A group of eight members and non-members set off from the Railway Station under the guidance of trip leader Tony Gazley. It was my first trip with the club, but I knew a couple of people on it. After enjoying a beer on the windswept Interislander deck, in an attempt to avoid sea-sickness, we arrived in Picton and drove to our DOC campsite in the Wairau Valley for the night.
Our plan had been to go up the Leatham Valley, climb the only spur with a visible fence-line and walk along the ridge to our campsite nestled beside a river and in the shadow of Bounds. From there we would climb Bounds the next day and return to camp, with a short walk out on the Monday.
The forecast, however, didn’t look at all that good for the weekend, with rain expected on the Sunday and Monday accompanied by severe gales. To try and minimise the impact of the weather we decided to base ourselves at Hidden Hut so we’d at least have a dry place to cook if the wet weather did eventuate. From there we would skirt around the back of the mountain to Turkey’s Nest Biv and attempt Bounds from there, avoiding the wind for as long as possible.
The walk in to Hidden Hut was lovely. Climbing the steep spur above the river, alongside the fence, a remnant from a time this area was grazed, meant we gained spectacular views of the steep hills and winding river of the Leatham Valley, as well as the odd glimpse of Bounds as it appeared briefly through the mist. It looked very impressive and was something I wanted to stand on top of.
Having gained the ridge we had lunch beside the river where we had originally planned to camp, drank the essential cup of tea and then continued on. We passed over very bouncy terrain and streams partially covered in ice with water running beneath. There were a few goat skulls lying around or attached to markers, but I didn’t see any live ones. We headed down into the forest and rested in a ‘fairy’ grove with the most magnificent mushroom growth surrounding one tree. After multiple stream crossings we arrived at Hidden Hut just before dark. It was situated in a clearing beside the Wye River and someone had been there recently—the fire was still warm. Hidden Hut sleeps five people, was cosy with its fire and well set up with a woodpile and sheltered cooking bench. Hunters had claimed two of the bunks so only three of us slept inside that night, the others camping outside. We had a nice meal and went to sleep early in anticipation of the next day’s climb.
The next morning was cloudy, but it wasn’t raining yet. We set off in the dark, crossing the river back and forth until we gained the path. I wondered why there were white circles drawn on the path when Bob yelled out that there was a live possum caught in a gin trap. It turned out to be a ‘duke’ trap, which is apparently legal, but was a horrific way of getting rid of our country’s pests. For the next hour or so these traps were dotted along the narrow track, or, in some cases, right in the middle of it. This was a DOC track on public land, so it was a bit disturbing to think that anyone with a small foot, say a child or dog, might step in one accidentally and do some real damage. Skinned possum carcasses littered the banks beside the path—one was even stuck in a tree where the lazy trapper had tossed it. Another possum was in a bad way and dispatched by the group ahead. As much as I know possums are a pest, they are still living creatures and there must be more humane ways of killing them than this. If dealing with possum traps wasn’t enough, I lowered myself down a steep bank but accidentally disturbed a wasp nest. They boiled out and one unfortunately stung Bob, who was walking just behind me.
I was glad to arrive at the stream which marked the end of the trapping line and headed up hill again to Turkey’s Nest Biv. The faster group started ahead on their ascent up Bounds. We followed behind and, not thinking we could go all the way up the gully, we fought our way through thick wilding pines, an hilarious experience as our ice axes struggled to free themselves in the trees. Eventually we made it out onto the snowless scree slopes and continued our way up. The wind increased as we ascended and by the time we made it to the ridge, decorated with another rusty long-forgotten fence, the wind had become so strong I almost took off. My bag straps kept whipping me in the face. It was only another 1 km of distance and 150 vertical metres to the summit but we decided it would have been too dangerous. I was disappointed, but as we descended and the wind continued to strengthen and I was glad of the decision. After many bruises from being blown into rocks and my inability to slide down scree properly we made it back to Turkey’s Nest Biv, lunch and a hot cup of tea. We couldn’t see the other group and hoped they were safe in the wind. The rain was still holding off. We dropped back down to the humidity of the forest, set off all the possum traps with rocks or Tony’s walking pole, avoided the wasp nest and set free the still-languishing possum, arrived back at the river and the other group had caught us up. They had made it very close to the summit but had to turn back as they could barely place one foot in front of the other in the gale. We’d arrived on dusk, tucked into another dinner with gusto and sat around the fire trying to figure out Bryce’s riddles, a game at which I was hopeless. The hunters had not arrived back so we took their beds.
The next day we set off up through the forest. Getting down the steep slope of slippery farmland had been a struggle. We had lunch with a bellbird which expressed its displeasure at our arrival, but quickly ignored us and sang its heart out. Bryce had gone ahead to bring the van up to the ford saving us a further 3 km walk out on the road. Just as we arrived back at the van (and another cup of tea) it started to rain. It was unbelievable that we’d had a dry trip especially after what we’d been expecting. It turned out the front was running a day slow and the Cook Strait and Wellington were hit with very heavy rain and a strong southerly the following day. I enjoyed the club tradition of a pub meal at the Toot & Whistle in Picton.
It was a shame that we didn’t make the peak, but I still had a brilliant weekend with a great bunch of people and discovered an area few have been to.
