted that the platform was never formally inspected during or after its construction. DoC had systems in place to inspect certain structures, such as bridges, even if the inspections weren’t always of the highest standard. The viewing platform, however, had remained entirely off the record and was never entered onto a list of structures requiring regular inspections. Those who built it merely considered the platform “as part of the Cave Creek upgrade works which included the track and associated boardwalks and stairs, and not as a structure in itself that required any formal inspection”.

Inspections might also have been the responsibility of the Buller District Council, which appeared to have better procedures in place than the West Coast DoC Conservancy. Unfortunately the absence of a Building Consent application and subsequent paper trail meant that the council had no more knowledge of the platform’s existence than most of DoC. Informal and ad-hoc inspections occurred by those who built the platform, and also by an acting Field Centre Manager who—for separate reasons—believed there were problems with the railings when young children were concerned. A critical conclusion of Judge Noble, however, was that even if inspections had been carried out they most likely would not have detected the most serious problems with the platform, due to usual assumptions with inspections that design documents would be accurate.

A further issue brought to light was a lack of warning signs, although this was probably the least significant of identified secondary causes. Warning signs that suggested a maximum of 5 people had been ordered, but were since forgotten and remained in a workshop. Had the signs been in place the platform might not have collapsed, although Judge Noble also pointed to evidence from both DoC and qualified engineers that the signs had not been intended for safety, but only for practicality in standing on the platform, and that a design for such a structure should always be expected to withstand as many people as might reasonably crowd onto it. Even had the signs been installed, it’s likely that the platform would have collapsed sooner or later.

SYSTEMATIC FAILURE

The pre-eminent secondary cause was determined as Systematic Failure.

DoC’s submission to the inquiry had claimed that there was no single or deliberate wrong-doer, and that the accident had occurred due to “multiple errors, whose combination was not defeated by the systems of management, inspection and control which we have.” During the hearing, Alan Edmonds, a Deputy Director from DoC’s head office, also claimed that systems existed on the West Coast for building suitable structures.

Whilst accepting that there were no single or deliberate wrong-doers, Judge Noble refused to accept that “existing systems” were at fault on the grounds that it was clear that “there was simply not in place (at least within the West Coast Conservancy) a management system structured to ensure that projects were adequately and properly conducted from conception to final inspection.” He pointed out that despite the existence of informal systems, some working better than others, no evidence had been presented to indicate the existence of any proper department-wide project management system, or that anyone in the organisation had been given the responsibility of preparing one.

The Commission of Inquiry made a point of noting that from its inception, DoC had lost the expertise, coordination and systems developed by its predecessors, and that this contributed to the chief cause of the accident. For instance:

“The old New Zealand Forest Service seems to have had a carefully structured system using appropriately skilled employees for designing and building quality structures. Those systems are no longer evident within the Department of Conservation and the appropriately skilled employees have either gone or are doing different jobs. I believe that the department was malformed at birth; no place for the necessary systems was ever provided.”
- Section One, page 37.

Of the upper management of the Department, he also expressed concerns about the culture of accountability, or lack of it:

I do not intend to denigrate or reflect in any way upon the veracity of any individual but, unhappily, I was left with the impression that these very capable people from the top levels of the department’s hierarchy simply did not seem to appreciate the concept of accountability in personal terms as it applies, for example, to the private sector^****. Knowing one is accountable requires consciously acting in a manner that takes account of all known pitfalls. It requires one consciously to adopt a risk analysis and risk management approach. This concept scarcely needs explanation in the private sector, where being accountable may mean loss of wages, a job, a business or profits, or damages, or some other form of financial disadvantage. But in this part of the New Zealand public sector I am left with the uneasy impression that the understanding of accountability is blurred. I accept that those in the department’s ranks affected by the tragedy have and will continue to suffer emotionally, but otherwise it is difficult to see what Cave Creek really means. For the future, it needs to be clearly understood that failure to be accountable will result in some real and tangible sanction.
- Section One, page 114.

To conclude its pages, the report once again cited problems with reforms and funding within the government as one of the likely causes:

What caused this catastrophe to happen? Standing back and viewing the evidence objectively, that I am left with the overwhelming impression that the many people affected—victims and their families, department employees and their families, and others closely associated with the disaster—were all let down by faults in the process of government departmental reforms.

Society always likes to feel it is progressing, but there are lessons for society in all of this. No government organisation can do its job without adequate resourcing. In my opinion, it is up to governments to ensure that departments charged with carrying out statutory functions for the benefit of the community are provided with sufficient resources to enable them to do so. Here, the evidence is clear that the Department of Conservation lacked and continues to lack those resources. For future safety that must change.
- Section Two, page 93.

REPORT REPERCUSSIONS

Shortly before the report was publicised in November 1995, the DoC Regional Conservator for the West Coast Conservancy, Bruce Watson, resigned. His decision was to the disappointment of many who knew him and did not believe him to be responsible for the accident, but he reasoned it was “to allow the Conservancy a fresh start” and as “a gesture of reconciliation”.

Early in July, the government allocated a one-off $1 million towards repairing and eventually re-opening the majority of the structures that had been closed immediately after the accident. These structures included boardwalks, bridges, stairways, and wharves/jetties. The report still meant a political fall-out, however, and concerns were mounting within the government about how DoC’s resourcing issues would be viewed. Months prior to the report’s release, FMC President Hugh Barr wrote:

Papers released to Labour Conservation Spokesman John Blincoe showed that the Government was so concerned about conservation underfunding becoming linked to the Cave Creek tragedy that it wrongly accused Departmental staff of “winding up” public debate about it. Director-General Bill Mansfield assured Minister of Conservation Denis Marshall on 10 May 1995 that “All departmental managers throughout the country have been advised on an almost daily basis to refrain from any comment on funding issues. All staff were issued with a written instruction to the same effect.”
- FMC Bulletin 125 (August 1996)

Despite the report having found DoC in breach of both the Building Act, and the Health and Safety in Employment Act, clauses in both those acts at the time exempted the Crown from prosecution. Whereas a regular business would most likely have been prosecuted by the Department of Labour, nothing similar occurred with the Cave Creek collapse. Nevertheless, approximately $2.6 million was paid to the victims’ families in compensation.

The government of the day argued that responsibility for the accident lay within the department itself, and that under-resourcing of DoC could not be used to explain incompetence by the organisation. Soon after its release in November, Prime Minister Jim Bolger criticised the findings with an unfortunate comment that the platform failed “essentially because it lacked about $20 worth of bolts to hold it together”, a comment that haunted him for some time. Denis Marshall, Minister of Conservation since the residing government had taken office in 1990, responded to the report in parliament.

As Minister I am responsible for the Department of Conservation, and in that context the buck stops with me. In this regard I have considered my position very carefully and have thought deeply about it. My resignation would not be a remedy. My resignation would not bring these young people back to life. My resignation would not fix things. It would not remedy the systemic problems that contributed to this accident. It would be a way of emphasising the fact that I am profoundly sorry. But for all the symbolic power of a resignation, I do not intend to proceed from sorrow to abdication.

I want to mention a quotation of Sir Geoffrey Palmer’s about personal responsibility. He wrote in 1987 that Ministers are not personally responsible for everything that is done in their name, for any error made by a member of their department. Blame can be attached only if the Minister could have prevented the mistake or was aware of a possibility of its occurrence. “Ministers should be plainly and clearly accountable for what they do and what they decide, but it is unrealistic for them to take the rap for things they do not know about and did not authorise.”
- Parliamentary Debate—Denis Marshall (Minister of Conservation), Wednesday, November 22, 1995.

Nick Smith, MP for Tasman (and a member of the government), wasn’t the only MP to echo an oft-repeated belief within and outside parliament that a conclusion of “systematic failure” with no specific individual responsibility was not good enough:

The design and construction of the platform read like a horror story. The platform was designed by a motor mechanic, and built by a team of four people, none of whom had any appropriate qualifications, although two had totally irrelevant university degrees. I find it unbelievable that at least seven departmental staff were so incompetent as to knowingly condone the construction of a platform overhanging a 30 metre chasm without any engineering knowledge whatsoever. I find it unbelievable that the inspection was carried out by a forester, and then another inspection was carried out by an exchange student, again with no qualifications.

The excuse of insufficient funding is a cop-out. The funding provided for this project was perfectly adequate for it to be professionally designed and inspected to the best building standards. Anyone with knowledge of the building and construction industry can be left only with the impression that the Department of Conservation was a bungling bureaucracy incapable of building the platform either efficiently or safely.
- Parliamentary Debate—Nick Smith (MP for Tasman), Wednesday, November 22, 1995.

Calls for the Minister to resign were rife, however. Jim Sutton, MP for Timaru (and in opposition), was one of many to make thoughts known in the house when he said:

I quote from the report of the commissioner, Judge Noble: “The department was negligent. It acted unlawfully.” It is the Minister’s duty to make sure that the department acts lawfully. It is the Minister’s duty. He sat in Cabinet when the Building Bill, which became the Act, was discussed, and when it was debated whether it should bind the Crown. Cabinet decided it should. But did the Minister say to his director-general: “Does this affect our department? Are we covered? Are we observing our duties?” Did he? We have not heard. I think we can reasonably assume that he did not. [...] This Minister must resign.
- Parliamentary Debate—Jim Sutton (MP for Timaru), Wednesday, November 22, 1995.

Denis Marshall eventually resigned roughly a year after the accident, at about the same time as the government announced a “Green Package” in its budget which allocated $11.5 million to DoC for “targeted programmes”. The budget was criticised for still leaving existing programmes and staff salaries inadequately funded. Even so, something suggested by the Commission of Inquiry was that DoC’s problems were far deeper than simple lack of funding.

The loopholes that had prevented the Government from being prosecuted continued to exist for another six years, before a new government finally bound its departments to the same standards as everyone else. Scepticism still existed about how meaningful it would be, such as an editorial from the NZ Herald which argued that having the government prosecute itself made little sense, and only the Private Sector could ever be truly accountable.

The demand for individual responsibility continued. In 2002, lawyer Grant Cameron who represented several families of the victims, asked for a new inquiry to be opened towards prosecution of individual DoC staff for manslaughter. At one point he said:

It’s my personal view that there was a wealth of evidence for prosecution (against DoC individuals) and it’s inconceivable that the Crown Law Office and police could come to a different opinion.
- Father continues Cave Creek fight, The Press, 2 Nov 2002. (Hosted by GCA Lawyers)

Mr Cameron cited a police report from soon after the accident by Detective Inspector Kevin Burrowes, which had recommended that criminal charges should be laid against individuals who’d been involved in the building and approval. By that time, the report had been lost, although Police indicated that it was unlikely prosecution would go ahead even if it was found, noting that it had only been part of a larger file on the case, and that the original decision not to prosecute had been “based on advice from the soliciter-general and senior legal advisors in Christchurch”. [Cave Creek Judicial Review Mooted, The Press, 26 June 2002, Hosted by GCA Lawyers]

CHANGES FOR DOC

In 1995, after eight years of operations, DoC was not coherent or organised enough to even have a complete and accurate idea of what it was responsible for, or where its existing money was being spent. Besides making it difficult to manage existing resources usefully, this would have made it even more difficult to put forward a proper case to the government to ask for more funding. A follow-up review of DoC by the State Services Commissioner pointed out that:

“The Department’s core functions have never been costed on a zero base. The Department is therefore not well placed to put forward an objective case for additional funds where its obligations increase.
- SSC Review of the Department of Conservation, 16th December 1995 (PDF).

In other words, the fact that DoC really didn’t know where its money was going, or whether it was being spent usefully, meant it was tough to justify asking for more money. All of this, therefore, meant major changes within DoC, not just to improve and standardise its internal project and risk management systems, but to improve the systems that would help DoC to keep tabs on what was actually happening. It would be a reversal of the policy-to-date of having a de-centralised organisation towards one that would be more coherently run from three regional offices, now reduced to just the Northern Regional Office and the Southern Regional Office.

Within months, the nearly 13,000 km network of tracks throughout New Zealand had been walked. Every building and every structure, including signs, was documented, photographed, assigned a number, and assessed for required maintenance. All of this information would eventually be recorded in what would become a new and central Visitor Assets Management System (VAMS). In 2005, Hugh Logan (Director-General of the Department of Conservation) wrote:

The VAMS informs staff when structures are due for inspection or other maintenance work and sends an automated message to the relevant area manager. [...] One of the spin-offs of developing the VAMS is that we now know how much it costs to own our visitor infrastructure. We have reviewed our visitor assets and reported on this to the Government. As a result, the Government committed $349 million over 10 years, starting in 2002-2003, to implementing DOC’s Recreation Opportunities Review.
- Cave Creek: Ten Years On.

Asset numbers stamped on virtually every artificial structure with a connection to DoC have now become a ubiquitous part of many parts of the back-country. Today they’re generally accepted (and personally I try to joke about them), though early on in particular, recreational users sometimes took it as an insult that huts and structures they’d helped to voluntarily build, prior to the days of DoC, now appeared to have been usurped as “government assets”. The asset numbers were also an example, for some, of how they believed DoC was going too far in its changes.

Last year I walked part of the Freshwater Track, Stewart Island, which crosses pakihi-like land. Some years ago, simple “steps” of 75mm diam. manuka, cut and nailed on the spot, had been laid flat to prevent damp patches from becoming boggy. They are simple, cheap, effective. Each one now has a numbered orange Formica plate double-screwed to it! Critical comments are made in the hut book about the expense to do this. No doubt each of these items is now computer-listed as “structures”, and hence capital assets, that require regular field expenses and computer up-dating and will be used as an argument for financial allocations in this area.
- Ray Forsyth, Federated Mountain Clubs Bulletin 130 (November 1997).

DoC has also become very risk conscious, including having developed formal safety standards for its infrastructure. A side effect of DoC’s new tool for viewing its “assets” was to shine attention upon some of the structures that had previously been overlooked. Ongoing resourcing limitations often meant that if DoC couldn’t maintain a hut, bridge or other structure to a standard judged as “safe”, it might instead be removed. Sometimes these removals were justified for derelict structures of little or no use, but in other cases, users began to notice useful or important structures being removed with little or no consultation. Old FMC bulletins offer a plethora of comment from trampers regarding the changes in DoC. In an article titled “Idiot Winds, ‘Resolving’ safety issues on the DoC Estate”, Geoff Spearpoint was very critical and attracted general agreement when citing an example of the removal of a bridge over Strachan Creek:

Early bush travellers recognised the difficulties in normal conditions of crossing Strachan Creek on this lowland route from the Burke to the Okuru River, and accordingly put up a two wire crossing over the chasm that Strachan Creek flows through. [...] Later on, [the Forestry Service] replaced the two wire with a standard Forestry Service bridge. A falling branch snapped some of the “U” shapped aluminium droppers and the bridge was declared “unsafe”. However, the safety issue is now resolved, at least as far as DoC is concerned, by the removal of the bridge. They have removed what they saw as the liability, and it was justified by the zoning—remote experience—without further public reference. [...] Far from making Strachan Creek “safe”, DoC has effectively increased the chances of a fatality here. Part of Forestry Service’s bridge programme was to reduce drowning fatalities in the hills, and in that it was very successful. That aim seems to have been forgotten. It’s not a lesson we should have to re-learn.

[..] Look through any DoC strategy—it will be full of charts and figures from tourism boards to predict future usage. [...] But you are unlikely to see any historical data on more traditionally used facilities as a planning starting point. [..] I know that DoC began only 10 years ago. But the Estate they took over to manage on behalf of taxpayers (which is still where more than 80% of their funds come from) has been used by outdoor Kiwis for much longer. Many structures superficially referred to as “recent Forestry Service” ones were often only replacements for earlier backcountry users’ versions. These have existed in one form or another for generations because of a consistent problem at a particular spot. Because little is written, it is too easy to wrongly assume that these facilities began with the Forestry Service.

DoC has been driving the high standard tourist track-barrow for some time now. DoC’s own figures clearly show that the primary beneficiaries of that policy have been people from overseas. [...] I have no problem with that except that DoC then says it has no money to maintain traditional recreational facilities for NZers in the hills. It clearly has the money which, by its expenditure, it has simply prioritised for the tourist industry, which I find completely unsatisfactory. The Conservation Act states very clearly that the Department should actively foster recreation while only allowing for tourism.
- Geoff Spearpoint, Federated Mountain Clubs Bulletin 129 (August 1997).

Supported by:

Since the Cave Creek incident DoC is leaning towards being responsible for only Rolls-Royce-standard structures, and getting quit of anything of lesser standard. Although the latter action, in Geoff’s view, may actually reduce public safety, it does protect the department from possible litigation. Better, in my opinion, to have erected a warning notice at the Strachan Creek bridge (complete with DoC disclaimer).
- Trev Jones, Federated Mountain Clubs Bulletin 130 (November 1997).

Over time DoC has come to make exceptions with removing structures in cases where local organisations have agreed to voluntarily keep them maintained to a reasonable standard. In 2000, shortly after the change in government, the new Minister of Conservation was questioned in Parliament:

Ian Ewen-Street (Green Party List MP): Before the Department of Conservation demolishes a back-country hut, does it offer the opportunity for local organisations to take over responsibility for that hut so that it can remain available to members of the public; if not, why not?

Hon. SANDRA LEE (Minister of Conservation): I have instructed my department to—as it was going to do, anyway—engage in widespread consultation with community organisations as part of the programme. There are some huts that will be demolished because they are past their physical use-by date and issues of safety can be involved, as with other structures. As the Minister I take that matter very seriously indeed, as I do the findings of Judge Noble after Cave Creek. The member can be assured that ultimately the decision rests with me, and I would have to be satisfied that the community endorsed the proposal and supported, possibly, in some cases, joint management or other arrangements between non-governmental organisations and the department.
- Parliamentary Questions—Thursday, August 17, 2000.

Strict adherence to the law is now a priority within DoC, as it should be, although at times there are still questions and disagreement around how DoC interprets law and responds. In 2008, it was noticed that the lack of a second Fire Exit for many six bunk back-country huts might have put them in breach of the Building Act, despite the intent of that requirement having been meant for urban developments. For some huts the situation was easily remedied by placing a new “Fire Exit” sign over a window, but for huts in which the design lacked such a window, the solution was trickier. In a flurry of legal conformance, and to the disbelief of some onlookers (including myself) who knew beyond a doubt that the number of beds in a hut has zero influence on how many will sleep in it, workers in some DoC conservancies were required to remove the sixth bunk from the hut ensuring that it could be officially labelled as a five person hut, thereby only requiring one Fire Exit. These removals slowed when it became clear that urgent changes to the Building Act were likely to succeed, allowing remote structures used for such purposes as back-country huts to be treated differently from regular urban accommodations.

Mid King Biv, infrequently visited in the Tararuas, is a
two person box with a single door and no space to stand
upright. DoC’s policy requires that it contains at least four
signs that will likely be familiar to anyone who visits,
even when there’s nowhere to fit them.

If there’s an irony in the outcome of the Cave Creek accident, I think it might be that by far one of the most visible changes in DoC’s attitude is the excessive signage that now decorates the back-country, notably warning signs, and particularly given that “signs” were probably the only secondary cause mentioned which would have been unlikely to prevent an eventual serious accident at Cave Creek. Today, even in remote and rarely visited places, nearly every bridge has attached signs warning that no more than one person should cross at a time, except recently constructed bridges which most likely have documentation of design for higher loads. Every constructed dwelling has giant Fire Exit signs, even if the one and only exit is painfully obvious. Standard warning signs tell people to ensure adequate ventilation when cooking, even when the only practical place to cook is outside. Additional signs remind people that they may wish to treat or boil the “provided water”, as likely to be a nearby river as not, despite a verbose acknowledgement that it’s probably clean and drinkable anyway.

