Tramping or Hiking?

A Southern Crossing of the Tararua Range

I read recently that the word ‘tramping’ is dying out. Apparently the Mountain Safety Council (who arguably themselves are dying out) examined some New Zealand Google searches and found that the word “hiking” was becoming the more common parlance (there’s a good obscure word for you). Take this tale of a Tararua traverse as a rebuttal of sorts, an imperfect attempt to sum up what makes tramping tramping.

21 Jan — Ōtaki Forks to Kime Hut

It was a muggy Saturday afternoon when we piled out of the car at the Ōtaki Gorge carpark. It’s less of a carpark and more of a stub, the road being slashed in half further down by a landslide. I’m wearing a fashionable red tie and trousers, the sky is clear and there is a sense of excitement amongst us. The Southern Crossing of the Tararuas is one of the great classic tramps of New Zealand. What it lacks in fiord grandeur it makes up with expansive ridgelines and gut-busting grunts. From a total of 9 people from our Wellington Outdoors Club who had expressed interest in the trip, just 7 had made it to the roadend. Mat and I had decided that to spice things up we would wear gentleman's attire.

Donning my tweed jacket we set off. We passed multiple warning signs before finally reaching the slip, which is now crossed by stairs which take you down to the road surface on the other side. There was something decidably eerie about walking along a road that had been absent of four-wheeled traffic for several years (other than some enterprising ‘koha carts’ left for walkers).

By the time we reached the Ōtaki Forks bridge I was absolutely baking. All it took was one look down to the emerald green waters of the Ōtaki and I was on the river bank in a flash. My tweed jacket lay limply on the rocks whilst I joined Mat in plunging into the refreshing water, meanwhile the others walked on. Rejuvenated and re-suited up we crossed the river before turning off the main track to check out Parawai Lodge.

Parawai Lodge marks the beginning of the ‘Southern Crossing’, a popular track that traverses the southern end of the Tararua Range. It was first envisaged in 1895 as a coach road to link the east and west coasts of the lower North Island. Unsurprisingly this proved impractical, with the idea only being later revived in 1909 by MP William Field and local businessman Fredrick Vosseler. However, instead of a coach or stock route this was to be a tourist walk to rival the Milford Track. Field’s political connections enabled him to secure funding for the cutting of the track between 1910 and 1912, work he took active part in. Following the First World War Field and Vosseler called a meeting for those interesed in joining a club to ‘foster and popularise the love of our flora and fauna and the great outdoors’. This would become the Tararua Tramping Club, New Zealand’s first tramping club. The tramping club movement quickly gained momentum over the interwar years, helping to popularise the past-time and bring the word tramping into the New Zealand lexicon.

From Parawai Lodge we decided to take the direct route up behind the lodge through some overgrown scrub to be reunited with the main track up Judd Ridge. Mat steamed off ahead as I struggled to keep up. It dawned on me that packing 3 litres of goon and three moderate (okay, maybe they were large Susie) sized courgettes would make catching up to the others more tricky than I had anticipated. As hard as I pushed Mat was disapearing around every zig-zag before I could catch up. It was nearly at the 500m contour by the time I heard the muttering of voices through the bush. The others had stopped for a break and look bemused at my sorry state, barely able to articulate a word as sweat cascaded off my peaked cap.

We continued on in convoy, weaving our way up the ridge. The bush around us was a wonderful array of green, a thick layer of moss carpeting the forest floor. I let rip a couple of stirring choruses as we marched, often echoed by the call of a shining cuckoo. I thought we were making good time when I stopped with Hugh and Natalie to wait for the others to catch up just below Tirotiro Knob. After ten minutes we gave up on waiting and pushed on to Field Hut, figuring the others could catch us as we had lunch. Field Hut is one of the oldest purpose built tramping huts in the country, and the oldest in the Tararuas. It was commissioned and built in 1924 by bushman Joe Gibbs for the Tararua Tramping Club as a shelter for the Southern Crossing.

