Tararua S-K, reversing the epic
S-K
A Grand Old Love Story
Seldom have two letters meant so much to so few. Mention an S-K in casual conversation and most people will say “a what?” But in the right company just the voicing of those letters can spark visions of mountains, adventure, suffering, and triumph. It’s a name that is spoken with great reverence by those who have trodden the route. Since its inception and the first successful sub 48 hour attempt by Bruce Jefferies and Dave Capper in 1963, the Tararua S-K Traverse has grown to be something very special in New Zealand mountain folklore. It’s on the bucketlist of many trampers, with 48 hour attempts being completed now on a regular basis.
The S stands for Schormann, the name of the original track leading into the Tararuas at the northern end of the range, a short distance from Eketahuna. The K stands for Kaitoke, the exit point some 70-80 kilometres south through 3500m-7500m of ascent and descent of rugged mountain travel, at the bottom end of the range. The exact numbers are dictated by the choice of route, with the Valleys, Tarn and the Main Range being the three main choices. While the Valleys is widely considered the most achievable challenge, and the Main Range the holy grail, none is to be taken lightly and all have turned back numerous attempts. These hills punch above their weight. While the Schormann Track has long since been replaced by the Herepai, the name has stuck, a symbol for those who dare.
S-K Routes. Main Range - red, Tarn - yellow, Valleys - blue
More recently mountain runners, keen to test themselves in the hills, have taken up the challenge. In 1995 a name now legendary in the Tararuas, Colin Rolfe, took on the mighty Main Range route. With a light breakfast of porridge, bananas, toast, coffee, macaroni cheese and rice, he hit the trail. With the support of some good friends along the way Colin did what until then had only be postulated about. He broke the sub 24 hour barrier, shattering what was once thought impossible and in the process kicked off the next evolution of the S-K route.
Excerpt from Colin’s trip report of his history making run
When I first started researching the S-K I was deeply inspired by Roger Coventry’s 1975 and Gary Goldsworthy’s 1988 Main Range epics, 28 hours and 25 ½ hours respectively. What set these apart for me aside from the fact that they came tantalisingly close to breaking the 24 hour mark, was that they were both solo and unsupported. This approach really resonated with me, I loved the fact that it put the challenge of going forward squarely on your own shoulders. No pacing, muling, shared decision making, caches or route finding, just you and the mountains. It seemed so pure. So it was in January 2015, as I set out into the hills to tackle the main range, nobody had achieved the feat of breaking the 24 hour barrier, solo and unsupported. 22 hours and 34 minutes later I emerged in the dusty Kaitoke carpark, bruised and broken but successful, achieving a dream and in the process falling deeply in love with a wild mountain range.
Mt Hector, Main Range S-K
Shortly after my wander in the hills I was visited by Allen and Sue Higgins who, going past my work on a mountain bike trip, dropped in to say well done. This was pretty special to me. Allen and Sue’s names feature heavily in the S-K book which documents successful attempts, and both are at home in the mountains. Allen was there when the route was first conceived, himself one of the first to complete it in 1963, and I had a huge amount of respect for them as trampers, mountaineers and people. During the course of the conversation I discovered that Allen had just completed his seventh S-K, just in time to herald his 70th birthday. One for every decade, surely a feat with few equals. Whether or not I knew it at the time, this was to plant a seed.
While interest in the main range grew amongst the mountain running community, very few were looking towards the Valleys and Tarn Ridge, perhaps viewing them as lesser challenges. Feeling the pull of the hills and wanting a new challenge I noted that once a successful sub 24 Main Range S-K was completed, people tended to leave it at that. To me these routes promised further adventure and whispered of new country to explore. So it was that the following year in September 2016, I treated myself to a birthday adventure and completed a Valleys S-K. This lower route contrasted beautifully with the saw-toothing Main Range, adding the challenge of untracked river travel and the majesty of deep mountain valleys. Finally, I had saved what turned out to be the best for last. In February 2017, I followed in my childhood hero, Graeme Dingle’s footsteps along the Tarn Ridge route, completing the S-K triple. Claiming the fastest known times (FKT) was nice but a distant second to becoming the first person to complete all three S-K’s in under 24 hours. All solo and unsupported. After all records will fall, but firsts are a little harder to come by.
For a while my focus shifted to racing and then to the mighty Tararua 1500’s, an ongoing project. On my third attempt in as many years I was finally able to put that dream to bed when I became the first to summit all fifteen 1500 metre peaks in the mountain range in a single push.
Girdlestone, Brocket and Mitre. Three of the fifteen 1500 metre peaks in the Tararua Mountain Range
The K-S Project
So with the 2018 summer drawing to a close I was at a loose end and again feeling the pull of the hills. My Dad, sensing my restlessness suggested “Why don’t you run back in the other direction?”, alluding to a reverse Main Range S-K, a K-S if you will. It was three years since my original main range and the memories of pain and exhaustion had faded. The idea was something I had discussed previously with other mountain runners and the conversation always came back to the rugged northern section. The crux of the Main Range S-K comes very early on in the route with the stretch between Herepai hut and Pukematawai, roughly thirteen kilometres of untracked tops, at least four hours of travel at 24 hour pace. Footing is often obscured by dense alpine scrub and numerous weathered spurs plummeting off in multiple directions offer plenty of places to come unstuck if the weather is less than perfect. It’s another beast altogether in the dark.
With a Tarn or Main Range S-K you have a lot of control over how you approach this northern section, with most attempts aiming to hit East Peak at dawn to provide light for what can be a tricky drop down through the saddle to West Peak. You are fresh, with your brain dialed in to pick up the little intricacies in navigation. You are climbing through the trickiest sections, therefore all spurs lead to a high point rather than forking out. You can pick a good weather window, hopefully ensuring good visibility until you meet the marked trail of Te Araroa where you can follow a comparatively easy to follow foot pad for the remainder of the journey.
With a K-S this would all be reversed. You’d be arriving in the rugged northern Tarauas with a days running in your legs, fatigued and possibly not making the best decisions. The stakes are exponentially higher.
Northern Tararuas on a good day
Through my research I could only find two accounts of a reverse S-K. The first to achieve the feat were Dennis Gazley, Kevin Moynihan and Tony Gazley, who in April 1970 traversed the main range over a weekend with a sleep at Alpha Hut and again at Dracophyllum Biv. The second account was over three decades later when in 2007, Stuart Meiklejohn, Laurayne Robb and Tony Gazley tackled the main range with a sleep at Alpha Hut, a shelter from the storm at Kime Hut and another sleep at Nichols Hut, before continuing on to Putara. No-one had attempted it in a single push.