Overall I think the changes in DoC following the Cave Creek tragedy are a big improvement over the way that DoC worked pre-1995. I expect most would agree, even if some of the implementation has occurred in ways that haven’t always been a smooth ride. It’s helped that a more friendly government from 1999 onwards was prepared to commit more resources to the department, although (as mentioned) DoC’s original problems went far in excess of a lack of funding. The legacy of Cave Creek for DoC is perhaps to have been a turning point from whence the organisation became far more robust and reliable. There can never be a guarantee of no further accidents of a similar nature to Cave Creek, but what’s changed has meant that something that was once quite likely to happen sooner or later is now unlikely to happen at all.

The viewing platform above the Cave Creek Resurgence has not been rebuilt.

FOOTNOTES

^* The Commission of Inquiry following the accident did not find that the platform had been shaken hard during the collapse, only that someone might have been shaking it slightly. Ten years later on Paul Holmes’ show on Prime TV of Thursday 17th March 2005, Stacy Mitchell, one of the survivors, stated that he and several other students were shaking the platform hard when it collapsed. He’d not stated this clearly earlier for fear of being blamed for the accident. Given the nature of other evidence considered by the inquiry, it seems unlikely that this information would have made a difference to the outcome.

^** A short history of the Department of Conservation: 1987-2007 – Cave Creek and afterwards

^*** Advertised in FMC Bulletin 124, page 7.

^**** There have been several references to the inherent superiority of the private sector when it comes to risk management—another was the 2001 NZ Herald Editorial. Personally I’m not convinced that it makes a difference, and there are examples of businesses in the private sector messing up risk management in similar ways. I think the effective implementation of good (or bad) risk management practices is something that occurs independently of whether or not government is involved.

The USA’s a big place, and I imagine the real consequences vary from state to state, but I’m fairly sure that for fundamental legal reasons (detailed below), this kind of park closure crisis couldn’t easily happen in New Zealand at all.

Some local examples of the USA’s National Park problems include:

• From the Chesterton Tribune of Indiana: No hiking: Government shut down would literally close National Lakeshore — If Congress is unable to reach a budget deal by 11:59 p.m. today, Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore will close. It actually will close. [...] “And if they see you out there, on the trails or at the beach, they will ask you to leave,” Lancaster said. “Because the park is closed.”
• From 9 News of Colorado: Sheriff, parks officials debate jurisdiction during shutdown — The Larimer County Sheriff has jumped into the fray of the government shutdown debate, saying he would have tried to keep the county’s part of Rocky Mountain National Park open if park rangers had barricaded the entrances. [...] “My offer was essentially, we’re here if they’re not going to staff rangers,” Smith said. “All they have to do is ask.” He also says he did not want merchants in town to become victims of the federal government’s shutdown. [...] During a shutdown, park rangers say that will not happen. “Our instructions are to close the park. We have plans to do so tomorrow,” Frederick said. “The message the sheriff is saying is, ‘Come one come all. Enjoy Rocky Mountain National Park. We’ll have it open.’ And that will not be the case.”
• From CBS News: National park closures would cost $32M a day — Tourist draws such as Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming and Grand Canyon National Park in Arizona would be closed, throwing a wrench into many travelers’ plans. [...] Nearly 20,000 park employees would be sent home. In addition to government employees who will be furloughed, 15,000 people who work for hotels, gift shops and restaurants around national parks could also be idled during the shutdown.

Back to New Zealand: It’s true that temporary loss of public recreation would likely be a minor issue in the face of a complete government shutdown, but it’s nice to know that something similar probably couldn’t happen here in the same way. Our access rights aren’t so much defined by “the government allowing us to enter public land”, they’re defined by strict limitations on the reasons for which public can be denied access. For National Parks in particular, section 4(2)(e) of the National Parks Act 1980 guarantees public access, and for all Conservation Areas Section 17 of the Conservation Act guarantees that public access remains free, and whilst a reasonable charge can be imposed for use of facilities (such as huts) it’s illegal to charge for use of paths or tracks, or in other words means of access. It’s also a good thing that New Zealand’s Conservation Act 1987 effectively does not provide for the government (through the Department of Conservation or any other department) to keep people off New Zealand’s public conservation land without a very good and specific reason, and without direct intervention from the Minister of Conservation.

Whilst DoC can legally lock people out of constructed facilities such as huts and bridges and platforms (as happened all over New Zealand in 1995 following the Cave Creek Disaster), there’s no legal basis for DoC to prevent people from visiting the wilderness, except for certain exceptional cases mentioned below. Even if it’s often a good idea to take heed of advice, signs that say things like “Track Closed” or orders from occasional DoC workers to avoid visiting certain places “because it’s closed”, are legally dubious and unlikely to be enforceable. “Closed tracks” in particular are also ambiguous considering that a “track” is nothing more than an artefact of people having pushed through the bush on a certain route. It’s legal in New Zealand, if sometimes impractical, impossible or simply a bad idea, to bush-bash 5 metres either side of a track. Between the two of them, the Conservation Act 1987 and the National Parks Act 1980 only use the word “track” a total of 7 times, which is consistent with the idea that many people don’t visit New Zealand’s back-country to follow pre-constructed tracks through the bush.

“Areas” of conservation land can be closed to public access by the Minister of Conservation, as long as the reason meets a specific purpose as defined by Section 13 of the Conservation Act 1987. Alternatively, areas can be specially protected by the Governor-General (think New Zealand’s representative of the Queen of England!) under Section 12 of the National Parks Act. For example, the Minister might decide under 13(1)(a) that no unauthorised person may visit Codfish Island because it’s quarantine situation is critical for the Kakapo Recovery Programme. Although DoC can close facilities and structures (such as huts or bridges) that are operated by DoC, DoC can’t simply decide to “close” a track over conservation land and restrict public access to an area because workers are keen to replace the boardwalks, or because a tree’s fallen over, or (as has been feared in the USA) because the Government’s withheld all funding for the department until further notice.

As an addition to the above, section 31(1) of the Walking Access Act 2008 states that a “controlling authority” can close a walkway for certain reasons, none of which directly include a withholding of funding. This Act can only be applied, however, to any walkways that have been specifically declared as “walkways” under section 24 of the same act (or alternatively the New Zealand Walkways Act of 1980, which preceded it). The declaration has to occur within The Gazette, which is the NZ Government’s periodical newsletter, and as far as I can tell when searching for such notices categorised by those two acts of parliament, only a small handful of walkways nationwide have ever been declared in this way. The Gazette is only digitised and online back to 1993, however.

In essence, New Zealand Conservation Land is owned by the people and it’s there to be used by the people for free, with necessary clauses that ensure respect for other users and for the future welfare of the environment, such as ensuring minimal impact and leaving things how they were found. The Department of Conservation’s role is essentially a caretaker, not a gatekeeper, and this is a good thing. This is why we’re allowed to do things like climb mountains and cross glaciers and navigate through un-tracked regions, because legally the government isn’t allowed to make judgements on competence or force everyone to hold a handrail. This leaves things up to individuals to be responsible for their own safety. By all means get out there and enjoy it, because not everywhere in the world provides the same amount of freedom for individuals to explore limits, learn more about themselves and really enjoy the outdoors.

What I found at least as interesting was the last three paragraphs in that article which note that there have been three similar incidents on Ngauruhoe since November. All required helicopter rescues and two involved head injuries. The head injuries were probably (and I’m guessing) as a consequence of people falling and hitting heads rather than directly having had rocks falling onto heads from above.

What the article doesn’t touch on is the source of the rocks that caused the injuries.

Ngauruhoe is a side trip off the Tongariro Alpine Crossing (formerly the Tongariro Crossing), often marketed as New Zealand’s “most spectacular daywalk” and it’s probably one of the most popular in terms of the number of people who walk it. A mountain such as Ngauruhoe is perpetually eroding and rocks come down by themselves, but on these occasions I think it’s more likely that the rocks were dislodged by people further up the mountain.

Slopes with scree and loose rocks can be difficult to negotiate without dislodging rocks and watching them careen down-hill, even for people experienced in walking on them. Furthermore when there are rocks coming towards you on such a slope, they can be difficult to dodge given the steep slope and uncertainty of footing underneath. When in groups, it’s usually a good idea for people to be careful not to cross each other’s paths too often, and for people to take precautions such as stopping movement when others are underneath, to reduce the risk of something being dislodged and rolling onto them.

If it’s true that other people were involved further up the mountain, I think these accidents highlight the added danger in places with so many people, often people who don’t know each other or aren’t in good communication with each other. With the Tongariro Crossing’s tendency to also attract people (frequently tourists to NZ) who don’t spend much time in mountain environments, it might also be that experience was a factor.

I don’t know what can or should be done, but as has already been pointed out in a thread on NZ Tramper, it’s quite important to be careful and aware of those around you, and if you dislodge something that might be dangerous, to make a lot of noise about it immediately so that those below have more time to prepare themselves. Sometimes this is still not enough, as sound has a habit of not going very far sometimes on mountains.

As of late last year, all older bulletins have been scanned from paper to PDF form, and the current online archive now contains 182 issues and is growing.

The archive is available here, and a complete downloaded collection of bulletins from the beginning amounts to approximately 360 Megabytes. Most of the older bulletins are only photo-scanned at this time and thus aren’t text searchable with regular tools, but it’s still a great resource.

This is awesome. It’s a great history of many things back-country in New Zealand, and browsing through the bulletins I’ve found it interesting to compare what made the issues of the day (mining, roads, dams, fears of user pays with Rogernomics and the new Department of Conservation, support for the re-naming of Mt Taranaki), and how the style has changed over the years. Accident Reports, for instance, were once presented in a somewhat more direct way (often naming names) than today’s bulletin’s Back-Country Accidents section.

There’s a lot to get through, and I think the lasting benefit of this will be a large library of information on back-country issues now being more easily available when researching past events.

Looking down on Fanthams Peak and Syme Hut.

Having dragged myself out of bed in New Plymouth at 5.40am, I spotted at least 10 rabbits along North Egmont Road leading up to the visitor’s centre. I guess it’s difficult to control rabbits, and they repopulate so quickly.

Date: 26th December, 2010
Location: Egmont National Park, from North Egmont Visitor’s Centre.
People: Mostly me.
Huts visited: Tahurangi Lodge (0 nights).
Route: Follow the road from the visitor’s centre up The Puffer past Tahurangi Lodge, then up Lizard North Ridge to the summit.
[Photos]
[Download GPX] [Show map] [Display in new window][LINZ Topographic Map in new window]

The name of the mountain has an interesting recent history. Despite having been called “Taranaki” by local Maori long before Captain Cook first visited and named the mountain “Egmont”, after a British politician who’d promoted Cook’s first voyage to New Zealand, despite the man never having set foot in the country. In 1865, during the Taranaki Land Wars, the New Zealand Government confiscated the mountain from local Maori and distributed between settlers for farming. The exception to this distribution was the radius around the mountain, which became a National Park in 1885. The name “Egmont” might have stuck for this reason, although the mountain itself was symbolically gifted back to local Maori in 1978, though details of exactly how and what occurred are still controversial in some quarters.

In 1986, the official name of the mountain became “Mount Taranaki or Mount Egmont”—including the word “or”—thanks to an alleged naming mistake that was signed at the time by the Minister of Lands. Supposedly it was meant to be officially named “Mount Taranaki” or “Mount Egmont”, allowing for dual naming and recognition of the historic Maori name. I’ve heard informally that the name of “Mount Egmont” is due to be officially removed 50 years after 1986, but can’t find an online reference for this and I’m not convinced it’s correct.

The only prominent modern publication that seems to use the exact modern naming (complete with the word “or”) is Land Information New Zealand’s Topo50 Map BJ29, happily titled “Mount Taranaki or Mount Egmont”. These days official circles and media typically refer to it as Mount Taranaki, while some others (often locals who’ve grown up with the name) still refer to it as Mount Egmont.

Personally I prefer to call the mountain Eggie.

Driving towards North Egmont Visitors’ Centre, about 6.40am.

The mountain itself is a volcano. Volcanic activity originated off the west coast, as an anomaly that’s gradually shifting inwards’s to the North Island’s Central Plateau, dominated by other volcanoes such as Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe and Tongariro. Thanks to this movement, heavily eroded volcanic remnants can be seen off the Taranaki coast, one of the most well known being the 156 metre high Paritutu Rock off New Plymouth. Closer than this is the entire Pouakai Range, which stretches between the mountain and the coast.

The 2518 metre high Eggie built up over a period of many eruptions, including five cone collapses which is unusual for volcanoes—most don’t experience more than one. The highest point of the mountain is already ageing and subject to eroding, however, which is an ongoing process exemplified by a big collapse around Pyramid Stream last November. Although eruptions are chaotic by nature, the overall movement of geologic activity is shown by the 1966 metre high Fanthams Peak on the southern side of the mountain, which is geologically the youngest. The mountain’s aiming approximately in the direction of Stratford, which incidentally has a nice ice-cream shop.

Eggie hasn’t been active since the 1860s, but geologically it’s very young, about 135,000 years. It’s definitely not extinct, and could decide to erupt at any time, which would be a potential disaster for the region given how much the economy relies on surrounding farms that take advantage of the volcanic soil.

For recreation, Eggie happens to be one of the deadliest mountains in New Zealand. To date, an official count of 63 people have died either high up the mountain or in the surrounding national park. It’s not especially large as New Zealand parks go. The number of deaths is probably a consequence of its proximity to the coast, its isolation from other recreational areas which makes it the most obvious thing to climb, the relative ease of getting to the top, and the tendency of many people, including experienced mountaineers from both New Zealand and overseas, to underestimate the dangers or see it as a training climb.

Weather all over New Zealand can change quickly, but around Eggie it can change extremely quickly and catch people in very exposed and dangerous places from which it’s difficult to escape. The weather can come straight off the sea, so in a matter of minutes conditions could change from being quite nice to having almost zero visibility, white-out conditions and freezing gale-force winds. The mountain ices up and catches people off-guard, and long steep sides combined with countless bluffs, created as a consequence of historic lava flows, create a lethal situation for anyone who slips in the wrong place. Further down the mountain, countless rivers that radiate out from the centre can fill quickly when it rains, and catch people unaware between them (as happened in 2008).

It was with all this knowledge that I scribbled in the intentions book in the 24 hour shelter outside the North Egmont Visitor’s Centre, and started walking up the mountain from about 7am. To cope with some really nice weather and an obviously clear sky and a good forecast, my daypack included several days worth of snack food, full storm gear including a raincoat, overtrousers and a balaclava, a full covering of polypropylene, gloves, a bivy bag, a first aid kit, 2.5 litres of water as there’s not much available without going sideways, and the usual navigation stuff such as a map, compass and GPS in case of emergency. It was full for a daypack, but I think it makes sense to anticipate things going wrong in New Zealand’s back-country, with Eggie being no exception.

Still, nothing especially bad was due to come in until tomorrow afternoon, and the worst element of today’s forecast suggested 40km/h winds from the west.

There are a variety of routes to the summit, but I understand the most popular routes are to head up to the summit directly from North Egmont, up to Sharks Tooth from the ski-field on the east, or up the south side over Fanthams Peak. Any route can be icy or snowy at any time of year, and a good weather climb might still require basic alpine gear such as crampons and an ice axe to reach the summit. I didn’t take either of these, figuring that it didn’t look snowy from lower down, and I’d just turn around if I encountered such conditions. (If I’d come up the south side today, crampons would definitely have been needed.)

The road to Tahurangi Lodge which is
just behind the TV antenna in the
mid-left of this photo.

I didn’t feel any great need to walk through bush today and wasn’t too versed on all the possible routes, so went straight for the 4 wheel drive road that leads from the visitor centre straight up a route called The Puffer, meeting a couple of early morning crazy mountain runners already on the way down, and ending at Tahurangi Lodge — a private lodge operated by the Taranaki Alpine Club. It’s a nice road, and one that’s only there because it was built to service the TV transmitter, which would never be allowed to be placed within a National Park today.

It took about 40 minutes to reach the track junction 800 metres south-west from Maketawa Hut. The sign-post pointing back down to North Egmont at this point indicated 90 minutes, so I guess I was going at about twice that rate, but 90 minutes sounds like a conservative estimate. It took a further 30 minutes to reach Tahurangi Lodge, where I stopped for a look around. The lodge sits a minute or two up the slope from a giant television antenna, for which consent in a National Park would almost certainly never be granted in today’s environment.

I can imagine slip-sliding off something
like this in a white-out, and it wouldn’t
be a nice outcome.

It’s about here where some of the bluffs that surround Eggie become more apparent. High cliffs at the end of the rib over to the right are a result of lava flows that were moulded by ash, before the ash eventually eroded away leaving steep bluff-faces. It’s a landscape that’s not well matched my many other nearby places, including the other nearby active volcanoes across the way in Tongariro National Park.

Tahurangi Lodge.

The sky was still absolutely clear above, but by now cloud had rolled in with a top not far below the lodge. I guess I must have been racing the cloud and reached a high enough point before it rolled in below. This was great in that it made it easy to see that nothing especially ominous was coming in from the west, but it also meant there wasn’t much landscape to see below. No matter.

The poled route above the lodge is
interspersed with scree and wooden steps.

The slope is stepped above Tahurangi Lodge, but not as much as I’d expected. When told by someone to expect wooden steps, I thought it might be millions of artificial steps as occurs on the southern side, leading towards Syme Hut. There are actually only a few hundred at most, and then the climb eases into a rocky and scree slope. From Tahurangi Lodge to the summit is a climb of about 1500 metres to 2518 metres, or about 1000 metres. The horizontal distance walked to gain this elevation (at least according to my GPS) is about 2600 metres, so the average gradient works out to about 1/1.7, or about 36 degrees, which is quite steep for an average gradient. Few people were around at 8.20am on Boxing Day, but I met one woman who seemed mostly interested in photography and turned around soon after Tahurangi Lodge (with the clouds rolling in below).

It’s a mostly consistent slope, and it’s helpful to have bendy ankles.

Most of the climb, at least in summer, is a scree slope, and surrounded by a flat plane of mostly-white cloud below, I trudged on upwards along Lizard North Ridge. In time I met two more people coming down who said they’d left at about 1.30am. I forgot to ask where they’d come from, so I’m not really sure if they walked up from North Egmont to see the sunrise, or if they’d come up and over from another side.

The route’s poled, and easy to see — certainly in summer. Fortunately it’s also not the two steps forward one step back style of scree which I was concerned about. I’m not a natural over this kind of terrain, and I think what I find trickiest is the perpetual and constant slope, which very rarely provides a flat space to stand. For me it ensures that turning around and looking behind can be a mildly dizzying experience. Being by myself was really what made it matter, though, because I personally tend to rely a lot on being able to distract myself by talking to other people. This was starting to get to me, too, and at about 9.30am and 2280 metres above sea level (about 230 vertical metres from the summit), I sat down for a rest and reasoned with myself that I really didn’t need to go on, more or less deciding that I’d just go down again.

I think this is looking roughly in the direction of Holly Flat, which would be towards the left side of the photo. As with everywhere on the mountain, the eroded volcanic landscape below was very impressive, but certainly not a place to go for an uncontrolled winter slide down the ice.

I finally got up, started heading up the hill again, then remembered and turned around to go down. And it was right about this moment that I ran into a nice guy named Stuart, who was on his way up. After a quick chat, I ended up turning around again and going to the summit with Stuart. The entire lack-of-distraction problem was solved, and taking my mind off the surroundings was really easy when I had someone to yak away to.

