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| The NZ shuttle bus |
We’re in the Milford Pub. It’s just pissing outside. We’re dry for now,
but we don’t have much of a plan for when the pub closes. There isn’t a
room in town. We have no diesel for the van. The van, the “Delica,” the
spacious Mitsubishi luxury vehicle with the skylights. The Delica has
brought us from North to South Islands. Has taken us to so many rivers
in between. Has made it all the way to Milford Sound. To a night of rain
in Fiordland. And is… currently out of diesel.
We would have been able to buy some diesel. The guidebook1 said not to expect
much after 5pm. We were there at 4:45. One small problem. Some imbecile had
sabotaged a fishing vessel. The vessel lost its entire tank of diesel into the
sound causing a minor ecological disaster. Strange irony. The ensuing scare and
cleanup had effectively closed the sound. No one in and no one out. Hence, the lack of available beds.
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| The Poudre Posse |
And then it dawned on us. A night of rain in Fiordland! It didn’t matter where
we were going to sleep. The rivers were going to be gushing! Now Fiordland is the second
rainiest (if that’s a word) place on Earth. They average one inch of rain a day. I come
from Colorado, where a fortnight of rain in Fiordland, equals our rainfall total for the
entire year. But it hadn’t rained in over a week. And the next was to be our last day in
Fiordland. As well as Pete and I’s last day paddling in New Zealand.
We begin to buy jugs (Kiwi for pitchers of beer). Jug after jug. If we’re going to sleep in
the rain, we are not going to do it sober. Grant and Pete, hungry for a feed, but with only
enough coin left for beer, begin to cook with their camping stove under the awning of the employee hostel
(the closest dry place they could find). A Milford employee walks out curious as to who is cooking/likely
camping on the walkway. He offers us the sea kayaker’s lounge for the night. Needless to say, we
graciously accept. A little paddlers love goes a long way.
We wake up to clear skies and large puddles. We hop in the Delica for some diesel and a check
on the level at the Tutuko Bridge. Bruce Barnes, a Hokitika school teacher, enshrouded in legend
(he was on the team for the first descent of just about every west coast heli-run, and who presently
saves money by hiking into any and all of the “heli” runs), had told us that the Tutuko was a classic.
He had said, “depending on what you are into, the lower section is excellent, and the upper section hardly
looks boatable, but can come together with a few forced errors.” In other words, the lower section was
good to go and the upper section would be “the gnar gnar.”
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| Mt. Tutuko and the gnar gnar |
Class IV+, all boat scoutable, and in a “gob-smacking locale,” is how the guidebook rated
the lower section. This would be right up our alley. We’d already had some confrontations
with NZ for V+ (P, VI), and with no local knowledge of the levels, put in, etc. we opt for the
lower run. The lower run would still be somewhat of a mystery. I begin to re-read the guidebook
description (Graham Charles’ guidebook, New Zealand Whitewater, 125 Great Kayaking Runs).
Hike for between 50-70 minutes up the trail. Sometime? after 50 minutes
and before 70 minutes you'll come across a streambed with less moss on
the rocks (than the other 40 streambeds you will have already crossed)
and with a possible cairn (I put one there one time). Proceed to drag
down the streambed with the rocks with less moss for approx. 35 minutes
until you reach the river. You should come out at the base of a heinous
looking rapid with an awe inspiring view of Mt. Tutuko. If you're new to
the game, take a punt. If you miss the put-in, put on and figure out where
you went wrong.
I’m paraphrasing here. But that’s really all it says. “Sweet,” I say, ready to make the charge
through the mud. Peter and Tim say “sweet” too. The rest of the group is either still drunk, or
hemming and hawing over how high the water level looks and if this is really what they want to get into.
The three of us suit up and charge up the muddy trail and into the rainforest.
Pete is leading the charge. Running with his boat attached to his safety leash, the boat dragging and
bouncing behind him. I only say his boat, because it would be the boat he is going to paddle. It’s
actually a rental from Sunspots in Rotorua. Actually it’s not even his rental boat, it’s Grant’s.
Hence, his minimal regard for the blue Liquid Logic plastic he’s leaving all over the rocks in front of me.
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| Hiking in the Jungle |
I’m carrying my boat on my left shoulder. I switch shoulders. My right shoulder is sore from 30 days
of non-stop paddling. I switch it back to the left. This can only last for so long. I’m dragging my boat
attached to my safety leash. The boat bouncing wildly behind my quickening pace.
