THE FANTASTICAL FLYING BED

(Alias Labour Weekend – 1948)

As the official trip was scheduled “Ohakune side” all those keen on skiing hied themselves of to the Chateau side with Horry and his bus – and what a bus! We think such a write up worthy of space in our journal.

We have all heard of flying kites, flying helmets, flying training, etc., and recently, flying saucers but have you heard of the Flying Bed? We have, and further, have had the privilege(?) in it from Wellington to Ruapehu. To most people it would just be an old bus, but to us it will always be the “Flying Bed”.

The trip was uneventful, everything going according to plan! WHO said that? Certainly not the driver, or should I say the Pilot, nor any of the 27 passengers; I had better start at the beginning. Actually we did proceed according to plan from Wellington to Mangaweka, with the exception of being 20 minutes late getting into the wind, the reasons for this delay being that the bus was late in arriving and not the WAAFs. Piled out at Levin for the inevitable cuppa but did not stay long as we were hoping to get to Ruapehu before the T.T.C. had arrived and bagged all the hut accommodation but we didn’t have a hope of getting there before them.

To get back to the scene of our Waterloo, travelling down Mangaweka Hill, which is quite steep, the brakes decided not to function, and not content with that, they threw the steering gear out of plumb by restricting their activities to the back wheels. Here we were despite the fact that the road very definitely went wandering somewhere down to the left, making straight for a most unsatisfactory looking fence, which I imaging we would hurtle straight over on our mad rush to some other world.

Meanwhile, Merv (wonderful man) was standing almost bolt upright trying to get some results from brakes which, along with other things, he was furiously pushing and kicking with all his hands and feet whilst I, being one of the few awake at the time and one of the lesser few who knew what was going on, sat biting all my finger nails and tongue.

Somehow, quite suddenly, we stopped, having flattened the Automobile Association’s beautiful concrete and chain fence but not worrying about it over much. We were all out on the road in less time than it takes to tell, the majority of the crowd going around to the front of the bus to see what had been ahead of us. They discovered that we were about three feet (1 metre) from the edge of a 400 foot (120 metres) drop, “Fair go!” During their reconnaissance we of the “faint heart” sat ourselves down on the few still-standing posts to quiver like jellies and meditate re the possibility of thumbing a ride from the next car going to Wellington. However, it was very cold sitting on the fence, the “next car going to Wellington” seemed as though it may not appear this week and anyway its brakes may be equally fallible. Realising that I could not stay there ad infinitum, I was finally led, with no little trepidation, back to the chamber of horrors which was now back on the road and facing the right direction.

On we went, crawling down the hill and up the other side to Taihape at about 5 mph (8 kph) using the gears instead of the brakes. Somewhere along the way we saw an apparition in the sky; it comprised a red light gliding through the heavens with a column of smoke trailing behind it. There was some conjecture as to what it could be, someone suggested a flying saucer, I now suspect that it was a meteor, but at that stage I was convinced that it was some sort of a vanguard heralding the approach of Armageddon. My nerves were still a bit at sixes and sevens but as we drove slowly through the brilliantly moonlit night they became more or less mollified.

From the sublime to the ridiculous, we left our lovely moon behind us and went into mist, really thick mist of the variety J. Arthur Rank loves to spread around his moors and/ or Dartmoor Prison. Nothing daunted, Merv got us safely through that by dint of pressing his eyes to the windscreen, even then only able to see about a yard (1 metre) of the road ahead. Ever and anon the truck would go phut and out Merv would have to go, armed with torch, spanner, and pocket knife, and other tools to tinker with the engine and off we would go for a few more miles. Came the dawn, and still no mountain, we crept down by the viaduct, that nightmare land of the “Dangerous Corner” and “Narrow Bridge – Give Way” sign, and up the other side. With much stopping and starting we finally arrived in the precincts of the Chateau Tongariro and here, less than a mile from our destination, the engine coughed a mournful wee cough and stopped. Out jumped Merv once more to perch on the side and peer into that mysterious engine while Bob drove slowly along.

>Having observed all the wee revs and short circuits and brandished the pocket knife again, back came the cheerful grin and we were away, up past the Chateau with such a burst of speed that people were at a loss to understand why we had taken so long to arrive. 9 a.m. and here we were at last, really at Mt. Ruapehu. Of our actual stay on the slopes of that 9,175 feet (2,797 m) peak I have not much to say, remembering the old adage, “if you haven’t anything nice to say then don’t say anything.”

Out we piled and started pitching tents or looking for huts, the tents leaked before they were pitched – a cloud having burst just as we arrived – and the huts were all occupied by large quantities of gelignite or people. I don’t quite know where the rest of the day went but it passed as days do, none of us went skiing, it was wet, cold and miserable, the only bright part of it being the evening when we went to a Hut dance, not so much to dance as to sit by a roaring fire by which we were able to dry our clothes and, temporarily, warm the cockles of our heart. The evening passed quickly and pleasantly. We who were sans huts slept that night in the “Flying Bed”. The seats made good mattresses but an accumulation of steam clung to the windows and dripped from the roof at intervals.