So with no blueprint on how to approach such an undertaking, I took a fairly unorthodox approach to my start time. My two main concerns were having good light for the Southern Main Range section, which has its share of exposed scrambles, and the aforementioned northern section. With sunset and sunrise times around 8pm and 7am respectively, creating an 11 hour “dark zone”, I decided that I would prefer this to fall in the middle of my attempt along the relatively tame section between Maungahuka and Arete, where the trail is for the most part easy to follow. With this in mind and no previous sub 24 attempts to go off, I drew up a fairly relaxed set of 24 hour splits which pointed to a start time of around midday. I figured that if I ran within myself at the start then I should be okay in the later stages. It was time to reverse the epic.
Main Range K-S
March 2nd-3rd, 2018
Steel ladder, Tararua Peaks, Main Range K-S
Starting a main range traverse at the leisurely time of 12pm has me more relaxed than before any big run I have previously undertaken. An indulgent morning of two breakfasts, coffees and time spent playing with my daughter Ruby, before dropping her to daycare is enough to almost fool my brain into thinking it is just another day. It isn’t until the drive out to Kaitoke that the butterflies of nervous excitement begin to flutter. It’s great to share this trip with my Mum and Dad who are also set to meet me at the far end should my attempt be successful, and with hugs in the dusty car park under a warm autumn sun, I hit the trail as the clock strikes midday. Now it might have a bit of a bad reputation, but the Marchant Ridge is lovely when you’re not eighteen hours into a run and I get my head down, looking at it as my delivery system onto the magic tops. It’s warm and humid and conditions are dry and fast under foot. The Block XVI turnoff comes and goes, and before long I am over Omega and down through Hells Gate, arriving at Alpha Hut a leisurely three and a half hours after setting out.
With my warmup out of the way and bottles topped up it’s time to hit the tops where the real adventure will begin. A dense misty clag smothers the features of the ridge and sucks me in as I break above the treeline. Getting stuck into the climb I’m greeted by a light breeze but it’s fairly innocuous and it remains T-shirt weather. From time to time I’m rewarded by brief glimpses of the ridge and shortly after Alpha peak three heavily laden figures emerge from the murk. They are half way through a three day Southern Crossing, having overnighted at Kime, and are on their way to Alpha Hut for the night. Before they move on one of the men grumbles that it is his third Southern Crossing and he has yet to have seen any views. I’m not about to argue but I had been enjoying the otherworldliness that the mist was creating, so I wish them a good night at the hut and get back to running. On through the bumps of the Dress Circle and onto the southern flanks of Mt Hector, Pukemoumou - Hill of Desolation. As I approach the start of the climb I spot movement at the edge of a small tarn. On closer inspection it turns out to be a tramper collecting water for a brew, having come over Hector the hard way, the gnarly Neill-Winchcombe route. I love running into people in the hills even if the meeting is brief and after a quick chat I wish him well and continue on. As an aside, in the weeks following my run a friend made me aware of a trip report with a matching date on the South Wairarapa Tramping Club website, an excerpt from which read:
“Another little tarn - just a puddle - between Hector and the first Beehive supplies my third brew of the journey. I’m feeling just a little pleased with myself. Then a runner comes the other way. He’s come from Kaitoke and aims to be at Putara by noon tomorrow. If that’s not enough to cut me down to size, when I tell him I’ve just done the Neill-Winchcombe he says, ‘That’s a nice little ridge’. Pacer poles pumping, the runner bounds up Hector as if on level ground.”
There was no name identifying the author and I didn’t catch his name on our meeting, but if by some chance he happens to be reading this I’d like him to know that my comment was made with tongue firmly in cheek. During my successful 1500’s attempt I had an experience on the same ridge in the dead of the night which tested my resolve. It could fairly be described as a waking nightmare and I have the greatest respect for anybody who takes it on. Bravo.
Southern Crossing Tarn
Reaching the top of Mt Hector and its weathered cross is always a highlight of any trip and I pause briefly to reflect that last time I was here it was three o'clock in the morning and I was 24 hours deep into my 1500’s run. It feels great to be here in the late afternoon and with fresh legs I push on, over Field Peak and down to Kime Hut. As I sit by the water tanks to fill my bottles the friendly face of a tramper pops out the door to cheerfully inform me that the DOC ranger has recently fished a couple of dead rats out of it and it’s yet to be cleaned out. The sun is now breaking through the cloud and it’s hot, I’ll be needing plenty of fluid over the sawtoothing Southern Main Range, so with no other options I top up, throwing a couple of treatment tablets in for good luck along with some energy powder which I hope will cover up any “gamey” flavour.
With the cloud burning off, a fantastic view opens up to the east and north of me, as I arrive at the top of the descent from Bridge Peak. Steep hills as far as the eyes can see stretch endlessly away from me, their deep folds accentuated by the warm autumn sun as it slowly makes its way towards the horizon. The reality that they are all to be a part of my not too distant future is less daunting than it should be, as with legs still fresh, the overwhelming feeling is excitement at being fortunate enough to have this as my playground for 24 hours. I’m in paradise.
Usually one of the big hurdles of the Main Range S-K, Bridge Peak is a joy to descend in the opposite direction and with the distant roar of the Hector River off my right shoulder, I tick off the numerous bumps and saddles on my way to the Tararua Peaks and their famous ladder. A brief pause at a high point just after McIntosh to look back the way I have come rewards me with a stunning view of the sun sinking low over Kapiti Island and a silvery Tasman Sea. Down the ladder, my second time in as many months having come through here during a recent adventure race. An amazing thing to see in the middle of the mountains, a remarkable piece of engineering, it’s always a fun part of any trip. Then on through the scrambly bits and finally up onto Maungahuka to catch a glimpse of the sun through a thin clag forming on the ridge as it slips silently beneath the waves. Night is coming.
Hills as far as the eye can see, Southern Main Range
The hut emerges from the mist as I descend and I find myself hoping for the first time that this isn’t a sign of things to come. The forecast was pretty good but you never can tell in this mountain range, it has a mind of its own. I’m busy mixing food and sorting my head torch on the bench outside when a friendly head pops out of the hut into the fading light of dusk. There are three trampers, who I later find out are Liz Ricketts, Emma Gregg and Kathryn Knightsbridge, and Emma’s dog Coda,the mountain Collie. They’ve come in via the monster climb from Neill Forks Hut and are resting up overnight before continuing on over the Tararua Peaks the following morning. We chat as I sort my gear for the night and I’m a little envious of their cosy setup. Running into more friendly trampers is such a great boost heading into the long night, and as I bid my farewells I feel my energy levels lift at the meeting and the prospect of some good night running. Enquiring later how they managed the ladder with Coda, Liz sent me this description: “We sent Emma up first & Coda scaled up the side of the ladder to her! She fell the first time, I caught her & her second attempt was successful! We had harnesses, rope, & an empty pack ready to take her up but she just scaled it by herself, phenomenal to watch! Terrifying but awesome.” Animals are amazing.
