Mt Owen [not] again

Oceania » New Zealand » South Island » Kahurangi National Park
March 11th 2013

Published: March 13th 2013

An hour in to the day the wanderer wanders into the DOC office in Motueka. Granity Pass hut? "Dunno - no-one's been there for a while, but there's no chance of there being any water up there. But if you do make it there can you pop in and let us know what's happening up there?"

The wanderer agrees of course but wanders out of the building wondering how much water he needs to carry for three days of trekking in this heat. A lot. Even if one allows the bare minimum of two litres a day, that's six litres, which is 6 kg in the pack. And that's just for hiking, what does one do about evenings and mornings?

An hour's drive to Tapawera is interrupted only by a high-speed collision with an insect - with the summer having been so dry, they are running riot. I'm driving along at whatever my wee van calls high speed when something strikes me on the side of the head. It's only a momentary, soft thud against the side of my head but I don't know where whatever it was has gone now. Still driving along, I try to feel down behind my behind to see if anything is languishing there. I can feel something down there and there is liquid on my fingers when I return them to my vision. I only now realise it would be a bad idea to find it with my hand should it be bearing a sting. I risk a glance down and see a large, dazed wasp trying to grab on to my backside. I pull over next to a large, barking dog protecting his farm and (moving aside the stingable entity that is my body) gingerly flick the wasp out of the vehicle. Crisis over.

Then a long, windy, dusty drive into to the Kahurangi National Park, meeting only one vast logging truck and one small creaking trampers car along the way. Passing below the wildly tumbling logs of tree felling on the newly barren hillsides and deep into the green and buggy park. All seven fords are dry (including the one that barred my way in to the park a few years back), making a mockery of the "ford with care" signs. The narrow, rutted, stony, undulating road finally reaches an end - Courthouse Flat. A small expanse of flat in a sea of wooded hillsides. One other wee camper van sits in the far corner under the trees, its curtains drawn, its owners no doubt somewhere in the hills above.

That corner does seem to be the only one with any shade, so I bumble the van over to it and park up behind them. Now, the lady at the DOC office did warn me about the bumble bees and she was not wrong. By the time the van is stationary, a cloud of curious insects has descended upon it (luckily, I'd already closed the windows in anticipation of this). So I scramble around inside the van getting as much ready as I can before I have to open the doors and escape. Bashing the odd knee and the odd shin, I find my additional water supplies and slot them into the empty day pack strapped to the back of the weighty rucksack. The boots are by the side door, the packs above them, the walking stick beside them. I think I might have everything ready to go.

And so begins a caper that would grace many a decent cartoon. Opening the driver's door, I bundle myself out into the cloud of inquisitive bumble bees. They buzz excitedely around my head, searching for anything of interest. What is "of interest" to a bumble bee swarm seems to be everything on a human body and anything attached to it. As I dash out into the hot sun, I collect a dozen or three of the large bees all over my body and clothing and dozens more of their kind are trying to join in. In the mean time, in the second or so that the door was open, a few dozen have also entered the van and are now trapped inside. Trying to ignore the noise of the buzzing and the feeling of crawling feet all over me, I dash round to the other side of the van and can hardly see the handle of the side door - it's hidden behind another bundle of buzzing. I swipe aside a few dozens of the fiends, slide the door open, grab boots and walking stick and slide the door shut again.

I make a run for the other side of the field, a trail of bees chasing me, no doubt happily joining in the game and wondering where we're going. My plan is to get away from this swarm as much as possible, swap into my boots, then run back for the pack, throw my shoes in and head for the hills. By the time I deposit boots on the ground, there's a swarm round my head again and I can't quite see where the boots are. Proper cartoon style dancing around and swatting at the bees with a particular eye interest. I'm standing at the other corner of the field now, my boots far right, the van (and packs) far left, me far away. Pause for a pee and feel very grateful not to need to sit down as the bowl above the long drop is covered in bees (of the honey kind this time).

I venture back out and am greeted again by the swarm-storm. I eventually make it to my boots, grab them and run across the footbridge to the other side of the river where I'm fighting a few less of the buzzers. I manage to get my boots on and I think there's no bees in them (just my feet) at the cost of a sting on each hand, one from a bumble bee (not too bad), one from a bee (sore).

I run back over the bridge, shoes in hand, sweating copiously from the effort of keeping the bees out of my soft, fleshy or warm, holey areas. I run to the van, swipe away the black cloud from the side door handle, sling the shoes in, grab the pack (another sting), slide the door shut (more bees trapped inside), and retreat like a stumbling buffoon with a big pack to a slightly less buzzy place. I dump the pack by the footbridge, leaving it for the swarm to examine.

Standing in the sun, hot, sweating, and tired I wonder what I can do about the small swarm of bees that's now in the van. I need to go back to the van to ensure I've left nothing too obvious or tempting in view (though I'd give the thief who managed to get in and steal something while being attacked by these swarms some kind of medal) and then lock the van. I decide the best thing would be to get in, drive the van to the other side of the field, open the windows, get the bees out, then drive the van back to this end of the field, park it up, lock it and run.