Amusingly enough when I mentioned I was up from Wellington, Stuart asked me about this website, which I hadn’t been expecting. I guess New Zealand’s a small country, and the outdoor community’s even smaller. Being a local, he was on about his 80th-odd climb to the summit, and had plenty of stories to go with it, including a near miss of being caught near the summit in a thunderstorm. He’d also spent plenty of time in the Tararuas and Ruahines, which I think might have been where the knowledge of this website came from.

Around the crater area between the
summit and Shark’s Tooth.

Conveniently, snow wasn’t a problem near the summit, which we approached about 10.45am or thereabouts. There was a surface of snow around the basin under the summit, but nothing tricky and it was easy enough to kick steps. We stood on the summit at 11am, opposite the top of Sharks’ Tooth, which at 2510 metres is 8 metres lower. Stuart pointed to the melted surfaces of some of the rocks, presumably from lightning strikes. I think the only down-side of reaching the summit was the sheer amount of graffiti that people have scraped and scribbled around all the rocks, which was a bit of a let-down. I guess it’s something to be expected in a place that gets so much foot-traffic, and it’s hard to police. In time, of course, Fanthams Peak or another weak spot nearby will simply blow and the entire summit will probably be covered with ash.

That’s me with Shark’s Tooth in the background, standing as near to the summit as I could be bothered getting for a photograph. (Thanks to Stuart for pressing me to bother with the photo.)

With no rush to go anywhere, an uncharacteristically low number of people around (I was informed there’d often be 100 or 200 people on the summit open climb), and the weather being comparably terrific with Ruapehu brilliantly clear in the distance, we hung around and greeted the few other people arriving at the summit. I think the only thing that might have made it more interesting would be if the entire district below hadn’t been enveloped in cloud. The clock on the summit eventually reached lunch time. I didn’t realise there would be so many flies on the summit, and I wonder what they eat when people’s food isn’t around.

Looking around the south side.

Interesting looking volcanic rocks
around the south side.

We hopped down after midday, and Stuart showed me around the south side between the snow and interspersed volcanic rock. He pointed out that if caught out camping in bad weather, at the very least there’s always somewhere relatively sheltered near the summit. For a while we looked down onto Fanthams Peak, the ascent from which would have been great with crampons, and watched someone emerge from Syme Hut and wander around a bit.

Stuart ahead of me.

At about 1pm, we began to shuffle downwards in the direction from which we’d come. I’m glad I’d woken early and left the carpark at 7am, because it was on the way down that we began to see the hoardes of people coming up, maybe after having worked off mild post-Christmas hangovers. Stuart recognised a couple of people coming up, including one of the guides on his daily trip to the summit, despite having no clients today, and probably on his way to the top for the several thousandth time (no exaggeration). Despite my tendency to get more nervous when there’s nothing to talk about, I don’t seem to have much of a problem talking about risks and things going wrong, and in the past I’ve managed to make other people nervous by happily chatting about exactly every possibility that could become catastrophic in the immediate environment, which is fine for me as long as my mind’s distracted by the talking. Stuart didn’t mind. We spent some time chatting about various things including aspects of outdoor first aid (and outdoor first aid courses), and various ways people have died on Eggie.

Avoiding the main drag.

At about 2180 metres we avoided the ascending traffic by shifting through the scree on the southern side of North Ridge, dropping into the cloud at about 3pm, around the top of the wooden-stepped section and reaching Tahurangi Lodge 10 minutes later. From here we followed the road back to the top of North Egmont Road, reaching the carpark and visitors’ centre at around 4.45pm. Almost 10 hours wasn’t a speedy climb and descent of Eggie, there wasn’t much motivation to be quick on such a nice day.

One final look.


The clouds had climbed above Tahurangi Lodge by the time we returned.

I think climbing Eggie really gave me a different perspective on Egmont National Park. Until this occasion, my main experience in the park had really been trudging around the circumference or treading on boring boardwalks (albeit necessary given the popularity). It’s nice, but I guess I also didn’t fully rate it compared with areas like the Tararuas and the Ruahines for interesting and variable terrain and remoteness. Just ploughing straight up the side to the top is a very different thing, though, and for me I think this is when Eggie came into its own, and became a place that couldn’t really be matched by some of the less obvious mountainous areas that are within nearby districts. It was a really nice way to end before heading overseas for a while. As I’m writing this, I’m now sitting in a very flat Melbourne, and it’s something I think I can look back on with good memories.

I’m not entirely sure what the purpose is. It’d be great for raising awareness of LandSAR and hopefully attracting volunteers, but the advertisement seems to be specifically aimed at people who might get into trouble as opposed to attracting LandSAR volunteers. People in trouble probably don’t need to know that LandSAR exists so much as the Police, who’d then call in LandSAR and volunteers when needed. I suspect that if there was money allocated towards resolving outdoor accidents (without the charity bias), LandSAR wouldn’t have had a mention and the money would have been aimed at encouraging people to be safe in what they do in the first place, and then to know that the Police are the ones to go to first when there’s a problem.

Still, it’s a treat to watch and kind’a neat. Kudos to LandSAR and to the people who made it.

Thanks to davidm in the NZ Tramper forums for bringing it to my attention. As was later pointed out in that thread (by mrfizz), the ad was made pro-bono by Colenso BBDO with the help of Weta Workshop, and then given free airtime on TVNZ, so it’s not exactly money out of LandSAR’s budget.

In addition to the ad itself, there’s a 2 part behind-the-scenes video, also up on Youtube, that describes the making of the commercial, about 16 minutes total:

• Part 1
• Part 2

Sometimes it can be a thin line between having a great day out and a potentially serious accident. As with any overnight or longer excursions, all sorts of things could occur that might prevent a person on a daywalk from reaching an intended destination. It’s common with overnight tramping to have safety plans such as alternative routes and back-up shelter, or at least give the environment and terrain more respect. I think such considerations are often overlooked with daywalks, especially with the temptations to cut weight and volume, and fit things into a smaller and less encumbering day-pack.

All this said, it’s not too unusual for same-day trips to be treated differently, or somehow less likely to result in problems, even though the amount of safety equipment being carried is typically much less than a multiple-day excursion. I guess it’s the same decision making logic that causes people not to bother taking portable shelter when the plan is to stay in a back-country hut, as per The Hut Fallacy. Presumably, the man described in the news didn’t seriously consider that a mis-hap could occur and he might not make it out on the same day. Maybe he’s done the same thing 100 times before—plenty of people have favourite walks of a similar nature, and nearly every occasion they’ll have no problems. If this is the case, though, he’s not alone in making that judgement.

Mountain runners in particular will often be up in parts of the Tararuas, and many other mountainous areas, with little more than some water, maybe a little food, and whatever clothes they’re wearing. There’s no plan to do anything but run a circuit. In some areas nearer to the edges, like the loop up and around Kapakapanui, people walk their dogs, sometimes as if they’re walking them around a suburban park. People head out on daywalks all over the place, not well equipped for emergencies that might involve staying a night somewhere.

Historically, I think I’ve also been more lazy in preparation for daywalks, especially in days before I started getting out for multiple days at a time and started to see things in a wider context. More recently, I’ve noticed that I plan more than I used to for contingencies. 18 months ago, when preparing for a Moonlight Southern Crossing attempt, I discovered there was no way I could fit everything I wanted into a day-pack. Despite having no intent to stop walking between start and finish for what was effectively a lengthy daywalk (but overnight), I still wanted to take everything that might be necessary in case we needed to stop in the snow, and if bad weather came in. The main things I ended up leaving out besides what I’d have taken on a regular weekend trip were some of the food, and a pair of crocs. Not having anything in-the-middle, I still needed to take my 70 litre tramping pack.

I’m getting better with my daywalk packing, though, and fitting it all in. On Boxing Day, I went for a walk up Mt Taranaki (the trip report is here). Despite starting the walk at 7am, having screeds of daylight and a great forecast until the following day’s afternoon, I still ended up stuffing my 28 litre daypack with: a raincoat, overtrousers, a balaclava, gloves, a full covering of polypropylene, a light-weight rain covering layer, a fleece top, a high power head-torch, a first aid kit, sunblock, far more snack food than I could ever eat, 2.5 litres of water, a map, a compass, a gps, a camera, and a bivy bag. Then I hauled it all the way to the top, got sunburned during a whopping 10km/h gale force wind, and hauled it all the way down again. The only things that actually came out were the map, camera, compass, sunblock, water, and a couple of meal mate crackers.

I may have over-prepared, but I prefer it to under-preparing. I envied all the people I saw who appeared to have only light clothing and light day-packs, but I’m not sure I’d want to be in that position, up one of the deadliest mountains in New Zealand, if something went wrong. Realistically in the conditions that were present, it’s unlikely that an accident could have led to a death through exposure before rescue services were notified and could arrive to get someone off the mountain, but it still feels as if it’s both dicing with death and disrespectful to potential searchers and rescuers who might need to risk their own lives if I’m not prepared to be reasonably self-reliant if a mishap occurs.

The Tongariro Crossing is another extremely popular daywalk route which people frequently follow with terse preparation, and personally I remain convinced that many people will never really “get it” unless a sudden storm swoops in (expected or not) and wipes 40 unprepared daywalking tourists off the mountain. I hope this doesn’t happen, and if it ever does I hope it doesn’t result in consequences that affect the freedom of people to be independent and responsible for their own safety both there or anywhere else.

But where should a line be drawn with playing it safe? It’s not always practical to pack everything under the sun and prepare for every contingency. Otherwise everyone would be trying to stuff in portable defibrillators, just in case a heart stops beating. (On a tangent, I’m curious how long it’ll be before portable defibrillators become affordable and light-weight enough for reasonable sized groups to consider taking them.)

For me, I think the line seems to fall where I’m heading out for a daywalk in a back-country style place that I typically associate with multi-day trips—usually Department of Conservation land, as opposed to something under a regional or district council. Thinking critically I’m not convinced this is a very logical rule considering that equally serious incidents can occur on non-DoC land, but it seems to be what I’ve often done much of the time all the same.

Better considerations are probably the reliability of communication, and the “size” of the area being explored. In other words, would I expect to pop out the far side of an area into a populated place within 30 minutes if I kept walking in a straight line? Wellington’s Belmont Regional Park, for instance, is basically council-owned farmland, between Porirua and the Hutt Valley, and there are countless exit and entry points, so I personally see it as less risky than many other places if a mishap occurs. Elevation also has a lot to do with it—anywhere high is likely to be more subject to extreme weather conditions.

East Harbour Regional Park is an area that I think I might have treated with less respect than what’s due in the past, especially according to the above considerations. Somewhere like Lake Kohangapiripiri, behind the hills on the eastern side of Wellington Harbour, is an easy place to get to, and on a sunny day it’s often full of walkers and mountain bikers. On the other hand, the hills put it out of cell-phone communication, it’s at least an hour’s walk, possibly two or three times further in different areas of the park, from the end of a public road. It could be a bad place to fall and hurt an ankle during “average” weather on a weekday with very few people around, and might result in spending an uncomfortable time outside in exposed conditions.

All of this, of course, is further reason to ensure people know where you’re going, even on relatively simple excursions.

This is the second book I’ve read by Mark Pickering, the first having been A Tramper’s Journey, which I liked (the review is here). He’s written many books, and this is a topic that Mark Pickering is especially suited to, having a strong interest in huts and having visited over 1000 back-country huts already. His latest book was released in time for Christmas 2010. Huts: Untold stories from back-country New Zealand retails for $50, or $49.99 if you take the effort to shop around.

Production quality is generally nice, with good authoring and editing, although see my comment below about printing. This book is very heavy. It’s a paperback, but don’t let that fool you. It’s 384 big pages on good, glossy paper. Large numbers of photographs, often using half a page at a time, ensure the text isn’t too dense and the reading remains quite easy. Reading one or more chapters in a short sitting is very feasible. The weight and dimensions mean it’s not the sort of book that would typically be stuffed into a pack for weekend reading, except by people who like to show off.

Background

The title suggests that this is a book about huts. It is, but it’s even more-so a book about the history of the back-country, and how all of the 1000—1500 back-country huts (the exact number depends on one’s criteria for counting) came to be. The blurb on the back of the book begins with “If huts could talk, they could tell the whole history of the back-country”, and this is a good summary of what you’ll find inside. It’s a history built around the structures which, today, are mostly used for recreation.

It’s a book about what huts can tell us about history, about the people who built huts, who lived in them, and who left them behind. It’s about the circumstances in which they lived their lives, and the events that resulted in them exploring, building and using huts in the back-country. From my own perspective, Mark Pickering has shown things in a much more rich and complex way than I’d previously considered.

Structure

With fifteen chapters, the author has chosen fifteen types of hut, categorised by their histories. Each chapter takes its name from a representative hut within the set, but the text then varies on just how much attention is given to that particular hut. On most occasions, a much wider history is given which covers both that hut, but also surrounding huts and (often) geographically distant huts that shared similar roles.

Not all huts discussed are on public conservation land, but they’re all huts for which recreational access can be arranged, typically by contacting a land-owner. Each chapter concludes with a list of additional representative huts for the category with brief details of how to find them, as well as a map that shows the location of the representative hut, and finally a list of references.

Mark Pickering has arranged the book so that less current topics, such as boundary keepers, gold digging and rabbiting are in the earlier chapters. Hunting makes an appearance mid-way through, and huts purpose built for recreations that are currently popular, namely climbing, tramping, skiing and (eventually) tourism, are pushed into the final four chapters of the book, though the tourism chapter seems unusual as a final chapter because it barely refers to modern tourism at all, focusing almost entirely on events in Fiordland before 1950.

Naturally I always tend to think I’m most interested in tramping stories, which is what gets my attention. In beginning I saw this structure as a way to encourage me to read through the entire book to reach the parts I was most interested in. It worked, too, and I’m glad for it because I’ve found every one of the earlier chapters a thoroughly interesting read.

Possible criticisms

As usual I don’t wish to over-stress anything bad, but it probably wouldn’t be a fair review if I didn’t try to be reasonably critical. For the record, if the book was truly bad, I wouldn’t have bothered finishing it. A couple of things that stood out to me, however, are as follows.

Something I found odd was the recurring inclusion of a map at the end of each chapter to indicate the location of that chapter’s featured hut. On initial impressions this seems reasonable, but the book has been written such that the “featured hut” after which the chapter was named is sometimes relegated to a comparably minor role within that chapter. At the very least, many of these featured huts were described on equal terms, and with equal attention to other huts and stories that shared similar backgrounds. On several occasions I found it confusing to be suddenly given a map that focused on one particular hut, but none of the others that had been presented on equal terms. By the end of the book, I was thinking the maps were superfluous, and perhaps the space could have been saved or used for additional photographs.

Another thing I must highlight, and this may be because I was simply unlucky, is that this is the first book I’ve owned which I’ve returned to the bookshop for a replacement. The reason is that having hauled it around with me for opportunistic reading over a couple of weeks (inside a sealed zip-lock bag for protection) the ink wasn’t completely sticking to many of the pages. Pages with photographs, especially those with dark colours, had left mucky impressions on their facing pages. The white card of the inside of the covers became a dirty grey. I don’t know enough about book production to understand how common this is, but I’m wondering if they were maybe rushed from the printers too quickly.

Overall impression

For people such as myself whose visits to the back-country tend to be geographically biased, it offers a window on different types of huts that exist in places less visited. I discovered many things reading this book, and it caused me to think about what I already knew in more detail.

For example, having read about how an entire collection of huts around Banks Peninsula have ties to Germany’s Wandervogel movement of promoting people to get outdoors and go walking (chapter 10), I now wonder if this German influence might relate to the popularity of the word “tramping” in New Zealand, given how Germany is one of the few other places in the world where “tramping” is recognised with a similar meaning.

Another interesting point noted by the author (chapter 13) is that the small club created by William Howlett in 1893, with a primary goal of recreation, predates the formation of the Tararua Tramping Club (and therefore the idea of creating a club for recreation in the mountains) by decades, and is comparable in time with the 1892 formation of the NZ Alpine Club.

The author barely touches current breed of modern huts being built by the Department of Conservation, many of which can appear sterilised when compared with the diverse range of historic huts that shower New Zealand’s landscape. I presume this is because these huts are not history so much as current events. By the end of this book, though, it may seem more apparent that the latest batch of recreational hut building by the currently responsible branch of the government could be merely another phase in history, which will eventually be recognised as such by future users of New Zealand’s back-country and the structures within.

To conclude

For books about New Zealand’s outdoor history, this one’s really a must read. It’s easy reading, but there’s a lot of information to soak in. I’ll be leaving this book on my bookshelf for future reference.

If you’d like another perspective, this book is due to be reviewed in the March 2011 issue of the Federated Mountain Clubs Bulletin, which will eventually be distributed to all members of affiliated clubs, and also downloadable from the FMC website. There’s also a forum discussion occuring about the book over on the NZ Tramper website.

Finally, here’s a chapter-by-chapter summary of what you’ll find in this book.

