FRIDAY 25th MARCH - WET MOUNTAIN
Stacy dropped me at the start of the Tongariro Crossing and we said goodbye under the moody blanket of cloud that covered the surrounding mountains. The forecast wasn't very encouraging for the next few days but I couldn't just wait around for good weather as it was probably about time my sun record had a few blemishes. Besides, I was getting restless and as autumn was setting in I could expect lots more rain. I was just going to have to get wet but at least it was for a good cause and not purely in the name of fun.
 
It was a slight pity my mountainside views were obscured but the low lying cloud and the blustery weather seemed fitting amont the weather hardy tussocks and wind stunted trees. The next few days walk was going round the foothills of the mountains through variations of long tussock grasses, alpine bogs and alpine beech forests. All new terrain for me so I was exited as I eased my legs back into walking life. There were also lots of other trampers en route which was another new experience and a comforting one at that as others were as fool hardy as me in heading into the eye of the storm.
 
After a couple of hours tramping through the sweet herb scented grasses I came to Whakapapa village and stopped in at the very modern DOC visitors centre to purchase my hut tickets and check on the weather again. Gales, heavy rain and thunderstorms. Nothing new there. My one new discovery though was a warning from the DOC officer about a possible treacherous river crossing on the way to the Whakapapaiti hut that I was planning to stop in tonight. She didn't seem too concerned and after waiting out a particularly heavy downpour I set out along the next track, the raging torent ahead relegated to the back of my mind as the rain laden branches dumped their baggage onto my soggy clothes.
 
The rain came and went as I headed for the hut through a mixture of beech and openings of alpine bogs dotted with small tarns. The scenery really took me back to my childhood family holidays in the Lake District and the time spent walking through the tarns among the bracken hills. The rain also aided the nostalgia as one thing the Lakes are famous for is the never ending downpours and wet afternoons in cosy living rooms. As the rain soaked through me I looked forward to arriving at the hut and lighting the fire I planned to warm and dry myself by for the rest of the evening. Before long the path shed the tree cover and headed up a bolder strewn valley. The rain had turned the path into a folwing river and I bounced my way between clumps of grass to avoid sinking into the bog. Just before I reached the Whakapapaiti river the heavens opened again with renewed vigour and soacked my remaining dry patches I had save until now. The river was very high and its roaring white waters looked ominous as they tumbled over the rapids. There was no spots where I could rock hop across but as I was completely soacked anyway I opted for just wading through. The water was strong but it only came upto my knees and using my poles for balance I wobbled over the rocky river bed managing to reach the other bank by shuffling my way through the angry waters. I could definately feel the force of the water trying to topple me and if they had I would have had a very soggy and bruised story to tell or maybe no story at all.
 
I reached the hut to find a dreadlocked hiker chopping wood while his daughter giggled words of encouragement. I thanked the lord when I tipped the water from my boots, ringed my socks out and entered the hut to find the woodburner roaring and the hut nice and warm. There was a clothes horse where I hung all my clothes after peeling them off and there was also more than enough beds to go around. Besides the woodchopper, an ex-pat Yorkshireman, and his daugher Ruby, were his son Barnaby and a couple from Wellington sharing the big well equipped hut. I say well equipped but there wasn't any candles so once the kids, who kept us all amused squabbling over their glow sticks, went to sleep there was little option but to put my head down as well. Before hitting the sack I chatted to the woodchopper and telling him about my walk he chirped up that he had painted the Cape Palliser lighthouse. As most Kiwi's haven't even heard of Cape Palliser I was amazed to find an ex-pat Englishman who had actually painted its main feature. I said I would admire the paint job when I got there and wrapped myself myslef up in my sleeping bag to the sound of the rain lashing against the walls outside. Getting wet is OK when you can dry off by a fire afterwards but I still longed for a respite for the following day as I wanter some views of Ruapehu's rocky flanks rather than just a gret wall of rain in all directions.


SATURDAY 26th MARCH - SLEEPING GIANT 
It was grey outside when I crawled out of my hole and the drizzle had started y by the time I had finished chomping my breakfast bar. The next hut was only 5 hours walk away so I was in no huge rush to leave as I waited with the others to see if the heavens dried up to give us an opening. After about an hour our opening came and seizing the opportunity we all scarpered up the valley to make the most of the dry while it lasted. And it did last. For most of my days walking actually apart form some minor drizzle patches. The round the mountain track I was following traced its way over Ruapehu's spurs which divided the many jagged volcanic valleys that looked as if they had been torn into the mountainside. It was dramatic walking with the cloud massing and clearing, revealing the huge crumpled cliffs that rose towards the crator, waterfalls flowing out of the mist and sliding off the faces like they had been superimposed for a movie backdrop. All the time I passed under the shadow of its towering heights, Ruapehu stared down unseen like a huge sleeping ogre shrouded in the mists of its hibernating years. I got a very brief glance up at the snow covered sides when the clouds parted but for the rest of the day she lay silent behind her white shroud.
 
Rocky and rough, the path eventually followed a ridge down into a forest and just before I got there I executed an inch perfect frontal backside mudslide manouver that left me dirt handed but otherwise unharmed. Dropping down through the forest the mostly boardwalked track dished me out next to Lake Suprise, which is basically a huge tarn bordered by bog reeds and beech. On a better day I would have been in in a shot but grey today only saw me wasy my muddy mitts and the bottom of my pack before heading hutward. From the lake the track was mostly a rock hop and at one point it merged with a stream and I joined the jolly waters hopping down down the hillside. A boardwalked bog and a river crossing and I was at the Mangaturuturu hut with hours of light to spare. I had passed my two roomies, a couple from Wanganui, by the river on their way upto Lake Suprise and I promised them I would have the fire going by the time they returned. It was a far smaller hut that Whakapapaiti but it was cosy and clean and most importantly it had a big woodburner and a shed full of wood. Soggy clothes hanging, I split some wood in my shorts and set about making a fore which was soon blazing happily. As the hut warmed the rain began to fall heavily and there was nowhere else I wanted to be except warming myself by the hearth.
 
