Stewart Island – A Wicked Place

Joy Paxton

I mentioned to Helen, who had been a cycling companion in China, that I needed to break free from the ropes of life and pace in Auckland for a while. I told her of the opportunity to tramp the Kepler, near Fiordland, with Kath.

Helen had a plan of her own. Her fax back said, “you could join us, Stewart Island is a wicked place and much more challenging and adventurous than the Kepler- you wouldn’t have all that glorious mud”.

Over the years I had heard about the bog on Stewart Island. In hindsight, and any previous farming and tramping experiences, had sheltered me from what “bog” truly was. After Stewart Island, the word now has a new definition.

I jumped, a little apprehensively at the opportunity. Would I be fit enough, would I be able to carry the pack for 8 or 10 days?

A visit to the DOC office produced a pamphlet. I skipped over the sentence “ Mud is widespread and often deep and thick on the tracks”. Then raced off to the retail outlet that supplies typographical maps. Without taking in too much detail, these two pieces of paper gave me courage to commit.

Completing the 4 to 5 day Kepler tramp first, boosted my self-confidence. Looking back this adventure, in spite of a being caught in a storm, could only be compared as a Sunday afternoon doddle.

My boots and I parted company after blisters on the Kepler. With only a weekend between trips, I borrowed Kath’s boots. A quick wash of essential clothing, a trip to the shops to buy those light, nourishing foods, that only trampers know about, and I was almost packed.

Bob, a fellow tramper keen to join us drove with Helen down from Christchurch and picked me up in Dunedin. We travelled through Invercargill to Bluff , stowed the car and loaded our packs on the ferry across the Foveaux Strait, to Oban, in Half Moon Bay. Our conversations began to bind us together, that strange love of tramping, a new adventure in the unknown, the craving for freedom. We kept interrupting each other to remind ourselves about how heavy the packs were. Had we ever carried heavier packs?

What could we leave behind? Did we have enough food, fuel? Did we have the right clothing? Of course we had all gone over this a million times before and this was just pre-trip nerves, coping with the foreignness of carrying one’s kitchen, complete with stove, gas, pots, pantry, plus the bedroom and wardrobe on one’s back for 8 to10 days. Each of our packs weighing over 40 pounds.

After a meal and a few drinks in the pub, a night in a backpackers, a few redundant words with DOC, a taxi to the starting point, not to mention heavy packs and heavy rain, we were on our way.

The rain did not cease, hail stung our faces, streams and rivers were swollen. The track followed the beach in part, time was against us , and we were forced to take the high tide track. Straight up the cliff, mud and bog, tracks not clearly marked. This was followed by a steep decline ending in a stream. We waded the stream to Maori Bay, stepping around a dozen stranded, very dead whales. At the far end of the bay a swing bridge took us back into the forest. We waded thigh-deep another stream, climbed abruptly up another rise and down again. With each step, I searched for a stable place to put my boot, my gloved hand gripped a tree root or branch to help pull myself up. I slipped up the cliffs and slipped down again. I staggered along. The weight and shape of the pack hindered balance. Experience and training had all the heavy things packed at the top. Or did it make me wobble?

The bog did not limit itself to low-lying areas. Stewart Island bog is not particular about the places it frequents. It relishes a patch on top of the range or a strip from the main track all the way to the lookout and back. (A fellow bog slogger had carved an appropriate amendment to the sign. Look Out 50 M, became Look Out 50 MUD. ) Bog shows no particular approach to depth, length or breadth. However the depth, length and breadth is camouflaged until it has your full commitment. It is not offended about how you approach it. You may enter it daintily, trying to only cover your boots and gaiters, forwards, backwards, sideways or stride forcefully through the middle, or try to scout around the edges and make your own track. The only constant was that it stopped you in your track every time, not minding if you were vertical or horizontal or somewhere in between.

We arrived at the Hut in Port William. Hurried in out of the weather. The fire was just warm and slowed by damp wood. We ate our packed lunch hurriedly. We needed to make the next hut before dark. The tracks were not easy, with frequent steep climbs and with equally steep descents. Were we going anywhere at all? Dense forests, trees down on the tracks, numerous streams to cross. Large rimu fallen on the track, too big to climb over, under or walk around. We bashed our way through cutty grass, crown ferns and astelia to make our own tracks. By mid-afternoon, my legs were like jelly, it was an effort to put one foot after the other. I was unstable going down. My pack too heavy for me. The trekking pole became a third leg, barely left my grip for the whole trip. Perspiration made me damp and cold and added to the struggle. How much further ? We didn’t really know. We estimated six hours , we had been out over seven hours now. I imagined the miraculous appearance of a sherpa. The need became a craving.