• Introduction. A five page introduction gives a crash course in the state of huts in New Zealand’s back-country, both historically and in the present.
• Chapter 1: Sutherlands Hut (South Canterbury); shepherds and boundary keepers. Sutherlands Hut is one of the oldest huts in New Zealand, a Boundary Keepers’ hut from the mid-19th century, when high country stations needed to prevent their stock from wandering, and hiring a group of boundary keepers was cheaper and easier than building hundreds of kilometres of fencing.
• Chapter 2: Carrick Range Water Race Huts (Central Otago); water-racemen. This chapter focuses the water races that were built to supply some of the remote gold fields with water, predominantly around Otago. It describes the lives of the “racemen” who were tasked with maintaining the water races, and who mostly lived in huts spaced evenly along the channels, scouting their section every day to ensure it was well kept and clear of obstacles. The chapter examines how water races were built and maintained, and explores stories of many Chinese immigrants who were attracted by by the gold rushes.
• Chapter 3: Shutes Hut (Hawke’s Bay); rabbiters. This chapter examines the rabbiting culture and industry, which grew from an explosive plague of rabbit populations following an ill-considered introduction of the species that had no native predators. It considers absurd conflicts that existed for many years between farmers trying to run sheep next door to those trying to farm rabbits, as well as the eventual introduction of stoats to New Zealand in an attempt to control rabbits. The chapter eventually settles on Shutes Hut in the northern Ruahines, piecing together the life and personality of Alex Shute, who lived in the hut as a rabbitter for about 30 years.
• Chapter 4: Comyns Hut (South Canterbury); musterers and packies. Musterers were the workers who lived on high country stations, being employed to locate and capture the wandering sheep. Musterers tended to live in huts spaced throughout a station, while packies would bring in the supplies, and often be responsible for cooking and cleaning. Musterers Huts were built in an age when corrugated iron had just become popular as a new, miracle building material that allowed new structures to be built quickly, which the author examines some of the history of. He also examines the immigration of the Comyns family, on a disease-stricken Lancashire Witch, on which 28 people died during the voyage, including Alfred Comyn’s mother. An older Alfred became a musterer, and being an adventurer he eventually managed to spark the building of a road over Mathias Pass, later known as Dobson’s Track after the man who finally built it. The route impractical and a failure, but being convinced of an idea, Comys still drove 2000 sheep over the road into the Hokitika River, all of which starved and froze due to lack of food.
• Chapter 5: Potters Hut (Central Otago); goldminers. The chapter begins with an introduction of John Potter, a man who lived to 97 and enjoyed telling tall stories about his mining days. The author looks at the story surrounding Potter’s migration to New Zealand, and the difficult and often dangerous lives that surrounded those who staked high-risk claims on gold-fields, including the great storm of 1863. The latter part of the chapter describes the author’s expedition to visit Potters Goldfield in Central Otago, and several of the huts en-route. He emphasises the danger and the importance of huts in such places through his own experience of a sudden storm during which he might have died if the dice rolled a different way.
• Chapter 6: Avoca Homestead (Mid-Canterbury); settlers and farmers. The author begins with the history of the Avoca Homestead, of the former Avoca Station which has since become part of the Conservation Estate. The homestead has a history of 10 owners in 150 years while managed as a sheep farm, likely due to its low profitability thanks to its remoteness. A significant portion of the text comments on the ownership of Jack Kidd between 1926 and 1948, who apparently stood out because he didn’t appear to try to make a profit so much as relax and enjoy his surroundings, allegedly while his wife did disproportionate amounts of manual labour. The chapter continues to examine the general history of high country stations, offering a lengthy telling of the tale of “Big Mick”, aka Nicolo Radove, who found himself fully owning Birch Hill, a high country station under the slopes of Mt Cook. This was a fortune that would have been unbelievable in his birth-place of Sicily. Radove was a well liked character, and was one of the first people to explore some of the higher slopes of the mountains, largely due to his run-holding duties.
• Chapter 7: Blowfly Hut (South Wesland); roadmen. There are few huts that remain from the days when men were employed to live alongside the roads, perpetually maintaining their stretch and ensuring the road could remain open and able to be followed. As the author points out, this is often because these huts were typically built so close to the roads, frequently on road reserve. They were also often built with the intent of speedy disassembly and reassembly at alternative locations. Blowfly Hut is an exception. It lies on the route of the Haast-Paringa track, a road that became largely obsolete for vehicles at the completion of the Haast Pass road in 1960. The chapter examines the early history of road-building in New Zealand, focusing on the story of the Haast-Paringa track, and briefly at the life of Joe Driscoll, perhaps one of the last roadmen in New Zealand who worked on the track until its demise. The latter half of the chapter looks at Jacks Hut, and other huts near Arthur’s Pass, and the history of the coach road and building of the railway line.
• Chapter 8: Rogers Hut (Te Urewera National Park); deer cullers. This chapter looks at the hundreds of 2 bunk, 4 bunk and 6 bunk huts that were dropped into New Zealand Forest Parks between the 1950s and 1980s, as a consequence of the government’s attempts to control soaring deer populations by employing and facilitating large numbers of deer cullers. Several ironies are examined, one being how the helicoptering in of many deer culling huts demonstrated that hunting by helicopter was actually far more effective. Another irony existed within the New Zealand Forest Service itself, which on one hand was busy felling parts of the forest parks, and on the other hand was attempting to preserve them, initially to protect erosion around the water catchments and eventually for recreation. One activity often funded the other. The author fills the chapter with stories about deer cullers in South Westland, and a description of reaching Rogers Hut in Te Urewera National Park, including brief discussions on the tension around local land ownership.
• Chapter 9: Homestead Hunters Hut (Stewart Island); hunters. Contrary to the previous chapter, the author now looks at huts predominantly designed and built for recreational hunting. The chapter begins with stories about extensive recreational hunting on Stewart Island, and efforts during the 1990s by the Rakiura Hunter Camp Trust to clean up junk left behind, and then to help manage the sport for the future by building a network of small huts. The bulk of the chapter focuses on these Stewart Island hunting stories, but there’s a brief foray into New Zealand’s national hunting culture, and a significant number of example recreational hunters’ huts and photographs at the end of the chapter.
• Chapter 10: Monument Hut (Banks Peninsula); health and welfare. The text examines a collection of huts on Banks Peninsula, out of Christchurch, built around the 1930s to establish walking circuits to promote health and wellbeing. Beyond this, however, is a far more detailed history of what was originally the Sunlight League of New Zealand, and eventually became the Youth Hostel Association. The ideas of its main founder, Cora Wilding, were largely influenced by health trends in Europe, particularly Germany, and especially the Wandervogel movement. Mark Pickering doesn’t bypass some parts of this movement to be less envious of, notably principles to do with “racial value” and “racial improvement”, even as written into the organisation’s founding documents. He does, however, credit Cora Wilding and the movement as being far ahead of its time in other areas, especially with ideas like promoting good diets, exercise and healthy attitudes that weren’t constrained by existing convention. The second part of the chapter examines the efforts of Bill Parry, as Minister of Internal Affairs in the late 1930s, to establish huts that would encourage physical welfare and recreation, notably with a new track over Harper Pass, although the route didn’t actually become popular until 30 years later.
• Chapter 11: Dynamo Hut (Skippers Canyon); packers. Dymamo Hut is one of very few huts that has its background in engineering. The main part of this chapter looks at the building of a hydro-electric power plant to power stampers for crunching rocks at what became the barely profitible Bullendale gold mine during the late 1800s, and until 1905. It was a highly risky experiment at a time when little was known about electricity, but George Bullen and Fred Evans recognised the potential gains that could be possible by using electricity to transfer energy over distance rather than employing large mechanical contraptions. The chapter, however, leads into an examination of the work and lives of packers—those tasked with packing and delivering supplies between settlements, and in particular (in this case) the complex delivery of dynamos in 1885, including 2 parts weighing 1.5 tonnes each, for building a hydro-electric power plant. The new Skippers Road was built to help service the area, including a giant new bridge, but the road was only just completed when the mine closed.
• Chapter 12: Sefton Biv (Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park); climbers. After a brief look at some of the differences with risk taken by climbers, and an examination of the methods of building alpine huts—typically by having labourers carry building materials to sites—the chapter then considers some of the tension that existed between guided climbs and members of the young New Zealand Alpine Club, and the belief by some in the 1930s that the Hermitage below Mt Cook was treating the area as its own private domain.
• Chapter 13: Howletts Hut (Hawke’s Bay); trampers. Despite being subtitled as a chapter about trampers, this chapter is dominated by tramping clubs, which makes perfect sense because nearly all tramping-related huts have been built with a club affiliation. The first part of the chapter examines the Tararua Range, on which a large number of active clubs converged in the from the 1920s onwards, with club convention dictating that each club needed to have its own hut. Consequently, as the author notes, every hut in the Tararua Range as recently as 1960 was affiliated with a tramping club. This isn’t the case today, however, with the Department of Conservation having taken over maintenance of most in all but name, which is why the second half of the chapter shifts north to the Ruahines for a closer look at Howlett’s Hut, originally built in a joint effort inspired by the Ruahine Tramping Club, but with help from the Manawatu and the Heretaunga Tramping clubs, the latter of which still maintains close ties to the hut. There’s an interesting history over several pages that begins with describing the life of William Howlett and his efforts to build Daphne Hut, initially in the modern hut’s current location but eventually dismantling it and carrying it up to the current location of Howletts.
• Chapter 14: Glacier Hut (Tongariro National Park); skiers. The chapter begins with the author’s own surreal experiences of the 1970s Wellington Tramping and Mountaineering Club, with members having a snowball fight outside Ruapehu’s Chateau Hotel at 2am whilst others struggle to make running repairs to under-sized snow chains for the rented bus. This is an introduction to a lengthy history that began when ski clubs grew from enthusiasm around a sport that few people knew anything about at the time, but which sounded exciting. Huts were built to support amateur club ski-fields, but gradually began to be overtaken and made obsolete by commercial ventures. The author focuses in particular on efforts of clubs in the lower north island to develop skifields in the Tararuas and Ruahines, particularly around Kime Hut, Powell Hut and Rangiwahia Hut. Several pages is then used to describe the impressive efforts of the Otago Ski Club to create a skifield on top of the Rock and Pillar Range. The author then examines Allans Hut, a smaller (2 bunk) hut that was built independently in Mid-Canterbury, attempting to take advantage of the Broken River basin, at the time of World War 2.
• Chapter 15: Freeman Burn Hut (Fiordland); tourists. The entirety of this chapter is spent on describing the Murrell family, which over many generations has promoted and manged tourism in Doubtful Sound. Les Murrell in particular was instrumental in promoting the Doubtful Sound Track (made obsolete with the Manapouri Power Station) after the First World War, renovating huts that had been built by his father, and then arranging guided tour groups. The author has noted the ongoing competition with the Milford Track for attracting tourists, including the entrepreneurial (but unsuccessful) idea of creating a loop track, so tourists could return along a different route.

I normally try to steer away from meta posts, but it seems important to note here that as of the end of this year, Stacey and I will be leaving New Zealand shores and living in Melbourne. It’s been a very tough decision, which sadly comes down to a general lack of science funding in New Zealand contrasting with relatively enthusiastic science funding in Australia.

This will mean I’ll not get to go tramping in New Zealand as frequently, and I expect the frequency of posts on this blog to drop as a consequence.

With Windy Hilltops having evolved into a nice theme about local tramping, particularly biased towards the lower North Island (despite the occasional offtopic post), I’ve decided that I don’t want to pollute it with extensive material regarding whatever I get up to over the longer term in Australia. I do intend to keep following happenings in New Zealand, and will likely continue to write about them from time to time. The details of how this will turn out isn’t yet clear, but I hope I’ll continue to find things to write about.

If I do something interesting enough while overseas, I may experiment with starting another blog, and will post a reference from here if something gets established. It’d have to be something quite well themed, because I’m not exactly into writing about personal day-to-day issues online.

It’ll be nice to be back at some point. We like New Zealand a lot, but exactly when and under what circumstances is a matter for time to help decide. Meanwhile, thanks everyone for taking an interest in the writings here, and for offering the feedback and thoughts in the comments that show up from time to time. It’s awesome.

This is meant to be a tramping club trip, though really it’s just Éamonn and me. We’re the “social” trip, but I think people bailed on the social idea when it became clearer that we’d be pack-horses for everyone else who’s converging on Totara Flats from various directions. Between us we’ve decided the most “social” way of getting to Totara Flats will be up to Powell and over High Ridge. I’ve decided my hobby on this trip will be collecting Department of Conservation Asset Numbers. Asset number bagging is set to be the next big thing once everyone’s gotten bored of hut bagging, and I figure I’m getting a head-start on the crowd.

Dates: 10th – 12th December, 2010
Location: Tararua Forest Park, Holdsworth Road End.
People: Éamonn and me.
Huts visited: Holdsworth Lodge (0 nights), Mountain House Shelter (0 nights), Powell Hut (1 night), Totara Flats Hut (1 night), Sayers Hut (0 nights).
Intended route: Walk to Powell Hut on Friday night, then over High Ridge to Totara Flats for Saturday night, then back out to Holdsworth Road.
Actual route: Powell Hut on Friday night, but to Totara Flats via the more direct route. Over the Waiohine to Sayers Hut on Sunday, the up to spot-height 772 and along ridge to the north past 768, and eventually back to the track above Totara Creek. Then out to Holdsworth Road via Pig Flat, and down to the Atiwhakatu Track.
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The Atiwhakatu Valley
from near Rocky Lookout.

Friday, 8pm: We’ve arrived at the Holdsworth road-end, the weather’s not too flash. Best to get going.

8.55pm: It’s not quite raining yet, but a strong nor-westerly is blowing. I’ve just been nearly blown off my feet near the Rocky Lookout. Not at the lookout, but on the track below it. The wind just came screaming alongside the ridge out of nowhere. It’s eerie and discomforting.

This’ll be bad for Steve and Richard, who were planning to walk and swim down the Waiohine Gorge. We’ve checked the book and they signed in at Holdsworth Lodge earlier today, headed straight for Waiohine Forks. We’ll be okay for ourselves, by comparison. I have the rain all sussed since I bought myself a brand new tramping umbrella earlier today. It’s in my pack, and may just prove to be the best $14.99 I’ve ever spent.

9.15pm: We’re at the junction where we could go straight to Totara Flats if we wanted. Not for us, though. We’re from the social group. And the most “social” place in the Tararuas is Powell Hut.

9.30pm: Crud, I just realised I’ve been forgetting to get the asset numbers. We just passed DoC Asset Number 066132 and DoC Asset Number 066126 on Pig Flat. It’s getting dark.

9.33pm: Éamonn’s walking in the dark quite confidently.

9.35pm: DoC Asset Number 009457 — we could probably bed down and sleep in here if we wanted to. We’re not strictly allowed to, though, so it’d be very anti-social. On and up?

9.42pm: Actually his torch just isn’t working properly, so maybe he’s not been walking in the dark by choice. It keeps flicking off, and he’s just told me he’s having to hold a wire in place, which is tricky and unreliable thanks to the rain.

9.56pm: Slippery slowly sliding in the dark. Very slowly.

10.12pm: Somewhere we went through the tree line and are now in the open. I didn’t even notice, too busy staring at the ground ahead. The torch doesn’t shine far through the clag. There’s misty rain all around us.

Éamonn’s stumbling behind or in front of me in the dark at various intervals.

We’re getting concerned about the guys planning to float and swim down the Waiohine Gorge tomorrow, and have even just considered an idea to get over Holdsworth and down to Waiohine Forks and catch them before they leave in the morning. Éamonn’s especially concerned as he did the same thing a year ago and knows how perfect the weather needs to be. It’s probably not realistic, though, and we’ve resolved that Richard and Steve both have their heads screwed on enough to not do anything silly.

10.21pm: Yahoo! We’ve reached DoC Asset Number 007973. There are a couple of people here who arrived about an hour ago, and they’re just starting to sort themselves ready for bed. I’m dragging a mattress further over to the kitchen area so as to be less bother while I’m settling down.

Apparently whoever came through here before these two people left one of the in-hut gas burners running, and lit. That’s quite bad.

10.25pm: I picked up Éamonn’s pack. It’s very heavy. Maybe I should have asked about taking some of the shopping.

Anyway, settling down to sleep on the floor.

Saturday, 2.12am: The rain and especially wind are making a racket outside. Powell Hut seems partly sheltered from nor-westerlies, but every so often a big gust skirts around Holdsworth and hammers it.

7.37am: Lying on my mattress on the floor. Not much motivation to get up, but I guess I should. Every so often another nor-westerly gust comes through and makes the hut shake. The rain’s not a problem, not with the umbrella, but I’m not so sure about the wind. I think Éamonn’s feeling the same.

8.16am: Okay, let’s state clearly that DoC hasn’t stapled asset numbers to the toilets. Clearly DoC’s Wairarapa Conservancy isn’t as efficient as the Palmerston North Conservancy was in the Ruahines a couple of weeks ago. They had asset numbers nailed to all the long drops.

8.30am: I’ve had some form of breakfast. We’re divvying up the weight properly now that it’s all down-hill. Éamonn’s handed me about 6 packets of biscuits, 500 grams of dry pasta, a tin of tuna (in oil), at least one block of chocolate, and a 600 gram fruit-cake. He didn’t give me the litre of milk he’s been carrying. Somewhere in there he has another 600 grams of dry pasta, and about as many packets of biscuits and chocolate again.

8.58am: This is bad news. We went for a scurry up the hill towards Holdsworth, and the support frame for my brand new umbrella has been torn apart.

Éamonn snapped this sequence of the critical moments. I think the umbrella may have become a fraction of a gram lighter as part of its soul was violently whipped away by the nor-westerly.



I suspect an umbrella’s soul could be manifested within those metallic hooks that hold the brackety bits together.

That decided it, really. We’re not going over High Ridge — the umbrella’s just been trashed by wind, and I don’t want to risk getting wet. Down to Totara Flats by the direct route it is. Those two other people are wandering around, but in no rush to get going along the tops to Jumbo. They’re thinking of waiting for the wind to die down a lot.

8.59am: Hmph. Don’t buy your tramping gear from Farmers, it’s not well made. I hope I don’t get rained on too much from here.

9.06am: Leaving, all down-hill from here. Next stop Totara Flats. I’ve stuffed the mess into the top of my pack for now, and will look to see if it can be mended later.

9.12am: (grumble)

9.21am: Stopping to remove some of this storm gear, which went on in case we ended up going the High Ridge way. Now that we’re heading straight down under trees, things are getting very hot in here.

9.42am: DoC Asset Number 009457 again. It’s much quicker getting down that slope than up it. Daylight helped, including not having to rely on a broken torch.

10.06am: DoC Asset Number 066416, which I forgot to note the number of last night. Down down down to Totara Creek from here!

Éamonn reckons my umbrella’s been “Holdsworthed”. I concur.

10.20am: We’ve been chatting about phrases we dislike, and phrases Éamonn’s noticed since he shifted here from Ireland. He dislikes the term “fronting up” that’s used all over the media here, pointing out that it’s needlessly confrontational. I’m sick of “not a good look”, which someone recently dreamed up and now it’s everywhere. Other silly media terms are “going forward” (which adds nothing to a sentence), though I’ve not heard of any “brain explosions” lately. I think they went out of fashion on the TV news so they’ve died out everywhere else.

Éamonn crossing Totara Creek.

10.44am: We’re at the crossing point for Totara Creek. Still raining, but the creek isn’t flooded. Éamonn’s wondering what “Totara” looks like, so I tell him I’ll point it out when I see it.

11.15am: Still no Totara. Have I missed something?

11.40am: I’ve been trying to count side creeks in major and minor numbers. I got to about 3.2 or 3.3, which I think is about right though it’s always difficult to correlate this kind of thing with a map. Probably not far to go now.

11.55am: Still no Totara.

11.59am: Woohoo — there’s the cairn that marks the route up High Ridge. There’s even an old white forestry service marker right behind it. It’s a shame we couldn’t come down that way. So the bridge must be right around the

12.00pm: corner.

Soon after I visited this bridge in 2007, I’d read that DoC had strengthened its resistance to strong wind. Today should be a great day for testing that, because there are some really strong nor-westerly gusts screaming through the Waiohine Gorge right now. We stroll past DoC Asset Number 068787, which only announces what we can already see, and

Somehow it never
swayed for Éamonn.

12.02pm: it’s still a fun amusement ride over DoC Asset Number 009605. It’s not as exciting as it was a few years ago, though, because DoC has since attached additional support cables.

Looking off the side as the asset is being hammered by the wind, I think it’s reasonable to say that Steve and Richard would be screwed if they tried to swim and float down the Waiohine Gorge today. It’s running fast and definitely flooded. Hopefully they’ve pulled out and done something else. Maybe we’ll see them tonight if they come back to here, but I think if I were them I wouldn’t bother, and would just laze around at somewhere like Powell.

12.04pm: There’s a cluster of asset numbers here, namely DoC Asset Number 066209 which seems redundant, DoC Asset Number 066319, and DoC Asset Number 066312 which really only communicates information about DoC Asset Number 009605 similar to what was on the other end.

Éamonn in front of
DoC Asset Number 009460.

12.07pm: Hurrah, DoC Asset Number 009460, and our destination for tonight. I’m quite happy to stop here. A couple of people are here, but they’re just packing up preparing to leave. It must still be early in the day. Éamonn and I are claiming a couple of spaces. My favourite bunk here is the top bunk that looks out over the river, and I’ve nabbed it.

This is my third time here and I’ve still never seen the Waiohine River out of flood. I think it’s one of my favourite rivers in the Tararuas.

Lunch time! I’m leaving my damp clothes on for now, because I want to go out for a walk around the flats soon while it’s still light.

1.00pm: I think I might be able to salvage something from this umbrella. Looking more closely, it’s really only about 3 spokes that are bent and broken. The rest will blend into shape, but maybe a bit lop-sided. I smell a warranty claim — there’s no way they can possibly put this one down to “normal wear and tear”.

