An unexpected visitation to the Valley of Frogs

My friend Alastair said to me that he could not find “The Valley of Frogs” on any map and I assured him that it did exist locked away in the fastnesses of South Westland. It was a long journey to reach it over perilous rivers and mountain ranges, a journey of great hardship that tested us to the extreme. I had set out seeking divinity in the natural living world and my quest was realised when I stumbled unexpectedly into this realm of frogs.

But I should start at the beginning and explain how this all came about. Last year I became a Climate Change activist and an ardent environmentalist. All the news was dismal and although I avoid Climate Fatalism, I felt the time had come to escape back into the wilderness and seek some harmony, humility and intimacy with the natural world. And so it came about that I arose on Boxing Day 2019 at 4.00 am and quietly slipped away in the darkness for the long drive to Arrowtown to rendezvous with Gavin and then convoy over to Neils beach in South Westland where he left his van and on to Martyrs road end where we departed.

It’s a few kilometres walk past the homestead to the Cascade River where we launched onto a quiet, gentle river for an easy paddle of 16 km to Nolan’s Hut. It was an overcast day, without much wind, not too hot and ideal for a paddle. We arrived at a cutting in the riverbank in the big oxbows where we got out, packed up the rafts and set out along a 4WD track to Maurice Nolan’s hut. There was some sunshine breaking through the cloud cover as we ate lunch on the verandah.  

Then it was a long tramp on the 4WD track to the Hope River, where a pipe and skinny rope trailed down the steep eroded bank. Once out on the river gravel, we crossed and stayed on this to the sea so avoiding the bog in the bush leading to the old airstrip at Barn Bay. It was 8.00 pm before we arrived. We camped in front of the house and had an early night.

Next morning, it was cool as we set off for Gorge River along the stony beaches. It drizzled most of the day but it was a good day to tramp this section. We’ve been here twice before, so are now quite familiar with the route. Sandrock Bluff is a bit of a pull and dropped behind us. Further on are the sandy beaches and by now the tide was coming it forcing us higher along the beach. Gorge River hove into view and then we were there. Gavin blew up his packraft as I tied our 30 m rope onto it. It was a bit of a circus though as the rope was not quite long enough and I had to run around the bank to find the narrowest part so Gavin could debark on the other side.

Up at the DOC hut, we were greeted John Longden from Haast. He made us a hot drink and told us about his accident when he injured his Achilles tendon. He was due to fly out the next day. Meanwhile, the rest of his DOC party had left 2 days earlier up Gorge River to cross a low saddle to Saddle Creek and the Cascade. We had a convivial evening with Catherine, Robert, Robyn and Ros and went to bed early so they could have their dinner in peace.

Next morning, the helicopter arrived to bring a lovely family of Monique, Abel and Carys (aged 4 yrs). John took the back flight out. Then we packed up and set off up Gorge River in glorious weather. Initially, we travelled up the TL and at the island had difficulty crossing back to the TR due to the high water level so used a PR to ferry glide across. Once past the Jerry Junction, the valley narrowed into a gorge with deep pools so we climbed up onto a high ridge on the TR and dropped off the back of it to Gorge River. Once past Gorge Creek entrance, we crossed back and climbed up the TR of this to the 250 m level and found a nice campsite. The forest is lovely here with many different trees, some huge and regal. That night Gavin heard a male Kiwi calling nearby. Last year the biodiversity team at Haast found a genetically distinct group of Kiwis living on Junction Hill so this was a pretty exciting find.

Back in the 1960s, a mining company took a bulldozer down the coast and up Gorge River to make an airstrip up on the side of Junction Hill. Goodness only knows how they managed to get it up Gorge River through deep pools, gorges and onto Junction Hill. Now, little remains of the track they cut though we did find a remnant higher up on Junction Hill below the old airstrip.

Morning dawned overcast as we pushed up to the bushline at about 360m where we encountered a wide band of scrub. This was a scrub bash until we reached a bend of Gorge Creek, in a deep gully, where the trees were taller and where we crossed to the TL. Then following this upwards, we encountered a remnant of the old track. The slope steepened and then we reached knee-high scrub and shortly afterwards the old airstrip. Amazingly, this had never regrown even though it has been here 60 years or so. We walked to the far end where there were the remains of an old hut and machinery. It started to drizzle as we had lunch. Ahead we could see some clearings among the scrub and found these to be very boggy on closer inspection. We plotted a course to point 963 to the left of Junction Hill summit and this took us maybe 2 hours to reach in heavier rain and freezing wind. Once there we followed clearings down into the bush that led eventually to the wide meadows of Low Flat. It continued to rain as we pitched camp in the shade of some trees there.

