Hut Days, Thoughts on Gear, Vicarious Longing

I was suppose to leave on a two night solo foray into the Oroua head waters and Triangle hut this afternoon. A late afternoon jaunt up to Rangiwahia hut for the night, then carry onto Triangle early Saturday morning. The stars seemed lined up, a near perfect weather forecast, excellent timing with our busy schedules, and a strong calling I have been feeling from this area I have not seen in almost two years now. Two things happened since Tuesday when I sat gazing at my pack loaded and ready to roll. The first is Charlie had been sick with a very chesty cold, and sure enough it exploded in me, and I am coughing and hacking and feeling rather crook. Tara would call it the Man Flu. And secondly a man I know died in a truck accident Tuesday afternoon. He was one of the first people I met when I moved here and began working in the trucking industry - a real adult portion of a way to cut one's teeth in a new and unfamiliar land. Let's just write I paid my dues. Ben, the man who was killed, was one of the managers of the firm. He made a point of coming over and talking to me each and every day as I made my way through this testing time. I will never forget that little act of kindness. I since came to know his sons as well and though I do not see them often, it is always with joy that I do. Ben was Maori, and held much mana, or esteem, within his tribe. His tangi, or funeral, is being held this weekend, and I think it more important I be there to pay my respects to someone who treated me with respect and simple kindness.

So the mountains will have to wait. As much as I long to be amongst them, and in terms of time I will be soon enough. And they really never leave me anyway, I just close my eyes and there they are......

Hut Days : One of the finest aspects of my interactions with the Ruahines was discovering and implementing into my trips hut days, or simply days spent at a place doing everything and nothing. When I first started traveling in this beautiful and rugged place I was in a frantic rush to see as much as possible, traveling long and hard each day, spending a relatively few hours at these amazing spots, sleeping, then packing up and moving on. It began to occur to me that perhaps I should slow down a bit, particularly when Nigel moved away and I was forced to begin my period of solo tramps. I recall waking up one morning at Maropea Forks and realizing for the first time I was staying there for this entire day and night, I walked out onto the porch of the hut, the river sleepily rolling by, and just being filled with joy and euphoric harmony and I knew this was the path for me to be on. What to do on a day with absolutely no restrictions, time is meaningless except for light and dark. Some are daunted by that, bored without those worldly constraints of being productive and efficient. Not me. And what is productive anyway? Is it being able to climb a ridge to open tops with only a small pack, or walk up an unexplored creek or river, create karma for the hut by cleaning and chopping wood, writing in my notebook, reading Walt Whitman, having another cup of tea, or just sitting in some quiet spot and absorbing the energy of all this life around me?

"Hut Day at Top Maropea"

Firewood chopped, sawed, stacked nice and neat

Warm dry socks upon my feet

What to do now - well let's see

I've had another few cups of tea

Checked all the straps on pack and gear

Kept myself full of good cheer

I've had a nap

took a crap

checked all the places on my map

We may think this is a realm of man's

Though the Ruahines care not

for my insignificant plans

In fact they do not give a damn

So I guess I'll just pour myself

a wee small dram

and raise a toast

To the next time I see ya

It has been a lovely day

hut bound here at Top Maropea

Written 31 September 2005. Hut bound and forced to stay an extra day and night due to inclement weather. A crude attempt at rhyming prose I know, but hey, with the wind howling over, and rain beating down on the tin roof, it sounded pretty good in that moment.

Gear: Above is my favourite photo of my pack. It was taken in a part of the forest on the spur that leads from Upper Makaroro to Parks Peak ridge. A relatively flat enjoyable stretch of an otherwise grueling climb. These beeches and forest literally pulsate with energy, and one thing that always amazes me about Ruahine forest is the very symmetrical pattern to the big trees, look how they line up to make the best use of the sun, of the meagre soil depth, each one unique and solid. So I stopped and took a photo, forgetting my pack was even there. It is a Mac Pac, at that time a New Zealand made product, made here and for, the interesting conditions our mountains present. All four seasons in one day would be an apt description. A model long since made redundant, it was the first pack I ever purchased in the modern era of "harness systems" and I paid top dollar for it. We became fine traveling companions over the last 11 years. It has carried for me many heavy loads and I in turn for it carried those loads upon my back. An even trade. The Ruahines are not kind to gear, even when the gear is cared for properly. I have gone through four pairs of boots, my poles are bent and one locked into place, my 10 year old Reflex rain jacket has a few spots rubbing through, and I won't even get into the state of my thermals and socks. I never even noticed until my last winter trip with John. My threadbare thermals seemed fine, my old gaiters still work, but all the sudden after a brief rest on Parks Peak ridge and I shouldered my old friend the Mac Pac, the whole side of the shoulder strap I always pick it up from tore loose. Not good. Thanks to the straps Nigel provided years ago to lash my Camel Bak to the pack I was able to improvise a repair and carry on for the next 4 days, but I knew this was a significant moment. The end had come.

So I have new bought a new back. Something called a Deuter with an "Air Contact Harness System". Pretty flash sounding. I felt no loyalty towards any New Zealand product as they are all now made off shore, as are most of the worlds packs these days. So I bought the most comfortable pack I found, one with a bit more space, and one that felt reasonably comfortable on my hip. Still, no way to tell until I get a few trips under my belt. And just as I felt a bit guilty about staying in the new Parks Peak hut, I find myself feeling the same about looking at my new loaded shiny pack sitting here waiting. I am sure we will become good mates in due course, but saying good bye to my old Mac Pac is also a representation of my own time moving on in the hills. We climbed many a ridge, traversed many rivers, sometimes muddy and angry, sometimes calm and serene, we endured storms and sun lit days amongst the golden tussock, I sat with you during moments of doubt and indecision, and sometimes just to enjoy the moment. You were a good friend. I toast to your endurance and loyalty. Rangimarie and Aroha. Travel safely.