There
we stood, seemingly miles away from any sort of civilisation, on the other side
of a peak we had just hiked over. A tiny mud hut sat in the centre of our view,
dwarfed by the expansive backdrop of the south island mountains that surrounded
us. We were insignificant blobs of human life enveloped in this landscape. Our
bags and our bikes had been dropped next to the hut by the station owner, Tom.
It was surreal to think that only a couple of hours ago, we had rushed out of
Queenstown airport, squeezed our two bike boxes into the Mazda Demio we had
hired (much to the amusement of surrounding bystanders), done a shop at
what was possibly the most expensive supermarket in the country and then driven
to Garston and assembled our bikes before hiking up through this massive
backcountry station to a lonely hut that sat just below a high point
affectionately named “Welcome Rock”. Standing there looking upon this stunning
canvas laid in front of us, I felt like I was taking the first breath I had taken
in weeks. The cool mountain air infiltrated my lungs and stayed there, despite
the fact that I had already breathed out.
The
mud hut was a pretty special find, but one that was obviously destined for Lisa
and I… You could maybe say that the hut found us. Weeks before, we had been on
Skype, trawling through the endless list of places we may want to stay whilst
we were on our holiday together in Queenstown and Wanaka and we were both
captured by the tiny little candle-lit cabin with an outdoor bath that
overlooked miles and miles of rolling hills and mountains. Once we booked the
hut, we then discovered that the area was currently the project of station
owner, Tom O’Brien, who was building a network of mountain bike and hiking
trails around the top part of Blackmore station, an area of historical
significance that the family had placed under a voluntary covenant about 30 years
ago.
Lisa
and I approached the cabin. Outside, there was firewood stacked around, a bench
seat made from old pieces of beech tree and about 50 metres away, there was an
old bath perched on the hillside, next to our only water source, a piece of
25mm piping that came out of the ground. From outside, the hut looked smaller
than I had expected, and my thoughts didn’t change when we opened the heavy old
wooden door. The hut had two small windows and it took some time for our eyes
to adjust to the dim light and we walked into the middle of the hut. To use the
term “rustic” was an understatement. Spider webs hung in every corner. The
stone floor finished at the bunks so that underneath the bunks was bare earth, the
crumbly mud walls had been restored recently to preserve the hut, and the roof
replaced, but everything else was undeniably original. The walls, window sill
and mantle were lined with old wine and whiskey bottles, some of which had been
used by previous occupants as candle holders, so they were encased in old,
hardened wax. The open fireplace was obviously a more recent addition to the
dwelling, and had a piece of rusted tin jerry-rigged so it was hanging across
the opening of the fireplace, something we would later discover was essential
to avoid filling our tiny bedroom with smoke when we lit the fire. It had a
charm that I couldn’t put my finger on. It was beautiful, but maybe not to
every person who laid their eyes on it. You had to appreciate it beyond seeing
a small space, dirty floor and no electricity… It was, in my opinion, the
perfect way to unwind at the beginning of a holiday.
I
looked gingerly across at Lisa, wondering if my enthusiasm for booking
the hut was now going to work against me. I was probably a little more accustomed
to roughing it than her. She openly vocalised that
it wasn’t quite what she was expecting but nonetheless, it would certainly be a
new experience. We set about cleaning the hut out a little, wiping the wooden
benches and sweeping the cold slate floors. As we cleaned, the coldness and
darkness we had felt on originally entering the hut lifted and it became quite
homely. We laughed about our first impressions of the place whilst we sorted
our sleeping arrangements for the evening, which involved folding up the table
and chairs to stash against the wall so we could lay the mattresses side by
side on the floor in front of the fire as opposed to sleeping in single bunks.
Once we had made our hut a cosy little home, we boiled the pot (on the gas cooker provided)
and parked ourselves on a chair outside to take in the view. Despite the fact
that it was only the start of March, it was cold, and we were rugged up in our
beanies and puffer jackets with thermals on underneath. We lit the fire to warm
the inside of the hut and passed away the rest of the day admiring the
magnificent view and strolling along the trails that had been so carefully hand
dug into the edge of the mountain.
Right
on sunset, we found ourselves soaking in the bath, watching the sun disappear over the
crest of the hill with a glass of wine. The location of the bath on the hill
was obscured by the long tussock, and so was marked by an old cattle skull
perched on top of a metal picket, which cast an ominous silhouette against the
evening sky. The glow of the day was gradually replaced by the glow of candle
light. We procrastinated leaving the warm bath until the cooling of the water
made us shiver, at which point, we made a bee-line back to the warmth of
the hut with the fire roaring inside.