1.13pm: Ray’s shown up with another tramping club group. They’ve walked in from Walls Whare.

1.21pm: Time for a look out on the flats, more or less back the way that Ray’s just come from. DoC doesn’t have asset numbers on the toilets here, either. Fortunately the desperate can still identify which structures are the long-drop toilets by following the directions of the nearby DoC Asset Number 066440. It’s a clunky and imprecise system, though. I might need to write in to let them know, since they’ll never be maintained by the department if it’s not on the official record that they exist. Perhaps that’s why there are two of them. I bet the second one was dropped in because someone looked at DoC’s asset database and believed there was no toilet here. It’s probably a matter of weeks before a third shows up.

DoC Asset Number 066441 seems redundant for a similar reason to DoC Asset Number 066209 which we saw earlier. It’s just sitting there with no clear purpose, taking up valuable space in DoC’s asset database. Weird.

1.27pm: The umbrella’s up now, and just as well because it’s still lightly raining. It’s lop-sided, but at least partly working. It might help if I can hook the hookey things into the hook-holder holes to get it to hold more happily.

2.00pm: As usual, Totara Flats is damp and muted, which is nice. We’ve walked out to the river’s edge about oppose where Sayers Hut should be, but can’t see it. It’s buried in the trees somewhere. Éamonn’s been trying to pick out places on the flats where we could have games and competitions tomorrow if it clears up. Maybe we’ll start heading back now.

Totara Flats. Another of Éamonn’s photos.


The flooded Waiohine, though not as flooded as I’ve seen it at times.

2.29pm: I’m not convinced about this umbrella. I have to keep holding up the edge, and now the shaft bit has fallen off. Bad construction.

2.38pm: Okay, we’ve arrived back and this hut is much more full. Anna’s shown up with another tramping club group, and everyone but us has clambered into the other room (the boring room). Meanwhile some people doing a Duke of Edinburgh qualification have shown up, and Anna’s already said Éamonn and I will shift out. I really wanted that bunk. Oh well.

Anna also brought news that Steve and Richard had given up on their bid to get down the Waiohine Gorge, and had signed out of the book at Holdsworth Lodge, so we’ll not be seeing them here.

Everyone’s started getting into the biscuits and chocolate we bought, which is good because I didn’t fancy carrying it out.

It still feels risky in the middle,
but doesn’t tilt as it used to before
the extra supports were added.

3.45pm: I think I might go and play on DoC Asset Number 009605 again. I’m dragging Éamonn with me so I can get photos of him struggling against being thrown off by the wind.

4.12pm: For some reason the bridge sways a lot when I’m on it, but not when Éamonn’s on it. I can only guess he weighs so much that the gale coming through the gorge can’t shift him. It’s very frustrating when I’m trying to get a photo of him in trouble.

5.30pm: Dinner time. We’re dividing up our 1.1kg of dry pasta, taking 150g each, leaving 800g in case of dire emergency. Éamonn’s recipe idea is to mix it with tuna (in oil), chuck in some soup mix for flavour and a whole lot of dehydrated peas, and bam! Others in the room think they’re mocking us, but they’re really affirming their jealousy.

Éamonn suggests a limbo competition.

5.31pm: Nevertheless, I think the likeliness we’ll need 800g of pasta during the rest of the weekend are indeed low.

6.50pm: I think I might go and have a sit in the bunk room, feeling tired as I am. Éamonn and Anna are playing card games, apparently Éamonn’s decided he’s on “Team Mike”. (Yeah!)

7.20pm: I don’t know why I’m wasting my life sitting in the bunk room. I think I might instead go outside and sit next to the river, so hop down to the point beyond DoC Asset Number 066204. It’s still flooded, but visibly going down very slowly.

The Waiohine, just below the hut.

7.33pm: If it weren’t for the rush of the river and the occasional bird calls and my perpetual slapping at the sandflies down here and that constant real-time narration in my head, I think it might almost be

quiet.

8.00pm: Ray’s pointed out that there’s an old track that bypasses Totara Flats Hut, dating from before this hut was moved here a few years back. Suddenly DoC Asset Number 066209 and DoC Asset Number 066441 don’t seem as redundant any more, as they’re making sure people know where the hut is without accidentally stumbling onto the old track. I’ve just pushed through a few trees and it’s still very visible. There’s still an orange triangle on it, in fact.

8.54pm: Well I’ve ditched everyone for a while and gone for another short walk. It’s a nice sunset over Totara Flats and the declining Waiohine River, that’s for sure. This is one of my favourite parts of the Tararuas.

A very nice sunset.

9.10pm: Nearly everyone’s gone to bed now that I’m back. This is amazing, it’s not even dark yet! Maybe Éamonn’s not the only person here with a broken torch. Heh heh. I don’t think I want to scrunch into that bunk room, so I’ve dragged a mattress out into the kitchen area. Éamonn’s going one further and sleeping out on the deck. It still sounds a bit windy out there for me.

Sunday, 5.40am: I was nicely asleep on the kitchen floor, and Éamonn’s woken me with his incessant water boiling. I think I’m going to have to get up now, simply because one person up and about usually means more will follow, and then everyone’s going to want to tread on my head when they boil more water. This is all because of unnecessary cooking gas in the huts. I knew it would wreck my sleep one day!

Éamonn had a good night outside, and it calmed down, but sadly there were many possums around. We probably won’t bother with games on the flats, we’d rather get going.

6.09am: I slip into the crowded bunk room and sneak out with my pack, which should let me get myself sorted and do some packing out in the main room.

6.22am: So, the plan is that since it’s just Éamonn and me and the river’s gone down, we’ll make the route out more interesting, and hop over to Sayers Hut for a look. Then head up along the ridge north of spot-height 772.

7.05am: As some poor sod has left a collection of rubbish at the hut, mostly wine bottles, we’ve decided that we (meaning mostly Éamonn) will pack a heap of empty wine bottles (far too many to justify them as candle holders) and carry them out.

7.32am: On to Sayers Hut, via Totara Flats.

Sunday morning.

7.41am: My pack feels suspiciously light, perhaps because of all the food we dished out. Éamonn gave away his bottle of milk this morning! I truly didn’t see that one coming. He’s said he hopes they actually drink it.

7.51am: The easiest way to pin-point where Sayers Hut should be is to stand in line with the old (pre-2006) Totara Flats Hut location on the flats, and take a bearing directly south across the river. It’s probably about 700 metres in that direction. Most maps either show the current hut or the old (pre 2006) hut that was removed having been supposed to be flood-prone. Interestingly the map on the wall inside the current hut plays things safe by stating there was a hut in both locations, but there isn’t.

Éamonn crossing the Waiohine.

8.03am: Crossing in the most obvious place where the river’s wide and the current’s slow, after a quick scout further down. It’s only knee deep, which is grand.

8.06am: There’s an obvious cairn on this side, and another obvious cairn further down. We’ll follow the cairns.

8.16am: Okay, bad idea. There’s obviously not a hut down here. A honking female paradise duck just flew around us, but there’s no sign of a mate hanging around. I’m not used to hearing one but not the other. Back to the cairns.

Maybe we should have simply gone up the bank between the two cairns rather than following them along the river bank.

8.33am: Sayers Hut is awesome. I have to call it by name, because DoC doesn’t seem to have stamped an asset number on this one. For reference, anyone planning a weekend of intensive DoC asset number bagging would be better served to avoid this entire side of the river. DoC would probably have cream pies thrown at them by the NZ Deerstalkers Association if they stamped a number on this hut. It’s pretty cool. Nobody’s written in the book for a couple of weeks, which doesn’t necessarily mean there were no visitors, of course.

Sayers Hut.

It’s a good thing the open long drop has so many spiders’ webs over the door; keeps the flies out.

8.43am: Time to go. Checking out the map, we’ll pretty much climb East from here until the track veers north for a distance, and then we don’t want to go down much at all because at spot-height 772 we’re leaving the main track to head north along the ridge.

8.56am: On a hunting topic, Éamonn and I got talking about hunting incidents, and in particular why I think the recent case with a tramper being shot by spotlighting idiots from the back of a truck in the Kaimanawas is distinctly different from many other incidents related to hunting. It’s just one of the many random sorts of discussions people have out in the hills.

9.20am: Lots of Totara up here, which is a change from Totara Flats and the length along Totara Creek where there were no obvious ones.

9.28am: Éamonn found a feather, and he’s planning to keep it.

Checking for a ridge.

10.13am: Up a tree, and we’ve confirmed the presence of a lengthy ridge towards the north for us to walk down.

10.21am: We’re at spot-height 772. Aside from the whole track-changing-direction and suddenly-going-downwards thing, it’s clearly marked by several tape markers of various colours, and (presently) a giant warning sign about the current 1080 poison drop to get the possums.

10.34am: There’s a nice ground-trail along here.

Totara hurts sometimes when you push through it. The leaves are quite sharp.

11.02am: We think we’ve just hit spot-height 768. There’s a giant white arrow improvised out of rectangular white markers that someone’s nailed onto a tree, and it’s heavily marked down to the western side of the ridge. I went on a quick scout, and it’s clearly leaving the ridge so that’s not the way we really want to go. A quick check of the map showed the spur going down to DoC Asset Number 009605. Thinking back to yesterday, Ray mentioned there’s an old track heading up to here from there, not at all surprising in the Tararuas.

11.05am: We just pushed through a north-ward bearing for a while, and we’re back on a ground trail.

The Waiohine Gorge.

11.32am: There’s an uncharacteristically open bit of the ridge up here. A great view down to the Waiohine Gorge.

12.11pm: Time to check the GPS is reading accurately.

By my reckoning from map and compass, I’ve determined that we’re standing at 1804295E 5466691N — and yes, the GPS is almost exactly correct!

12.37pm: Éamonn’s keen to talk about the ethics of running over possums on New Zealand roads, and how it’s bad driving to line them up and run them over. He’s probably right.

1.03pm: The ridge is getting messy around here, with lots of false ground-trails. Best to just go on a bearing, perhaps.

1.10pm: I’ve told Éamonn he can go in front, as long as he picks a route suitable for a tramping club social grade trip.

Éamonn’s started looking for a way to call a helicopter.

Éamonn’s photo from
where we emerged.

1.44pm: Free! We’ve reached the end of the ever-descending spur, and have stumbled onto a giant wide track-like thing above Totara Creek. Another triumph for off-track navigation adequacy over the New Zealand back-country.

There’s a faint marker painted on a tree at the point where we came out. I doubt I’d have noticed it if I hadn’t realise there was a route behind there somewhere.

1.46pm: Lunch time! Some how we’ve gotten into a perverse discussion about the potential for New Zealand Gaiter Magazine, complete with centrefolds. There are very few tramping magazines out there. If only New Zealand Gaiter existed, we’d have something to leave in all the huts as an answer to the three hundred different hunting magazines of various titles.

1.55pm: Time to go, back towards Holdsworth. We don’t really want to go down the Gentle Annie track. Down from Pig Flat looks more direct on the map, so I guess we’ll find out. Back in the land of the Department of Conservation, I guess we should start expecting to see asset numbers again.

2.25pm: We’ve just reached DoC Asset Number 066416, and met a very un-talkative chap (maybe Canadian from the accent of the 2 words he uttered before ignoring us), coming up from Holdsworth Road and heading down towards Totara Flats.

2.35pm: Pig Flat again. Unexpectedly, this is the third time we’ve walked this stretch of boardwalk on the weekend. It’s all turned into a bizarre figure eight pattern.

2.43pm: DoC Asset Number 068174, just below DoC Asset Number 066126 — it’s a shame it doesn’t include time estimates. Not that they’d be accurate, but it’d indicate which way was faster.

Location of the old
Mountain House Hut.

2.45pm: Mountain House used to be here, before it was an asset number (and a shelter). This was the staging area for the first remote radio station used in a land Search and Rescue Operation in New Zealand. Now it’s marked by a lowly DoC Asset Number 068796

2.48pm: And once again we’re at DoC Asset Number 066126, finally actually heading down towards the Atiwhakatu Valley.

Straight down the spur on a marked track. Zooooom!

2.56pm: Suddenly I’m kicking myself because I think I know why my pack felt suspiciously light. I’m fairly sure I left my raincoat and a fleece hanging up in the crowded bunk room when I was sneaking my stuff out this morning. There’s not a lot I can do about it now, hopefully someone will realise and grab them.

3.19pm: DoC Asset Number 086742 marks the lower end of the spur. Disturbingly it thinks we’re 2 hours from the Holdsworth Roadend, which Éamonn and I are having trouble believing.

Donnelly Flats.

3.59pm: We must be getting towards Holdsworth Road now, because the tracks are starting to get more spaghetti-like. Actually it’s Donnelly Flats. In 20 minutes we’ve bagged DoC Asset Number 086717, DoC Asset Number 086748, DoC Asset Number 086749 and DoC Asset Number 068784.

4.03pm: We’re finally crossing DoC Asset Number 009402. Éamonn’s having a chat with a guy from the nearby Masterton Tramping Club. I’m going to get some water.

4.07pm: I noticed the recycling bins behind Holdsworth Lodge, so we’re making use of them to dispose of the collection of wine bottles we’ve ended up carrying out. It’s a shame some people won’t bring out their own junk, which just means other people have to!

Regrettably it’s unclear if Holdsworth Lodge actually has a DoC asset number. It’s kept locked since it’s been renovated, so I can’t get inside to see if there’s a tag nailed above the door. Perhaps some other day.

4.20pm: As a side thing, a couple of further assets at Holdsworth Road that I forgot to note on Friday night are DoC Asset Number 068320 and DoC Asset Number 085090. It’s probably time to get changed in DoC Asset Number 009403 and go home. We bagged 25 distinct Department of Conservation Asset Numbers, not bad for a weekend, I don’t think.

It’s time to go, and we drive away. Regrettably this is likely to be my last time out in New Zealand’s back-country for a while, but I hope to be back sooner or later. I think I need to find the receipt for that umbrella, it may prove to have been the worst $14.99 I’ve ever spent.

As I sit behind the steering wheel, I’m wearing my “Possums are New Zealand’s little speed bumps” t-shirt. Éamonn neglects to comment, and buys me a pie.

Totara Flats on Saturday night.

Thanks Éamonn, t’was a fun weekend. Thanks also to Ray and Anna for respectively bringing out my raincoat and my fleece thingee.

The Reverse Engineered New Zealand Department of Conservation Asset Register, table 1.0

• DoC Asset 066132: DoC sign on Pig Flat, directing to Mountain House, Powell Hut, Holdsworth Car Park and Totara Flats.
• DoC Asset 066126: DoC sign on Pig Flat, pointing to Atiwhakatu Valley.
• DoC Asset 009457: Mountain House Shelter.
• DoC Asset 007973: Powell Hut.
• DoC Asset 066416: DoC sign at three way junction turn-off point towards Totara Flats.
• DoC Asset 009460: Totara Flats Hut.
• DoC Asset 066440: DoC signpost at the junction between the Totara Flats Hut and the two long-drop toilets.
• DoC Asset 066441: DoC signpost 50 metres from Totara Flats Hut, pointing along the track and saying “Hut”.
• DoC Asset 009605: Totara Flats Bridge.
• DoC Asset 066204: DoC signpost outside Totara Flats Hut, pointing directly down to the river-bank via a direct route.
• DoC Asset 066209: DoC signpost 50 metres from Totara Flats Hut, pointing one direction along the track and saying “Hut”, and direct to the nearby bridge saying “Bridge”.
• DoC Asset 066319: DoC signpost on the Totara Flats sign of the bridge, directing people to various nearby road-ends and other points of interest.
• DoC Asset 066312: DoC warning sign about wind on Totara Flats swing bridge. (Totara Flats end.)
• DoC Asset 068787: DoC warning sign about wind on Totara Flats swing bridge. (Totara Creek end.)
• DoC Asset 068174: DoC signpost just below Pig Flat, pointing one direction to Roadend “via Atiwhakatu Track”, and the other direction to Roadend “via Gentle Annie Track”.
• DoC Asset 068796: DoC signpost at the location of the original Mountain House Hut, pointing towards Mountain House Shelter and towards Powell Hut.
• DoC Asset 086742: DoC signpost on the Atiwhakatu Track at the lower end of the spur leading up to Pig Flat and Mountain House Shelter.
• DoC Asset 086717: DoC signpost at the junction on the north end of Donnelly Flats, indicating an alternative loop track.
• DoC Asset 086748: DoC signpost in Donnelly Flats, indicating the location of a nearby toilet.
• DoC Asset 086749: DoC signpost at the south end of Donnelly Flats, indicating 15 minutes to the carpark.
• DoC Asset 068784: A big sign near the entrance from Holdsworth Road, indicating estimated times for a variety of nearby locations and tracks.
• DoC Asset 009402: The bridge over the Atiwhakatu Stream at the Holdsworth road-end.
• DoC Asset 068320: A big sign with a basic map, near the Holdsworth carpark.
• DoC Asset 085090: A sign about didymo, with a bracket holding cleaning detergent bottles (all of which are empty).
• DoC Asset 009403: Shelter and toilet block next to Holdsworth carpark.

Near dusk outside Mid Pohangina Hut.

Dates: 26th – 28th November, 2010
Location: Ruahine Forest Park, from Tamaki West Road to Pohangina Valley East Road.
People: Tim, Richard, Éamonn and me.
Huts visited: Stanfield Hut (0 nights), Cattle Creek Hut (0 nights), Mid Pohangina Hut (1 night).
Route: Starting from Tamaki West Road, follow the Holmes Ridge Track to Stanfield Hut, then to Cattle Creek Hut via spot-height 908. Continue along the river route to Mid Pohangina Hut for Saturday night. Out to Pohangina Valley East Road via sidle track on Sunday.
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The four of us left at about 7.45am on Saturday morning, at first aiming for Stanfield Hut. There are at least three routes to Stanfield, one heading straight up past Travers Hut, along the tops on the true right of the West Branch of the Tamaki River, and straight down. If a 700 metre climb feels pointless, it’s also possible to walk straight up the West Branch of the Tamaki River, or otherwise do what we did, which is to follow Holmes Ridge along the true left of the river. The weekend’s forecast was to involve lots of sunshine, but things stayed very muted for us during most of the morning—I think if we’d gone via the highest route, we’d have simply been walking in clouds all morning.

Éamonn, Tim and Richard near the
lower end of Holmes Ridge.

The Holmes Ridge track is marked with a big orange triangle over the river directly opposite the campsite, and the route soon climbs to a high point of 658 metres, which is about a 200 metre climb from the starting point. Recent LINZ Topo50 maps mark the ridge with a walking track, but after the first 10 minutes it joins old 4WD track—Tim and Éamonn (who were ahead of Richard and I) met someone in a 4WD soon after we left, but that was the only person we met on the ridge. The track eventually heads into trees (about an hour after we began), and the 4WD track abruptly stops, so I suppose there’s only so far that someone could go with a vehicle before they have to park it and either camp or walk, or go hunting or whatever.

New Zealand Department of
Conservation Asset Number
042422.

A little before 9am, we’d followed the track back down into the Tamaki River, from where there’s about 15 to 20 minutes of waltzing up the river to Stanfield Hut, also usurped as Department of Conservation Asset Number 042422. Stanfield’s a classically painted NZ Forestry Service Bright Orange, and more elegant than a simple box. It was very tidy when we arrived, and kind’a cute. It took us about 75 minutes to reach, although the signposted time was about 2 hours.

A well signposted start
to spot-height 908.

