Jolliebrook

After spending so much time in a city, albeit in our own house, we were getting tired of the cars, the noise, the people, and the illusion of rush and worry. We decided that a weekend away in the mountains was just what we needed. And after a well-timed conversation with a friend at uni, we even had someone to share a ride with and maybe shoot something to bring home.

We decided to head up to Lake Sumner and Jolliebrook Hut. Tom, our hunting friend, wanted to go the unconventional route and Stephen, always yearning for a challenge, was keen for this suggested mountain route. I was happy to go along for the ride.

Early Saturday morning, despite the weather warnings for Sunday afternoon, we packed up the car, picked up Tom (and his mountain of things) and headed West towards the mountains and Lake Sumner.

After a lovely, though twisty, drive we arrived at the muddy pull out beside the farm track we were on and parked the car. We were immediately smothered in the rich musical calls of a male Bellbird courting a female. He would puff himself up like a bellows and then expunge the melodic enticement to arouse her attentions. Hopping from branch to branch, this little fellow followed the coy wanderings of the female without pause, like a wee green cotton ball tied to her leg.

I was soon reminded to focus on putting my stuff together so we could hit the trail. So, leaving these two to their indeterminate fate, I pulled on my boots and added some of Toms' food to my bag. Then it was off across the wee stream and around the hill, following the sheep.

Once around the hill, we came to the swing bridge that would take us across the river and to the base of our mountain.

Once we were across, we left the trail and headed up onto the snake-like ridge that came down the mountain to meet the river where we had crossed. After a short bush-bash we emerged onto a bald patch of the ridge and decided on a route for our ascent up the hill.

Of course, once in the dense tangle of beech forest it was difficult to determine which way we should head. Led more by the open spaces between the trees than an overall direction, we attempted to keep a course up slope. But this was periodically challenged by a thicket of tangled branches and clinging vines (appropriately named bush lawyer).

After a rough struggle through this maze of scratchy branches and clingy climbers, we emerged at the base of a steep, but open slope. We decided to follow it up along the edge of the forest, hoping for some easing in making our way up. Unfortunately, this open slope was covered in our friend the Wild Spaniard/Taramea, also known in our family as 'spikey death grass'. I was glad to be wearing long pants to provide some protection to my legs, but could definitely feel they didn't do much.

Despite having to avoid these sharp, pointy plants, the way was easier - I think. With my head down, I put one foot in front of the other, singing whatever song floated through my head to keep my mind focused on moving and not on how much my calves and thighs burned from the climb.

We stopped for a quick lunch (and nap) part way up the hill. Stephen was happily leading the march, while Tom and I straggled at the back (him with a sore head from a celebratory night before and me from simply being slow). The two of us were happy to simply follow where Stephen led, which when it came to the snowy bits made for easier climbing.

Eventually, we made it to the top of the ridge. Exhausted from the intense climb, we looked around and enjoyed the glorious view towards Lake Sumner and the Sisters range to our East and South. Unfortunately, this was not the summit of the mountain and we still had a ways to go to get there, along the ridge and down the other side where our hut was waiting for us. But with the sun still shining over us, we were not worried about getting there.

Rather than climb up and over the rest of the mountain, we decided to side slope around. Figuring that this would be an easier and hopefully faster way of getting round to where we wanted to go. So, clinging to the rocky, scree slopes we carefully made our way around the side of the mountain. Although the spikey death grass was much rarer here, there were other things to try and avoid - like slipping down the scree and off the side of the mountain itself.

Fortunately, we were all sure-footed enough and successfully reached the far side of the ridge. It was getting noticeably late in the afternoon by this point and we were still not all that close. Although we were on the right side of the summit now, we still had a ways to go along the top before getting to the right ridge that would drop us down gently enough and on the right side of the mountain. Our pace increased and we marched along the summit ridge with renewed purpose and energy. Although my legs were like jelly from the climb and the careful side sloping, I forced them on wards - thinking about the cosy hut we would be sleeping in tonight.

By the time we got to the ridge the moon was up and the sky was quickly turning to dusk. As we dropped down towards the river (and our hut), the grassy open slope turned to beech brush and soon we were submerged in the thick branches of the scraggy trees again. This time in the dark.

It is an interesting endeavor trying to find ones way in thick brush in the dark with a head lamp on. I couldn't tell you which is easier, with it on or off. With the light you can see only the immediate branches around your face, which I suppose allows you to avoid getting hit in the face. But you tend to feel trapped and almost claustrophobic as everything beyond is utter blackness. We worked our way down the hill in a random sort of way, meeting up every once in a while using Marco Polo to find each other. Finally, the sound of rushing water arrived in our ears, the brush opened up and we found the whisperings of a trail that would take us to our hut.