A cartoon episode of man vs van vs bees ensues before the van is back in its spot and I'm sitting inside, three more stings on the left hand (two bumble, one wasp or bee), one on the right arm (bee) . I survey the damage. One swollen and swelling finger on the left hand, one sore arm on the right. Not too bad I guess. I sit, exhausted and watch the bumble bees swarm around me. I glance over to where my pack lies - hidden under a swarm of black buzzing. I wonder whether any of this is worth it. But I've come this far, I can't give up now.

I dash out of the van, lock it, note the bees inside, and dash for my pack. I swipe away the swarm, grab the creaking packs and dash across the river. I pause briefly by the sign at the start of the track. Granity Pass Hut via Ridge on left, via Creek on right. Instinct says ridge and annoying, loudly buzzing, painfully inquisitive bees says go now. I shoulder the creaking pack and head off left. Ten minutes in and the bees are few and far between now and I can take a breath. A long, wheezy, overheated breath. I'm not sure I've ever felt this hot and tired at the beginning of a tramp. The wanderer being a mad englishman (well, british, but we'll skip that for the moment), it seems apt that it's now midday and the sun is bakingly hot. I also seem to have managed to drop my sunglasses case somewhere lower down the track - maybe I'll locate it on the way down.

I question my sanity and will to carry on a couple more times as I struggle up the steep ridge with my over-weight pack. I'm drenched in sweat and have adjusted the pack assembly three times (finally got the weight in the right place) before I remember reading the bit that suggested avoiding the ridge route on a hot day. I guess they can add a new category; if your pack is too heavy, you're having to carry three days' worth of water, you've spent half an hour fighting a swarm of bees, and it's now midday in the hottest spell of the summer yet, probably best to use the shady creek route. That thought only makes my legs and mind groan at the thought of being down in the cool creek beside a bumbling river rather than up here in the sapping sunshine.

Two hours in and I reach the junction of the paths. A cool, shady path leads steeply away down hill to my right. A rising, wooded, shady path leads on ahead. A log sits before me. I dump the packs from my complaining shoulders and sit my weary body down. I lift my water bottle - nearly empty. That's 1.5 litres of water gone and I'm a third of the way to the hut. There's 5 litres left in the packs. At this rate, I will be out of water some time tomorrow lunchtime and still be 24 hours away from the next water source.

I sit and listen to the countless hoards of bees (honey) buzzing around their wood. A robin (black & white in NZ) lands by my feet, a quizzical look on his little face. Too tired to reach for a tit-bit to share with him, I study the map, trying to convince myself I can somehow do this. The track from here will rise for another hour, then drop steeply into a creek, then rise gently to the hut. Four hours away I reckon. Something nudges my right foot. I lower the map. The robin jumps onto my right boot then skips off again to sit a foot away, demanding attention. He repeats this half a dozen times before realising I'm unlikely to search out a snack for him (DOC are suggesting one doesn't feed wild birds, give them a chance to continue foraging for themselves without our help). He forlornly pecks at a seed, hinting.

I look back to the map, decide to give it one more try despite the heat-stroke like sickness in my stomach and the heat-stroke like wobbliness in my legs. I lift the pack and start the long trudge uphill. Half an hour on and I come to some kind of realisation that, even if I make the hut tonight, I'm unlikely to make the summit tomorrow and out without dehydrating badly. I think the only reason I decided to continue from the junction was to avoid going back to face the bees. Not clever decision making.

I turn back to the junction and head down the steep, shady path towards the creek. A long, windy track through beautiful bush leads down to the welcome sight of the sleepy creek. I drop the pack and drench myself in the cold water before trekking out, passing the abandoned machinery of an "ancient" mining works. A brief detour to feed the sandflies at the serene Lutine Pool and I'm approaching the car park. I've been working on my tactics for a while. I unclip the pack straps. Get the key ready. The buzzing is already all around me as I cross the bridge. First assault - in to the side door, throw in the pack and the walking stick - retreat. Second assault - in to the driver's door, jump in and close the door behind me. Deal with any bees in van. Both attempts work and there's only a dozen or so bees in the van as I drive off. A few hundred yards down the road I pause and help the captives out the windows. The presence of my sunglasses case baanced kindly on my windscreen is about the only thing to make me smile today.

My mind still thinks I might rise early tomorrow and try a day hike up Mt Owen from the south - a harder but shorter approach taking at least 12 hours. To do that safely, I'd need to be starting by 7. So I need to be close. A long drive out and on to Murchison (close to the southern approach to Mt Owen) and I find a wee place to crash. Actually, that's a lie - the only place left for the night is a large four bedroom house, but it's late in the day so the nice lady lets me have it for the price of a semi-expensive room. I stretch out in luxury. I raise my legs. They hurt. I think I'm unlikely to rise in the morning but I set an alarm anyway, just in case.

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