Snow fell that night and the next morning we woke up in a Christmas-card-like fairy land and much clicking of cameras and many were the exclamations, some of delight at so much beauty and some of agony as a snowball crashed on an unsuspecting ear. The sun, forgetting for a few hours that it was Labour Weekend and turned on its best smile and the day promised well.

Off we went, complete with ski chits, snow goggles, lotion and much excitement, on the “Special Alpine Transport” to Salt Hut, there to be issued with a pair of skis and one pair of stocks between the three of us. This was not much use, apart from giving us rather a professional appearance, in my opinion at any rate. We did all have a flounder round in the snow though and would have enjoyed our few hours on skis if it had not been for the icy cold sleet which blew in our faces and clouded our goggles over each time we were enjoying the short run.

On the whole it was not very pleasant so, leaving the blizzard at Salt Hut, back to the “Flying Bed” we went with the intentions of cooking a tremendous tea; not having eaten all day we were suffering the pangs of acute malnutrition. The primuses did not burn after the fuel supplies had been exhausted, naturally, so our tea was not as plentiful as we had anticipated. We had cooked some sausages and bacon, which supplemented by “doorsteps” and mugs of Milo, sufficed to appease appetites. Sitting quietly around smoking an after-dinner cigarette and contemplating the day’s misfortunes we were feeling quite despondent until Den arrived back from reading a paper and told us of the weekend’s tragic events in the “outside world” as it were. It was so dreadful that we decided our minor disappointments were not worth worrying about.

On discovering that there was a fire burning again in the dance hall, we gathered up our sleeping bags and hied ourselves off to spread ourselves on the floor, where, along with a number of other homeless trampers and would-be-mountaineers, we slept extremely well. Breakfast the following morning was quite the nicest thing to happen all weekend, firstly, because we did not have to cook it and secondly, because it was ample and delicious, a really fine effort on the part of Colin and Dennis.

After that it was all we could do to pack up and drag ourselves back to our sanctuary, the “Flying Bed.” That vehicle was still not in A1 condition and, we decided, would take some time to get back to Wellington so we left early, or meant to. It was nearly midday before we eventually took off but even then we were ahead of the other vehicles making the return trip to Wellington that day.

Once out of the chilly atmosphere and dreary mist surrounding Ruapehu we proceeded merrily along in the warm friendly sunshine, Merv demonstrating at frequent intervals the super efficiency of the brakes which he had repaired during the weekend. As a result of our marvellous breakfast, which had consisted chiefly of bacon, sausages, and eggs, many of the passengers were feeling thirsty so we stopped under one of the numerous cascades from which they drank great mugs of sparkling icy water and filled a billy for future emergencies. The future emergency befell the “Flying Bed” instead of, or as well as, the passengers and its need being greater than theirs, the billy of cold water was deposited in the radiator from whence had come gurgles and steam, thus the temperature was restored to normal until we came to another hill.

Lunch and other refreshments were partaken of at Taihape, the chief item of interest being large cups of tea which were refilled several times. The boys were very interested in the waitress and even we found her rather fascinating – make-up is a wonderful thing. Also evoking second glances was Colin who had sustained a gash on his forehead as a result of some skis crashing on him from the luggage rack.

South of Taihape we ran out of waterfalls and the boiling radiator was less simply remedied; Merv still jumped blithely out occasionally and, using a mug for a dipper, managed to fill the billy from the small muddy looking ditches on the side of the road. We viewed with interest the scene of Friday night’s dilemma and were thankful that Merv’s attempts to halt our vehicle had succeeded when they did and no later. Otherwise St Peter would not have been kept waiting for us to have “another cigarette.” We would have piled through the Pearly Gates too rapidly for him to issue us with wings, unless he issues wings with more dispatch than some people issue skis. By the time we reached Hunterville most of the other trucks bearing trampers back to Wellington had overtaken us so we knew we had to travel under our own steam from here on.

Previously I had thought it would not matter much if we did break down as one of the other drivers had offered to give us a tow should we get into such a predicament but now he had eaten up the miles ahead, thinking that if the old bus could get part of the way “then it must follow as night follows day” then it could get all the way. We of course hoped that such would be the case but had our doubts, doubts which were justified soon enough.

As far as Bulls things went smoothly enough, comparatively speaking, but from there on we hardly went 5 miles [8 km] without Merv having to make some adjustment, the ignition had gone flat or blown out or whatever ignitions do, the petrol pipes had a stoppage, and the lights fused.

Why, I wondered, are vehicles always referred to in the feminine gender when they all, and this one in particular, have so many undesirable traits pertaining to men. They are unpredictable, uncooperative, contrary, and obviously think that the most minor defect is sufficient to exempt from any activity whatsoever. Enough of this digressing. The lights were repaired at a service station but the other troubles stayed with us in spite of Merv’s very frequent attempts at repair which were, perforce, of a rather makeshift nature even our chewing gum – well chewed – being taken from one us at one stage and slapped on a pipe somewhere. Still, we pressed on, not quite regardless.

