Day 24 – Roses Hut to Highlands Hut

Te Araroa has occasionally been said to have not enough ridge walks.  Certainly as a tramper coming from the States I notice this lack.  On the Appalachian Trail I quite enjoyed the challenge of climbing a ridge, and the reward of views up top for the next few hours.  New Zealand’s existing trail networks don’t match this style very well, though.  Most of the through trails seem to traverse a river valley, crossing to the next valley at the most economic place possible – a pass or saddle.  The trails that go to the top of a mountain are generally return trails, with the assumption the user will come back down the same way they went up.  The Motatapu is an exception to this rule, since the proscription of tramping in the valley forces the trail onto the mountainsides.  It doesn’t quite traverse the ridge – Knuckle Peak sits rockily in the way, making that route a bit too hard – but it climbs to a great height then sidles along from spur to spur, with great views most of the day.

I definitely enjoyed this style of hiking, though during a difficult climb I found myself resorting to a crutch, recently fetched from my bounce box: my iPod.  I originally waffled on whether to bring this, since I really enjoy listening to the silences and the noises of the land I walk through.  Having music easily at hand can also make it too easy to lock out your surroundings.  But this once, at least, I was rocking out.  I must have doubled my speed once I got some tunes in my ears, and I felt fantastic once I reached the top.  The iPod stays, for now.

I had set out a bit on the late side again, to give the tramping club a bit of a head start.  On the way down from the first big climb of the day, I passed fifteen or so trampers all headed the opposite way, to Roses Hut.  They had stayed at Highlands the night before, and it was such a large crowd that a few had to sleep outside.  The Motatapu promises to be a popular track.

As I approached Highlands Hut, the Grizzly voice in me said “You don’t have to stop here and share the hut again.  It’s only another four hours or so to Fern Burn Hut, and you’ll probably have it all to yourself!” But another voice said, “Here’s a bunch of Kiwis, and keen trampers the lot of them.  Stick around and you might learn something in spite of yourself.”  So I kicked off my shoes at Highlands, a good stopping point anyhow.  Being sociable proved to be the right course, naturally.  One of the older men there, a farmer, taught me the names of some plants I had been seeing: lupin (which I was mentally calling “fuzzy bean plant”), snowgrass, Spaniard or swordgrass, and gentian.  He told me about strainer posts and fence building in the mountains.  From one of the younger guys, who works for the Federated Mountain Clubs, I learned of the plans to name or rename a mountain after “Sir Ed,” and the local rules about mountain naming.  Evidently mountains in New Zealand being named today must use a first name, not a family name.  In addition, a mountain cannot be named after anyone less than two years dead, so the debate has a little while yet to simmer.

Another of the club members, a quiet guy to whom I hadn’t said much, wandered over and offered me a bowl of pudding!  It was quite a nice evening altogether, and I was glad I stuck around.