We lazed at Field Hut in the sun as time ticked by, still with no sight of the others. It would be a good half hour or so before familiar voices could be heard approaching from down the hill. It soon became apparent that we had missed some excitement. Zoe had managed to get herself stuck straddling a log whilst her legs refused to cooperating. She was only glad that I wasn’t there to photograph the action. After lunch it became clear that Zoe couldn’t go on, so Max volunteered to stay with her at Field and they would walk out the following day. We left them with heavy hearts and slightly lighter packs on our way up to the Table Top.

It wasn’t long until we were on the tops with sweeping views of the surrounding ranges. Behind us the low hills around the forks failed to hide the ocean, which stretched out to the horizon.

The imposing peak of Dennan (1214m) stood before us, our route slowly winding its way up its lower slopes. Cloud hung low to the ridge, obscuring Bridge Peak from view.

Naturally we split into two different groups, every so often waiting for the other to catch up. This worked fantastically until a father and two sons got stuck between us, resulting in a mildly humourous game of leap frog.

We had the lead when we reached the flat top of Bridge Peak (1421m). The cloud hung close as we pushed over Hut Mound before Kime Hut finally came into sight.

Approaching the hut was could see that it was packed. This wasn’t unexpected, it was Wellington Anniversary Weekend after all. There were two bunks left and plenty of room on the floor so we weren’t concerned. We settled into an evening of raucous games, punctuated by a green curry minus the green curry paste.

“Not to be crude but Sam, how big are your courgettes?” — Susie

Every so often a bedraggled figure would appear out of the mist, peaking in the hut window to see if there was any space before turning away in disappointment. We paid little attention to this, too engrossed trying to sabotage other dwarven miners in a salacious game of Saboteur. Safe to say we got through a substantial portion of the goon and whiskey before the night was out.

22 Jan — Kime Hut to Alpha Hut, via Elder Hut

The current Kime Hut, affectionately known as the Tararua Ice Box, is the third to hold the name, the most recent successor in a long line of huts that have stood in the vicinity. The need for a shelter from the elements on the Southern Crossing between Alpha and Field huts was tragically demonstrated one brisk winter weekend in June, 1922. On the 9th of June Esmond Kime and Allan Bollons were making good progress through the snow from Alpha Hut across the Dress Circle before getting caught in heavy fog and chilling winds between the Beehives and Mt Hector. Disorientated they decided to turn around and head back to Alpha. In deteriorating conditions they became separated. Bollons accidentally ended up down False Spur, spending a night by the Tauherenikau river before stumbling back up the ridge and along to Alpha. The next day he crawled down to Tauherenikau Hut where he was found in a sorry state. Meanwhile Kime had made little progress, deciding to drop down the eastern side of the Beehives. He was found here on June 15th, barely alive. His rescuers tried to revive him before walking (dragging) him back to Alpha where he was set up with hot brandy. Although he initially seemed to be revived he soon passed away. In 1930 the first Kime Hut was built in his honour, to prevent a similar tragedy from occurring.

Kime Hut was shrouded in mist when we set off in the direction of Mt Hector. A bitter wind blew over the ridge as we eked our way along. My tweed coat did me in good stead here, protecting me from the worst of the wind. Soon we had crossed Field Peak, and from there it wasn’t far to the summit of Mt Hector. This was marked with a cross, a memorial to the trampers of Wellington who never returned from World War II.

We fueled up on snacks before plunging once more into the mist. Some of us were faster than others, so the forward group would often find shelter on the leeward side of the range whilst the others caught up. In this way we made progress over the Beehives and past Atkinson and False Spur. There wasn’t much to look at so walking was the main past time, that and making weird sounds with our mouths for the others to hear through the mist.

We trucked on to Aston and the turn off to Elder Hut. Here we waved goodbye to Natalie, who had decided to walk on to Alpha Hut. The rest of us amassed our packs away from the main track, grabbing our lunches before heading off down the hill in the direction of Elder Hut. Near the bushline we emerged from the cloud, a magnificent vista revealing itself out of the vapour.