After a while the couple returned in their macs and were very appreciative of the warm hut. We nattered for the rest of the evening and, prepared for Easter, they had brought hot cross buns, one of which I was kindly donated. It was another overcast night which was a real shame as it had been full moon the previous night and part of my reason for getting on the road again was to be out to see the moonrise. Somehow I have never been out walking over full moon during my entire journey from Cape Reinga and the one time I manage it its bloody raining. I must say, however, that it would have been rather difficult to leave the fire to go out for a howl had it been clear.
 

SUNDAY 27th MARCH - WANGANUI CALLS 
The rain didn't abate all night and I awoke to the hyptnotising pitter patter of the drops on the tin roof. Brian and Trish had beat me out of bed but I wasn't long behind. Before the water had even hit the stove, Trish and Brian were full into their play squabbling, a prominent feature of last nights entertainment I forgot to mention. It was all in good humour and it certainly gave Easter sunday a jovial start along with the other packet of buns. Before we all left the hut Trish perked up, "we were thinking last night that when you get to Wanganui you should come and stay at ours for a hot meal." They had been too good to me already but it was definately an offer I couldn't refuse. I had another three days tramping before the lights of Wanganui came into view and a home cooked meal would definately be much needed by then. I gratefully accepted and took down their phone number for when I arrived. Brian joked that it would be his lucky day, "as the only time I get a roast is when we have guests over!"
 
As we readied to leave the rain miraculously stopped and it suddenly brightened up. We all walked together for an hour or so and the track took us up what is known as the cascades, two waterfalls flowing side by side down a huge slab of rock set at about 45 degrees. It was quite spectacular and even more unique was the sulphur and iron oxide rich water having given the rocks over which it cascaded a golden tint that caught the rare dashes of the suns rays. Once we had negotiated the mossy rockface I motored ahead as I had a 17km walk down to Oakune where a beer waited. Before I hit the road I had a last section picking through the lava fields and looking up the stare at Ruapehu's magma ruptured slopes. The tectonic forces that ripped this volcano's cone sides must have been immense and being among the chunks of mountain side one could almost feel the energies that had rocked Ruapehu over the centuries still lingering in the air that clung to its side.
 
Hitting the mountain road it was all familiar territory to me as it was where I had driven exactly a week before in my chair ridden state. All the way down the road were km markers ridiculing my efforts but the scenery laid out before me and the rapidly changing terrain the road snaked through kept me from boredom. Brain and Trish stopped in their car when they passed and handed me a survival bag with an apple and some cereal bars. "Thanks...see you in a few days," I shouted as they coasted off. I also passed a few trampers heading towards the track I had just finished. Most of them had stayed at a hut further round the other way and they relayed the horror stories that we had been hearing from the other people we had passed. From all accounts we were definately in the bast hut on the mountain as the others had 36 people sardined into a hut meant for 12. They wouldn't have frozen at least!
 
I reached Oakune mid afternoon and headed for a beer tap. "Speights Old Dark," I chirped, very very happy all of a sudden. Pack in one hand and beer on the other I shuffled outside leaving a trail of beer as I went. It was a grey day but I was oblivious. Caught up in my beer moment the cold brew slid down my throat and refreshed my every molecule. When the glass was empty I dragged myself away as I still had a long hitch down country roads to Pipiriki, a small village banking the Wanganui river deep within the hills. Here I would rejoin the Te Araroa trail that I had left at the start of Tongariro. The trail headed west from there but I decided to carry on round as I wanted to walk more mountain rather than hills and bush. My last ride from Raetihi to Pipiriki was with Totu, a Maori guy accompanied by his son and grandson. Totu worked the ski slopes in the winter and in a carrot, the areas famous crop, packing factory the rest of the year. He had just come back form a Marae meeting in the Bay of Plenty regarding land issues and he had the rest of his cuzzies in the car following. "My wifes a pomme, she's a Mills," he told me when I let my nationality slip. Its funny, all Maori's refer to their British ancestors by their surnames like they expect you to know the achievements of their famous bloodline. I would imagine this stems from how Maori's would refer to theiw own Maori family names as it is their names and bloodlines that connect them back to their iwi and, more specifically, back to the famous ancestral chief carved onto the crown of their marae. On the other hand, maybe all their British ancestors are from esteemed aristocratic families that I, not knowing my Mills from my Grieves, in my historical ignorance know nothing about. It is never a suprise, however, when the announcement of my family name draws a similar blank look.
 
After a quick stop to examine some Rata trees as part of my quick botany lesson in native trees the steep crumpled hills part to reveal Pipiriki. It was a small village with about 40 mostly Maori inhabitants and Totu dropped me at the recently built DOC shelter where I planned to sleep tonight. It was raining and rapidly getting dark so I just camped out in the corner of the concrete floor. It certainly wasn't the most comfortable night but at least I was warm, dry, fed and watered. There was even a toilet and running water so by most standards I was in luxury.

Always Comforting		On the Cascades
Ruapehu's Flanks		The Misty Mountain

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