The next stop would be Cattle Creek Hut, located a hop over into the next catchment so we’d definitely need to climb a bit. We debated the prospects of finding an alternative route to Cattle Creek Hut by heading over Takapari (1258), then bashing down one of the spurs to the north-west, possibly even bypassing Cattle Creek Hut altogether on our way to Mid Pohangina. Unfortunately nobody had researched or knew enough about that area, and being the Ruahines we didn’t really want to get stuck in a sea of leatherwood. Thus we continued for 7 minutes further up the river, looking for a nice entrance to the north-east spur that leads up to spot-height 908. We passed what looked like a commonly-used ground trail onto the spur, but someone had placed a barrier of sticks in front of it. Sure enough, a minute or two later, we reached a signpost and triangle that indicated a more “official” track towards Cattle Creek Hut. I doubt it would have mattered because very soon after we began climbing, we passed the other end of the original ground-trail, looking very open and easy albeit blocked by someone’s structure of sticks. It’s probably eroding more quickly down that way, though, so fair enough.

A sign from where there may be a
speedier off-track route direct to the
river or maybe up to Takapari (but
I’m only guessing in hindsight).

Spot-height 908 would be about the high point for the entire weekend, and being higher than Holmes RIdge things were now mildly less farm-like. I gazed over to Takapari on our left, trying to pick out any nice ground trails that might make it easy to get there directly. Such a ground trail may exist, but all I could see was a sea of leatherwood, and things that I strongly associated with leatherwood in my mind. (I’m sure it’s not all leatherwood, but there are mysterious things out there worse than leatherwood.) In hindsight, I’m now curious if there might have been a bit of a ground-trail leading off from an obvious corner in the track. The corner was very obvious because there’s a giant right-angled DOC sign at about BL36 606587 that points down the hill to Stanfield Hut, or 90 degrees away labeled as “Cattle Creek Hut via Ridge”. I suppose if something turned off that way, it might simply be an alternative route to Cattle Creek Hut via the river, rather than heading up to Takapari.

Richard, Tim and Éamonn.

For anyone considering this route, it’s worth noting that this ridge can become very windy at times, and later on we found vast numbers of hut book entries where people commented about very strong wind, which is also consistent with my experience the previous time. At 10.55am, we reached a point of the ridge where we could finally look down and spot the bright orange Cattle Creek Hut at a distance. On this day there was virtually no wind, but 3 years ago I remember having trouble standing up. At 11.10am, we found the track junction where it’s possible to continue walking north along the ridge towards Apiti Saddle, or drop 120-odd metres down to Cattle Creek Hut. In hindsight if we’d wanted to, we most likely could have made a longer walk by aiming for Apiti Saddle and getting across to Ngamoko Hut, but we already had our minds set on Cattle Creek.

Cattle Creek Hut sits above one of
the tributaries of the Pohangina River.

It’s a quick drop down to the hut in the increasing sunshine. The only distraction was at 790 metres (still 70 metres above the river) when I nearly stepped on a frog that leaped across the track in front of me, which I later figured out was either a Golden Bell Frog or a Southern Bell Frog. I think the latter’s more likely, because Golden Bell Frogs aren’t supposed to be seen so far south. I didn’t really expect to find a frog 80 metres above a river, but maybe it gets around, or possibly there was a less obvious water source nearby. Within 10 minutes of leaving the ridge, we were walking into a sunny Cattle Creek Hut, where we stopped for about an hour lunch. The hut is locate a short and easy climb above the river, but still has its own water tank. I dried out my tent fly.

Richard hops over a low-running creek to reach Cattle Creek Hut. Note the dominance of slippery brown rocks, which was the story of things for the rest of the way down.


Cattle Creek Hut, seen from behind.

Don’t believe the “1 hour” time.
It’s rubbish unless you’re a crazy
mountain runner.

For the rest of the day, we’d be walking down the river to reach Mid Pohangina Hut. There are a couple of direct tracks heading from the hut towards the river, and the one we’d not come up earlier trends in the direction of Mid Pohangina. In fact, an old sign next to the river points to Mid Pohangina, stating that it’s “1 hour” away, although that’s a ridiculous time—at the far end we found the other sign that tiimed the same walk as 2.5 hours, which is far more realistic. We left at 12.30pm.

On a nice day, which this was, the river is more like a stream. It’s ankle deep, only a stride or two wide, and slow-flowing. The wider stream-bed is generally wide enough to walk alongside the stream for much of the time, and this is just as well because it’s full of slippery brown rocks, so would be very slow to (safely) walk if it were necessary to walk in the river for the majority of the time. As is probably often the case with waterways that cut through mountain ranges, the stream has high and rather steep sides for much of the time, and I’d guess this could make the route tricky (if not impassable) if the river’s up by too much.

After about 20 minutes, we reached the first minorly tricky gorgey bit, which involved some awkward leaping. 20 minutes later, at about 12.50pm, another short section gets gorgey enough such that someone has helpfully installed a chain along part of the rock-face on the true left, which made it much easier to get around. This chain can’t be seen from the up-river end, and we’d had to clamber up a small way before actually realising it was there. Before then I’d be considering staying in the river, and I think in either of these cases, it’d probably have been possible to simply go in the river and get wet for anyone inclined. There’s a danger of slipping and creating more problems, so I guess it’s one of those things to weigh up. We sat down for a break for a few minutes, then sidled around a notable small waterfall, and after that the stream-bed flattened out again for easier walking.

This part looked tricky, but then we discovered a handy chain just around the corner.

Éamonn.

Just after 2pm, we reached the sign that marked the exit from the river to Mid Pohangina Hut. It’s an interesting configuration of sign and consequentual “track”. In particular, the sign has an arrow that points more or less to the top of a slip that looks as if it’s made of loose rock on slab, and there’s a large orange triangle at the top. I think if there was too much doubt, one could continue walking for a few minutes down the river to the end of the spur (where there’s a swing bridge), then back up the spur to the hut. Figuring that if DoC can recommend it then we should be able to do it, however, we set about trying to figure out where on earth we should be going.

If you look carefully at a larger version of this photo, you should just see a big orange triangle at the base of the tree near the top, 3/4 of the way over from left to right. That’s Richard down in the creek to the left, trying to figure out if there’s some obvious route we’d missed, and Tim on the right figuring a way to get higher up the side to cross the slip horizontally. Richard and I basically went straight up the rock in the end, perhaps not the best idea.

I think Tim had the best idea, which was to clamber up through vegetation on the up-stream side of the slip, then carefully sidle across it to the far side and head up to the triangle. Éamonn simply started on the down-stream side of the slip and clambered his way up, which he commented was a really crappy way. I have trouble seeing how it could be worse than the way Richard and I tried, however, which was the dead-minded compromise of simply trying to clamber straight up the slip, not so much made of scree as loose rocks. Richard’s done a fair amount of rock climbing, but I haven’t, and I think I would’ve preferred either of the other two options that likely would have been more stable.

First sight of New Zealand
Department of Conservation
Asset Number 042634.

Ultimately we reached the triangle at the top, then followed the only ground trail downwards past Department of Conservation Asset number 084045 that was busy directing people up the hill from where we came, and immediately after arrived at Mid Pohangina Hut (also known as usurped Department of Conservation Asset number 042634). It was now 2.50pm, and the hut was empty. We’d thought we might have met up here with Garry and Bob, who were coming in from the western side of the range to collect us, but there was no sign of them, and they never showed up. It was no biggie because they’d not been sure they’d get the whole way in, but hopefully they’d still be at the road for us tomorrow.

Department of Conservation
Asset Numb A nice swimming hole.

The Sun was still high in the sky, and we all hung out washing to dry, soon pushing through the toetoe to discover more of the the upper reaches of the Pohangina River, along with a great swimming hole and a nifty little waterfall. We all dipped in for a quick swim one way or another, but eventually got sick of the grouping sandflies, and one by one retreated back towards the hut, where a couple of big spiders guarded the doorway keeping sandflies at bay.

Soon after 4pm as we were lazing around in the hut, a helicopter dropped down into the clearing in front of the hut, and a chap hopped out and asked if we were trampers or hunters. Seeing there were four of us, he decided he’d prefer to get dropped at the next hut up the river, and hopped back in probably Ngamoko from the direction they went. He didn’t seem too bad, but I was a little relieved we’d arrived when we did rather than a couple of hours later, because we’d not have had an option of going somewhere else if the hut had been taken over by a hunter.

We spent the rest of the afternoon not doing much, cooked some dinner, and I went to sit outside for a while. Saturday night had a very clear sky, and we sat outside for some time in the evening watching satellites and meteors. After some quick visits to Department of Conservation asset number 006433, Éamonn slept outside on the deck with the spiders, two particular ones of which fascinated us all for the entire time we were there, and the rest of us slept inside with the other spiders.

We left at 8.20am next morning, following the directions of Department of Conservation Asset number 084046 down towards the nearby swing bridge (Note 6-Feb-2012 – swing bridge soon to be removed), at the lower end of the spur. Not long after leaving the hut, we met a lone hunter who only had day gear, and must have left early in the morning. He confirmed that he’d walked past a tent set up on the track about a third of the way in, which we decided must have been Garry and Bob.

Richard over the
Pohangina River.

The track out to the western side of the range from here had a fearsome reputation for being overgrown, with many complaints in the hut book. We contemplated walking down the river to get out instead, but didn’t know enough about it, or the possibility of it being gorgey. Only one person in nearly a decade of hut book entries had written about considering the river route on a nice day (without having actually done it), and someone had scribbled nearby that it’d be a stupid idea, though with no explanation of why. From what we later saw of the river from above, it didn’t appear to be tricky to walk at all, with a possible exception of a space within a couple of kilometres of the exit, where it appeared that it might close in a little, but we could only see from a distance.

Sidling Richard.

The sidling track actually wasn’t bad at all compared with what we were expecting. It’s a typical sidling track, with occasional side creeks running over it, and a few spaces being quite thin or falling away, but plenty of vegetation to hold onto, and little chance of falling a long way. Its biggest down side, as we soon discovered, were recurring patches of Onga Onga, also known as Stinging Nettle. The Onga Onga made what would be a potentially fast sidling track into a rather slow one. I was thinking some belly dancing skills might be of great help, and at about the same time Éamonn piped in claiming that the next World Hula Hoop Championships should be held along this track.

Éamonn Like Tree.

As we followed the sidle, the same helicopter we’d seen the day before was doing the rounds running up and down the valley, presumably dropping hunters in at various huts all over. We stopped on a small outcropping for a break over the river, and watched it fly back and forth several times. I guess if you’re running a helicopter business, you’d want to fly everyone in and out at the same time so as to avoid wearing out the engine with more restarts than necessary.

The part of the river at the lower end of this photo was the only part we could see that we thought might be potentially tricky to get through, and might require swimming. Although there was much of the river we never saw.

Two thirds of the way back to the road, Éamonn spotted a matchbox on the track, and on closer inspection discovered it contained a note from Garry and Bob to indicate that this was as far as they’d gotten. There wasn’t much space, but we could pick out the impressions of where a tent had been on the track, and sure enough we reached a small side creek within a minute after, which would have been their overnight water source.

One thing about this track is that the current LINZ Topo50 map shows parts of it in a completely wrong place. Notably, much of the track is shown down at river level, though for most of the time we probably sidled 60 metres or more vertically above the river. I have a suspicion that an old track, possibly overgrown, follows the river more closely, and at 12.10pm we did pass a track junction leading down to Centre Creek shortly after midday, which would have gone down to the river (I think) to meet another track heading up a spur on the far side. It’s probably worth mentioning that Centre Creek Biv was removed some time ago.

It really wasn’t as bad as it looks.

All that remained for negotiation was one giant patch of Onga Onga, which we duly snuck under mostly avoiding contact. I think this is the first big one that’s encountered when coming in from the road, and it was nearly possible to see how people would walk straight into it without realising enough to be on watch. For the record, it’s about 3 minutes in from the Ruahine Forest Park sign, which can be found at the point where the track begins to lead up from the true right of the Pohangina River. And therefore we had now reached the river, and with about 15 minutes of walking, arrived on farmland. We reached a fence at 12.45pm, and then finished the final small climb up a 4WD track to the road, where Garry and Bob had been happily waiting for about an hour. So that was good timing.

For various reasons this is probably the last chance I’ll have to visit the Ruahines, at least for a while, and it was a little sad to say goodbye to my second favourite mountain range. I’m sure I’ll be back in time, though.

The Coroner has recommended “restricted access” to the Fox, and possibly the Franz Joseph Glacier terminal faces, suggesting a new law and measures such as instant fines for people who get too close without a guide or some kind of official authorisation. So far the Department of Conservation has said it’ll consider the recommendations, but needs to discuss them with the Minister of Conservation. It’s already made changes to the signage, and worked with tourism operators to increase awareness with members of the public of the danger around glaciers.

What this recommendation seems to be suggesting is that legal restrictions against approaching the terminal face of Fox Glacier, and possibly Franz Joseph Glacier, should be put in place because those parts of the New Zealand Conservation Estate have been made so accessible, and because many people (informed or not) hop the recommended safety barrier.

It’s a terrible thing for all concerned when accidents like this occur, but I agree with Richard Davies, the President of Federated Mountain Clubs, who is strongly speaking out against what the coroner has asked for. Some of his comments are relayed through the first link at the top of this post. Richard is right when he points out that imposing legal restrictions for access would set a dangerous precedent. If such restrictions can be put around the terminal face of Fox Glacier, what’s to stop them from going elsewhere, and where does it stop? Would we see restrictions in something like walking up to the Crater Lake of Ruapehu, also popular with tourists, just in case the volcano burps again as it did in 2007? Why is it fair to issue fines to people who choose to take these kinds of risks, and how is that reliably enforced without missing scores of people acting silly for the wrong reasons, yet catching people who break the rules whilst being suitably careful?

The conservation estate is an awesome place, but it’s also a place where it’s important to be responsible because, when it comes down to it, it’s wild and has potential to be dangerous. The legal ability of the Department of Conservation to restrict access to public land is very restricted, for good reasons. Even though it’s typical to see signs that say things like “Track Closed”, such signs are not usually enforceable, despite the attempts of some local conservancy rangers to insist that they are. This is because DoC’s main purpose in this domain is to be a caretaker on behalf of the New Zealand public rather than a property owner.

The law that defines how a conservation area may be closed is primarily described ^* in section 13 of the Conservation Act 1987. While the Department of Conservation doesn’t have direct power to close an area, sub-section (1)(c) states that the Minister of Conservation may designate an area “closed” for “reasons of public safety”. Note that doing this should not actually require a law change as was requested by the coroner.

It’d be a sad day if anything like this happened in anything but the most extreme circumstances, however. It would also set a disturbing and slippery precedent, because there’s such a history in New Zealand of people being able to independently explore, learn about and understand the risks, and take responsibility for their own actions when entering hazardous places on the country’s public land. If there happens to be an accessible road for reaching that place, it should make no difference to the legal rights of people who want to go there for reasons other than tourism and taking photographs.

I won’t clearly comment on the details of this specific case or the specific people involved because I don’t know the exact details or the people or specifically what happened. Supposedly this safety barrier was frequently ignored, as are some others. DoC has said that in 2007, “almost a third of the 600,000 visitors to West Coast glaciers ignored warning signs and entered danger zones”, so the two unfortunate people weren’t doing anything uncharactaristic for tourists to Fox Glacier when they hopped the barrier and stood underneath the the terminal face for a photograph.

To me it seems that if someone crosses a safety barrier, they must have either been unaware of the danger (in which case the information and education needs improvement), perhaps there is no reasonable danger (in which case the placement of barriers should be revised lest they reduce respect for barriers elsewhere), or they’ve made a conscious and informed decision to take a risk, in which case I think people should be responsible for their own precautions, safety and wellbeing, just as happens everywhere else in the conservation estate which is equally open to everyone, and in many cases equally if not more dangerous.

Again without being specific to this case, I think there’s often a misunderstanding with expectations of some visitors (and some locals), who anticipate that New Zealand will be comparable with some other countries where it’s difficult or illegal for tourists to go anywhere or do anything that might be considerably dangerous. Generally New Zealand doesn’t have these kinds of restrictions, and also happens to be a country that can be and is often visited by people independently from sheltered tour groups.

If it appears that places are safe when they aren’t, that appearence needs to be addressed rather than putting up legal walls that will inhibit the rights of people able to make informed decisions. I like the way the conservation estate here is so accessible, and the last thing I want to have to do is to obtain a licence or arrange to attend a training course to enjoy myself in a way for which I’m completely responsible for my own safety and nobody else’s. Rather than impose legal restrictions, there needs to be a clear focus on proper education and communication with tourists, and probably a few locals, that these actually are genuine wild places. No doubt some people will still take informed risks, and occasionally pay for it, but that’s part of it—what’s important is that people know they’re taking risks, and what the risks are.

Here’s a sign in Egmont National Park.
Your call, really.

Footnote

* Section 38 of the Walking Access Act 2008 outlines further ways in which officially designated walking tracks can be “closed”, but for this to be legally possible, the track needs to be designated as such a track by publication in The Gazette (the official newspaper of the Government of New Zealand). As far as I can tell from a lot of searching, there are no such tracks that have been so designated, at least since 1993 which is the earliest data available for the online archive.

It wouldn’t be right to visit Egmont National Park in an uncommon state. That’s why I was thrilled to see that after three continuous weeks of dreadful looming sunshine, our planned weekend would be smothered with buckets of welcoming hydration. With a five hour drive from Wellington behind us, rampant precipitation began to gravitate at the approximate time we arrived at the Mangaoraka Campsite, about half way into the park up North Egmont Road. We duly set up our giant tent fly, perfectly designed to channel the all-important drops of moisture into one end and out the other.

Dates: 19th – 21st November, 2010
Location: Egmont National Park, from Mangaoraka Campsite below North Egmont.
People: John, Bevan, Frank, Ian, Brian and me.
Huts visited: Kaiauai Shelter (0 nights), Pouakai Hut (1 night), Holly Hut (0 nights).
Route: Starting from Mangaoraka Campsite, follow marked traks over Henry Peak to Pouakai Hut (for Saturday night), then to Holly Hut, and continue along various tracks down to Mangaoraka Campsite.
[Photos]
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Frank, Bevan and myself had this wonderful aquatic shelter to ourselves, thanks to considerate sacrifices by the other three. Ian had brought his enclosed tent, obviously inferior to the open fly. John set up a smaller fly nearby, tailered to allow some outside air to enter, but not having such a widened gap. Brian made the greatest sacrifice, offering to spend the night in the back seat of our van.

And so we spent the night. With a prized place on the end, I made sure to leave my feet out in the open to allow the dampness from the ever-increasing drizzle to seep into my sleeping bag.

An artist’s impression of what was probably happening on Mt Taranaki as seen from Henry Peak on Saturday 20th November 2010, as carefully extrapolated from a genuine photograph and various other references.

Taranaki’s like that. When things go well, you can count on a good downpour. It was steady in the morning when we had breakfast and packed up to leave, and just as well we had it because I’d left my sun hat at home. Brian helped me to roll up the giant fly, manufacturer-guaranteed to absorb at least its own weight in water (or your money back), and we began our walk at a leisurely 8.50am.

John crossing the Waiwhakaiho River.

Forested canopies sadly obstructed some of the showering that teemed from above, but happily it still made itself known by dripping down the trunks and reducing the friction of the ever-present tree-roots that dominate the up-and-down sidling tracks to the west of North Egmont Road. We made our way gradually along, reaching the Waiwhakaiho River at about 10. The river wasn’t flooded, likely due to the past weeks of hideous sunshine that must have starved it of its usual dose of di-hydrogen monoxide very recently. Hopefully the river would be back to full health soon enough. Being quite high above thanks to the track we’d followed, however, we nevertheless used the bridge to cross.