The following day was misty and there was no view of the tops. Once we got our bearings, it was a steady climb in open beech forest to the tree line and on to point 1242. Thank God we had Gavin navigating on his GPS as it was very confusing to work out our direction. It was cold and drizzly as we headed south along the ridgeline to peak 1287. There were many ups and downs. Nearing the peak, the cloud started to break up with some shafts of sunlight poking through, which lifted our spirits. We sidled the peak on its northern flank and followed a ridge that led around a long skinny lake to Twin Lakes. Descending a boulder slope, Gavin took a fall when a rock fell over, landing heavily and lacerating his face. Thankfully, the abrasions and cuts were minor so we carried on and had lunch at the first lake. Here we stopped to dry out the gear.

From Twin Lakes, we climbed to a basin at 1100m to the south overlooking the Cascade, then followed down a creek to the river below. There were some interesting blue rocks and others with veins of crystalline dark rock in the ultramafic. Lower down we ran into difficulties when the creek fell over a vertical cliff. Here, we lowered the packs on our rope and scrambled across a ledge. However, this led to more difficulties so we climbed over a steep spur to find easier slopes on the other side. This took us down to the river where we found a nice campsite in the bush about a kilometre north of the junction of Arcade Creek. It has taken us 13.5 hours and we were both knackered. 

The following day, we awoke to a clear sky. I had slept well with the aid of half a Temazepam.  We set off to the start of Arcade creek following the riverbank and deer trails. Once past the entrance of Arcade creek, we waded the Cascade with some difficulty to the TR bank. The Arcade Creek was something else and we could not find a safe crossing. So we followed up the TL bank to a waterfall where there was a huge blue pool and there we did a ferry glide in the packraft. Gavin shot across and I pulled the empty boat back with my rope and followed.

Once across, we started climbing up through giant rocks and thick bush. This took ages and far below the river thundered in its gorge. We sidled and climbed to the 600m level, where the country eased off and the deer trails more obvious. After a while, we could see the river not far below with the sun on the rocks and banks. We dropped down to 570 m and had lunch in the sunshine, Suddenly a stoat was right in front of me having a go at Gavin's jersey. I was too stunned to act before it fled. From here it was easy to travel to mid-flats, which we reached at 2 pm. We carried on and reached Top Flats at 4.30 pm. Both of us were whacked. On the way, I suffered a PIE (poked in the eye). The flats are lovely and we set up camp in the shade of beech trees on a dry bank, three metres above the river. I went off for a shave and bath in the creek and washed some clothes. I could hear the cry of Whio and later Gavin pointed them out to me. We had been 6 days on the go and both of us needed a rest. The prospect of 2 days rain seemed providential–the rest would do us good. That night I took 2 Panadeine and half a Temazepam and slept soundly. 

On New Year's day, we awoke to an overcast sky. The plan was to sit out the coming storm in this sheltered safe spot. After breakfast, I lit a fire and we dried off our laundry. By lunchtime the drizzle had started, the outrunners of the storm had arrived. I mentally calculated my food and decided I’d have to be careful of my supplies if we were to spend some extra days here. The day passed slowly as we lazed around. We studied the InReach forecast and it looked like we might be able to get going the following afternoon when the storm had eased. In the afternoon, the rain intensified followed by thunder and lightning. I wrote this in my diary "It's now 7.20 pm and it's been steadily raining for several hours. Before we had a hephaestian display of flashes and thunder as the storm rolled around the heights above us–the white anger of Gaia. The rain rattle drumming on the tent and the rushing waters of the Arcade were deafening. We feel quite safe here under the trees, well above the creek in the “Copper Hotel”. The dominant colour is orange–both our sleeping bags and the orange tent too. Let's hope for a clearance tomorrow to bring life, hope, and progress.”

