A Winter Trip in Southwestland - a journey into a dark space

“There is no light without darkness

There is no love without tears

There is no longing without desire

There is joy without suffering”

Winter is not the best time of the year to travel the remote rivers and forests of Southwestland. The days are short, the air temperature is low and the bush never seems to dry out as the northern sun loses it’s energy and heat. After weeks of unsettled weather, the forecast looked very promising. But where to in the mountains? After some discussion with Belinda, we decided to start at Martyrs, paddle down the Cascade to the Tasman Sea, walk to Gorge River, travel up the Gorge and Jerry Rivers, cross Pyke Saddle to the Durward, then paddle the Pyke to Alabaster and walk out to the Lower Hollyford. Belinda very generously offered to drop Gavin and me off at Martyrs and a week later to pick us up in the Lower Hollyford.

We started at Martyrs Homestead. The Cascade river was wide and deep and there were no rapids of any consequence. The banks are on farmland until past the oxbows where flax and forest take over. On and on we paddled late in the day as the shadows lengthened and the forest grew darker. Then we glided out onto the lagoon just on dark and landed on the slipway by the airstrip. An icy cloak hung over the dew-damp grass as we checked out the cribs for a bed for the night. We eventually found an old one, unlocked with 4 bunks inside so we settled in for a comfortable night there.  

Next morning, we checked the lagoon to decide our best approach for the first leg south on the coast.  Offshore was a sand spit with the Tasman waves thundering in with unfettered fury - no place for a packraft but inside the lagoon was placid and windstill. We set off and paddled 0.5 km to the south side of the bay.  Here was a hut or boatshed surrounded by piles of driftwood. After folding up our packrafts, we set off for Iota Bluff.  The day was sunny, the boulders slow going on wet, greasy rocks.  Thankfully, the tide was ebbing and we were able to get around the steep bluffs on our way to Barn Bay. The day brightened under an azure sky as the sun climbed higher but it was still slow going on the slippery boulders. 

Six hours later, we reached Barn Bay. At the old airstrip, we set up our camp in the Brown’s house verandah.  We had a pleasant night there and set off on foot next morning for Gorge River. The beaches further south are mainly boulder ones until past Sandrock Bluff and they were easier on smaller, drier rocks. We climbed up the old track at Sandrock and descended to the sandy beaches further south.  Then it was a steady pace past Browne Island and Cutter Rocks for the final run to Gorge River.  The Gorge Islands hove into view - we were close. 

Arriving at the river, Gavin inflated his packraft while I tied my 30m cord onto it. Once across, I pulled it back, clambered in and quickly crossed over. Then we strode up the bank, past Catherine and Robert’s house to the bright green DOC hut.  It was only early afternoon as the sun scintillated off blue sea reaching out to distant orange clouds on the far horizon. We lit the fire and made a brew.  Darkness descended at 5.15 pm.  The rats in the walls and ceiling were having a party, squealing and dancing around – happy rats! There was a knock on the door as Catherine and Robert dropped by and invited us in to their place after our dinner. We spent a pleasant evening with them until my eyelids drooped, my concentration waned and I slid back to our hut.

We had planned on a rest day at Gorge River and so it happened. Gavin went off to explore the pool at the Gorge and our route into the Gorge River Valley. I boiled up a pot of water on the firebox and had a shower in the toilet. We gathered some driftwood from the beach and chopped it up with the axe for firewood. I put up a clothesline in the Southerly wind to dry off some damp clothes. Then walking back to the hut, I noticed something unusual – my clothesline had some wet clothing that did not belong to either of us. I stopped and stared at this apparition, mystified. Then something caught my eye as I turned to meet Marcus, a young German chap who had snuck into the hut between my brief forays outside. He introduced himself and told me how he had swum across the river. 

That night we were all invited to a lovely dinner at Catherine and Robert’s place. How refreshing to meet these lovely people again so in-tune with nature, unpretentious and humble. It was a transcendental experience as we quietly shared stories in this place so far from the nearest habitation, with a restless surf pounding on darkened shores. 

We left just after daybreak. A short paddle across the first and second pools, landed us on a boulder beach at the start of Gorge River. From there it was a slow walk up slippery boulders on both sides of the river with frequent fording to find the easiest travel. There were frequent showers and it was cool. We were able to use the river banks mostly, which was just as well as the bush was wet, dank and inimical. By lunchtime, we had reached the junction with the Jerry.  The weather remained the same - cold and showery with snow down into the bush. We came to a gorge and climbed up a steep bluff on the TL to bypass it. It was now late in the day and where the valley widened, there was an island. Just upstream was a flat mossy place where we set up camp. 