After 5 or so river crossings and what seemed miles (in fact was about 700 metres) we made it to a clearing and our wee hut. Tom cooked a magnificent meal of five-spice pork with udon noodles and chinese cabbage and we fell, utterly spent, into bed.

The next morning we awoke to an uncanny silence. The kind of silence I had not heard for so long. The silence of freshly fallen snow.

The world outside had been transformed overnight from a dark, sharp unknown to a bright, soft whiteness. The snow was heavy and wet and blanketed the forest around us with it's thickness. It was glorious. We decided that perhaps we should make a good start to see if we were going to be able to get home.

The hike back to the car was fairly uneventful. We followed the trail this time, shaving a good 4 hours off our trip time. Enjoying the beauty of the snow while it lasted, then resigning ourselves to soaking wet feet from the puddles and mud it created.

We eventually emerged from the narrow valley and into the farmed land beyond. We wandered amongst the cows and grasses and rejoiced in the easiness of the trail over our previous days trek. We were in high spirits as we rounded the mountain in the sun and were startled when seemingly out of nowhere, we were pounded by hail and snow and slush all at once. The last hour of the hike we trudged on with our heads down, set only on arriving at the car.

Finally, cold, wet and exhilarated, we crossed the swing bridge and walked the last 500 metres to the car, no sign of our romantic pair here today. We changed into dry warm clothes and drove carefully back along the farm track to the highway and onto Christchurch, where the sun was shining - though there were the threatening clouds of a Southerly on the horizon. Tomorrow would be interesting, but we were home. Exhausted from our weekend way, I curled up in front of the pellet fire like a cat and slept, dreaming of the snow I might wake up to in the morning.

Mount Herbert

On Easter monday Stephen announced he was going to climb Mt Herbert and I was more than welcome to join him. The forecast was for mostly cloudy and chance of showers in the evening. This was good enough for me so join him I did.

We quickly packed our leftover pizza in a box, stashed some apples and peaches in a yogurt container and stuffed the rest of the chocolate in our pockets. Some water and our rain jackets in Stephens' pack - oh, don't forget the camera - and we were off to Lyttleton.

As we emerged from the Lyttleton tunnel the clouds hung low over the hills, obscuring our destination for the day. With plenty of optimism we locked the doors and wandered down to the ferry dock. The ferry between Lyttleton and Diamond Harbour (where we were going) is a part of the municipal bus service so we could use our bus cards to catch the 10 minute ride across the bay. Despite its' shortness in length, the feeling of getting out on the water really worked wonders in making me feel like we were really getting away from the city. The magic of boats - I've always loved them.

By the time we got off the boat in Diamond Harbour the clouds were lifting and we could see the table top summit we were heading for. So off down the trail we went.

The trail wanders up a steep little valley from a rocky beach with houses on either side. Heavily forested - or rather, gorsed - it feels quite cozy and secretive. We even found a giant nest tucked into the crook of a tree. I quickly jumped in to play, but the trail was calling (or was that Stephen?), so the stop was not for long. Not much further on we cross a road and clambered over a fence into a sheep paddock, the trees dropped away and the trail climbed upwards ahead of us.

The trail itself is mostly on private land and all in paddocks. Sheep, horses, and cows wander along the track and stare quite disconcertingly at you as you pass by. But the scenery was lovely and the animals kept to themselves so onwards we marched. Up and up and up.

Towards the top the wind was starting to really pick up. In fact, if you stood facing into it and jumped you would go backwards. I was glad I had thrown my touque and scarf into the pack (though I missed my mitts) as we climbed the final section to reach the top. We quickly ducked down into a semi-protected nook on the other side of the summit to munch our cold pizza and hot cross buns. We watched as wisps of clouds were whipped past our heads and down into the valley below. Food gone, we packed up, spoke briefly with a couple of guys who had just arrived and headed back down.

At this point I was really missing my gloves. The middle two digits on my finger had gone sheet white from the second knuckle up, while the rest of my hand was bright red. After trying to warm them up against my skin, with my breath and up my sleeves, I decided the only way to warm them up was to get all of me warm. So we started running. It was either going to be my fingers or my knees. Fortunately, I warmed up pretty quickly (once I started running back uphill) and my fingers regained their normal hue.

The rest of the walk back was pretty uneventful - we saw more sheep. We stopped at the old hotel in town for some nice warm tea in their lovely garden. Then caught the ferry back to Lyttleton and home.

Godley Head Hike

On Thursday, two days before I head down to Antarctica, I decide the weather is too fine and I will be gone for a while so taking an afternoon off work and packing to go hiking is a great idea.

I had been to the New Zealand Antarctic Clothing distribution centre that morning and had loaded up on down jackets, snow pants, mittens and gloves galore, and boots the size of my head (all of which I'm sure you will see pictures of later). Although there were images of vast expanses of ice and snow floating around in my head, the sun was shining down and the temperature was just wonderful. So on the way back to school as I drove down Memorial Ave. and sighted the Port Hills through the trees, I knew there was only one thing worth doing that afternoon.

