Scott Creek -
Kay Creek - Caples River
Since arriving
in New Zealand after my travels, I've noticed two main character traits
about New Zealanders. Firstly, they love the outdoors. Secondly, they
have tendency to downplay the weather, cyclones, bungy jump accidents
and sharp bends on unsealed roads which have a speed sign which states
slow down to 95 km/h. The Bushcraft Greenstone weekend, with the OTMC
only confirmed the aforementioned to me. Our party consisted of our
weekend organiser, Nigel and group leader Antony with bushcraft virgins;
Angelo, Serena, Anna and Fiona.
Late Friday evening
we arrived in the dark to Kinloch Road end via the skating dexterity
of Antony's rally traverse drive round the newly coated and unsealed
road from Queenstown. This is where I witnessed first hand that the
Kiwi male not only enjoys the cold by wearing shorts when it's minus
Celsius but also enjoys sleeping 'al fresco' with nothing covering
them but a fly sheet. A dismayed Scot whined that she only had a one
season sleeping bag. After a tent re-shuffle everyone was nested for
the night.
The following morning,
dawn arrived in glorious colours which Angelo dutifully rose to snap
on film. It also transpired that we were not the only ones who wanted
to get awy from it all, as the Varsity Club, who we had seen signs
of munching fish and chips in Alexandra, had also chosen the same
camping spot. Stumbling over 40 or so scarfies in deep slumber, sprawled
around in their fly sheets and bivy sacks made an interesting obstacle
course to reach the W.C. Everyone had risen and began to cook breakfast
of 40 differing varieties of how to eat museli with yoghurt, cold
milk, hot milk, with crunchy bits, with fruit or just on it's own.
Non museli lovers beware!
After a short drive
the uninitiated were dropped off at the beginning of Scott Creek.
Nigel led with Antony herding the sacrificial lambs in the rear. It
was a steep but a well tramped trail through the undergrowth with
an occasional white striped metal post to show that man had been there
before. The weather was glorious and the ascent steady. We each took
turns in leading the trail but the trail decided to test us and petered
out. This then left the challenge of spot the trail. This was the
first stage of the bush bash, an unforgettable one for those who were
not wearing gaiters.
I noticed that
the best way to bush bash was to 'swim above the undergrowth' by moving
your arms as in doing the breast stroke and taking large John Cleese
like steps. However, take note, this technique is not to be repeated
on any of the very public Great Walks or the DoC warden will probably
have you committed. Ocassionally one of us would be taken victim by
the 'ha gotcha!' bush hole monster. It can be quite disconcerting
when following someone breaking the trail, to find out whether or
not they have orange vibram sole sticker on the soles of their boots.
I digress, and
so did we in Scott Creek. The well defined trail, which Antony remembered
whizzing down in time for tea when he was just a slip-of-a-lad did
not show itself to us. We finally did find the little red tag to signify
the track. Unfortunately, it was still attached to the tree which
lay at the bottom of a massive land/tree slide. We descended down
and then climbed back up and over many tree trunks to reach the trail
again, this was to be repeated several times on the trail.
The scenery became
very different and unique as we neared the private hut at the top
of Scott Creek. Rocks were all hues of green, blue, purple and yellow.
The trees became ghostly with the silver lichen wrapped around the
trunks. This is where the ’ha gotcha!’ rock monster decided to rear
up and take a victim who displayed both of her vibram orange sticker
soles to the group. She walked away bashed and wary and sported the
biggest bruise for the trip.
As we ascended more,
the landscape became open and the weather closed in as we entered
the Scott Basin. The surroundings became more exposed with the rocky
outcrops creating an alpine area with Mt. Aspiring mountains in the
far distance. The views were awe-inspiring not unlike the European
Alps, rugged mountains in the islands of Scotland, or any other high
place you happen upon. It’s times like these that you find yourself
contentment and a calm aloofness of not thinking about the world below.
As we reached the
pass or belaugh (prn. ‘belack’) at the top of Kay Creek, the weather
began to break and the group was becoming tired after the trail-breaking.
We picked our way down a scree slope then boulder hopped down to the
DoC grade 3 hut at the bottom of Death Valley. Exhausted, we arrived
at the hut which looked more like a bush-man or hermit’s hideaway
constructed with tree trunks and corrugated tin. It became a haven
as the rain began to belt down on the roof.
Inside the hut
crudely made hessian sack bunks (which looked like stretchers) and
an open fire with wood. This is when you find out whether you are
in a good food group. One member stunned the group as he chopped and
then dropped a stir-fry vegetable meal with envious then sympathetic
glances from the other food group who were still spitting out their
de-hydrated chicken pieces out of their rice dish. It is strange how
food that you never think of becomes special and wonderful at times
like those, such as chicken super noodles.
Relaxed and in our
sleeping bags, we watched the flame dance on the fire and the sound
effects of the storm brewing outside. Things became more interesting
as the evening progressed. The wind whipped up and blew the smoke
back into the hut and caused some exhilaration when it blew in up
against the roof. I had a dream about trampers being found smoked
and roofless at the bottom of Death Valley, how did it get its name
I wondered.
Morning arrived
and we had all survived the night, including our camper. The rain
was drizzling down outside. We packed up and made haste down Kay Creek
as we had a long walk ahead of us.
As we descended
down the creek the weather opened up as we walked out the shadows
of Death Valley. Looking back I could see this was aptly named. The
creek monster this time decide to take a victim. He was the only remaining
one of the party with dry feet. He survived and drip-dried his way
down the rest of the creek with a water logged camera as a reminder.
We reached the Upper
Caples hut in good time. This is we rested and dried off for a few
minutes. Two members of the party volunteered to run ahead and reach
the mini-bus in time. The rest took a languid stroll out of the track,
stopping at the Mid Caples hut for lunch. The weather was uncharacteristically
good with clear blue skies and chocolate box cover views of surrounding
mountains. Eventually and only too quickly we arrived at the car-park
where the minibus was parked.
All too soon we
were back in Dunedin via chips in Cromwell. I arrived home weary but
happy that the bush had bashed some of the nonsense out of me for
the time being. I eagerly looked at the OTMC trip card for a future
trip which was George Sound, it sounded good to me.
Fiona Mains Bushcraft
Virgin
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