It was a cold night and a subdued luminescence lit up the tent. I guessed the sky was clear and when I got up during the night, the moon was full in a diamond-studded firmament. Next morning, it took some motivation to scrabble out of the tent and fire up the stove. A few hours later we passed the Low Creek junction and somehow missed the Saddle Creek, our turnoff.  We noticed this soon enough so adjusted our course to the amorphous, inchoate Pyke Saddle. A sharp ascent of a forested slope brought us to a swampy, mossy, lugubrious rainforest plateau through which we slowly made our way to an ill-defined, formless waypoint marked “Pyke Saddle” on our GPS. On and on we plodded through this Gothic, acerbic terrain. Where, oh where is this accursed saddle? On and on we struggled through this miasma of rotten vegetation and wet coprosma. Then Gavin told we had passed it, which may have lifted our spirits, marginally. 

The next waypoint was a creek draining into McKenzie stream.  The land fell away gently to the SW and some time later we arrived on the bank of a small stream. The forest was still unpleasant with dripping wet bush, which soaked us. We found the odd deer trail but generally they were poorly marked. In the evening, we found a mossy patch on the stream bank and decided to camp. In no time it was dark and freezing so we quickly retired to warm up.

It took little persuasion next day to leave this dismal place. We followed the stream to the McKenzie, which shortly after joined the Durward Creek. The stream was now much larger and also descending more steeply.  We forded this to find easier terrain, often finding old, dry watercourse where the creek had changed direction. Travel in the forested banks was slow and wet. Eventually, we reached level ground and walked out through tussock flats to the Pyke River. The river level was low and several rapids were evident so we walked down 0.5 kilometres before launching our rafts. 

From the Pyke Crossing, it was better paddling though we still had to walk around some more rapids and sandbars. The river was about a metre lower than last time. Later in the day, we arrived at Lake Wilmot, just as the light was fading. We decided to stop at Alcatraz where Bruce Reay, a hunter, lives. So we powered across the 2 km long lake, arriving at the outlet on dark. Then it was down the Pyke, following the right hand bank beneath the umbraceous trees, looking for the tell tale rock that marks the track up to Alcatraz.

Then there is was, right in front of me. “ I can see some cut branches” from Gavin. I see a dim light high up in the dark forest. “Bruce, it’s me, Stanley” I yell out and then there is Bruce bounding down the track lantern in hand. “ Come on up” he says, grabbing my pack.  Once I stop paddling, I’m frozen, shaking in the freezing air. In the hut, its warmer and a fire is blazing in the makeshift tin-covered fireplace.  He trusts a hot cup of coffee into my hands. I’m in heaven. 

Bruce is one of nature’s true gentlemen – kind and egregious. He lives a lonely life out here in the wilds of Northern Fiordland, trapping possums for a living. He lives at Alcatraz – a hut under an overhanging rock that he built just south of Lake Wilmot. We chatted, shared stories, had a meal and a pleasant night in the bivvy.

We were having breakfast, when a helicopter flew overhead quite low. Bruce got a message on his Sat Phone. Then 10 minutes later, a helicopter swoops in with a few deer on a strop underneath and lands on a gravel bar in the river. The pilot drops off something to Bruce. A quick chat and they are away. There is frost on the pungas and the sun has not risen yet. The heli quickly fades away and we’re left wondering if it really happened as a deafening silence pervades this frigid, winter’s morning on the Pyke.

We thank Bruce and then we’re off. Nearing the Olivine Hut, we take the left hand branch as he advises, where we do a short walk around. A quick look at the old hut and we’re off again. Just north of Lake Alabaster, we stop and check out the old hut by the airstrip. It’s like a coffin, wet inside with holes in the roof. The door has a sign, which reads  “With the cost of ammo, don’t expect a warning shot”.  It had seen better days – days when planes landed and deer recovery was in full swing.

Lake Alabaster is placid and windstill. The reflections of the forested mountains in the water, are mesmerizing.  Mt Madeline towers above the foothills at the end of the lake. I remember the lovely picture of it in my lounge. A few hours later we reach the hut which is empty.  It’s too late to carry on the Hidden Falls hut. I light the fire and we have a pleasant evening there.

We’re away in the dark next morning for the 6-hour walk out to the road end.  I’m feeling strangely lethargic possibly from a virus infection that I’ve had on this trip. Belinda meets us 1 hour from the road end with some food. Then we’re driving to Te Anau. It feels surreal. Did it really happen or was I dreaming?

 
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