Steel Ladder, Tararua Peaks
Finding a pretty spot just north of the tarn I put a call through to my family to say goodnight and let them know that things are tracking nicely and I will hopefully see them in Putara some time the following day. The last light fades from the sky as I drop down towards Simpson and a full moon teasingly peaks through above the looming form of Aokaparangi, before being swallowed just as quickly as it came by the gathering clouds. I won’t see it again. As I climb the weathered flanks of Aokaparangi it is full dark and looking to the summit, twin glowing orbs sweep silently across the slope above me. I crest the top and there sitting in the middle of the foot trail looking up at me is a Morepork or Ruru, New Zealand’s native owl. We share a quiet moment regarding each other, then as silently as it had arrived the little owl takes to the sky. Maori view the Ruru as a watchful guardian, belonging to the spirit world of the night and I take this as a good sign. I hear its lonesome call carrying on the soft breeze as I push on into the night.
Running into the night
A quick stop to top the bottles up at Anderson Memorial Hut and then back into it. Junction Knob comes and goes in the dark and then on into the climb up Mt Crawford, the Moon still hidden by thick high cloud, I cross my fingers that it doesn’t close in. The drop to Nichols Hut drifts past and then I’m plunging headlong into the dense, storm-fed goblin forest of the main range. The bush makes a nice change from the relentless tops but I am dismayed at the conditions underfoot. In the three years since I was last through here on my first S-K the trail has deteriorated considerably. Despite the long dry summer there are large sections of muddy bog, no doubt created by the hundreds of extra feet brought to this part of the range by the Te Araroa Trail. Promoting fragile trails, unsuitable for this sort of high volume pressure, to the world, is a massive oversight in my mind and will end up destroying these special places for future generations.
I arrive at Dracophyllum hut at 2:40am and it’s time to get some caffeine on board to get me through the darkest hours of the night. I’m still feeling really good and as soon as I arrive I’m gone again. More boggy bits and I start to notice the light from my headtorch bouncing back at me as a claggy mist begins to descend onto the ridge. As I climb towards Butcher Knob the clag thickens to the point where my headtorch beam dazzles me and I’m forced to knock the power down to better see the trail and progress slows a little. The Caffeine is kicking in and soon I’m standing in the murk at the top of Pukematawai. From here to Herepai Hut there is no more marked route, it’s just me and the hills. As I climb up the flanks of Arete the visibility reduces until I can only see about three metres ahead of me, I may as well be blindfolded. So much for the forecast of a clear morning! I top out at the rock strewn summit and quickly stop to pull on my raincoat as the cool mist soaks through my clothes. 5am, two hours till dawn, seven hours to get it done, “should be plenty” I think… I’ve been here a few times now but familiarity can breed complacency. Without thinking I head off down what I think is my spur, old steel waratahs intermittently suggesting I’m on track. It isn’t until I’ve been descending for what seems like too long that I stop to check my location. Bugger, my phone’s gone haywire in the wet, there goes the GPS. Ah well let’s check my altitude, 1375 metres. Hmmm, the ridge I’m meant to be on never goes below 1400 and I’m still descending, bugger. Back up I go to try again from a known point. Back on the summit I take a bearing noting that the compass needle is a bit sluggish and slow to settle. Again I plunge into the murk down a different spur, surely the correct one this time. This is getting steep and scrubby, check altitude again. Damn, too low! I was sure my bearing was bang on. Another look at my map and I can only guess by the slope and the way that the wind is coming up it that I have ended up being drawn down a spur slightly north of the ridge. I can’t see further than the leatherwood bush next to me. I start to sidle in an effort to gain the ridge and find myself in a sea of leatherwood, more on top of it than on the ground and that ground is falling away fast. Finally I’m starting to make progress upwards and through a brief break in the clag I catch a glimpse of what looks suspiciously like ridge above me. One more hard push and I pop onto the ridge, a definite foot pad signaling that I’m in the right place. A short climb onto a knob and a quick check of my map and altimetre and I know where I am again, yahoo! It’s now 6am and what should have taken me fifteen minutes has soaked up a whole hour of precious time. Can’t muck around now.
As I pick my way along the ridge towards Mt Dundas a muted light begins to creep into the day. Progress is a lot slower than I would like and the map is never far from hand as I check off the features as they emerge only metres in front of me. Every time I drop off a high point I’m at pains to make sure I’m not being drawn out, down another false spur and I feel a great sense of relief when I start ascending up the broad side of Dundas.
On a better day (1500’s trip), Dundas centre shot, Pukematawai peaking out of the cloud at rear.
Dawn, as I drop off the north side towards Logan, is a muted affair. All dreams of a stunning sunrise on the tops are robbed by the suffocating mist. There is now light but my ability to make out the ridge hasn’t increased in the slightest. Up over Logan, a quick stop to fill my bottles from the tarn near the Dundas Hut turnoff and onwards. Pukemoremore falls behind me but then I make the mistake of going up and over Walker without checking the map. Something feels wrong as I drop steeply down. A glance at the map confirms that I’ve been drawn out the wrong spur again and I’m forced to backtrack, yet another 80 metre climb, more hills equals more fun right? Getting the dogleg right this time I’m soon at West Peak and the big drop down through the saddle and on to East Peak. With the clock ticking away I dispatch this scrubby section as quick as I can and I’m boiling in my parka as I pop out on the top of East Peak, but there’s no time for wardrobe changes. Still with next to no visibility, the weather beaten section between Ruapae and Herepai is a real test and more than once after following a bearing I find myself backtracking to rejoin the ridge. For the first time the possibility of missing the 24 hour mark begins to feel distinctly real and frustration begins to get a foothold in my mind. My elation at seeing the Stan Evans cross emerge from the clag, signalling the start of an easy to follow footpad, is tempered by a moment of quiet contemplation for this lost tramper. Descending through the bush as quick as my tired legs will carry me I can’t keep the grin from bursting onto my face as Herepai Hut appears. I have one and a half hours to get myself to Putara, definitely good for sub 24 if I don’t do anything silly and my body holds together.
A couple of hunters pop out of the bush, arriving at the hut as I fill a bottle and take on a caffeinated gel. They look a little confused when I say I’ve just run from Kaitoke, and wish them luck as I tear off into the bush. Whoops, longdrop. Turn around and try again and I’m soon barrelling down the first good track since the Southern Crossing. It feels amazing to be running fast and all the aches and pains of the last 22 hours recede into the background as adrenaline kicks in, propelling me down the track. There’s a large group of trampers taking a break at the Roaring Stag turnoff and they look at this grubby, sweaty runner with amusement as I tear on by, headtorch still shining even though it’s approaching mid day. Into the steep descent to the Mangatainoka head waters I leave all caution to the wind and plunge down the root-strewn track. Here I start passing heaps of trampers clawing their way up in the opposite direction, the huts are going to be full tonight. Over the swing bridge spanning Ruapae stream and I’m on the home stretch, the adrenaline has worn off but nothing will slow me now. Finally the last swingbridge appears and as I charge across it I hear whoops from the other side, Mum and Dad cheering me home! High fives, another two hundred metres, the gate appears and I burst into the Putara carpark, stopping the clock at 23 hours and 20 minutes. I’ve done it!
