Day 68 – Slaty Hut to Roebuck Hut
Shortcut time! I read on nzunderfoot.com about a nice ridge-bashing shortcut through this section. When I re-read their notes, however, I realized they walked along the next ridge south of the one I thought they did, and I would have to backtrack to take their route. No matter, according to my topo map this one looked good too. I first rounded the east side of Slaty on a poled route, then cut down the ridge to Lowther’s Saddle and up to Hackett Peaks.
The stunted beech made things hard at first, since the branches were at head level and constantly in my way. But seeking the easiest path, I was surprised to find a piece of dirty cloth tied around a branch. A few minutes later, I found another, also on what I had decided was the easiest path of travel. I had found an unofficial or defacto route. I should have guessed others had come this way often, since ridgelines are as useful for backcountry travel as rivers are. It was nice to have the occasional strips of cloth reassuring me that I was still taking the easiest path through the brush, and that I hadn’t wandered off the ridge – difficult but not impossible to do by mistake, especially where the ridge is broad. Closer to Lowther’s Saddle I was even able to distinguish a hint of a track beaten into the ground – a straight line where moss stopped growing, or a spot where the small rocks lay a little flatter than might be expected.
Lunch atop Hackett Peaks was fabulous. There is a trio of pint-size peaks sitting atop a larger peak, in the center of a wide alpine meadow with views in all directions. I could see Tasman Bay to the north, Rintoul and Old Man to the southeast, more of the Richmond Range to the east, and far in the south, some of the higher mountains of Nelson Lakes National Park, still covered in last week’s snow.
Past Hackett Peaks I never spotted any more cloth markers, but in a clearing I did find someone’s old campfire. I also found a lot of pig sign, giving a hint to what brought those campers here. When Captain James Cook landed at Ship Cove in 1769, he released a number of pigs to breed wild as a food source for when he returned. In a story that’s now too familiar, the pigs went hog wild and bred out of all control in this new ecosystem. They dig in the ground for food, damaging tree roots. It was such mud pits dug by pigs that I saw as I bushwhacked. These sign are looked for by the many pig hunters in the area, and the hut books are full of entries like “no sign today,” or “lots of sign up on such-and-such ridge.” This range seems to have an especial pig problem, perhaps due to its proximity to Ship Cove. Since dogs are used in pig hunting, this also explains why there are kennels at the huts here, something I haven’t seen anywhere else.
Past Mt Stewart, the last peak of the day, the going got rougher, with dense ferns and many fallen trees. I dropped off the ridge to the main track, which by now had left the river valley and wasn’t too far away.
During all this bushwhacking I incurred some new damage to my gear. Each of my boots previously had two holes. My right boot now has a third, larger hole in the mesh of the toebox. Also, I stepped on the fastener of my pack’s waistbelt, breaking off a prong. Luckily it is cleverly designed so that it continues to be useful with the one remaining prong. Lastly, my shirt, which was wearing thin in back, now has a hole the size of a silver dollar, probably caused by the many abrasive beech leaves caught between me and my pack as I squeezed under dry branches. I feel a little like Johnny Depp in the intro to Pirates of the Caribbean, my gear gradually distintegrating as I get closer to my destination. With luck I’ll reach Ship Cove with a couple of rubber strips tied to my feet with dental floss, and a candy bar wrapped in a bandana.
Roebuck Hut is to be the last DoC hut on my trip – after Pelorus Bridge there is only camping and hostels. so I wrote a bit of a goodbye and thanks in the hut book. It felt good, and the whole gang was in there, most of the Te Araroa trampers I’ve been seeing in hut books.
On long trails in the US, there is a very strong sense of community amongst thru hikers, much of it mediated through shelter registers. Those registers are free-form, rambling affairs that people use as creative outlets, for communication to friends behind them, and general commiseration. The DoC books, by contrast, are spreadsheet-like affairs, with a “comment” field the size of my pinky. Sometimes people will claim multiple lines for a longer note, but most entries are terse: “Cute wee hut,” or “Shot 3 pigs,” or “Cold.”
Still, I’ve found that I read these frigid registries obsessively, searching for a scrap of that communal feeling I had on the Appalachian Trail. And even though I haven’t met another thru-hiker out here, seeing the recurrence of certain names from years past is a comfort. There’s Julien from France, Luke Bill from Cincinatti, OH, Skittles from Alaska, Pepper & Trauma from PA & NY, the nzunderfoot couple, Martin & Einar from Norway. I barely know anything about these people (though I see from this book that Martin & Einar took their “ARMED TRAMPING” tagline from a Nelson local who wrote it for his weekend hunting trip a few weeks before they came through), but it’s nice to recognize the names. It gives me a sense that I’m not quite as alone out here as it sometimes feels. Speaking of which, this is my sixth day in the Richmond Range, and I haven’t seen another living soul the entire time.