Peter is a die hard smoker and I’m not letting him out of my earshot (not because he’ll stop for a smoke
in the middle of the trail, but because I’m not a smoker, and so I’m obviously in better shape). The
scenery is amazing. The rainforest is bursting with every imaginable kind of fern and moss. I keep
wondering where the monkeys are. The sloth, the jaguar….the stoat? I turn just as a large rat like
creature darts through the bush.
It’s just over 50 minutes since we left the trailhead. We’re anxious to get on the river. We think
every stream we cross is the one. We try to be patient. The rocks have too much moss. The streams
look too small to carry down. We can’t wait any longer. We come to a stream with too much moss on the
rocks. We want to go down it anyway. It’s past 60 minutes. We think were fast hikers with our boats.
We’ve hiked into other rivers. We must have passed it were so fast.
We decide to leave our boats at the stream with way too much moss to be the one and hike just a
little bit further up the trail. Ten minutes further up the trail we find the one. Not as much moss on
the rocks and a pile of moss-less rocks that looks as though it once could have been a cairn. We go back
for our boats.
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| The creek with less moss on the rocks |
We crash down the stream which is simply breathtaking. We lower our boats down small waterfalls.
We climb and frequently slip on the still fairly moss covered rocks. We are deep in the bush now and
we feel it. There is just something noble about dragging your boat. I’m only picking mine up if I
absolutely have to. Tim is snapping pictures left and right. The moss is four inches tall, five in some
places. We come to a bend and I can tell it opens up around the corner. We reach the last waterfall
before the little stream runs into the now charging, jade green Tutuko. We lower our boats and climb
down to the river bank.
The view of Mt. Tutuko is stupendous, “gob-smacking,” awe inspiring. The rapid we are looking at
is STEEP, has tons of wood, and is certainly heinous, even by kiwi definition. We start to scout the
first drop directly below us. It looks runnable, but it contains three large unavoidable holes, the last
one being river-wide with a large rock backing up the middle two thirds of the outflow. Slightly off-line
here and a swim would be likely. We decide to put-in below this first rapid.
The guidebook had said “everything” was boat-scoutable. I guess he wasn’t talking about the first drop.
Or maybe it is really cranking in here. It looks big, but not too BIG. The next rapid does appear to be of
a “boat-scoutable” nature. I drop in first, make a quick move from right to left and catch an eddy. I
raise my paddle up.
We are all in the next eddy looking over our shoulders. It looks steep and continuous for as far
as we can see. I peel out. The current is deceptively strong. I thought I was going right passed a
rock in the middle of the flow. Instead I’m drifting left of it with no momentum. I plunge passed the
rock into a steep ledge hole going left. I ender, see blue sky, and come down splatting a boulder into a
small eddy. Yes! It’s on!
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| Pete scouting? |
Tim and Pete must have seen my action and actually made it right. They’re both waiting in an eddy
on river right. I make some exciting moves and join them. Tim suggests we start to scout. Pete peels out.
I follow. We catch an eddy still on river right. Pete yells to Tim, “I’m not getting out of my boat at
all!” Tim, still in his boat, paddles down to us. We laugh.
We have to run long sections at a time, because it really is pretty charging, and it’s hard to
catch eddies. We play leapfrog through some fantastic moves. Huge steep boulder gardens, with fast curling
moves, between stomping holes and sex rocks. Tim still gets out of his boat a couple of times. Mostly to
take pictures, but I still see him trying to get a better view of what’s downstream. It’s all one long
rapid. Now Pete is out of his boat directing me with a sign to boof.
I look back smiling. It's all good. Tim runs a different line in his smooth efficient style,
less the cool boof move. Pete peels out and…goes for the meat. It's bigger than he thought,
I think. He subs out. He surfaces upside down. He owes Ice cream.
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| The Mighty Tutuko |
Just a friendly bet we have. You roll, you owe ice cream. Simple as that. We laugh. It’s an amazing run.
We break in an eddy on river left. A beech tree is leaning over the river. Two of its branches are
perfectly framing Mt. Tutuko in the background. The scenery is superb. Of course Tim takes a picture.
We all peel out together pumping fists and smacking fives.
The intensity eases. There are still some intense moves and the rapid never ends. We see the bridge.
We are filled with a sense of accomplishment and also a sense of longing. Longing for the run to be longer.
For the rainforest. Dragging up the trail feeling noble. Dragging down the creek with the gigantic ferns,
and five inch moss. Longing for the rapid to never end. For another night of rain in Fiordland.
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| Sweet as |
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