Hugs with Mum and Dad are pretty special, having inherited my love for wild places from them. Thanks guys, what a day.
Bringing it home
In an interesting postscript, a happening about a week later brought me some laughs. I had my map and compass in at work and while going over the route I noticed something odd. The north on my compass needle was pointing south. I double checked it against my digital compass and yep, definitely pointing in the wrong direction. After some research on reverse polarity I found heaps of stories like mine. It turns out a compass can suffer partial reverse polarity, where the needle becomes sluggish to settle and can read up to 10 degrees out, plenty to put you on the wrong spur. I could have sworn that I was going nuts trying to navigate on the ridge but it would appear that this is what had happened to my compass. I felt a little vindicated. Sometime after my run it must have become fully reversed. A good lesson to look after your compass and keep it away from items which could have strong magnetic fields!
Spot the odd one out, LLTT “Looking at London, talking to Tokyo...”
Valleys K-S
December 24, 2018
Smells like adventure
What better way to spend Christmas Eve than running the length of a mountain range? This thought popped into my head as I poured over weather maps in the week leading up to xmas. Conditions looked less than ideal for a tops mission but the valleys, hmmmmm. Much of my year had been consumed more by off trail map and compass stuff while training for the Revenant and I was itching for some fast (relatively), runnable stuff. A Valleys traverse was big but wouldn’t cripple me for the following days festivities. I still had the dream of completing all three K-S’s within a year also. I called my dad, Pete. “Hey Dad, how would you like to pick me up from Putara, say 7pm on Christmas Eve? Remember that you’re partially responsible for this right? We can grab a feed on our way back through Carterton, my shout.” He’s pretty good to me my Dad.
So it is that I pull into the dark Kaitoke carpark, windscreen wipers driving back a wetting drizzle, set for a day of hills and river valleys. I spare a thought for my mate Tom Middlemiss who a couple of hours prior to my arrival had emerged here from some absolutely atrocious conditions on the tops, becoming the latest member of the Main Range S-K sub 24 club, a mighty effort. I’ve written a set of fairly optimistic splits to aim for, hoping that with the trail north of Cow Saddle now cut, I can trim a bit off my S-K fastest known time. Bang on 5 am I aim my headtorch down the trail and set to running. Despite the drizzle it’s warm and I’m glad of my choice to start in a T-shirt as I top out at the puffer saddle. The descent is quickly put behind me and I’m soon running along the undulating sidle to Smith Creek. I’m just thinking how nice it is to have fresh legs on this section, rather than at the end of an S-K, then BAM! My toe clips a rock and I’m flying headfirst down the trail, a full-on superman. Rather unlike superman I come crashing back to earth, my hand and thigh taking the brunt of the impact. I lie in the mud for a moment, a bit stunned, before dragging myself to my feet to assess the damage. There’s a decent gash in the palm of my hand and when I try a few hesitant strides my thigh feels sore and wooden and I can tell that my toenail will look pretty when I take my shoe off at the end of this. Nothing broken though so on I go, serves me right for thinking how easy this was going, I now feel suitably beaten up for my current undertaking.
Tauherenikau Swing Bridge
The dark shell of the Smith Creek Shelter drifts past and the birds serenade me with their dawn chorus as a muted light begins to creep into the day. On to Marchant Stream and its wire crossing, unnecessary now but if this rain persists, trampers may be needing it’s security later in the day. The long swingbridge, crossing the Tauherenikau River materialises out of the murk and I hurry across, eager to get back into the bush and out of the rain. Although still tender my thigh has loosened up and I focus on putting this fast section of the route behind me as quick as I can. In what seems like no time I’m past the Tutuwai turnoff and soon I’m climbing up onto a higher river terrace at the end of the valley. The rustic Cone Hut appears and I’m up on my splits, arriving 18 minutes ahead of schedule so I waste no time moving on, ready to get stuck into the climb to Cone Saddle.
Cone Hut, Tauherenikau Valley
As the ascent begins I dip my bottle into an intermittent stream, plenty of water today, and savour the lovely taste of fresh mountain water. Over the saddle and I’m into the mess that is the northern Cone Saddle Track. As the track sidles I navigate numerous indistinct diversions where treefall has blocked the track and remind myself again never to come through here in the dark. Finally I am descending and I drop down the spur, popping out onto the Totara Flats Track in the Waiohine River valley. Travel is quick and as I hit the grassy flats the heavens open up drenching me in a cooling rain. It’s been a bumper spring and what must have been perfect growing conditions as what is usually calf length grass is up to my chest and even higher in places. It’s like running through a river and I find myself running with my arms in front of me to break a trail through the sodden grass. It’s energy sapping work and It’s a relief to reach the bush, I’d be drier swimming up the river! I arrive at Totara Flats Hut, I’m a little over half an hour ahead of schedule.
No need to top my bottles from the tanks with this much water around, so I carry on without a stop, throwing a soggy wave at trampers sheltering under the verandah. Onto the big swingbridge spanning the Waiohine River, currently busy pumping the lifeblood through the valley, an awesome sight. Up the Totara Creek Track I’m soon crossing my next swingbridge, this one recently repaired after a long time closed due to a slip and then into the long climb up towards Pig Flats. The new track joins up with the old rutted one which is running with water, little waterfalls forming in the ruts. This is a lot more water than was forecast and I start to wonder for the first time what this is doing to the Ruamahunga, a river I’m destined to spend a good amount of time traveling up during the untracked latter stages of my run. I pop out onto the Gentle Annie Track and soon I crest the top of Pig Flats. Time to put a call through to my family to let them know I’m through my first checkpoints with time to spare. There’s no coverage for the rest of the route so Dad will have to hope that the river is navigable otherwise he might be waiting a while at Putara! I shoot down the River Ridge Track, some really fun downhill running made more than a little hairy by the slick conditions and in no time I’m spat out onto the Atiwhakatu Track where I’m greeted by a massive sign written in the gravel “GO TIM - BSR!” Aside from the trampers at Totara Flats, I haven’t seen anyone and it’s a massive buzz to know there are must be a friend in the hills having their own xmas eve mission. I find out later that it was my mates, Andrew Thompson and Seanoa Issac, both out on their own separate runs, Andrew writing the former and Seanoa adding the BSR (Big Sunday Run Crew, our unofficial run club full of choice people who do big things in the hills) So rad, chur fellas! It puts a massive smile on my dial and I make the most of the groomed DOC trail to get the legs cranking, arriving at Atiwhakatu Hut still over thirty minutes ahead of my estimate. Choice!