That night we experience the demonic fury of Gaia– a spectacular display of unrestrained anger with flashes every few minutes that lit up the tent and crashes of thunder that rent the heavens and split the rocks like the dawn of creation. The rain deluged down, as we lay silent in our sleeping bags, each of us wrapped up in our thoughts. My mind drifted back to a different epoch when a similar event trapped us on the Olivine Ice Plateau back in the 1980s that we barely survived. I went over our present situation and felt satisfied with our preparations; we’re about 3m above the creek so the flood should miss us; we’re away from the hillside, so water pouring off it should not be a problem; we’re sheltered by big solid beech trees on clear mossy well-drained ground that should take the water away; this will pass and we’ll cross Arcade saddle maybe tomorrow. Then I took a Diclofenac and rolled over into a deep sleep.

Morning arrived and the rain has eased off. With the light, I felt sanguine, as our spirits uplifted with the rising sun. The weather forecast was for a clearance in the afternoon. Gavin had got the forecast on his InReach from Carol in Arrowtown. The storm had missed there but not the smoke from the Australian bush fires. The barometric pressure was low and I expected it would rise during the day, which it did. We had planned to leave in the afternoon and climb to the tarn at 1290m just below the saddle to camp.

The first hour went well on open flats. It was muggy and hot so we took off our parkas even though the grass was still wet. There was a lot of water in the side creeks and the Arcade River was too big to cross easily. Beyond the beech, we entered the scrub and it was unpleasant and interminable. We stumbled around for quite a while up on the hillside and then decided the best going would be close to the creek. The valley swung around to the left and below the pass, we struggled up a tongue of beech and then a wide band of scrub. Gavin, out in front, found a good route up this. Late in the day, we arrived at the tarn and it indeed was a great place to camp. The snowfields on the surrounding peaks were stained with ash from the Australian bus fires, 1500 km away and there was a spectacular sunset. Then the “nasguls” arrived– 2 demonic keas bent on mischief. They annoyed us all night so we got very little sleep. At 5.30 am when I got up to chase them away, I noticed big dark cloud banks on the Red Hills to the west which alarmed me no end so I advised Gavin that we get up and cross the pass now only 150m above us before it clouded over and we lost visibility. 

We did not have time for breakfast as we almost ran up to the saddle in the threatening weather. There was some old snow on the saddle and I don’t think we were prepared for the steepness of the drop off on the other side. Gavin looked aghast. But by fossicking around, I found a route down into a gully that was not too bad. The rest was easy into a lovely valley as the day warmed and the cloud dissipated. Further down the valley, we stopped before the waterfall to have breakfast. The 2 days on inactivity has restored us and we were going strong.

At the waterfall, where it healed over to a shelf 100m below, we went right and followed done a steep tussock slope which ended in a small cliff in the scrub. Here we got out the rope and used it to down climb this obstacle. The rest was easy down to this secluded Elysian valley. It was open tussock surrounded by beech forest at 900m and containing many tarns. We walked to the eastern end and onto the rocky ridge overlooking McTavish Ck. There was a steep drop off down slabby slopes and scrub to the tree line 100-200m below us. Where was the route?–it did not look good at all. We decided to try on the left and got into some horrible scrub wending our way around cliffs and gullies. We were stopped at 720m by a huge cliff and clearly, our rope was not long enough to abseil.  I pondered the situation–nearly out of food, bad weather coming tomorrow, unknown difficulties below us–what are our options? We talked it over and it seemed the only sensible option was to retreat to the valley above and call for a helicopter lift out. Typically climbing upwards was much easier as we climbed the slabs and found nice leads. In the valley, we had lunch and Gavin organised a helicopter with Carol on his InReach.

I found a nice dry campsite and here we spent the night. It was a clear sky, the firmament brilliant with the Milky Way, the moon reflecting off the still pools and the loud croaking of happy frogs. These were not native frogs and likely the Brown Tree Frog–Litoria ewingli. Earlier, I have seen tadpoles in one of the tarns and Gavin had seen a frog. It was quite surreal camped here at 900m amid a congregation of frogs. I thought a nice name for our valley would be “Valley of Frogs”. It seemed a bit like Middle Earth as there was a spell of magic camped here among these wonderful creatures.

The Keas arrived early perched on a dead tree above us, screeching rude comments as is their wont. So we got up, packed and wandered over to a wide drier place to await our rescuers. Then at 7.30 am, we heard the thump of rotors and Peter hove into view and landed nearby. Then we were airborne flying down McTavish as I studied the bluffs with more than a pang of regret. Peter dropped us off at Martyrs road end where I had parked my car to start the drive home.