Adv 223 Yumpu

Jessica Thorn contemplates the Fiordland scenery at the portage point just before the Little Homer rapids.
Clockwise from top left: Our sextet at Martin's Bay Hut, rafts and rafting accessories hoisted on our backs, ready for the first hiking section;
A series of dry river beds led us inland to the south-flowing Pyke River; Blue skies over the Tasman Sea offer a stark contrast to an overcast
estuary at Martin's Bay, where the Hollyford River meets the West Coast.
So it was with Fiordland’s waterways
during our six-day pack-rafting trip down
the Hollyford River to the Tasman Sea, up
the West Coast, and back inland to the
Pyke River. Frequently, the raft seemed
to do exactly what you wanted, chicaning
around corners with minimal effort. Other
times, the forces of nature had other ideas
- with consequences of completely random
severity.
Sometimes you got cold and wet.
Sometimes you ripped a hole in your raft.
Sometimes a tenuous situation arose where
you might have lost a paddle. Or an eyeball.
Indestructible, Unbreakable, Leaky and
Sinky
The Hollyford-Pyke is hyped as the Holy
Grail of New Zealand pack-rafting, an
adventure along rivers, lakes and estuaries,
and through lush beech forests on the edge
of the glacially-carved Darran Mountains.
The upper Hollyford is known for its
difficulties, but the lower section from the
road end is a much tamer affair. The only
real hazards, beyond the occasional class II
rapid, are the logjams.
But you’re only as good as your gear. We
had rented and borrowed four rafts - two
singles, two doubles. The singles were
shiny and new, and quickly became known
as Indestructible and Unbreakable. The
doubles, within minutes of putting them into
the water, became known as Leaky and
Sinky.
I had insisted on joining this group of
Wellington-based misfits despite barely
knowing any of them, though that soon
changed in the week ahead. There was
Jess, whose humble nature made her a
reluctant leader but who was clearly the
most prepared. She had the topo maps, the
daily itinerary including contingency plans,
extra clothing and accessories - which,
predictably, every one of us would use at
some point - and endless treats including a
chocolate biscuit-birthday cake concoction.
There was Wim, whose choice to wear
cotton on day one - leaving him shivering
endlessly - belied his adventurous spirit;
Claudine, who revelled in a pathological
need to raft through the most turbulent
part of each rapid; Eva, who led the group
in dance aerobics whenever anyone was
feeling cold; and Sam, who felt compelled
to light a fire each evening and keep
it raging, no matter how sauna-like it
became.
It was a typically moody Fiordland
afternoon when we pulled up to the start
of the Hollyford Track, the entry point to
the river. We happened to run into friends
finishing their own Hollyford-Pyke trip. They
reported exemplary weather, though strong
headwinds on Lake McKerrow had forced
them to portage.
It was thrilling to finally push the rafts
into the river. We accepted her delightful
cadence, coasting for a couple of hours
under cloud-cloaked mountains before
reaching the Hidden Falls stream
confluence. Here, we parked our rafts and
dragged our supplies across a grassy flat to
the fabulously warm and dry Hidden Falls
Hut.
Curry was the perfect dinner, warming
our inner-most frigidities, though it was
somewhat hilarious at this point to discover
that curry was on the dinner menu for all
but one of days ahead. Some in the group
were also more enthusiastic than others
to learn that the predominant dessert was
dark chocolate.
A very fortunate chance stop
By morning, we had already fine-tuned
our systems to load the rafts and be in the
water with minimal sandfly bites. It wasn't
long before we came to the river boulders
that signalled the Little Homer class III+
rapids, where we portaged the rafts along a
muddy road.
This day was my first with Leaky. Its
questionable composition, along with
Claudine's pathological affliction, required
one of us to constantly bail water while the
other carefully leaned over the back of the
raft, mouth to valve, to re-inflate it.
The sky was grey and the air was heavy
with the kind of stillness that always seems
to precede a downpour. After a relatively
cruisy 10 km of river, we reached the edge
of Lake McKerrow and had to make a
call. Press on and we might get drenched.
Seek refuge at McKerrow Island Hut and
tomorrow will be more demanding.
The key factor was the lack of wind,
which had forced our friends to walk the
lakeshore rather than paddle across. As we
pressed on, the chief appeal of this mode
of transport became clear. Most of a tramp
is spent under a forest canopy, but cruising
the water allows you to behold all the faces
of the environment: the snow-capped
mountains, the verdant and vertiginous
valleys, the rushing rapids and stillness
of the lakes, the subtle shades of volatile
skies.
Thankfully, afternoon headwinds never
eventuated, but it was a lengthy 25 km
across the lake and many hopeful glances
in search of a hut before we reached a
pebble beach. Leaky needed a break. We
all did.
It was serendipitous timing. Not far from
where we pulled up, one of our crew
spotted a single, redemptive orange marker
which led to a trail up to Hokuri Hut.
This set in motion a pattern we repeated
every evening: secure the rafts, drag our
soaked, soggy selves to the hut, execute
gear explosion, strip naked and put on dry
clothes, hang items to dry, sit by the fire, eat
curry followed by dark chocolate, collapse
into sleeping bag.
The open sea – liberating, untameable,
immense
Day three was my turn in Sinky. Leaky, at
least, had enough room for two people to sit
comfortably. Sinky seemed like it was built
for one and a half people, or two people
who didn’t have any legs.
It was another misty morning as we paddled
the rest of the lake towards the coast.
Jess took advantage of the conditions to
surreptitiously tie Unbreakable to the back
of Sinky for a cunning wee tow. She claims
to have done this openly, but this remains
disputed.
We paddled by the remnants of Jamestown,
a lakeside settlement from the 1870s that’s
now little more than apple trees and rose
bushes. It had aspired to be a colonial
farming settlement, connecting Otago gold
to a shipping port on the coast, and then
on to Australia. But the estuary leading to
the coast is shallow and sandy, and the
land for Jamestown is the same unforgiving
terrain that Fiordland is renowned for. It
would have been easier to farm in cement,
and the first settlers’ boat ran aground in
the estuary. Jamestown was a ghost town
within a decade.
The dreariness of the failure of Jamestown
lifted as we approached Martin's Bay.
The open sea – liberating, untameable,
immense. We hurriedly de-rafted and ran
along the beach, launching ourselves
joyously from small precipices as if we'd
never experienced the vastness of the
West Coast before.
18//WHERE ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS/#223 ADVENTUREMAGAZINE.CO.NZ 19