I needed to rest and get my pack off for a while. We stopped just long enough for the routine afternoon muesli bar and drink of water. My legs were shaking, I was starting to feel vague and I had stopped talking. Helen asked after me. I am knackered I said. I want to sit down. You can’t sit down out here, she said. Just keep moving. I promised I would, regardless of pace.

It hailed again. Hail stings my face and hands as I crossed the river by the swing bridge. Helen waited at the other end. I could hear her talking. I saw a stranger. Humour and hope returned to me. Is this the Sherpa I said? Yes, he would like to carry your pack Helen answered. I looked up through the rain. This person, dressed in camouflage, holding a long silver gun, had his hands up. My spirits dropped. My first thought was all I need today, miles away from civilisation in a dense forest is a nutter with a gun. Helen could read this. Helen would identify too, the deep sense of security a pack gives in moments of survival, the reluctance to allow anyone to carry it no matter how weak you felt.

“Hello, my name is Gregory and I speak English”, he said. He lowered his hands from the surrender position and unbolted his rifle to show that it was not loaded. Still rather peculiar behaviour, I thought. My attempt at explaining his presence to myself in this very remote place was that perhaps he was a hut warden. Had the isolation got to him?

How far to the hut I asked? We had been expecting it to appear at any moment. About half an hour he answered. “Oh, I can manage that”, I said. He grunted dejectedly. “ OK”, I added, “if this is a genuine offer”. “It is a genuine offer” he said. We stood in silence looking at each other , Helen had moved on. I was confused, if he was going to carry my pack, why wasn’t he taking it off my back and putting it on his? I offered to take his gun. He passed it to me, I leant it against a tree. He took it back. “I do not give my gun to anyone, let alone a woman”, he said. The track was ankle deep in water; I walked to a spot hopefully drier than the track we stood on. I undid the buckles and let the pack crash to the ground. I walked away from it. Gregory walked towards it. Attempted to pick it up, dropped it again and stumbled. Eventually I adjusted the pack for him and he carried it and I followed. After about 15 minutes he asked could he stop? Yes, I said, take a rest. He leant against a tree to support the weight and turned to look at me. He was red faced and perspiring.

It turned out that he was a hunter, this was not the dress-up variety after all. He had never carried a pack. Each year he returned to the Island to hunt Virginian deer. Making a home with his mates in the Big Bungaree hut for two weeks at a time. They came ashore by boat or helicopter, well provisioned for a very comfortable stay. Not only did they bring the grog, but the grog cabinet to hang on the wall. The current page of the girly calendar, obviously travelled well too, and was placed on the inside door.

Later there was an explanation as to why Gregory was standing on the track with his hands raised. He had met Bob our companion earlier. Bob had kindly explained that we were coming along behind and may need help with the packs, and instructed him not to frighten us with the gun. and vagueness had completely cancelled out any ability I had to sum up a situation quickly or sanely. I suppose that, when the hunters refer to the trampers as loopies, they could be excused slightly? Or are they referring to the loop track?

With their hospitality, that night, we did not starve or dehydrate. Gregory took up the role as head chef, brought out a real chef’s hat and prepared and cooked dinner. He added chilies and garlic to our meal, making it inedible. We were offered dessert and chocolates, and sipped whisky from lopsided shot glasses before bed. It rained heavily all night. Next morning we packed up and set off for Xmas Hut in the rain.

Most of the days were spent in the forest. From time to time we dropped down on to beaches or rock bays as the tracks followed the coast line. We saw our first deer on Murray’s Bay, a doe and fawn grazing on the beach.

Tramping in remote, isolated places can be lonely. The effect of walking under giant trees in virgin forests day after day becomes overwhelming. I was very grateful for my caring companions, Helen and Bob. As the days went by we saw very few trampers. Three fit young foreigners, we met, had turned back.

The hunters were our only other people contact. They were a welcome sight. The fire was always lit, enough dry wood cut and stacked and a warm drink not far away. When we turned up they readily gave us a friendly welcome. Then they added a few derogatory remarks. From this we knew instantly that they were true New Zealanders.