Again I have no need to top up at the tanks, happy instead to dip into the plentiful streams that are working overtime today to move the water out of the hills. So on I run, past the Jumbo turnoff, bidding the groomed trail farewell and on to the gnarly Barton Track. This is the Tararuas that I know and love. It’s slow going but at least the rain has eased a bit and after the climb to the baldy turnoff, a long sidle and then a fun slippery descent, I emerge at the Waingawa River valley where Mitre Flats Hut welcomes me along with a fresh deluge from the heavens. I’m 38 minutes ahead of my splits but I get the feeling I’m going to need that time when I get to the mighty Ruamahunga. Where is all this water coming from!?
Mitre Flats Hut, still raining...
I run straight past the hut keen to attack the undulating Waingawa River Track. It looks flat and fast on the map but I was reminded on a recent hut bagging mission that it is far from it. Everytime I get into my stride running on the flat river flat I’m suddenly thrown into a steep tree rooty clamber up onto the high river terrace and then next thing I’m dropping back down only to repeat the process again. Each stream I come to seems to have more water in it than the last and I am dismayed when, while running one of the high terraces I hear a roaring from ahead of me and then the source of the sound is revealed in all its glory. Up until now, although high, all the streams and rivers have been clear. The North Mitre stream is anything but… It’s a muddy brown torrent, pouring down over boulders which are usually well out of the water, to disgorge itself into the Waingawa River below. Scouting around it takes me a while to find a safe route across, but this is the least of my worries. Having pushed the impending Ruamahunga experience out of my mind, it is now back, front and centre. If this stream with a relatively small catchment is already a raging torrent, what is the mighty Ruamahunga going to be like when I get to it after a day of rain? Only one way to find out I guess. All these streams have cost me some of my time buffer, I now only have 24 minutes in the bank, so I crack on.
Waingawa River
Arriving at the Cow Creek swingbridge I decide that I need to have a go at fording the Waingawa on foot, if only to boost my hope for being able to navigate the Ruamahunga River section. There’s a lot of water going down but it’s clear enough to see the bottom. I spot a promising line with a decent pool of slow water below it and, leaning upriver against my poles I crab my way across. When I get to the main flow, pressure waves break against my stomach focusing my attention and I’m relieved to break out the other side and make my way to the shallows near the far bank. The climb to Cow Saddle is fairly straightforward and I’m intrigued to see what the new trail is like, having had to bush-bash the section between here and Cleft Creek during my S-K, two years earlier. I’m cooling down now with the constant wet, and I don my raincoat, pulling the hood up for warmth. With a false start down the old trail, I’m soon on my way down a fantastic trail which, after a brief sidle has me tearing down a spur through lovely open beech forest. Popping out at Cleft Creek, more water. Conditions had been high when I ran it in the opposite direction but nothing like this. With the moss covered rocks as slick as ice, every footplant has to be considered and I am selective in my crossing points. I am very happy when I’m able to leave the creek and clamber back onto the Ruamahunga River Track, keeping a careful eye out for my exit point down to the river. Even so I run straight past, it’s only the roar of a large volume artery that alerts me and I backtrack until I spot a faint footpad leading north away from the track, towards the noise of big water. I clamber down handholds of tree roots and drop onto a small beach, at the confluence of Cleft Creek and a swollen Ruamahunga.
Cow Saddle
The scene I’m confronted with brings mixed emotions. It’s not the raging brown torrent that had been painting itself a picture in my mind, but it’s also more water than I would like to be dealing with. Ah well, at least it’s not going to be boring. Straight away I’m faced with my first crossing. Here, you’d usually wade straight across from the beach. But the pool in front of me, usually knee high, looks like it could quite happily swallow a car. Or a medium sized mountain runner. I have to the cross the flow pumping out of Cleft Creek so that I am upstream of where the two waters meet, reducing the volume enough to have a good crack at it. Moving into the main flow it’s a good challenge finding my footing as the murky flow obscures any good view of the riverbed and I’m soon up to my waist in fast water. Leaning hard against my poles I break into the shallows on the true left and am clambering onto a narrow rock ledge. A quick scout upstream has me cautiously siddling the slippery ledge, the rocks slick underfoot and a big swim waiting below if I get it wrong. I drop onto the rocks upstream and am finally able to relax for a moment. Beyond this point the river narrows concentrating the main flow and providing no safe options, so I scramble my way up the steep bank and into the bush. Following intermittent game trails through the dense rainforest I begin a pattern of climbing high over the gorgy sections of river then plummeting back down to where the riverbed opens up. Sometimes the most direct route forces me into a crossing and I have to be very selective on where I put myself into the river. I’m always looking at where I’ll end up if I lose my footing, a very real possibility. I’m very slow and deliberate with my technique, I lean hard upstream against my poles creating a triangle and feeling for good foot purchase with each step, before crabbing slowly across (these trekking poles are a great tool on the river and I would have struggled without them under these conditions). Each of these crossings is physically taxing and the time spent in the cold water has me pushing hard to warm up once I have reached the safety of the far bank. Finally after countless crossings and high diversions I am wading in the shallows up the side of the river when I see smoke drifting down onto the water about five hundred metres upstream. There ahead of me is the swing bridge announcing my last checkpoint of the day, Roaring Stag Hut. I’m suddenly aware of the tension that I’ve been carrying with me since finding the river in such a challenging state and it’s amazing to feel it fall away as I dismiss the bridge and opt for one last crossing, knowing that I have broken the back of this challenge. There is one more hill.
As I clamber up the river bank I catch the attention of a lone tramper on the deck taking in the still, misty evening and wave a greeting as I emerge dripping from the river. I can’t mask my elation at leaving the river behind, the grin is plastered from ear to ear, and the poor fella is subjected to an eruption of enthusiastic chatter. It’s great to share a moment though, with someone here for the same reason, our amazing wilderness. And when we part ways, wishing each other a safe trip and a good xmas, I feel we’re both the better off for our brief meeting.
A high Ruamahunga River
So, how about that last climb aye? The relentless climbs, descents and crossings of dealing with the high river have taken their toll. My twenty four minute lead on my splits is reduced now to eight. I’m cold and fatigued, but my conversation with a person on the same wavelength has got me fizzing again and so it’s head down, let’s bring this home. It’s great to be running again and the prospect of getting stuck into the three hundred metre climb has got me excited, if only to get some heat back into my body. A quick dip of the bottle into the last stream and up we go. I channel a journey through here on a birthday fastpacking adventure I shared with my good friends Lou Beckingsale and Dave Allen. It was the end of our second day in the hills and we pushed each other hard on the race for the top and a way out of the hills. I can’t remember who got there first but it all came back to me, the twists, the turns, the tree roots, the mud and eventually the junction sign pointing the way to the end of my journey, Putara. Adrenaline and gravity take over as I bomb down the spur towards the Mangatainoka, a route that’s starting to feel familiar. Popping out at the bottom having not come unstuck on the slippery descent is a beautiful thing and the energy is still flowing. It’s funny how long the last few kilometres of a fourteen hour run can seem, and the feeling when I hit that last swing bridge and get an answering cheer from my dad is something I’ll never let go of. A flying hi-five and a final two hundred metre “sprint” and I can stop the clock. 13 hour 55 minutes, five minutes under my estimate and a new fastest time through the range between the two road ends by forty nine minutes. Most importantly, for a change I haven’t kept my taxi waiting, a bit of a novelty for Dad and I (Did I say my parents are amazing!?)
