Day 45 – Comyns Hut to Rakaia River
Today was to be a big day. Not in mileage – I expected to be done with walking by two or three in the afternoon. But today I would cross the Rakaia one way or another. I had never heard back from the jet boat operation at Terrace Downs, so my options were to ford the river or hitchhike.
As I walked the easy track, a four-wheel-drive-track upriver through cattle grazing country, I repeatedly pondered the language in my trail notes: “The Rakaia is only crossable on foot when it is very low.” It was the “very” that got me – how low is very low? Two hundred cubic meters per second (cumecs)? One hundred eighty? One fifty? Before leaving Tekapo I had checked Environment Canterbury’s river information. Then, it showed a spike in the flows of both Rangitata and Rakaia half a week before, almost returned to normal. It had been nearly an additional week without rain, how much lower would the river be?
I was suitably nervous about this crossing – my overview map of the South Island had a notation here saying “dangerous river,” put there by myself when I consulted with Geoff Chapple at the beginning of my trip. It’s the only river to receive that particular honor. Still, my more reckless self (atop my left shoulder) insisted that I was now an Experienced River Crosser and would have no trouble. My cautious self (shoulder right) managed to extract this promise: I would attempt for at least an hour to hitch down to the road bridge before I braved the river.
I lunched at Turton Saddle, where I got my first view of the river. Squint and stare though I might, I was completely unable to get any idea of how deep it was. As I descended I kept looking up and trying to make it out, but of course I wouldn’t get a meaningful idea unless I was right up against a given stream.
The country road at the base of the stream was indeed desolate – not many would be passing this way. But I dutifully sat down with a good book and whiled away my allotted hour, and more (it was a really good book).
The first vehicle to pass was a flatbed truck with three men crammed in the cab. The bed was only half full. When they stopped I explained where I was going, figuring maybe I could squeeze on the back. “We’re only going halfway,” said the driver, so I thanked them for stopping and sent them along. As they pulled away, I saw their cargo and was glad I had not taken a ride. They were carrying twenty four bee boxes, stacked three high and four wide, each trailing a small cloud of befuddled bees that had stepped out for a moment and were now trying desparately to keep pace with the truck.
After a time I was picked up by an Environment Canterbury worker and his very attractive intern. They had just been checking on flood defenses upstream, and were happy to give me a lift. They were agreeable company, and it was a few minutes of pleasantries before I had a forehead-smacking realization.
“Say… you’d know a bit about river conditions. Would you say this river is ‘very low?’”
“Well, it’s about as low as you’ll ever see it. You could probably walk across it right now.”
I nearly leapt out of the car for joy, but had the good sense to ask the driver to stop first. I scrambled down an embankment and was soon stalking the shingle islands looking for the best places to cross. I was just south of the confluence with the Wilberforce, and in this area there were just three major streams to cross. Each one was fairly difficult, with the last one coming up to my hips. But I chose my crossing points carefully, and soon I was across. I could hardly contain my excitement. This crossing was the major point of uncertainty for the current leg of my trip, and I had not only gotten across, I had done it on foot, a double victory. Triple victory, as matter of fact, since I had saved myself a day’s worth of walking between Lake Coleridge and Ryton Station.
I climbed an embankment and rested in a lovely pine grove, a near-perfect camp site. I almost did camp there, but I had a few more kilometers to go around the north of the Cotton Sheep Range, and wanted to knock out a few of those before dark, to make tomorrow’s hike shorter.