Snow, Sunrise and Skidz at Welcome Rock

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

Food For the Soul - Sunset, Stars, Sunrise

There's something foreboding about being on top of a mountain as dusk settles over the landscape. That sense that I shouldn't be there combined with the immense beauty of infinite silence that lingers as the last light of day glistens in the snow, like burning embers on a fire. Our tents sat atop the edge of Red Crater, below the summit of Mount Tongariro and were dwarfed by the immense presence of Mount Ngarauhoe looming in the background. It was a truly beautiful and unique sight.

Only hours earlier, we had set off from the Mangatepopo car park, just a little before midday... My sister Emily, Edine and myself. The timing meant we avoided the crowds on the crossing and enjoyed some serenity on our little excursion. We trudged fully laden with our packs up the crossing and across the Southern Crater as the early afternoon greeted us. Shadows of rocks shifted beneath the low afternoon sun. The mountain had, just a couple of days earlier, enjoyed a healthy dump of snow... It's first for the season... And the landscape was painted white in Winter freshness. 

 

This was to be only my second season playing in the mountains and seeing the snow renewed my excitement for the Winter to come. The cool air floated around me, caressing my arms with a gentle coolness. There was not a breath of wind, and the sky was such a deep blue, I was unsure whether I should be swimming in it, or flying through it. The afternoon sun felt warm on my back and as we worked our way up the hill, forced us to break into a sweat under our heavy packs. It flitted in and out from behind the peaks as it dipped lower in the sky, and each time it emerged, it burst out with a brilliant flash of light that permeated my skin and filled me with warmth.

The Tongariro Crossing is a beautiful place, and I think there are a lot of seasoned "adventurers" who probably avoid it because of it's popularity, which I think is unfortunate. At 19km long and approximately 830m of climbing, it certainly isn't a trip for the faint-hearted, but I suppose that if you want to avoid the crowds that arrive in droves on shuttle buses, you need to be creative about how you explore the space. My Winter trips have all begun at about 5am, and this was the first time I had camped up here. Some may label me crazy (and many do), but there is no mistaking the sheer beauty of this place in relative undisturbed silence.

We'd had two plans to choose from. If a brisk wind was whipping the top of the plateau, we were to camp at the Northern end of the Southern Crater. If we had somehow managed to score an evening with no wind, we would continue to the top of Red Crater and set up camp there for the night. As it turned out, we were lucky enough to find ourselves standing on top of Red Crater at about 3pm with not a breath of wind. The sky was still clear and asides from our own company, there was not another soul to be seen. We pitched our tents in the snow on a flat spot just off the track, piling handfuls of snow over the top of our tent pegs to secure them into the ground (I knew I would regret this in the morning when my pegs were frozen into the ground!).

Once our tents were pitched, we went about a bit of exploring and setting ourselves up for the evening. It was relatively mild, so a good time to strip down and put some thermals on underneath our outer layers, all the while marveling at this brilliant landscape that surrounded us. We chose a designated "pee spot" behind a large rock so that we wouldn't leave unsightly yellow snow holes in the landscape all around us... And just for the record, number twos were off-limits until we reached Ketatahi Hut the following day.

As we were setting ourselves up with wine, cheese and crackers for sunset, a couple of hikers appeared up the ridge line that ran along Red Crater. Edine and I, both part of Search and Rescue, were curious to check that they were adequately prepared for a descent in the dark in the snow... As it turned out, they weren't... And it happens often on these sorts of routes, where a route is very accessible but potentially dangerous in the wrong conditions. I'm glad we were up there, able to advise them on what to do and give them a light and some food to get back down to their vehicle (they had planned on using the light from their iPhone!!!), and advise Land Search and Rescue of their details and whereabouts in case they were reported overdue... I'm unsure how their evening would have turned out otherwise (when we arrived back at the car the next day, the light we had given them was under the front wheel as I had asked them to do, so we knew they had arrived back safely). That sorted, we had a sunset to watch!

We sat down with a glass (cup) of wine each and reclined into the snow and scree. The last rays of the day cast a warm pink glow across the slopes of Ngarauhoe and panted the sky a brilliant array of oranges, reds, blues and pinks. Mount Taranaki sat in the distance, a dark silhouette imposed upon a bright red canvas, wisps of cloud circling the centre of it's conical form so it's pointed summit seemed to hover above nothingness... And it was still... There was no movement, and no sound. It was a truly beautiful moment... One that filled my soul with energy and joy. I had full respect for just now unique and special this moment was as the last traces of light disappeared from the sky, leaving a colored glow upon the horizon.

We made our way back to the tents and boiled up some water for our freeze-dried meals and a cup of tea and whilst I waited for my bunsen-burner-like pocket rocket to bring the pot to the boil, I produced some crackers, cheese, and a rather expensive stick of venison salami. By now, the temperature had dropped significantly and I was torn between having warm fingers or enjoying tasty Camembert and salami goodness. In my inability to make a decision, I would make up a cracker for myself, shove my hands back into my gloves and then savour it's deliciousness before repeating the process. We made our meals and then stood around, a little lost as to how to spend our freedom on this fine evening atop a mountain.