It was about now that Brian’s camera mysteriously decided to stop working, despite his having bathed it fairly thoroughly as he took photos during the first hour. Sometimes these things just happen inexplicably. Rather annoying, but it couldn’t be helped.

Bevan and Frank.

We emerged from the forest canopy on occasion, to a welcoming sprinkling from above, so as to cross occasional sidecreeks as we reached them, all generally radiating from the centre of the park as tends to happen around Taranaki. At 11.20am, we also stopped for a few minutes to bask in the sky’s drenching at the former site of Kaiauai Hut, removed 9 years previous. With the ongoing deluge now completely upon us, it was tempting to stop for an early lunch where we could enjoy it to its fullest, but curiosity got the better of us as we argued over whether the maps were incorrect in still showing “Kaiauai Shelter”, or if there actually was a shelter a little further on.

Below Kaiauai Shelter.

We continued for a few minutes more, meeting two German girls who were also out enjoying the weather having come from Pouakai Hut this morning, crossed one more stream that had been too starved over the past weeks to yet be flooded, and eventually clambered along the track up a small bluff to discover the three-sided Kaiauai Shelter (yes, that’s really supposed to be six vowels in a row), conveniently arriving just before midday.

If the shelter had been constructed without a roof, we might have been able to comfortably sit in a marine wonderland, but unfortunately the design that might have been designed to protect people from sunshine also doubled to lessen the impact of the environment as it was today. At least the seats were vaguely damp, having absorbed some of the surrounding humidity. And hey, we needed to eat lunch.

Kaiauai Shelter marks the lower end of a 500 metre climb up towards Henry Peak, which would be today’s high point, and the only real climbing for the day. A sign at the bottom warned about ongoing track construction requiring extreme caution, but we saw none of it, and I’d guess the track construction has finished but the sign’s been left behind. We left the shelter at about 12.35pm or thereabouts, fairly slowly making our way gradually upwards, following a fairly good slippery-tree-root laden track. A bonus from this point on, despite the attempts of the annoying tree canopy to shield us from the sky’s constant splattering, was the increasing number of occasions whereby the track allowed pools of liquid, often up to ankle deep to ensure a good splashing.

Often a down-side of reaching points above the bush-line is that one leaves the excitement of slippery tree roots behind. Egmont National Park is different, thanks to the good people of the Department of Conservation. In a word, boardwalks. More specifically, boardwalks and steps and ladders, all made of wood, are everywhere around here, and they’re nearly every bit as lacking in friction when wet as the typical tree root. I guess when the real thing won’t grow, something man-made may just be the next best.

We reached the first of these sets of steps at about 1.20pm, and briefly regrouped before heading along the steps and boardwalks into the humid tops, at a high point of Henry Peak, where we arrived at about 2pm. Thankfully the Sun remained well hidden, and so I was at no immediate risk of melting after having left my sun-hat at home. On the other hand, rumours of a mountain in the region remained unconfirmed, and we could only imagine what must be happening through the fairly thick layer of cloud that typically dominates here. We carried on along the boardwalks to Pouakai Hut (arriving around 3.10′ish), and despite considering the possibility of carrying on to Holly Hut for the evening which would give us the opportunity to keep experiencing the weather while it lasted, out debate decided it could be even more favourable tomorrow with a southerly front coming in. We elected to stay the night where we were, along with the 13 people up from Spotswood College who were already present when we arrived. There’s plenty of room, though, and everyone shifted in a round in a way that let the six of us get an entire bunk room for ourselves. It was very hot inside, though, with the fireplace roaring (I had trouble understanding recent complaints in the hut book that the fireplace didn’t work well). I spent significant time standing out on the deck, continuing to take in the muted atmosphere as the sky continued to spit towards us.

John and Ian.

Bevan.

On Sunday morning we woke early at about 6.30am, but prepared lazily. It indeed appeared to be more favourable walking — I poked my head around the corner of the hut, and was swiftly blown about a metre from where I stood. No doubt a recipe for a great day. By the time we left at 7.45am, conditions had barely changed at the level of the hut, but sadly as we climbed, the wind died down a little. Perhaps at the location of the hut, things had appeared more windy than they actually were, due to various geographic features.

The boardwalked and stepped track continues along and around towards Holly Hut, and trends downwards for much of the time in doing so. A happy feature amongst the boardwalks is the tendency for them to sink into the surface mud, helping to ensure our boots (and sometimes ankles) remained soaked to the fullest possible extent. 90 minutes after leaving, we we dropping down into the Ahukawakawa Swamp, one of my favourite parts of Egmont National Park. I think I like the colours, and the way they show up in the dull-lit ambience that surrounded us. The various giant domes, which at one point shot out of Mt Taranaki and more or less splattered around the landscape, weren’t too visible today except for brief glimpses. Mt Taranaki still wasn’t visible for that matter, either, and once we reached Holly Hut at 9.45am, I could only imagine what must be happening on the mountain.

Ahukawakawa Swamp.

We had a snack in Holly Hut, which had surprisingly been empty the previous night, then returned to our loop about 30 minutes after arriving. We’d had a brief discussion about whether we might want to take the fun route to North Egmont, higher in the clouds, then walk down the road to where the van was parked, but in the end we resolved to aim directly for our van, since it was to be a long drive home. At least this could mean more slippery tree roots down the hill. At first, however there were more waterlogged boardwalks to traverse.

Brian on the Kokowai Track.

At 11.10am, the six of us reconvened at the well signposted track junction leading down Kokowai Track, which would take us half way down North Egmont Road, bypassing the visitors’ centre at North Egmont. I’d presumed this would be another slippery slope down tree-roots, but disappointingly it was only the first part, generally above the bush-line, which lacked adequate friction. Shortly before 12, we were under trees, and the ground was surprisingly dry. This may have been because the mysterious mountain we’d heard rumours about was sheltering the area from the southerly. This track, as well as other parts of the park, has a number of ladders, which are uncommon in other parks I’ve visited, and for most of the ones we saw, it was possible to see where people had previously formed tracks up the sides. I have a suspicion that when the boardwalks were ordered, someone simply decided to throw 100 ladders into the order, and then scattered them to various places around the national park.

Soon after 12.30pm, we reached the bridge over the Waiwhakaiho River, which we’d crossed early the day before. It was a good thing that we were so close to our transport away, because sunshine was now threatening, despite a wavering mist of drizzle blowing over us from somewhere distant. Most of us stopped here for lunch, but John ran ahead to collect the van from where we’d left it at Mangaoraka Campsite, and we made an arrangement to meet him at the road-entrance slightly further up the road, which was closer to where we ate lunch. The five of us were away again at 1.30pm, and about 20 minutes afterwards we finally walked out to the road, a few minutes before John drove up to collect us. That was quite good timing.

About now, and as we drove away from Mt Taranaki, the Sun re-emerged completely and the mountain revealed itself from the enshrouding cloud. I’m glad this didn’t happen while we were there—it’d have felt as if we didn’t get a genuine experience.

Ed Hillary did some awesome things, both in mountaineering and outside it. He held some strong viewpoints and didn’t hit it off with everyone, but he did much more with his life and influence than simply be in the first climbing team to reach the top of Everest. I think there’s little doubt that many people are much better off than they’d probably otherwise be. As for the naming of a feature after him, I’m not so sure.

The Geographic Board has policies and guidelines about officially naming features after people, such as that it shouldn’t happen until at least two years after the person’s died, features should be named after a surname, and so on. One guideline is that the first person to climb, traverse or discover a feature has a recognised right to propose a name. There’s strong evidence that Sir Ed was in the first climbing party to document a climb up South Ridge (along with Harry Ayers), but, at least as far as I know, he never proposed a specific name. It was already called South Ridge, and that was easily enough to identify it unambiguously in necessary contexts.

I think my uncertainty about naming South Ridge after Ed Hillary is that it feels like an artificial push to apply a name that never would have occurred otherwise. South Ridge already has a name—South Ridge—and it has that name because it’s what people decided to call it. Chances are that it has Maori names, and if so then great. Let’s officially recognise them too.

I think official names should be a function of what people decide to call something, not the other way around. If something doesn’t have a name and people need to refer to it, they’ll make the name up, and usually that name has significance for one reason or another. That’s why there are features named things like “Bob’s Bluff” (Egmont/Taranaki), “False Spur” (in the Tararuas), and squillions of others.

Once a name starts to be used a lot and accepted by the people who have an affiliation to a feature, such as trampers and mountaineers (but not limited to them), then perhaps there’s good reason for the Geographic Board to recognise this use and document the name, so that there’s an official record of what’s being referred to when the name is used. Often features will have multiple names, and this already happens. If there were a lot of people out there who saw South Ridge and, remembering that Hilliary was one of the first people up there, happened to call it “Hillary’s Ridge” in casual conversation, then I could fully appreciate some official recognition of that.

This certainly wouldn’t be the first feature to be posthumously named after a person in order to remember them, by a long shot. At the same time as this Hillary Ridge thing, there’s another proposal to name a peak in commemoration of Gottlieb Braun-Elwert, a well known mountain guide who died of a heart attack in 2008.

I think I have more respect, however, for names that are based on what people already call things, or have called them in the past, rather than names that are simply applied to something from official external influence because someone’s decided a feature was worthy or impressive enough to represent another person or thing they admire. It feels wrong to use official influence to ensure that official documents and references all refer to something as an artificial name that never existed before until it’s in so many places that people have to use it. If a person is worthy of commemoration through applying their name to a feature, then it should be reasonable to expect that other people will simply start referring to that feature by the name. In Hillary’s case, he’s already recognised and extraordinarily well known. So why not just suggest it to a few locals and mountaineers, try it out for a while, and see how well it takes off? (I have a feeling it wouldn’t because as I mentioned before, South Ridge already has a name.)

I won’t be making a formal submission on this proposal, because I don’t feel personally connected enough with Aoraki Mount Cook or South Ridge. I’ll leave it up to the people who feel an affiliation to decide if they’ll be happy replacing the names they already use with this one.

It’s lacking in plot, and provides no explanation of this “Fred” person who’s suddenly been inflicted upon the protagonist. I don’t rate the narrative aspect of this novel highly.

On the other hand, consider the correct use of full stops, apostrophes and capitalisation, as well as impressive adherence to keeping between the lines. Visible evidence of text erasure also shows the author’s commitment to appropriate spacing between words, despite battling with his own impatience to express ideas. Added together these elements ensured a star-spangled reception from the public.

The Tararua Adventure Guide, by Jonathan Kennett, was recently published in August 2010 by the Kennett Brothers. It’s available in a bunch of places such as outdoor shops, probably some bike shops given who’s publishing it, a few online bookstores if you search around, and allegedly good book shops. (I couldn’t find it in the likes of Whitcoulls or Borders, but no surprises there.) It cost me about $21.25 after an FMC affiliation discount, and for that I got a 152 page paperback handbook, including a 3 page index. The price was right!

Bivouac in Wellington was sold out when I first visited to snap up a copy during September, but they had another shipment coming in the next day, and sure enough about 10 copies were displayed on the counter a day later. I guess it’s been a popular book. This should be expected because the Tararuas are on Wellington’s doorstep, and there’s not been much of an attempt at a decent route guidebook for ages, possibly not since Merv Rodgers’ Tararua Footprints of 1996. Please post a comment below if you think I’ve missed a recent good one in the past 15 years. I’ve not been on the scene long enough to be sure.

An unlikely twist to my purchase was that I’d only just managed to track down my own copy of the 1996 Tararua Footprints about a week earlier, after several years of trying. The reason for this lack of guides that specifically target the Tararuas is probably the relatively localised market that is the greater Wellington region combined with the small proportion of people who often get into the outdoors to the extent of being able to benefit from such a guide. Few people beyond the lower North Island would buy such a book, and it’s a risk for a publishing company to run off the thousands of copies likely to be needed just to break even. The initial print run is 2000 copies, which is probably on the low side for most publishers. The Kennett Brothers have a recent history of publishing books to similar localised and niche markets, especially around mountain biking, so my guess would be that they’re probably in a better position to understand the audience and distribution channels, and could manage the risk better than less specialised publishers.

About the book

The Tararua Adventure Guide is a description of all the main things to do in the Tararua Range. It’s not restricted to tramping, and is more of an adventure guide as the title suggests. The author has filled about a third of the book with “classic tramps” of the Tararuas, and another quarter towards the end with additional popular tramps and less common routes. The rest is filled with ideas for short walks and daytrips, several good river explorations, a single canyoning adventure (Chamberlain Creak), a few pages on mountain runs and mountain bike rides, and two pages about hunting and fishing opportunities. That last one is more as an explanation than a guide for hunters, and only a paragraph of the section is actually about fishing. The book has photographs scattered throughout, as well as brief history notes here and there, helping to give a better feel for the areas being described.

A small scale map at the front of the book indicates the main road-end access points, and with a splattering of numbers over the map there’s an approximate indication of where the activities listed in the facing page’s table of contents occur. A lengthy introduction describes the main access points of the Tararuas, and explains some basics of tramping in New Zealand such as things about huts, water quality, general etiquette, and common terms unlikely to be heard outside New Zealand. There’s also a “Hut Bagger’s File” at the back, listing 48 huts of the Tararuas and their basic characteristics. The table has a few omissions such as the mysterious Snowy River Hut, the emergency-only Eastern Hutt Hut, and also (as someone recently point out to me) North Mangahao Biv—the northernmost hut in the Tararuas. I’m sure all of these can be excused, however, because they’re not on many people’s radar.

The longer descriptions in this book (generally for “classic routes”, river adventures, mountain runs) are all described with a short introduction that roughly indicates what to expect, an elevation graph to show how much climbing and descending to anticipate, a rating such as ‘Beginner’, ‘Intermediate’ or ‘Experienced’ and variations as appropriate, a list of maps required, the starting and ending points, and a route description divided into segments on the order of about an hour or three per segment, give or take, with the approximate times clearly indicated in the margin next to the description. Except for a few references to park maps, all referenced maps are from the current Topo50 map series.

Some additional tramping routes towards the back get most of the above elements in their descriptions, but without elevation graphs. A few additional pages describe “seldom travelled ridges and rivers”, giving about a paragraph for each, and approximate times.

Before getting into criticisms, I should state that I don’t think my criticisms really have much to stand on if one goes into the book with the right expectations. If you’re reading this review to find out about the book, you’ll hopefully have a better idea of what to expect. The expectation should be that this is a guide book primarily for specific full-length trips, with some good ideas of stuff to do in the Tararuas. It includes lots of information that will be handy to have on the shelf for reference, but most route detail in the book is described as a consequence of explaining a larger trip from start to finish. As long as you’re already up with the basics of getting outdoors and partaking in your chosen recreational activity whether it be tramping, mountain biking, kayaking or tubing, or mountain running, this book will give you some good ideas about where to go in the Tararuas, along with detail about how to do it.

Possible criticisms

Of the detailed descriptions, most are written to a verbose level of detail that describes characteristics of specific signs and track markers. The book could date quickly in that respect if it’s not replaced by new editions, but anyone reading it in years to come could probably work around this by applying some intelligence in the obvious places. Before taking this criticism too seriously, it should also be noted that the detail is a strength.

A small number of the informal comments are also quite out there. Usually they add colour to the description, but sometimes they may come over as over-enthusiastic. For instance, in the introduction to the Holdsworth/Jumbo Loop after expressing how stunning it is, the author states “Don’t be surprised if DOC classifies this as a Great Walk one day.” To take this example, I quite like the Holdsworth/Jumbo loop and doubtless it’s a very accessible loop for many people, but I’m not personally sure it’s Great Walk material, or will ever be. Even if taxpayers funded giant escalators along the 750 metre 1:3.3 gradient climb up Raingauge Spur, and even if a special purpose 4 kilometre tunnel were commissioned and dug between Powell Hut and Jumbo Hut to ensure the tourist conveyor belt wouldn’t pile up every time the exposed tops were taking a battering, I still wouldn’t think of it as a fantastic Great Walk and I’m not sure I’d want it to be one. So far everyone I’ve asked seems to think along similar lines. One attraction of the Tararuas is that it hasn’t been overrun by a tourism industry that tends to make places more sterile and less accessible for locals.

Overall impression

The Tararua Adventure Guide is a nicely constructed book. Once you’ve picked it up and flipped through a few pages it’s obvious what you’re going to get. The information is clear, well formatted and easy to find and re-find. The language is fairly informal, and the author’s excitement and enthusiasm often shows through. Editing is also done professionally, and unlike some books of a similar nature I didn’t keep finding myself distracted by mistakes in spelling and grammar. I’m really glad someone’s managed to find a way to get a book like this published, and do it well.

The author’s used every opportunity to add useful pieces of information about things like campsites, states of tracks, and little things to look out for that can help one find their way through a route in the Tararuas. Later in the book my attention waned and I tended to flick through the descriptions more often than read them in detail. This was not because of the quality so much as the type of book. Most text is in detailed track descriptions, and it’s a book that’s better to read for the relevant details once you have an idea of what you want to do. I think I’d be likely to come back and consult particular parts of the book if and when I’m planning to visit certain places.

Through its focus on what’s most popular, it’s probably also of most immediate interest to people who have not seen much of the Tararuas. Due to the diversity of types of activities covered, few people will find every part of the book relevant. For me, my own main interest was in tramping rather than something like mountain running or mountain biking. For people who have visited the Tararua Range already, and are continuing to do so, this book can also act as a tick-list to help verify that one’s covered all the main things they might want to make sure they do in the range without missing anything obvious.

When I first heard there was a new Tararua Guide Book out, I bought it in hope that it might be comparable with, or even a replacement for Merv Rodgers’ 1996 Tararua Footprints book. Jonathan Kennett is a former member of the Victoria University Tramping Club, and (to unfairly apply a stereotype) that club has a reputation of spinning out people who know the Tararuas extremely well, and have been virtually everywhere there is to go, both off-track and on. Reading the book, it’s clear that Jonathan Kennett knows what he’s on about, but the book itself is not a drop-in replacement for a route guide like Tararua Footprints because the Tararua Adventure Guide isn’t written to cater to such people.

While the 1996 Tararua Footprints by Merv Rodgers is a systematic in-depth guide of short and specific routes through specific places described in terms of “river systems” and “vicinities”, both on-track and off-track, that might be consulted or strung together to make a longer trip in a bottom-up fashion, the 2010 Tararua Adventure Guide by Jonathan Kennett follows more of a top-down pattern, primarily as a collection of “complete trips” described from start to finish. It’s more like a book of “stuff you could do when you want to do something in the Tararuas” than a guide to designing your own adventure. In other words there’s a different target audience, and while it’s not a complete introduction to tramping, it is an introduction to the Tararua Range.

To finish, here’s the table of contents, complete with page numbers to help give an idea of how things are spread out. Enjoy.