We
put together a small feast and sat perched in front of the fire. Whilst we ate,
the warm glow of the fire and the candles created an ambience that warmed us
from the inside out. Tea and wine was consumed (simultaneously, if I’m not
mistaken!) and then we snuggled into our sleeping bags on the floor in front of
the fire. It was hard to sleep, but for good reason. The flicker of the fire dancing
on the other side of our eyelids beckoned us to watch it. During the evening,
we awoke to a smouldering fire and a room full of smoke, so we got up and
opened the door, the stars out in the night sky welcoming us into their space
for the evening.
Early
in the morning, I awoke to the pink glow of the sky gently creeping in the
door. I went from barely being able to pry my weary eyes open to jumping up in
my sleeping bag, full of excitement… “Babe, look! Look at the sunrise!” I said
in a whispered yell. I clumsily tripped around the floor in my sleeping bag
before deciding to discard it altogether and put on my clothes and shoes to
exit the hut as quickly as possible and welcome the new day. Once I went
outside, I realised I had a few minutes before sunrise proper, so I came back
into the hut, now very wide awake, to offer Lisa a coffee, which she accepted
as she crawled out of her sleeping bag and woke up in a more civilised manner.
I dragged the chairs outside and plonked my cup of tea on the ground while I
ran around in the crisp early morning taking photos of a stunning pink sky that
bordered our gorgeous little hut. The silhouettes of the hut and the mountain
and ourselves against that sky were just stunning.
Being
in the mountains, the sunrise ended long before we actually saw the sun. By
that time, we had managed to compile an incredible feast of poached eggs on
toast, potato crisps, mushrooms and veges, some cooked on the stove, some on a
hotplate we had chucked on the fire. Our ability to improvise with what cooking
facilities we had was impeccable, and between us, we created a feast of epic
proportions that would make your average city-dweller shriek with delight. We
toasted our bread on the fire, then sat perched on our hillside outside the hut
letting the warmth of the sun infiltrate our bodies. The valley below us
plunged into a river and on either side, mountains climbed back out of the
valley, green at the bottom and then sparser in vegetation the higher they got.
It was a beautiful way to while away a morning… Nothing pressing to attend…
Just chilling with my fave girl in the sunshine.
Once
we conjured up the frame of mind to move, we kitted up and fetched our bikes
from their perch leaned up against the front of the hut. The trail network up
here is far from being finished, but there is still about 10km of hand built
trail that has already been etched into the hillside. Tom and his crew have
poured their blood, sweat and tears into these trails, benching them in by
hand, breaking picks and shovels along the way. The tracks are a work of art,
sprawled across this canvas of mountains and tussock. The quality of the tracks
blew me away… Each one carved meticulously out of the slate and dirt, and then
the slate used to create bridges and water egresses throughout the trail with
careful attention paid to water drainage. The flow of the trail had been
carefully planned to include particular landscape features… Berms built from
large rocks that jutted out of the ground and bridges built from slate… It was
highly impressive. When we reached the end of the current network, we could see
fence standards dotting off into the distance, marking the way for future
trails through the tough tussock which had been dug out by hand kilometre after
kilometre.
Every
corner we rounded and rise we crested presented an unhindered, perfect
landscape sprawled out in front of us with a trail carved out into its vastness
stretching to the horizon. Our tyres crunched over the stony dirt, weaving in
and out of rock features. It was such a beautiful experience. As is quite
common with mountain weather, the morning developed from a cloudless array of
pinks and reds peeking in our hut door to an array of dark, menacing clouds.
The temperature dropped significantly as we rolled back up to the door of the
hut, just in time for us to stash our bikes and obtain some shelter before the
skies emptied upon us. We lit the fire, made some lunch and a cup of tea and
sat in front of the fire with the door open, listening to the rain on the tin
roof, and smelling the freshness of the moisture soaking the tussock, the
ground, and the nearby beech forest.
It
was unusual for either of us to sit still for any period of time, and this
moment of solace, urged upon us by the environment around us, and borne of the
necessity to do nothing, was surprisingly welcome. We sat for what seemed like
hours, happily silent in each others company, reading a book and letting the
roar of the fire and the rain on the roof tell us their story. The contrast of
our cosiness in the hut compared with what we could see outside made my whole
body tingle with warmth.
