SaddleD up: Tanya Hawthorne on Cassie and Robyn Wilkie on Waiapu.Pictures by Tanya Hawthorne
After the storm hit and the river died, Tanya Hawthorne and I headed off on a much-planned horseback riding adventure to the South Island. The plan was to ride our horses at Saint James Station near Hanmer Springs. I had been to Hanmer 30 years ago and had been oblivious to the open spaces of the Saint James and Molesworth areas, so I had passed through with a nonchalant shrug. The pools at Hanmer were nicer then and a lot cheaper than they are now at $38 per person.
Due to Cyclone Gabrielle, we had to drive the long way from Gisborne. We ducked through the forestry road to Rerewhakaitu, joining the main highway at Rainbow Mountain, through the Desert Road, and on to Hunterville, where ‘Jo Duck’ and Brooke looked after us and our horses for the night. A beautiful roast and a comfy bed were appreciated.
Up and away on the Cook Strait ‘crossing day’, I was worried about the horses on the ferry, so a beautiful, calm sailing was welcomed. On the ferry, we met the North Island cohort of riders heading for a three-day Murchison horse trek. This was our first planned ride, and as these riders were heading for a camp up in Blenheim, we joined them at a local woolshed, where the horses had yards and I got to sleep under the stars.
Wairau River Valley led us from Blenheim to St. Arnaud, where a quick plunge into Lake Rotoroa was a welcome stop, and a refreshing swim helped me up to completing the drive around to Lake Gowan, where we stayed at ‘G B Stud and J & J Training’.
Jozette and James moved from Gisborne to Murchison six months ago to live on a plateau above Lake Gowan, on a block with perfect equine flats and about 80 hectares of native bush. The bush here covers the hills as it is so steep; it is beech forest, and if it weren’t for the insects, I would say it was paradise — the bumblebees, the midges, the wasps, and the buzzing of insects are insane. I learned very quickly not to wear blue and had to remove my bluestone earrings.
On Friday morning, after a lot of overnight rain, we drove to Murchison and headed up Matakitaki Valley. This no-exit road goes and goes and goes, and we drove for an hour before we found the campsite for the trek. The valleys here are huge; beech trees descend to the riverbanks, and farms make the most of the river flats available with lifestyle blocks and dairy farms lining the road.
The Murchison Trek is a small, intimate trek where only 40 people are lucky enough to get spots; it’s a first-come, first-served enrolment, and we were lucky enough to be in the first 40.
The camping area is located on a small paddock beside the river, which was nerve-wracking to us North Islanders after the cyclone. I parked away from the river. Wet tents, wet beds, wet horses, and saddles—but best of all, wet saddle blankets — were earned with beautiful rides up the valleys and over the hills.
When the sun came out, the mountains were revealed, and the best thing about rain and sun are the rainbows.
Over three days riding in Murchison Valley, the food was amazing with a local group catering for us, and the other trekkers from around the district were interesting and fun.
But all good times end and new adventures call, so we headed off to Hanmer Springs and our next accommodation spot via the Lewis Pass. This road is an inspiration; the forest is beautiful, and there are huge shingle slips. I drove slowly to enjoy the scenery. Sorry to those behind me; I hope they slowed down too. Back in the day, I may have taken this drive for granted, and I wonder if 30 years ago there was more bush around — or perhaps appreciation just gets greater with age.
We had a fabulous drive around Hanmer Springs to Sherwood Tennessee Walking Horses, Mules, and Accommodation
John and Lee have just uprooted their lives from South Auckland to head to the South Island and live their dream life of riding in the mountains of the South Island and helping others do the same.
They have grazing for horses and accommodation for riders, and we were lucky enough to go mountain riding with them and their gaitered Tennessee walking horses. This was a concern as my horse only has one speed of walk (a bit ploddy), but we had Bruno, the packhorse, who set the speed, and we only went as fast as he went — to be fair to my horse Waiapu, he learned to walk faster.
Bruno was the star of this operation (but don’t tell John); he was the packmule, and that meant we got to eat well and sleep warm. Every night on the trip, John cooked us a roast (that Bruno carried) with spuds and peas, and for breakfast, we got bacon, eggs, and beans. Bruno was my hero, even if he was a bit of a bossy character who liked to do things his way. Let’s just say he was an independent thinker.
Driving into the St James area around some very steep hills, we arrived at Fowlers Hut beside the remote road. Complete trust is needed in leaving the vehicles, and although I thought I had locked the car, it was parked for four days unlocked! Not recommended, but true.
We met Sean, the trapper at Fowlers, and he told me the alpine pass we were about to cross was, in his words, “a real alpine pass,” meaning that it can be covered in snow and can be dangerous if you are unprepared. Thankfully, having experienced guides allowed me the luxury of following the leader over the elevation of 1945m. The real treat there was the alpine plants, and we were now incorporating two of my favourite things: horseback adventures and alpine plants.
As we rode the three hours to the hut, the weather changed; the temperature dropped and the sleet began. By the time we were at Stanleyvale Hut, the pass was covered in snow. This was the first snow of the season and a treat as we woke to a beautiful sunny day with snow-capped mountains surrounding us.
Sean lives in the hills and works as a trapper. He accompanied us on his black and white horse, helping me when my saddle slipped on the ‘zigzag’, causing me a moment of worry. The last-minute addition of an extra saddle blanket did not help. Stanleyvale Hut is an original, and so is Sean! So many yarns were spouted beside the hut fire, and I feel privileged to have spouted my share.
Day two of St James, and we were off to the Christopher Hut. Until this point of the trip, I had been struggling to understand why I would drag two horses 1000km from Gisborne to St James, but as we walked between mountains around lakes, I realised I felt peaceful, happy, and rhythmical with the movement of my beautiful friend Waiapu Gold under me, carrying me and my gear. Indulging my wanderlust makes me feel so happy and free; this is why we do it.
Christopher Hut was perfect; the St James horses, a herd of 40 or so, were in the valley, and the snow-capped mountains, meandering river flats, and open spaces offered breathing space to a cyclone-jarred nervous system.
Two nights at Christopher Hut allowed us time to enjoy the environment. People come and go; it is a popular spot for trampers who come over from the Lewis Pass Road or from Boyle Village.
Hunters came into the bush to camp and hunt Canadian geese, and a couple of deer hunters were also seen. Our guide John shot a couple of deer not far from the hut, and he packed them onto Bruno for the trek out of the mountains.
The ride back to the vehicles was just as spectacular as the ride in. We took the same route but rode it in one day —six hours. The joy of riding the pass was amazing. I love the feeling of what’s around the corner. I have always been like that, getting myself into trouble just to see around the next corner.
When we got to the top of the zigzag and looked back, there were dark rolling clouds closing in on the Christopher Mountains; they now seemed so far away.
On the pass, the sun sparkled on the silver spears of the Astelia, who do what they have always done on Fowlers Pass, and I hope that corner of the world never changes.
The rest, as they say, is history. A three-day drive home was excessive and indulgent, but so worth every minute of the drive. Thankfully, the ferry gods were on our side, and again we had no troubles with the crossing.
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