23 April..camped on the Ngamoko tops just below the high point at Toka.
I scribble in my notebook by headlamp as the tent gets buffeted by an occasional low reaching gale. Overhead they scream past with the sound of a freight train. Reaching the tops we were headed north along them to Toka Biv but the increasing gales caused us to pull the pin on that, and by luck we stumbled upon this spot below the lip of the main ridge. It is out of the gale, replete with fresh water from the tarn and a nice cushion of tussock to pitch our tent upon. I think we made a pretty wise decision to pull back from Toka Biv. We will assess the situation in the morning as before crawling into the tent the cloud rolled in and the rain began. Cloud hidden indeed..
24 April Leon Kingvig hut on the Pohangina river...
The wind howls over and occasional great gusts reach down here into the relative narrow confines of the valley and whip everything into a momentary frenzy. Even the water ripples and lifts against the flow of the river. Then all settles into the symphony of the wind overhead and the river passing by.
During the night camped up top the wind buffeted the tent and then steady rain began to fall. We emerged into cold drizzle and near white out conditions. With the wind still ripping over the thought of heading further in did not seem too appealing. An early morning coffee would have helped, but in these conditions it would have been far less enjoyable than where I write these words on the hut porch. Had I been on my own, and certainly if I had been with Charlie, I would have packed up and headed back down to the car to return another day. With John however I felt a bit more confident. That can be the crux of getting in trouble or not. Being with John does not make me any better at route finding, or dealing with unpleasant conditions, but it does give more reassurance in numbers. When people wonder about my safety as an often solo tramper, there are times I think I may actually BE safer on my own as I am so much more aware of my limitations.
John and I packed up and headed into the mist and wind and immediately became "lost". It took us 20 minutes and finally getting out the map and heading where we thought the route would be soon found the poled route down the ridge. A few times we had to hunker down and absorb the gales till they subsided a bit and then carried on. Further down the "track" becomes a bit more distinct but it was a great relief to finally get into the tupare corridor and down into the forest and out of the wind.
I arrived at the hut, wet, cold, and tired, to be greeted by John holding a large hot and strong cup of coffee, which I had been thinking of for several hours. To sit on the hut porch and sip that nectar brought a smile rising through my tiredness. Seconds later a pair of whio flew into the pool across from the hut, singing and frolicking as if greeting us and approving of our presence and efforts to arrive here. Suddenly not tired at all we went down to the river to watch them, the soul of these mountain rivers. I took their arrival as a sign.
24 April evening.. In the late afternoon John and I were sitting down by the river as the wind continued overhead in waves of relentless gales, enjoying the fact we were here, safe and warm, and congratulating ourselves on having the hut to ourselves as no sane person would be out in conditions such as this. Suddenly I saw some movement across the river and high up on the steep track from the forest. Out popped Pohangina Pete who had traveled in through the inclement conditions to join us! He knows this area pretty intimately and judged, correctly, that he could make his away across the tops. What a pleasant and very cool development indeed. I am about to prepare a dinner of Moroccan couscous, with pistachio's, cashews, toasted sesame seeds, and green beans. More than enough for the three of us and a pleasure to cook for such fine mates. The wind continues to whip overhead. Inside this hut it is warm and peaceful. I am once again reminded of Emerson...
“The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand, not the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when you discover that someone else believes in you and is willing to trust you with a friendship.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson
25 April...mid morning...I have a sense of unease that has come over me. A feeling related to a few things. John and I yesterday discussing the possibility of climbing to and crossing Sawtooth ridge here in the Ruahine this coming summer. We tried many years ago and ended up spending two days hut bound at Howlett's hut as the weather did not permit a crossing and we finally pulled the pin. It is the one major route we have not done in these ranges. With that came my own personal realization of the changes needed within myself to do that, to both mentally and physically have my ducks in a row. And from there I have come head on with the reality of how much I really do love being in these places, or are the words scribbled from my pen mere bullshit? Am I willing to pay the price to make the changes I need to keep traveling here? As I wrote yesterday, had I been on my own in that wind, mist and cloud in the morning I would have doubted myself in unfamiliar terrain, and probably would have turned back. Perhaps that would have been the smartest decision anyway. Yet as I gaze across the river to the start of the track back up and across the Ngamoko the thought of climbing up there into a gale does not fill me with the same sense of challenge I might have felt 10 years ago. It fills me instead with this unease.
I also understand as I grow older the difference between saying we love someone, or some place, and the reality required in actually doing that. Nothing with any of that is static and secure. It is often confronting, painful, and difficult. Sometimes it seems easier to just walk away. So I know the hard work that lies ahead.
26 April...below the Ngamoko tops of the Ruahine
We had spent yesterday close to the hut, going down to the river to greet the visiting whio a few times, and between the gales of wind blasting down from above to fill the billy from the river for another cup of tea or soup. Then early in the evening the rain began in earnest, and between the wind blasting on the tops, and the possibility of not even getting across the river looming with the incessant pounding on the tin roof, we began making nervous contingency plans. A few more moments of doubt...
I woke up before dawn to silence. No rain, and the constant roar of wind gone. Only the muttering song of the river could be heard. Stepping out on the porch I saw stars flickering up in the sky!
I left long before John and Pete who remain at the hut tidying up and no doubt enjoying a few brews before getting underway. Not only because I am far slower but also that I love being on my own in the dripping quiet but not silent forest in the early morning light on such a day as this...sitting here in the depths of the Ngamoko surrounded by blue sky and the myriads of green and shimmering gold I find myself feeling reassured and hopeful. That is love as well.
“Few places in this world are more dangerous than home. Fear not, therefore, to try the mountain passes. They will kill care, save you from deadly apathy, set you free, and call forth every faculty into vigorous, enthusiastic action.” - John Muir
Surly and bruised grey clouds roil and roll above
pushed on by blistering gales
fluorescent on the edges of the setting sun
glinting of yellow and reds
that lead to the dark heart of the matter
the measure of my own time
in a timeless place
what must I do for one more day?