I’ll be home for Christmas.
Splits
Tarn K-S
March 3, 2019
Looking north along the Eastern Range from North King, Tarn K-S.
If asked which S-K route I would do if I could pick only one, I would answer without hesitation, “The Tarn”. With features such as the Waiohine Pinnacles, The Three Kings and the Broken Axe Pinnacles as well as taking in seven of the mighty 1500’s, to me it is much more of a mountain route than the Main Range. There is no marked route all the way from Herepai in the North to Jumbo, some ten or more hours of tops travel further south, down the rugged eastern range. It’s exposed country and you have to really back yourself navigation wise. And then there are the gnarly southern valleys, a maze of tree roots, mud and endless ups and downs. Pacing is key. The history of the Tarn alone is enough to suggest it as a worthy challenge, it being the route where mountaineer Graham Dingle famously cut his teeth in the hills. It may be perhaps a little quicker in time than the Main Range but in my mind at least an equal when measured by pure challenge.
So it felt fitting that it was the Tarn that I lined up for in the dark Kaitoke carpark a year to the day since I completed my Main Range K-S. I only had a mountain range between me and my dream of being the first to complete all three K-S traverses sub 24, solo and unsupported. My plan was to set out from Kaitoke at 4am. This would have me climbing to Cone Saddle around dawn, ensuring I had enough light for the messy treefall riddled siddle down the other side. Then I would be racing the other end of the day to see how far I could get along the rugged northern tops before a moonless dark would fall making navigating the drop down to Herepai an interesting challenge.
Makaka Creek, post dawn, after the drop down from Cone Saddle
My trip reports usually tend to give a blow by blow description. A lot of the motivation behind this comes from when I started researching my first S-K. I was hungry for information, anything I could find I devoured with a hunger for more reading, more knowledge of just what I was getting myself into. There weren’t many reports that broke it down into the segments that I like to use when planning a trip. So that’s what I tried to write, in the hopes that it would be a useful resource for others like me, and perhaps motivate people to dream... This time I’d like to try something a little different.
Early on into my run (twenty five minutes to be precise) while bombing down the Puffer Track I rolled my ankle badly, the pain making me black out briefly, tearing the lateral ligament as I was later to find out. I made the decision to carry on into the range, figuring that I had my poles and if the worst came to the worst I could lurch my way out one of the exits like some sort of lopsided tripod. These things end up hurting eventually anyway, right? This meant that chasing fast times wasn’t realistic so in a lot of ways took the pressure off. It gave me the freedom to fully immerse myself in the experience.
There’s a reason I can’t stay away from these hills. It’s not chasing records, they’re a nice motivator to keep moving and satisfy my competitive side but at the end of the day who really cares? There are no medals at the the end, in fact you’ll be lucky if there are more than one or two supporters waiting at the dusty road end to cheer you home, and likely you’ll be too broken to celebrate much anyway. No, it’s the journey. It sounds like a bit of a cliche, but if you put yourself into a mountain range for twenty four hours things are guaranteed to happen. There’ll be highs and lows. Your brain will go to euphoric happy places and it will also plumb the depths of your dark places, only to eventually find that euphoria again. Hopefully. There’ll be meetings along the way, trampers and hunters to yarn to and share the experience with. There’s bound to be the odd wildlife encounter too, usually when you least expect it. And finally there’s the wild beauty of the Tararua, a thing for which my appetite will never be sated. It calls to me with it’s countless running streams, tumbling over mossy boulders. It calls to me with it’s majestic rivers on their relentless journeys to the sea. It calls to me with it’s soft open beech forest and it’s gnarly impenetrable Leatherwood, it’s shoulder high tussock and needle sharp Spaniards. It calls to me with it’s weather beaten tops, precipitous and exposed, slowly crumbling away under a relentless battering from the elements. It calls to me with it’s history of the pioneering spirit, from early Maori crossings, to the first Pakeha explorers, the New Zealand Forestry deer cullers, the intrepid trampers. It calls to me with it’s unfiltered sunrises and sunsets, it’s freezing cold, moody clag, misty valleys and blazing heat. It calls to my soul. This, is a grand old love story.
So this time around I would like to share my journey as a series of experiences, a snapshot of what makes the Tararua such a magic playground, a place forever in my blood.
Heart of the range, Park Valley
The wild gateways
I look at swing bridges as the gateways to our wild places, standing quiet guard at the start of the big mountain missions. To me they feel suitably temporary, not trying to dominate the landscape like their urban counterparts. During my first crossing of the day, the bridge spanning the mighty Tauherenikau, I pause halfway across, turning off my headtorch. In the cool predawn stillness, the roar of the river below is pierced occasionally by the lonely call of the Ruru. Turning my eyes skywards, above me, framed on both sides by the dark forest walls of the valley, is a sea of stars. Dwarfing me in their infinite expanse but blanketing me also with a sense that I am in the right place amongst them. What a way to start a journey.
Tauherenikau swingbridge
Running with the Wildlife
We are only visitors to these misty hills. Encounters with the wildlife that call this place home are a special part of every trip. Whether native or introduced this is their territory and every meeting reminds you why the creatures are queen of this wild country. My first encounter has me startled. While negotiating the sidle to smith creek a solid form streaks across the track, barely five metres ahead of me. A large hind, probably as surprised as me to have company this early in the morning, bounds away upwards, seemingly disregarding the law of gravity. A stark contrast to my ungainly limp. Not the first time I have been humbled by deer.
Further up the Tauherenikau Valley I’m running the open grassy flats on the approach to Tutuwai hut, when on glancing sideways to the riverbed, four glowing pairs of eyes reflect back at me as a group of deer seem to match my progress up the valley. Their legs pumping hard, they pull ahead of me, effortlessly and silently returning back to the dark from where they came.
Climbing up off the riverbed, high onto the old river terrace the rustic form of Cone Hut appears. Shortly after commencing the sidling climb to the saddle, birds start to welcome the day with a growing choir of voices. After the lonely quiet of the valley, this dawn chorus makes me feel like I’m coming home and is a good reminder of why our battle to be predator free is so real.