Soon we were immersed in a goblin forest, moss covering the twisted trees that shook violently in the breeze. The track took us steeply down to a saddle before gradually climbing along the ridge to Elder. Before long we emerged onto the summit, treated to expansive views as the cloud lifted. From there we popped through the trees to Elder Hut.

For Susie this was a homecoming. Although totally unrelated to the fella who the hut is named after I think she took quite an affinity with the place which shares her last name. It was a cute wee hut with mattresses for four, a refuge off the Southern Crossing highway. We enjoyed lunch in the hut, sheltering from the fierce wind outside. It took an hour to ply ourselves away from the place, trudging back up in the direction of Aston.

We climbed about as fast as we had dropped, being careful not to be flung down the hill by the relentless gusts. Soon enough we were reunited in our packs, with the Dress Circle standing magnificently before us where it had been unveiled by the grey cloud.

From Aston we were propelled by the tail wind down the track in the direction of Alpha. Despite the trying weather it was rather enjoyable to have a proper view for once.

By the time we were crossing Alpha the wind was blowing a gale. Mat and Hugh charged on ahead whilst I took my time with Susie, keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn’t blow away in the wind. Once in the refuge of the bush it was just a hop-skip-and-a-jump to Alpha Hut.

As expected the hut was chockabloc. On closer inspection we discovered that the mysterious door next to the fire opened into another much smaller room containing a mattress on the floor. It was unclear what the original purpose of this room was, with broken cabinets lining one wall and not a lot else. The windows were mossed shut and took a bit of brute force to dislodge. But once that job was done it made quite a nice private residence for me and Hugh.

Dinner that night was an enormous pot of pesto pasta, which thanks to Mat all disappeared. This was followed up by chocolate mousse with Hugh taking up the role as the master-beater, but really it was a team effort. We passed the rest of the evening with another spicy game of Sabotuer, which resulted in one or two grumpy dwarves who got too competitive, chiefly me.

22 Jan — Alpha Hut to Kaitoke via Marchant Ridge

My Canadian friend informed us all in Alpha Hut that it was Mar-chaaaa Ridge, not MAR-CHANT. Apparently we uncultured Kiwis were ignorant of French pronunciation. We took a lazy start from Alpha, being some of the last to leave the hut. The track dropped and climbed and dropped steeply down to “Hells Gate” before rising up to Omega on the other side. Again the forest was wonderfully enchanted, the sort of place you would not be at all surprised to find a goblin.

Goblin

Following snacks we made our way along Marchant Ridge, rising and falling at the whim of the topography. As minutes wore into hours Susie got dangerously hangry, only just making it to Mt Marchant where we stopped for lunch.

From Mt Marchant we broke out of the bush and were slammed with the full heat of the day. The dry hulks of dead trees rose from the forest around us like monoliths. Quion Ridge towered to our right and the Hutt Valley started to sprawl before us.

The descent off the ridge was hard work for tired legs, and we were happy to see the relative flat at the junction where Dobson Hut used to stand. The final few kilometres were passed guessing what unlikely objects we could take on a spaceship, or guessing between obscure characters of fiction. Simple games to take the mind off the plod. Umpteen spaceships later we finally stumbled into the carpark. It took some cramming but somehow we all managed to squeeze into Mat’s little hybrid, packs and all, for the trip back to the other car at Ōtaki Forks.

So its about this point that you might expect me to sit on the fence and say “it doesn’t matter whether you call it tramping or hiking, it’s the act of doing it that counts”. What a load of rubbish. Tramping is more than hiking, it is so recognisable yet utterly difficult to define. It is made up of moments like:

• the faff of getting to the track
• cursing the heat when it’s sunny and the rain when it’s wet (sometimes all in the same afternoon)
• your companions remarking about how the weather could be worse
• strangers becoming friends in huts
• doing silly shenanigans for the fun of it
• longing for downhill when you’re going up and uphill when you’re going down
• sending silent hatred at whoever invited you on the trip, yet asking them when the next one will be

These are just a few experiences that are well known to those who spend any time in the hills, just as recognisable today as a century ago when the first tramping clubs were being formed. To me, this is tramping, and it is something worth sharing.