Day 37 – Maitland Hut to Ahuriri River

It was misty and cool when I left this morning – lovely weather for hiking. The well-marked track went only a few hundred meters farther before the beech gave way to open tussock.

I was a little disappointed but not surprised to find that the route from here over the saddle was not marked. Routes such as this one, that follow a river, are often left unmarked. After all, what better marker than the river itself?

Without a poled route, though, there is no opportunity for the concerted action of many feet to forge a path through the vegetation. So I started bashing through knee-high tussock, eyes keen for the appearance of a track.  One would appear, and I would follow it for a minute or two, then it would vanish again.

Then the spaniards closed in.  No relation to the ceviche-loving citizens of the Iberian peninsula, Aciphylla colensoi is also known as speargrass or swordgrass, for the very sharp tips of its flat blades.  It grows its outward-pointing clusters like a sea urchin, and this valley had the thickest cover of it I have seen in all of New Zealand, almost matching the tussocks one-for-one in some places.  My battle with the swordgrass was exacerbated by the fact that I had removed the legs of my trousers to keep them from getting soaked by the dewy tussocks.  I considered putting them back on, but it wouldn’t have helped much. Speargrass is plenty sharp enough to draw blood even through clothing if you bump it hard.

So going, I picked my way to the top of the saddle as fast as I could.  In order to make my schedule I had to reach the Ahuriri River by tonight.  Luckily the speargrass lightened up a bit once I reached the top.  Now I was descending the Snowy River Gorge, with beautiful views on both sides.

I started to worry a little bit about the river crossing.  When I talked to a DoC staffer, he mentioned that where the Snowy River Gorge meets the Ahuriri, there is a bridge.  I think he said that anyhow.  And my map showed the tramping route, unmarked as it is, going straight up to the river’s edge.  I figured even if there was no bridge – and I hadn’t noticed one when I walked Birchwood Road last time – the river must be crossable there.  Still, I worried.  This was the one thing that could really scupper my plans.

On a high bluff over the Snowy River, I turned a corner and the Ahuriri was finally laid out before be.  It was a lovely sight, but along with it came a nasty wind chasing down the valley, from which I had previously been sheltered.  The wind brought with it rain, not heavy but cold.  I donned my insufficient poncho and shouldered my way down into the valley.

By the time I reached the Ahuriri the rain had relented and I’d warmed up a bit.  But to my dismay no bridge was making itself seen as I approached.  I paced along the bank looking for one and found the damning evidence – a large wooden frame and two ground anchors.  A bridge had once stood here, but had long since been removed or washed away.

I turned my attention to the waters.  Last time I was here they were crystal clear.  Now, with the rainclouds hanging abeyant overhead, the center of the channel was just dark enough so the bottom was obscure.  I could tell, though, that it was too deep to walk across.  Other options: I could walk north, through marsh, until the river became small enough to cross.  I could walk south twenty kilometers, through unknown terrain, to the road bridge.  Finally, there was the middle path: I could swim across.

Kiwi tramping practice is to use a pack liner in preference to a pack cover.  During a river crossing, a pack liner creates a pocket of air inside your pack that serves as a floatation device in case you are washed away.  My stuff was wrapped tight in a pack liner, so I knew it would float.

Advice I received at the beginning of the trail was that when crossing a river, if your feet leave the ground it is a serious emergency.  Beside that, the general lethality of New Zealand rivers has been expounded to me at nearly every opportunity by both locals and guidebooks.  They’re evidently one of the biggest dangers to a tramper here.

But the river before me was not rushing along.  Despite its depth, it had a rather stately pace.  There were no rapids downriver as far as the eye could see, and all told it was less than ten meters across.  I’ve done the swim from Alcatraz to San Francisco – I know I’m a competent swimmer, in cold water even.  My eyes and brain told me this was safe, I could do it, no problem.

But something deeper was terrified.  I kept coming up with ways this could go bad – mostly hypothermia, possibly getting swept away faster than expected – but none of them were plausible.  I just did not want to go in that water.  I paced the banks, convincing myself it was the only reasonable option.  I had to keep moving to maintain my body heat, otherwise I’d never get in.

Finally, I resolved I had to do it.  I went through a number of minor rituals to convince myself everything would go smoothly.  I replaced my glasses with a pair of disposable contacts lenses I carry, so I could not lose them.  I doubled up my pack liner by stuffing it with its spare.  I took off all my clothes, and out of false modesty or maybe a sense of “this is what you swim in,” I donned my swim trunks.  I tied my boots securely to the outside of my pack.  All this had to be done quickly, because once I took off my clothes I quite quickly became cold.

I stepped into the water, surprised a little by the softness of the mud and how far it squeezed between my toes.  But after the next step, and the next, my weight wasn’t borne by the mud anymore.  I unshouldered my pack and hauled it by one strap as I scissorkicked my way calmly across the water.  It was slow going, pulling a pack and unable to coordinate my whole body into an efficient stroke.  But once I was in the water I was calm.  This was familiar, and I knew how to proceed.

Soon my feet were sinking in soft mud again, on the opposite bank.  I grabbed a thick handful of tussock and hauled myself and my sopping backpack out and onto Birchwood Road.  I danced around, shouted a bit, and shook my fists in the air.  This was all to regain the body heat I had lost in the crossing, naturally.  Unwrapping my pack liner I found all my clothes still perfectly dry inside, and quickly put them all on and got walking.

My spirits were so high I barely took note of the complete emptiness of Birchwood Road.  Though it’s only a metalled country road, the last time I walked down it, I was passed by vehicles about twice an hour, and was offered several rides.  I declined because at the time, I considered it part of the trail that I should walk.  Now it was part of the trail I had already walked, and my plan was to hitch a ride out to the highway and from there, to Glenorchy to meet Blair and hike the Routeburn.

But back when I was offered all those rides, it was a sunny Sunday afternoon.  Fishermen were heading home after a day stalking trout in the Ahuriri’s clear pools.  Today was an ugly Monday evening, and the river was temporarily hiding her trout under dark water.  In other words, no fish = no rides.

But I didn’t worry too much.  I only had twenty-two kilometers to the highway, and if need be, I could hike that all tomorrow, though then I would have only an evening’s time left to reach Glenorchy.  I swung along happily making as many miles as I could in the last couple of hours before darkness, and waving my thumbs at nothing at all.

Before the night really closed in, I found a nice hay shelter and laid out my sleeping bag in a corner edged by high walls of hay.  I had a roof overhead, was surprisingly warm despite the wind, and everything smelled lovely as I drifted off into dreams of a hay bale house.