Late
in the afternoon, the rain ceased and we went on a small cross-country
excursion around the land close to the hut. The landscape around us was dominated
by tussock, and dotted with small rifts of beech forest. To the left as we
stepped out of the hut was a small beech forest just beyond our long-drop
toilet (which, for the record, I snobbed in preference of going eau-naturale in
the bush for the time we were up there). We headed into the beech forest and
stumbled around, laughing at one another as we tripped on fallen branches and
slipped into ditches. We eventually popped back out onto the tussock well below
the hut, then dipped down towards a small gully sidling alongside the next
beech forest we could see. As we made our way through the tussock, we saw a
wild Buck galloping across the next ridgeline, apparently spooked by our presence. We
watched in awe as he gracefully made his way towards the safety of the forest,
then disappeared out of sight.
After
scrambling across the gully, we toiled back up the steep ridge on the other
side and on to the track before returning to the hut for yet another cup of hot
chocolate and some dinner before curling up to sleep in front of the fire
again. By now, we had figured out the nuances of how to hang the fire cover to
prevent the room filling with smoke so we could sleep snug with the door closed
that evening.
The
following day, I awoke to a morning that felt cooler than expected. Lisa was
still asleep, so I decided to get up to light the fire and boil a brew so the
hut was warm when she woke up. As I stumbled wearily out of bed, my eyes
struggled to adjust to the dim light. It felt like daylight, but didn’t look
like it. As I walked to the stove to get the kettle, I squinted as I looked out
the small, cobweb-covered window… Was that a frost? No way!!! It was snow!!!
At the start of March!
“Babe,
wake up! It’s snowing!” I yelled excitedly at Lisa… “It’s snowing!!!” I yelled
again as I struggled with my boots and ran to the door, as if it might
disappear if I didn’t cast my eyes upon it immediately. When I opened the door,
I couldn’t believe my eyes. The previous day, we had been greeted with a
colourfully stunning sunrise. This morning, everything was covered in a thick
layer of white… AND it was still snowing. I couldn’t quite believe just how
blessed we were to have experienced this beautiful little patch of the world in
two such strikingly dissimilar sets of conditions, yet each so beautiful in
their own right. It felt so special.
I
rugged up and ran straight out into the snow, cold flakes brushing my skin
and turning my face bright red. The snow had fallen so delicately that it
defined the entire landscape in only black and white… The contrast was so
striking. Thick piles of snow rested on top of the tussock and the water we had
run into the bath the night before had a layer of snow settling on the top. Our
bikes were covered in an inch of snow. It was magical. I ran down to the beech
forest, Lisa following behind me, possibly surprised (although probably not) by
my child-like enthusiasm at playing in the snow. I made my way to the beech
forest and watched the snowflakes settling on the top of the leaves and
branches. It was selective in where it stopped, ignoring steeper surfaces and
instead choosing to fall all the way to the ground. It was mesmerising.
Back
at the hut, we made another gourmet breakfast and chatted about our impending
departure. Would Tom be able to reach us in the snow to pick up our gear? In
our state of pondering, we decided snow angels and a snowman were in order. I
even sacrificed my Icebreaker beanie and my cool Adidas sunnies (and
subsequently, my own warmth) to dress ol’ snowy, who looked kinda stoked to
have some company. Whilst we played in the blizzard, we heard the familiar rev
of a quad bike engine, and Tom pulled up at the back of the hut. It was strange
seeing another person. We had only being up here two days, but it had felt like
so much longer. We invited him into the warm hut for a cuppa before saying
goodbye to Snowy and our beautiful little home we had grown to love over the
last couple of evenings.
I
excitedly grabbed my bike and began brushing snow off it, excited for the ride
back down in the icy white-out. Lisa had never ridden in the snow before, but
got the hang of it pretty quickly, bombing down the hillside like a pro,
flicking up ice crystals behind her. It wasn’t long before we were low enough
that the snow turned to mud and by the time we arrived back at the house, we
were full of muddy smiles and giggles.
After
a deliciously warm shower, Tom invited us in for a cuppa and a chat. He
excitedly told us all about his project and his plans for the station. I
instantly warmed to Tom. His energy and enthusiasm was infectious, and it was
hard to not get excited with him. He told us the station is under consideration
as a possible refuge to release Takahe back into the wild. It was so beautiful
to see that a family who had farmed this land for over 100 years wanted to
partake on a journey of conservation and preservation of the environment.
While
we were up at the historic mud hut at Blackmore station, we nearly lost all
track of time, and what had been merely two days at the beginning of our
holiday had seemed like a week away. Our senses were renewed and our souls
energised by the surreal beauty of merely existing, cherishing each moment of
basic isolation in this beautiful part of the world. Welcome rock is a very
special place, and if you love some time out, an opportunity to experience a
surreal landscape all to yourself or just some wicked trails, this place is a
must. Check it out at www.welcomerock.co.nz
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