On the undulating ridge between Jumbo and Angle Knob the need for water becomes real. A number of tarns lie beckoningly close off the north side of the ridge. One looks more promising than the rest and with a workable route past it I give myself over to gravity and ski the scree down to its mossy edge. As I’m filling my bottles a Pipit, or Pihoihoi flutters onto the opposite bank to observe this strange creature using it’s watering hole. It slowly works its way around the tarn towards me until it is no more than a couple of metres away, then proceeds to take a drink itself, totally unphased by my presence. I feel like I have been let into it’s world, if only for a fleeting moment and silently smile my appreciation before moving on rejuvenated.
Eastern range tarn
In the suffocating heat of a dead still evening I wipe the sweat from my eyes and I make my way north off the broad summit of Mt Dundas. As I pick my way through the thick tussock aiming for the ridge, the unmistakable rhythmic thud of a helicopter starts to grow, coming somewhere from the valley below and to the east of me. As I strain my eyes to make out the source of the sound there are a rapid series of sharp cracks. I’m through the saddle and starting another hot climb up the 1500 metre bulk of Logan when the heli thuds into view on the slopes below me in search of prey. By some oversight I’m not wearing any hi-viz so I do my best not to look like a deer as I clamber skywards. I’m close enough to see the pilot and shooter but their attention is elsewhere, on the dense leatherwood slopes below them. I’m over the top of Logan and now the heli swoops low over Dundas Hut, disappearing from view behind the access spur. After topping my bottles at the tarn I continue north towards Pukemoremore. The engine revs increase and soon the heli shoots skywards, its four legged quarry strung from a net below. As I clamber up the rocky flanks of Pukemoremore racing the sinking sun, a lone hind turns on the slopes above me, making eye contact before deftly traversing the near vertical slope and disappearing into the leatherwood. I wonder if it will mourn its dead mate and am thankful to have been born a creature unlikely to suffer a similar fate. I totally understand and support the need to manage deer in our wild places but would make a terrible hunter myself, I will stick to running.
Sunrise, Sunset and Night in the Mountains
One of the things you can’t escape with these big runs is that they usually require commitment to some fairly antisocial start and finish times. There is however a tradeoff that is well worth the sacrifice of some sleep. When you’re running close to a full 24 hour day in the mountains, if the weather permits it, you are going to be treated to some pretty amazing sunrises and sunsets.
Sunrise came shortly after leaving Totara Flats. When you’re in the valleys of a mountain range, dawn precedes the sun by quite a while. In the cool of the morning I cross the broad Waiohine swing bridge and disappear into the shady confines of the Totara Creek valley. I’m glad to get stuck into the climb up onto the eastern ridge and enjoy the spread of the heat radiating into my cold fingertips. As I emerge onto the broad plateau at the top, bright shafts of light penetrate the open beech forest like crystal splinters, as the morning sun breaks above Carrington Ridge. The coming of the sun never fails to invigorate me and I continue on with new enthusiasm.
Sunrise over Carrington Ridge
At the far end of the day and the range, I find myself on the northern flanks of Pukemoremore, Dundas Ridge, racing the impending dark. As the sun eases its way towards the horison I am filled with mixed emotions. The joyful awe that I always feel at being lucky enough to witness the passing of another day from high in the mountains, juxtaposed with an underlying tension of nervousness at having to navigate the final untracked northern section on a moonless night. Snapping a photo as the warm orange orb sinks beneath the waves of the Tasman Sea, my phone dies and with it my GPS. I know that my map and compass will soon be justifying their place in my pack. It’s now a race to see how far I can get before the last light fades from the day and I am plunged into darkness. Along the narrow ridge, running as swiftly as my broken body will allow, I’m up and over Walker, careful to stay right just before the top, having been drawn down the wrong spur on my Main Range K-S. I soon have to power my headtorch up, with footing in the dense tussock hard to spot in the fading light. Dropping off West Peak into the deep saddle I take a visual reference on East Peak before it is quickly swallowed by the night. I’m going off memory now, knowing that once I pass the scree slope and drop into the saddle propper I will have a deep foot trail through the leatherwood which if I stay switched on will guide me through and up the other side. It’s a relief when I start climbing again and see the faint but unmistakable bulk of East Peak above me, silhouetted by starlight. At the summit I take a moment to switch my light off and instantly the sky above is transformed into a sea of stars. They go all the way to the horizon and it’s hard to pick where the land ends and the heavens begin as the stars mingle with the lights of distant settlements. Even when my eyes have had time to adjust it’s impossible to pick the lay of the land and, with head torch back on, my map and compass come out. Thus begins a pattern of taking a bearing off each highpoint or feature as I come to it. You have to be careful with time over distance when you can’t see a thing. There is a lot of detail lost with a 1:50,000 topo map and occasionally you’ll end up with a false contour where a feature is just a touch too short to register on the twenty metre contours. This is the case between East Peak and Ruapae, and my tired brain is briefly fooled by a bump along the ridge into thinking that I have arrived at Ruapae. Luckily I spot my mistake and make my way to the real summit. Things don’t get any easier between Raupae and Herepai and more than once I find myself backtracking to have another go at the heavily weathered descents. My elation at reaching Herepai and the easy to follow footpad through the scrub is immense and I bid farewell to the stars and the mountain tops, and push on to the relative safety of the bush.
Sunset on Dundas Ridge
People of the hills
No matter how big or small the adventure, when you bump into someone in the hills you know it’s a meeting of kindred spirits. On the outer edges of the park at the easy to access huts such as Totara Flats and Atiwhakatu are the families and day trippers. They are hives of energy and cheerful noise. It’s awesome seeing kids getting their first taste of our wild playground and there’s always a wave and a greeting on the way through. Then as you get deeper into the park you start running into people on bigger missions, with a mixture of smiles, grimaces and a flinty resolve in their eyes.
As I make my way up the Gentle Annie Track I catch up to a young walker with a daypack on. She’s on her way to Powell on a solo trip around the Jumbo-Holdsworth circuit, one of my first experiences of tops travel. She’s moving well and hopes to be around before night falls. I’m reminded of an early trip in here with my family as a boy, with clambers up the steep tree root ladders, where now there are solid timber staircases. I felt like a mountain climber at the time. I probably whinged like mad but still remember the quiet feeling of achievement at having reached Powell Hut under my own steam.
Next there is a couple working their way along the ridge between Mt Holdsworth and Jumbo. I first spot them descending of the steep flank of Holdsworth as I pass the High Ridge junction and set myself the goal of catching them before they reach Jumbo. I catch them on the drop past the East Holdsworth turnoff and do my best not to startle them calling out a greeting from above. They too are on a day trip, walking the Jumbo-Holdsworth. They share their wonder at how people can run this terrain. As we are chatting another group of trampers emerge from the other direction, it’s a busy day in this neck of the woods! This party is much heavier laden and the slightly bloodshot eyes (Tararua eye, I like to call it) tell of bigger adventures. They have come over Baldy and the Broken Axe Pinnacles. This reminds me of the story of the origin of the Broken Axe name. I had always assumed that they had inspired such an imagery conjuring name from their striking silhouette on the skyline, it certainly fit the jagged peaks. But the real story is even better. Charles Bannister, an early Pakeha explorer gave the pinnacles their name after deerstalker Henry Holmes and his travelling companion Jack Gardener discovered a Maori adze head at their base in the early 1900’s. Proof of that Maori explored deep into the range.