To make a long story short, it was after 11 p.m. before we arrived in Wellington but the fact remained that we had, in spite of the many failings of the engine and the awful suspense of wondering whether we would ever get to the top of Ngahauranga Hill, arrived in Wellington. Towards the end of the journey tempers had become slightly frayed, especially those of the personnel who feared they would miss their last bus or train from Wellington to home in distant suburbs. Their fears were realised and at least one passenger had to beg a bed from city-dwelling friends that night, others were relieved of a goodly portion of their worldly possessions by taxi drivers.

Just to top things off, when the last of us de-bussed it was discovered that our packs had disappeared from the luggage bay. This was just lovely, the straw that broke the camels back, but then what was one misfortune more or less to us? A mere bagatelle by now and we were too tired to care anymore. By the next morning we cared very much and were more than a little perturbed to hear that several enquiries which Den had so kindly made were to trace our packs had proved fruitless. Anyway, during the course of the morning another good Samaritan rang to inform us that he had both packs safely stored at home and that he would return them to us that night, which he duly did, and so it was the case of all being well that ends well.

And so for us Labour Weekend this year was really one out of the bag, but it was an experience which none of us would have missed, it will give us something about which to think and chat for many months to come and always we will pay tribute to Merv, the “good driver” whose pleasant disposition throughout this harrowing journey and patient perseverance were at all times worthy of praise and emulation.

The party were:- Ian Bain, Inez Bluck, Allan, Den Collins, Dave Cracknell, Ruth Dixon, Horry Dixon, Nancy, Eric, Brian Heath, Ione McIntyre, Max Martin, Mike Reddington, Muriel Sinclair, Ellen Slattery, Bob Williams, Trevor, Stan Kinder, Dennis O’Neal, Colin Horne, Noeline Lowe, Bill Campbell, Kathleen Tunnell, Allan King, Adele, and one unknown.

Ione McIntyre

NEILL WINCHCOMBE

“And all they saw was nothing at all in the Tararua Ranges”

That sort of typical Tararua weather overtook the party that set out one July weekend to do a Winchcombe-Neill. Led by Bill Niven with all food and alpine gear aboard we battered our way through heavy rain to Field Hut on Friday night in company with Trev Walsh’s Southern Crossing team. We were away to an ‘early’ start about eight next morning through mud, mist and rain, but little wind and in comparative warmth we made Kime Hut for lunch at morning tea time. Patches of snow were encountered on West Peak of a firm variety and there was a little snow field in Kime Basin. But until Hector was reached the snow was really negligible. Both parties stopped on Hector for a cigarette and scroggin and then we waved goodbye to the Southern Crossing team. We went happily over Hector’s snow cap and down grade to the Winchcombe Saddle. There were two pinnacles to be negotiated on this route down and the ice axes were very useful as a third leg in the mud and slush. Visibility was very limited but we had a good view of the ridge from a side spur that we took to have a look at a deer that the cullers had shot. We staggered (technically known as sidling) back onto the main ridge and eventually upwards and ever upwards onto the Winchcombe.

The ridge from Winchcombe to Neill could quite easily be re-named ‘Saw Tooth Saddle’. As we stood in the mud on the top of Winchcombe we saw a bright trail of yellow curving away down and then up towards Neill. Neill seemed so close but those who knew breathed deeply and renewed their strength. The trail of paint leads you up rocks and down rocks, down mud and up mud, through bush, up pinnacles in a never-ending grind. Somewhere on the way to Neill we stopped in the pouring rain, optimistically lit the primus and put on a billy. The primus could not hold its own against the unkind elements so we stopped to eat only finally. We were told what a wonderful view there was from the top. Hector Stream was a ribbon of white below on the left and the myriad feathers of dancing light was the waterfall on the Main Range. Cone lay in the distance with a horrible darkness between it and us. We tried to smoke wet cigarettes, glowered at the rain and cloud, remembered the billy that would not boil, had a sudden heartfelt yearning for Cone Hut and so down the ‘terrible drop’ to the saddle. Bill told us a pleasant story before we began to climb Cone of his last trip – how he had been told it only took an hour and a half to get to the top, and how he had woken up a few minutes later to find himself there. It is a long way up Cone.

We were temporarily overcome by the darkness on top when we turned on our torches and made the hitherto patches of misty grey light that was track and clearing and of darkness that was trees, into a pattern of stark blackness and bright ribbons of light. We had a pleasant interlude playing hide-and-seek in the leatherwood and mountain beech before retracing our steps and dissuading Laurie from returning to Neill. The track off Cone has little to recommend it at night. We found it a very slow process travelling from disc to disc, waiting until the next one was found, going on stopping and repeating the process. The number of trees, wind-falls, roots and stretches of muddied rock appear to multiply and thrive in the darkness. They certainly make no friends with the trampers. At last Cone Saddle was reached, and very tired we tramped the last half hour to Cone Hut – about 9 pm. Warmth, food, dry clothes and into sleeping bags and friendly oblivion. Sunday, we came down the Tauwharenikau Valley and after calling in at Smiths Hut, out over the Puffer to the road, the truck and Home Sweet Home.

Members of the party who did the crossing were: Bill Niven (leader), Tom Lawton, Peter McMillen, Graeme Hall, Rod Milne, Derek Duckett, Des Manning and Butch Marshall.