Table of contents

• Introduction (page 7)
• Main Access Points (page 21)
• 10 Other Access Points (page 31)
• Classic Tramping Routes
  • 1. Holdsworth—Kaitoke (page 34)
  • 2. Holdsworth—Jumbo Loop (page 39)
  • 3. Southern Crossing (page 43)
  • 4. Northern Crossing (page 48)
  • 5. Tararua Peaks Loop (page 54)
  • 6. Kiriwhakapapa—Holdsworth (page 60)
  • 7. Schormann’s—Kaitoke (page 65)
• Short Walks and Day Trips
  • 8. Four Otaki Forks Walks (page 69)
  • 9. Five Holdsworth Walks (page 71)
  • 10. Three Kaitoke Walks (page 75)
  • 11. Two Kiriwhakapapa Walks (page 77)
  • 12. North Ohau Hut (page 78)
  • 13. Kapakapanui Loop (page 79)
• Classic Mountain Runs
  • 14. Jumbo—Holdsworth Trail Race (page 81)
  • 15. Tararua Mountain Race (a.k.a. Southern Crossing Race) (page 82)
  • 16. Carkeek Picnic (page 83)
  • 17. Dobson Loop (page 85)
• Mountain Bike Rides
  • 18. Waiotaru Valley (page 87)
  • 19. Tangata Maunga (page 89)
  • 20. Mikimiki Tram Track (page 91)
• River Adventures
  • 21. Lower Otaki (page 92)
  • 22. Otaki River (page 94)
  • 23. Lower Waiohine Gorge (page 98)
  • 24. Waiohine Gorge (page 99)
  • 25. Tauherenikau River (page 102)
  • 26. Hutt Gorge (page 105)
• Classic Canyoning
  • 27. Chamberlain Creek (page 107)
• Hunting and Fishing (page 111)
• Main Camping and Swimming Sites (page 113)
• More Great Tramping Trips
  • Otaki—Renata Loop (page 115)
  • Tauherenikau Loop (page 117)
  • Dundas—Cattle Ridge Loop (page 119)
  • Mitre Loop (page 122)
  • Ohau Loop (page 125)
  • Te Araroa Trail: Tararua Section (page 128)
  • Upper Otaki River (page 130)
  • Burn Hut Loop (page 133)
• Seldom Travelled Ridges & Rivers (page 134)
• Hut Bagger’s File (page 146)
• Club Contacts (page 148)
• Future Plans (page 149)
• Index of Place Names (page 150)

We started out on Labour weekend with a basic plan of staying a couple of nights around Studholme Saddle Hut, and possibly heading further up the main Kaweka Range during that time. Things didn’t work out that way. For the first time in a long time, at least as far as I can remember, we had three long summer days of sunshine, and ended up lazily following a loop around Kiwi Saddle and down Mackintosh Spur.

Dates: 22nd – 25th October, 2010 (Labour weekend)
Location: Kaweka Forest Park, Lakes Car Park.
People: Michael L, Rowena, Phil and me.
Huts visited: Kiwi Saddle Hut (0 nights), Mackintosh Hut (1 night).
Route: From the Lakes Carpark climb up to Kuripapango, then over the Kiwi Saddle Hut, and on to Kiwi Camp for Saturday night. Down to Mackintosh Hut for Sunday night, and out to the Lakes Carpark on Monday.
[Photos]
[Download GPX] [Show map] [Display in new window][LINZ Topographic Map in new window]

Friday night was spent camping at a DoC campsite somewhere near the Cameron Carpark, shared with another group from our local Wellington tramping club, which were themselves intending to spend a couple of nights around Kiwi Saddle. There was really nice weather on Friday night, conveniently forecast to last for the entire long weekend, and I bivvied out for the first time in a bivy bag I bought some time ago. I woke several times during various stages of the nearly-full moon’s path through the sky, interesting enough to watch but also a shame as it’d have been nice to be able to see more stars. The clear sky ensured things stayed quite cold, and in the morning I found iced condensation on top of my sleeping bag. At least it brushed off, unlike liquid condensation.

Whilst packing up on Saturday morning I looked up, and the exit road from the camp was blocked by two large figures. At first I thought they were people, but they didn’t move like people and on closer inspection I could see they were horses. Kaimanawa wild horses, maybe? Very cool. I wandered over to take some photos.

Having pack up from our camp, we hopped into the van, left the other group behind and drove to the Lakes Carpark, making a small accidental diversion to the Mackintosh Carpark but realising soon enough. There’s no water here at the Lakes Carpark, but a sign a few minutes before the end is labeled as “water source” and points to somewhere off the road. If you’re on the way there it seems there’s an opportunity to fill up any bottles, though I’m unsure how lengthy-a-walk it is.

Rowena and Phil climbing to Kiripapango.

The Lakes Carpark leads off in three possible directions. Leaving here at 8.45am, we chose the middle track (towards Kiwi Saddle Hut), which more or less heads due west, then north-west straight up the hill, initially through a pine forest as an interesting change from the majority of New Zealand tramping, and eventually (but briefly) changing to what Rowena identified as a Kanuka forest. We were soon out in the open, hit by bright sunshine, on our way to the first major high point called Kuripapango (1250). About half way up we met the first other person of our long weekend, a lone hunter who’d walked up early this morning to sit on the track and scope out any possible deer over the valley to the south. He’d not had any luck today, but that’s also not always the point with hunting.

Rowena, Phil and Michael L.

We sat on Kuripapango for a short while, then continued the clockwise walk along the Smith Russell Track towards Kiwi Saddle, with fantastic vistas towards Tongariro National Park, which didn’t really leave us for the entire time we spent on the tops over the long weekend. Despite the nice weather, some small splatterings of snow had resisted the heat, but nothing to cause any hazards. There’s an unofficial ground-trail leading off spot-height 1359 which we saw the top of, though it’s unclear exactly where it drops to… quite possibly a variety of places to the south-east, and I bet it’s used by hunters from time to time. The ridge-line is very eroded revealing a brown clay, and there also appears to be a huge problem in this part of the Kawekas with wilding pines, specifically Pinus Contorta, which is blanketing much of the tops and taking over from what should really be alpine tussock. For parts of the track leading towards Kiwi Saddle Hut, the side of the track has even been sprayed. At 11.40′ish we reached the track junction that leads down to Cameron Hut, marked by a giant signpost, and from here Kiwi Saddle Hut was only about 20 minutes further, much of which was spent cautiously hopping down a fairly sleep but wide open area eroding away.

As generally planned, we stopped for lunch at Kiwi Saddle Hut. A couple of sleeping bags were already inside, consistent with the first person we’d met having mentioned a couple of people ahead of us, but there was no obvious sign of where those people had gone. Within about 15 minutes a young couple walked up, down from Hamilton for the weekend, though from the west coast before that. They were mostly out for a walk but also had a rifle on the side. Soon after, two more people arrived on their own informal weekend out, and it was beginning to look as if Kiwi Saddle might be very crowded tonight if everyone stayed.

Rowena beyond Kiwi Saddle Hut,
Ruapehu behind.

Having packed up in a fairly lazy way, we left Kiwi Saddle at around 1pm, back up above the bush-line into the weed-ling pinus contorta, although it was less obvious for a while along here. We paused for a few minutes to fix a waratah that’d fallen out — DoC doesn’t put asset numbers on these things to allow accurate reporting, so we figured we may as well hammer it back in ourselves. (More specifically, I complained out loud that there was no asset number, and Rowena made me hammer it back in myself. Crybaby.) Over the next couple of hours, we met four people out for a daywalk from the Napier Tramping Club (their trip is written up here), and we stopped and chatted for a while.

They mentioned they’d already seen three poeple on their way down to Studholme Saddle Hut, and suggested that rather than go there we could aim for a point just below the bush-line on the ridge called Kiwi Camp — a big dug-out campsite with a couple of water tanks, and also a small enclosed shelter. Apparently it was put up by contractors who are intermittently brought in to help control the wilding pines. By the time we arrived we’d virtually decided it was a good idea. Michael L in particular had still been feeling some effects of a cold the previous week, and on arriving I think we stopped and simply never got around to picking up and leaving again.

Our improvised billy hook
(and a campfire).

Two of the young people we’d seen at Kiwi Saddle Hut arrived a few minutes after we did. They also decided to stay and set up a tent, but before too long they’d headed down into the valley to try their luck with a little hunting. For ourselves we set up a couple of flies, and with the help of some wax from a couple of candles, started a small campfire in the nearby fire pit (below the massive pile of firewood that had been stockpiled). In time we managed to improvise a billy hook by bending a wire, and eventually used it to cook most of our dinner.

Phil.

Rowena pulled out the mountain radio, set up the antenna and we listened in for a while. AT32, a group somewhere near Opotiki, was busy discussing with someone that a person in their group had with an injured knee ligament, but they didn’t try to request a resolution straight away, intending to wait for the 8pm sked later that night. (As an addendum, I’ve since discovered an online trip report for that exact Auckland Tramping Club trip.) Meanwhile we sacrificed the billy to be a black boy as we cooked our Beef Stroganoff over the campfire, struggling to keep the flies off at first until we were able to improvise a place in the smoke to keep them away. Rowena reported in as JG39 for the 8pm sked, not reporting anything except a great day, and we listened as AT32 requested assistance for their injured party member. Ultimately a helicopter was arranged to evacuate a person the following morning.

Rowena still listening in.

With another fantastic night, I bivvied out under a tree once again rather than head under a fly. The Moon was full and bright, and this time I think I had a much better sleep than the previous night. Sunday morning brought some more sad news over the mountain radio, with vague information about someone having been shot dead by a hunter, although details were sketchy. (It turned out to be this.)

We resolved to simply go to Mackintosh Hut, making it a cruisy day, but were still away at about 8.30am, quickly out of the saddle (and the bush-line), and standing up on Kaiarahi (1507) within an hour, catching a glimpse of Studholme Saddle Biv to the north along the way. The four of us stopped here for a while discussing what to do, despite a little wind, and eventually decided to wander down to the saddle and (with the entire day to waste) take a look at the various track options heading down to both the biv and the hut — supposedly they’re about a 15 minute walk apart.

From Kaiarahi (1507)

The latest Topo50 maps show no specific tracks leading down to either Studholme Saddle Biv or Studholme Saddle Hut, but the (slightly older) Terramap indicates a track leading to the biv off spot-height 1408 (it’s poled because we could see the poles from a distance), and apparently another signposted track drops to the hut from Mad Dog Hill, on the far end of the saddle. We also found a signposted track that appeared to be leading off the rib about 500 metres south of spot-height 1408, supposedly also aiming towards the biv. We didn’t go down it in the end, just enjoying the sunshine on the top too much, and sat around for an hour. From a distance, we watched at least three people emerge from the hut and climb up past Mad Dog Hill to Kaweka (1724), and another person come down from the Kaweka direction, over the saddle and walk past us without spotting us lazing around 50 metres to the side.

Phil and Michael L.
Many of DoC’s signs in this region seem
to be made of waratahs and meccano.

At 11am we finally picked up and left, backtracked slightly and began to follow the Mackintosh Spur track down towards Mackintosh Hut. As soon as we were over the ridge, we entered a thick forest of wilding pinus contorta, continuing the theme of this noxious weed in the Kawekas. We pulled out a couple of small ones, but on the scale of things I doubt it made much difference. It was sad to see it taking over so much of the hill-side, but at the same time it offered a different experience from the usual New Zealand bush. The track through this forest is very well cut and, apart from one (possibly two) small rocky bluffs to climb around, is very easy and straightforward. Eerie cairns buried in the pine trees suggest that the area didn’t used to be like this, and was probably much more open and tussocky in past decades before the ugly pines invaded.

Mackintosh Hut.

After 90 minutes and a couple of track junctions, we reached the bright orange Mackintosh Hut. It’s situated in a beautiful place in front of a swampy stream on a giant plateau of the spur. The hut has 8 bunks, lots of floor space, and lots of space under the verandah outside. Not that it was needed. We lazed around for another 90 minutes browsing the local hut literature, and also Friday’s Hawkes Bay Today newspaper that someone had recently left behind, but seeing an alleged 3 wire bridge nearby on the map, curiosity got the better of Rowena, Michael L and I and while Phil stayed behind to laze around in the sunshine, the rest of us set off towards the Mackintosh Carpark. This track leads SSW over the flattened spur’s plateau for 1.5km, but then suddenly drops 200 metres to the Tutaekuri River. Michael L didn’t appreciate the thought of climbing back up from this drop, so turned back at this point, but Rowena and I went ahead to discover that the 3 wire bridge no longer existed beyond some scars in a couple of trees. It’s been replaced with a fairly sturdy looking bridge with a handrail (but only one handrail mind you).

We took a few photos, then turned around back up the hill to Mackintosh Hut, where we found eight people whom we knew from another trampey club trip. They’d set up flies a short distance behind the hut, so it still wouldn’t be crowded in any way. They’d also found the very nice swimming hole in the creek just below the hut, although it was getting a bit late in the day. Rowena and I spent a while fighting with my GPS to figure out how to search the maps for the name of a Tararua hut we’d not been able to agree on some details of, and then Michael L and Phil showed up with some great Spicy Couscous for dinner. Yum. One more chap turned up, a lone hunter whose original hunting plan for the weekend had been ruined when his mate had a family tragedy, but he was out for a walk and possible hunt regardless.

Near the swimming hole.

The view from Mackintosh Hut.

Inside the hut just felt quite hot, and I dragged a mattress outside onto the deck, anticipating another clear, calm evening. Rowena copied me, and having early set up the antenna for the mountain radio to catch the 8pm sked, she configured it so she could listen for a while in bed and we learned more about the fatal spotlighting incident at Kaimanawa Road Campsite on Friday night. (She told me that’s the best way to do it.) We chatted with the huntey guy into the darkness for a while, then he went inside to bed and Rowena and I had our next visitor as the nearly Full Moon slowly rose above the trees on the far side of the swamp.

An adult possum with a baby possum on its back scooted past, giving the two of us some entertainment as we tried to get photographs. Something out the front, which later turned out to be a discarded instant soup packet, had gotten its attention. It wasn’t spooked at all by torchlight, suggesting it may have been familiar with people at this hut, generally not a good thing. We didn’t want it hanging around, and on discovering an arsenal of firewood and (especially) pine cones under the bench next to where I’d set up my mattress, a couple of near-target throws sent it scampering. The rest of the night was fairly uneventful.

The old Kaweka Hut,
destroyed by fire in 2003.

Monday morning was yet another excessively sunny day, and we resolved to walk back to the Lakes Carpark with the other group, given we’d be sharing our transport with them anyway. It took a quick glance at the map, and only taking some lazy notice of the relatively flat parts of the route out (skimming over the steep drops and climbs around a couple of rivers) I probably deserved some of the ribbing I later got from a couple of others who’d for some reason trusted my description of the walk out rather than look for themselves. All of us left at around 8.30am, back into the largely Pine weed forest from where we’d come, eventually turning off Mackintosh Spur to head back south-west in the direction of the carpark… which is generally a gentle coasty sidling track albeit for ongoing undulation, and except for the 150 metre drop into (and climb out of) Kaiarahi Creek, the 200 metre climb up towards Cooks Horn Basin (at the site of the old Kaweka Hut that burned down in 2003), and the 200 metre drop into (and climb out of) the Tutaekuri River. So yeah, pretty much flat I think, except for those numerous parts that aren’t.

At 10.30am we overlooked a feature of giant erosion, a large slip behind which we could see the distant carpark, but it was still some distance away. It was soon after here that we reached the second of those deviations described above, which leads north-west up towards Cooks Horn Basin to get over a creek, before coming straight down again, is ambiguous on the map. This all occurs at roughly NZTM BJ37 904405. My brand new Topo50 map simply shows a track continuing to head south-west after which it’s possible to turn up a track north-west towards Cooks Horn Basin. The older TerraMap doesn’t show this 200 metre segment of track at all, and instead shows two parallel tracks aiming up to the north westfor probably 800 horizontal metres, before the first crosses over to the second at the site of the old Kaweka Hut, and allows one to follow it down again. The second route is what we decided to take, because when we reached that critical turn-off point, the obvious and otherwise clear track continuing through the trees had been blocked off by branches, and a splattering of orange triangles made it very clear that the Department of Conservation wanted to tell people to go up the hill. So both tracks are there at this time of writing, but the very short one is at least presently blocked off for a reason that we didn’t feel inclined to run down and check.

Phil coming up from the
Tutaekuri River.

I finally got wet feet—the first time in the entire weekend—at the Tutaekuri River. A few maps imply that there’s still a wire bridge here, too, but we saw no sign of it. There was no need under the circumstances as it was running very low, and anyone wanting to keep their feet dry was easily able to cross 50 metres further up-stream. From the river onwards, the track sidles steeply but steadily up-hill back towards the parking area. This zone is all pine forest which almost looks plantation, despite being part of the forest park. Rowena and I took guesses, wondering of DoC has a plan to perhaps fell it at a later date when the trees are a little bigger, then use the proceeds to try and fund more effective measures to remove pinus contortis from the rest of the park. However it works, if it’s ever done it’ll be really hard to do.

So with some lengthy stops along the way, we finally stepped out to the carpark at around 12.30pm, with still a generally clear sky above us to top off a calm and clear long weekend. It’s been a while. I hear the Tararuas were one of the few places in all of New Zealand to have had rain this weekend.

Moonrise on Sunday night.

Lost: how tramp turned to tragedy

The article uses sources such as the Police inquest file, witness statements and various SAR resources. The author’s also filled in some gaps with likely presumptions. It’s more detailed than regular news articles, and worth a read.

This incident has been covered a lot in various places on this blog, beginning with:

• Tragedy near Kime Hut and
• Tragedy near Kime Hut, part 2.

Discussions that relate to the incident also exist under:

• The Hut Fallacy and
• The Next Three Hours.

We eventually heard about the shooting via sketchy gossip on the mountain radio service on Sunday morning. Early reports suggested that a hunter had shot a woman cleaning her teeth at a river outside a hut. Later a rumour came through that not only had the shooter failed to identify what he was shooting at, the hut’s chimney was even visible from the position of the shooter, which should have made it obviously silly to be shooting near there at all. This translated into angry sarcastic chit-chat on the radio. By last night when I’d arrived home, more correct information had begun to emerge about just how reckless and stupid these guys were. Unfortunately they’re not alone, they just happened to be the ones to hurt someone.

Want a picture? Because this one from the Herald on Sunday (pdf) more or less sums it up. Eventually the courts will reveal the facts of the case and if there’s reason to do so I’ll take this back, but right now it seems that what happened here really is disgusting.

Over at Fish n’ Hunt, the forums have gone overboard with disgust of the incident. Spotlighting is banned on all public conservation land, but these people drove just off the main road where they shone a torch into a frickin’ public campsite, well marked with a giant signpost, (Kaimanawa Road Campsite, alternatively on Google Maps), spotted a pair of eyes between the trees, aimed a loaded lethal weapon, and pulled the trigger!

So far the popular press has referred to the shooter as a “hunter”, or sometimes a “deer hunter”. What a crock! I’ve met enough hunters in the hills to know about basic hunting codes and responsibilities that are meant to be lived by and respected. Firearm safety and identifying targets is at the top of that list, and even though people sometimes screw up, it’s a long way from what appears to have happened here. This incident is so far away from any sane kind of hunting that it’s an insult to the hunting community to refer to it as a hunting accident, or to refer to some stupid lazy wannabees with guns as hunters at all, let alone deer hunters. This was not it by any respectable standard of the word. It can be described as nothing more than irresponsible twits illegally shooting from a road into a public camp-site without knowing or caring about what they were shooting at. Plain and simple.

So what does it mean if you can’t even stay in a public camp-site without a car-load of jerks cruising past with torches and firing loaded weapons? It’s putting at risk everyone who’s out there to have fun. Hunters, trampers, family campers, tourists, and everyone who shares the facilities. I only hope the repercussions here fall where they should, and not onto people who act responsibly.

This is exactly why spotlighting is illegal anywhere on the public Department of Conservation estate.

Idiots.