I got home from school at around lunch, wolfed down some leftover tourtiere and Stephen and I packed some water and a couple of apples into the bag and headed out the door. The car was warm from soaking up the suns rays all morning, so we were down to our shorts and t-shirts already (especially sitting on our sheep skin seat covers). The drive is about 20 minutes from our house, and the last 10 minutes are the best as it winds along the spine of the ancient volcanic rim covered now with grasses and the odd thistle. We parked at a little pull off before the actual parking lot, where a trail met up with the road briefly before dropping down to the far side of the crater. With our water and my camera over our shoulders, we set forth under the sun.


Walking along the winding trail was wonderful. We watched ships come and go into Lyttleton Harbor, fishing boats being harangued by gulls, little pockets of flowers tucked into the wind protected nooks and crannies between rocks, and absolutely no one else. Half an hour later (I stopped a lot) we came up over a crest and were looking down into the parking lot at Godley Head. Godley Head is an old gun emplacement put there during the second world war to protect Lyttleton Harbor from the enemy. There are old cement bunkers littered all over the place, and down below (where we were heading) there was a small system of caves that went through the cliffs.


We wandered through the three buildings along the trail and then wove our way down towards the sea. Back and forth we followed the switch back track almost to the rocks being blasted by waves at the bottom. Before we could feel the spray however we found the trail disappearing into the hillside. Looking into the darkness, you could see a tiny prick of light at what I presumed was the far end, and little shadows of light trickling in along the entire length. The wind coming from the tunnel was cool on our hot faces and chilled the thin veneer of sweat on my face. I put on my cardigan adn stepped into the cool dark passage. The walls were rough and crumbled when you touched them. Every so often there was a side passage that took you a few meters and opened out to the sea a surprising distance below. At one of the openings we found a small birds nest tucked up into a rocky hole in the wall. Further down a sock lay wet and lonely on the floor.

We emerged minutes later back into the bright sun and onto a hill side covered with daisies, foxgloves and many more flowers. We ate our apples at the end of the trail, a small concrete pillbox nestled safely into the rocky wall of the cliff, and then headed back up the trail.


The return hike was wonderful with a faint wind at our backs helping to push us along the trail. We walked over the top of the rim this time and looked back towards Sumner and Christchurch and further out the Southern Alps as they climbed the back of the South Island. We sprawled out in the grass back at the car and watched the wisps of clouds moving overhead. A wonderful afternoon. But now I was exhausted and had LOTS of work and packing to do (in fact I still do).

One more sleep til I take off for the most southerly continent. I'm both excited and nervous. Lots of work to do there and a completely new experience. I'm sure it will pass by far too quickly and before I know it I'll have only the pictures and stories left. But really, that's all we ever have left from any experience and that's what makes us . . . us.

Sunday

Lyttleton Harbour, the last stop for boat heading to Antarctica (including both Shackleton and Scott and Amundsen on all their respective journeys)

Our hike over the hills, Lyttleton Harbour is in the background.

His Lordships' Lane, a place to relax and let the drink take you.

Today was the Lyttleton Summer Street Party. Roads were closed, buskers were brought in, and food was grilled. And amongst this all the sun decided to shine down too (of course the wind came as well).

Stephen and I headed over to Lyttleton in the late morning to catch the start of the day. With a hot sun and warm breeze, the weather could not have been better. As Lyttleton is built on the inside of an ancient volcano crater, the roads are steep and the views from every house fantastic. The party was stretched throughout the small town with different events at different places, meaning there was walking up and down and across to get between venues, which meant you got sweaty. But there were lots of vendors willing to help cool you off with various juices, smoothies, beers and wines. The wonderful thing about Christchurch, is that public drinking is perfetly acceptable except right in downtown Christchurch; want a picnic with wine on the beach? That's just fine! We listened to some music, watched some 6-10 year olds perform maori songs (I swear we were the only people there who did not know or have a child in that group) and eat some lunch. We had decided we would walk back to Christchurch and enjoy the weather and finally get to see the country side.

The Banks Peninsula is formed on the remnants of an old volcano (see above), so the hills are steep and many. It is also located dead in the middle of the Canterbury coastline, the most farmed portion of New Zealand, so the plant species are mostly invasive. In fact I could name just about every plant we saw. As we gained elevation, the views opened up beneath us and you could see the ocean on the far side of the peninsula and off to the Antarctic Ocean beyond.

After making it back to the other side of the hill, we caught a bus downtown, found a pub and enjoyed a nice cold beer in a funky little alleyway (complete with it's own flock of wall climbing bikes). Our evening has been spent making bread for the week to come and relaxing. Another week of work to come.