Broken Axe Pinnacles
Shortly after bidding farewell to this group I come across a lone tramper, who looks at home as he traverses the ridge, with a serious bit of photography kit slung from his neck. On hearing of my goal for the day it turns out he bumped into fellow runner Kyle Malone on his epic Valleys S-K the previous day. In stark contrast to Kyles run down the range, this tramper had spent a relaxing afternoon in the sun on the deck of Jumbo Hut, listening to New Zealand play Bangladesh in a test match on his transistor radio.
Tarn Ridge Hut, looking north
There’s hours of undulating tops travel before my next meeting. Having left Tarn Ridge hut after topping up my bottles I’m just cresting one of the rises to the north when in the middle distance movement catches my eye, company! As the figure gets nearer I can make out a tall character moving confidently towards me along the ridge. On his back is an old style canvas pack and he leans on a well travelled timber walking staff, the quintessential vision of a mountain man. Karl is 77, he spent the previous night at Te Matawai Hut and has just traversed the craggy Waiohine Pinnacles. Travelling on from here he’ll be staying the night at Tarn Ridge Hut. The following day he plans to carry on down the eastern range, over The Three Kings and on to the Broken Axe Pinnacles, to eventually finish his trip at Holdsworth Lodge. This is a big chunk of the park! When Karl enquires about my trip, on hearing that I’m traveling Kaitoke to Putara he queries “You’re not having a crack at Sutton’s record are you?” I give him a little grin and self-consciously indicate that there’s a good chance I might be the Sutton he’s referring to. In an instant we’re shaking hands like old friends, “I’ve read all your articles!” say’s Karl and we introduce ourselves properly. It’s humbling to know that people take something from what I write, and as I say to Karl, if I inspire just one person to dream big then the effort of writing is well worth it. Parting ways, each with our own big mission to chase, we’re both carrying broad smiles on our faces. I’m just about to drop into a scrubby saddle before the climb to Tarn Ridge propper when a shout goes up behind me “Hey Tim!” I turn to see Karl silhouetted atop a tussocky knob to the south. “I’ve got my fifteenth peak on this trip!”
I have no doubt that he’s referring to bagging his final peak of the mighty Tararua 1500’s, quite an achievement. As we wave our farewell I am lifted by this chance encounter in the hills, it has quite simply made my day. Karl Zimmerman, if you’re reading this, you’re an absolute inspiration mate.
Waiohine Pinnacles standing sentinel above the Waiohine headwaters
My last meeting of the day is also my most intimate. Dropping down the last spur of my journey, to the Mangatainoka River I’m leaning heavily on my poles. In a lot of ways I’m pretty surprised to be here at all, the whole way through the range I had expected my ankle to seize up. It gave me feedback every time my foot met the ground and felt like a time bomb waiting to go off. But as I cross the second to last swing bridge and onto the river flats I know that nothing can stop me from my goal. I now focus on getting to Putara before midnight, a sub 20 traverse. Ignoring the flares from my ankle I throw myself at the task of dispatching this undulating sidle as fast as possible, it’s going to be a close thing. Out of the dark the last swing bridge materialises in my torchlight, my gateway out of the hills. I whip across and charge down the last few hundred metres and as the gate appears in the tunnel of light I see park lights flick on in the dusty car park. I run through the gate, stopping the clock at 19 hours 55 minutes, and into a tight embrace with my Dad. It’s an emotional moment. Dad was there to hug me farewell at the start of my first S-K four years earlier and here now, six traverses later, to welcome me home. Who could ask for more.
Putara roadend, where hopes are pinned and dreams are realised. Tarn K-S, job done
Postscript
Looking back, it feels like I’ve packed quite a bit into the last few years. A decade spent partying in my twenties has seen me playing catch up. If there’s one thing I can leave you with, it is to give your kids as many outdoor experiences as you possibly can. I may have put my adventuring on hold for ten or so years when I was younger but I had the tools to allow me to return to our wild places when I finally got the partying out of my system. From a very early age mum and dad shared their love of the outdoors with my brother and I, taking us sailing, camping, bushwalking and exploring. We were a very active family and while I’m sure I grizzled from time to time I had a ball and have nothing but happy memories of those times. Little did I know it then, but my parents were quietly providing me with the skills and tools that would give me the confidence to test my limits as an adult. This love for the outdoors has got me out of numerous mental low points in my life and I have my parents to thank for this simple but amazing gift. Thank you guys.
Some may question, if you’ve already completed a route why would you want to run back in the opposite direction? It’s simple really. When you run a mountain range in reverse everything is different, you may as well be running a brand new route. Your horizon line changes, sunrises and sunsets are reversed, easy up climbs become tricky down climbs and conditions will never be replicated between one trip and the next. The challenges are unique and nothing is certain. And it all comes back to why you’re there in the first place. The connection to nature and to your own inner strength that you get from fully immersing yourself in a range, is something that can’t be replicated in any other way. Talk to anyone who has completed an S-K and I’m sure that they’ll agree that there is an element of transcendence in the process. You will never feel as alive as when you are right at the very edge of what you are physically and mentally capable of, and rather than stepping back from that edge, you choose to step over it. Who wouldn’t want to replicate that.
So where to from here? I’m a dad myself now so it’s my turn to share these experiences with my daughter, Ruby. We had our first camping trip recently which reminded me just how magic something so simple can be. She’s a natural, enjoying every minute of it and I know this is just the beginning. I also have plans to get up onto the tops with my Dad to show him some of my favourite places from these missions, and there are countless more adventures I look forward to sharing with my parents. My wife, Emma has been an unwavering supporter of all my crazy plans. I don’t think she had a clue that this “Adventure Tim” existed when we first started dating back in the party years. So thank you, Em. For your endless patience, love and understanding as I take on these silly projects. You are my rock.
Now there’s a new generation runner coming through, hungry to push the boundaries further and test themselves in the hills. The double S-K has been whispered about and I may know of plans afoot to give it a crack, but it’s not for me. I’m excited to see this next evolution of mountain running, but at 40 my knees are starting to suggest that it’s time to pass the baton on to these young adventurers and see just how far they can take it. There’s one thing I know, I’m leaving it in good hands. And If I’m running on the Allen Higgins formula, then I’ve done enough S-K’s to see me through to 60. Plenty of time to plan my next one.
That’s not to say I don’t have any more big runs in me...
Whāia te iti kahurangi, ki te tuohu koe, me he maunga teitei
“Seek the treasure that you value most dearly, if you bow your head, let it be to a lofty mountain.”
Tim Sutton, April 2019
Comments
Post a Comment