We struck hail again as we neared Lucky Beach. Lucky it proved to be, as we stumbled across a bivouac. The hunters boiled up water for tea, cut venison from the hanging carcasses, and gave us their surplus oranges. Strange sights became safe havens. Never had I imagined that I might huddle out of the weather practically inside a hanging carcass of venison.

The second day I started off bright and sprightly but by mid afternoon had become weak again. Even the trekking pole would not keep me up. Helen recognised the problem and from the third to sixth day provided me with an afternoon energy boost. A gluey sachet taken with water. I had heard of Leppin from endurance competitors, but had not used it before. The pick up was almost immediate and lasted for at least four hours. My legs became strong again and I strode on confidently to Yankee River.

The rain had stooped falling during the days by now and temperatures were mild. Yankee River Hut also had hunters. Their family from Taupo arrived by helicopter to join them that day. Next day strong winds followed the rain through as we headed over the ridge down into Smokey Bay. We lost the track and bush bashed our way out onto the sand dunes and down on to the beach, unprepared for the strong winds that whipped up sand storms, stinging our legs and faces. After about an hour we entered the manuka again at the western edge of the beach, after wading through the strip of water where the sea and a parallel river met. We were wading between a river hard against a cliff and the ocean on an incoming tide. It had that risky and dangerous feeling of being somewhere worse than between a rock and a hard place. Under usual circumstances I imagined myself as a reasonable swimmer, but with a pack on? We stopped to photograph a grave. A raised mound with a manuka cross at one end and trampers old boots semi-submerged at the foot of the grave, appeared beside the track.

We made our way over a swing bridge, which ended abruptly in water. Heavy rain and instinct took us straight up the cliff into the forest. We had lost the track again, that was twice this day. The track was under the bridge and along the bottom of the cliff in thigh- deep water for 500 metres. We stepped out of the river and climbed straight up a cliff for 200 metres. Quite some adventure. This was a shorter day and by early afternoon we were at Long Harry Hut. A much smaller hut with six bunks. I lit the fire and we had a pleasant evening dinner by candlelight, interrupted often by the call of the Kiwi close by.

Early on Day 5 we crept down to Long Harry Beach to await a glimpse of the yellow- eyed penguin. Early each morning these birds leave their burrows in the cliffs and go to sea to fish all day. They are timid birds so we sat quietly. We were lucky to see two pair that day.

We headed off early towards East Ruggedy Hut. Our packs were now lighter, and we better understood what might lie ahead of us. We studied the topography closely and gained a much better sense of our whereabouts and what challenges we would face. We started early and climbed up most of the morning. Then dropped down into a very rocky bay. I was in awe of the seas and their power. Swells rose about 400 metres from the shore, traveled slowly towards the cliffs , crashing , pounding and crushing the rocks on the rocky sea bed. We scrambled over rocks, the tide keeping us close to the cliffs. Forced to take the high tide track, we scrambled up the cliff. At the top the track was hidden, overgrown with cutty grass and tall flax. We bush bashed our way through and into the forest again. Descended towards East Ruggedy Beach. We dropped our packs against the sign and took the side track to the lookout to view the Ruggedy Islands offshore and the sand dunes in the distance.

We descended again, crossed the river and tramped inland up the sand dunes for about half an hour to the hut. We settled in, lighting the fire and candles. About 9.00pm four hunters arrived. The strong winds, had forced them to land their plane in the next bay, they tramped the extra distance through the dark. Needing to return to the beach for a second load , they returned late with further supplies. By then we were in our sleeping bags. After studying the track to Hell Fire hut we were expecting another long day, we needed to get to sleep early, ready for the 5.30 rise to be on the track at daybreak.

The track had recently been diverted off the range and down along West Ruggedy Beach. It was good to have half the morning along the beach, followed by a long, steady climb on a new track. The detour was to avoid an almost impassable lengthy section of bogged track. We dropped steadily out of the forest into Waituna Bay, and had our first view of Cod Fish Island. Being pest free, these outlying islands offer significant conservation opportunities. We sat near the stream on huge piles of driftwood and ate our lunch. We climbed up again over the ridge , after another three hours we came out in a clearing on a sand dune. 200 metres on top of a cliff and a kilometre inland. Hell Fire hut was a welcome sight, tucked under mature rata. The sun sets much later in the South. We sat on the cliffs and watched the sun go down before eating and cleaning up. The end of day cleaning up ritual is the nearest thing to a shower or wash on these trips. The mud is scrubbed and scrapped off your boots and gaiters. Then the clothes need to come off , either altogether or in sections. Any sight or smell of skin is a signal for the misquitoes and sandflies to start feasting. Alongside a stream, you soap your body as quickly as possible, splash as quickly as possible and put on those cleaner, drier clothes for use around the hut. For a brief period you feel ordinary again.