The real party started when I cracked a couple of old glow sticks open. Not only did they create enough light that we could switch off our headlamps, but they were great for sword fights, hanging on stuff and sticking in our mouths to take photos that made us look like the incredible hulk. As we laughed and ran around (me more than the others... That one glass of wine made me a little sillier than usual!), we found ourselves warming up to enjoy being outside beneath the beautiful night sky. The new moon had only just begun to show, so the black canvas that was the sky served as a background for pinholes of light to punch through one by one. Before long, the entire sky was filled with stars and in the darkness and the stillness, I felt like I was wrapped up in them. The ground and the sky didn't seem to exist anymore. We were all just existent in this space that enveloped us. I've never seen so many stars in my life as I did that night. It was awe-inspiring.

 

I'm not a sound sleeper when I camp, and my sleeping bag that night was right at it's comfort limit, so whilst I wasn't cold, I wouldn't say I was toasty warm, either. I lay awake, listening to the absolute silence that surrounded me. Apart from the occasional rustle of one of my camping buddies, and the couple of times my sister got up to re-set her camera for the star trails she was taking, there was no sound, not a breath of wind, no possums creeping around outside the tent, and no rain. Whenever I spend time in the mountains, I always find myself intrigued by the lack of sound, and drawn to it. It's like nothing I have felt or heard anywhere else; and so much different from the sensation I feel on the bike. I drifted in and out of sleep until I heard my alarm start to tingle quietly in my ear... When I set it, I knew I would likely be awake, but there was no way I was missing this sunrise.

I was so incredibly tired, but my excitement overruled the urge to succumb to the effects of sleep deprivation. I sat straight up and leaned out of the tent to light the stove and boil some water. By the time I had made hot chocolates for us all, dawn was upon us and the sky was beginning to dance with a palette of early-morning colours streaking across the sky, changing so slowly that you wouldn't notice just standing there. The temperature overnight had been relatively mild for a mountain top. At I guess, I'd say it was probably about minus four-ish... Just cold enough to re-freeze the landscape around us, but not so cold that we couldn't escape the tent for a peek at the stars. The snow crunched under our boots as we made the short journey to the high point just near our tent. It was cold, and I cupped my hands around my plastic mug to keep them warm, playing a delicate balancing act between retaining the liquid long enough to keep my hands warm, and drinking it fast enough that it warmed my insides, as well.

Reaching the top of the high point that morning was probably the highlight of my trip. I love sunrises... There's something about them that makes me feel so infinitely connected and in tune with the environment around me. The snowy white peaks were bordered by a bright red, pink and orange sky and the furthest peaks sat against the background as silhouettes. As the sun spread it's fingers over the landscape, gracing us with a new day, flecks of orange and red reflected off the glistening snow.

The morning was so still that Blue lake, which was situated over the other side of the central crater from us, held the reflection of the slopes behind it like a mirror. It was nearly impossible to tell the difference between the mountain and it's own reflection. It was so beautiful and made me feel so happy and warm inside that it gave me goosebumps and brought a tear to my eye. I was in love with this feeling I got when I woke up on the mountain. We sat there for a long time after the sun finally crested the peaks, marveling at the way the low early morning light threw shadows across the perfect white landscape. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and our cold morning woes were solved by the discovery of some steam vents on the edge of the crater (SCORE!!!)

Finally our stomachs demanded that we return to camp for some food. It was at this stage we realised that we had (rather inconveniently) managed to pitch our camp right in the middle of the shadow of the high point, so our tents were the last patch of land to see sun for the morning. We ate, and then after a great deal of swearing and some ingenious use of my boot heels, managed to remove the frozen tent pegs to pack up and be on our way.

As we made our way back down the mountain, we passed the Emerald Lakes, each a different colour and a different temperature. One of them was frozen over and I took the opportunity to stand on the firm icy surface close to the edge. As we crossed the central crater, we noticed the sun had a wide, hazy, rainbow-coloured halo around it, which was quite a spectacular sight (and for some annoying reason, it also installed the song "Halo" by Beyonce in my head on repeat for the next three hours).

We made quick work of the descent, stopping for half an hour at the hut to refuel and rest our legs before descending through the native forest and back to the car. By the time we got to the car, the mountain top was clouded in... We were so lucky to get such impeccable weather. I felt so privileged to see the mountain the way we did that evening and morning, and even more privileged to share it with two of my favorite peeps! Winter is just about here and while most people are getting ready to hibernate, I'm preparing my ice axe, crampons, skis and alpine sleeping bag for some wicked outdoor fun in the brisk, fresh air!!!