Next morning return to the track clothes, wet socks and boots, stowing the dry clothes carefully. I got quite used to the bog, dragging that extra weight along. But I never got used to that morning feeling of putting my feet into wet socks and wet boots.

Hellfire Hut was sited well , we saw the sun set over Big Hellfire Beach and then the sun rise, highlighting the mist in the wetlands on the Ruggedy flats. The next morning was the long haul to Mason Hut. The end of the trip was in sight. We started out on a gradual climb, but today we would make our highest climb to 400 metres. The climb was steep and abrupt, seemingly endless. We passed over three peaks giving us a variety of views out to the of the coast and inland across the marshlands and back across the island and the ranges. The alpine vegetation gave us relief from the forests with their huge trees and high canopy. Bird life on Stewart Island is abundant, the chorus endless even during rain. Today we saw the birds on our level, curiously following us along the tracks. The late blooms of the rata sprinkled the track in red. The descent was long, but seemed easier going. We reached the swing bridge and followed the track along the stream to Hell Fire Beach. After a snack and drink we walked the length of the beach before re entering the bush and heading over the ridge.

This was to be the last climb of the trip. One more, was almost, one to many. We climbed for the final time steeply and through mud to 260 metres. We made no celebration, that was to come at Half Moon Bay. Just how do you keep going when you feel exhausted, your stamina gone? I had reached deep to find this out several times during the last days. I heard again those words spoken by marathon runners and mountaineers I had met or listened to. It is a journey in the mind. The self motivation and perseverance come from pictures in the mind, if you can picture yourself doing it you can.

We tramped down to Mason Bay. We ate on the rocks and stretched out in the sun on driftwood logs awaiting the tide to recede, before the 5 km tramp on the rocks and sand to Duck Creek and Mason Hut. The weather was warm and fine. We reached the entrance about 4.00pm and followed the river inland to the hut.

Having allowed ourselves an extra night for emergencies, we spent two nights here. We had hoped to see the kiwi come out onto the sand dunes and around the hut. It was full moon, the only time during the month, the kiwi keep themselves hidden away. For the first time , the hut was full. We were nearing civilisation again.

The weather changed and we had heavy rain, raising the streams over the boardwalks by up to a metre. We spent the last day climbing Big Sandy, a sand hill of 156m, 2.5km from the coast. Explored the sand dunes, discovering a hunters hut and glimpsing the dotterel. We were determined to have one long last walk on the beach. The winds were fierce and relentless, we held our gloved hands up to our faces to keep the sand out of our eyes , ears and mouth. We shrunk under our coats and hats. Seagulls were blown backwards up the streams, they seemed to enjoy the weather game, we did too.

The final day on the track was 3 to 4 hours of boardwalk across the aptly named, Chocolate Swamp. A hunter’s hut diverted us from the track. Inside pages from history books on early farm settlers took us back in time. An old shearing shed stands, serving as a reminder of the failed attempts at farming.

We reached Freshwater Creek, where the river narrows to a stream, crossed the swing bridge to the hut. We ate our lunch, swapped tales with other trampers and DOC rangers, and waited for the prearranged, prepaid 40minute water taxi trip to Golden Bay that didn’t come. Another boatie investigated the problem . An hour later, we stepped aboard and headed out the river to Paterson Inlet, docked in a bay, and stepped shore with relief. This was not closure, packs on once more, the road over the hill took us back to the backpackers in Half Moon Bay.

The hot shower and clean clothes felt far better than imagined. The Lindauer tasted that much better too. The conversation topics changed, there was an air of excitement and celebration, self satisfaction and achievement, of deepened friendships.

We dined at the pub again, blue cod and for dessert, chocolate mud! The locals shared their Bluff Oysters and cooking instructions for mutton birds. Then convinced us to each buy a mutton bird from a young member of the Kai Tahu . He had returned to the outlying Islands, during the six-week season that allows the tribal food to be gathered for the whanau. He needed money to find a bed for the night.

Night passed in a flash. The ferry departed at 8.00 am, across the strait to Bluff. Stewart Island was behind us, I glimpsed back , and shuddered in disbelief. Not beaten, not broken, it was a wicked experience, in a wicked place, never to be forgotten.