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Balmy Days In The Barlow

by Bruce Wilson

South Westland beckons - the tramper of very little brain responds, and like Winnie-the-Pooh goes bumpety-bump down to Harihari to seek some honey. Mike Sheridan is rescued from terminal boredom by Simon Davis, Brian Dobbie, Bruce McKinlay and Bruce Wilson ("The Immaculate Orifice").

Civilisation (in the form of green grass) is left, and Little Man River, just south of Harihari, is tripped up. It's steep and full of big goolies (and a wee gorge), and progress proves to be slow. With no prospect of today's destination being reached camp is embraced early in a good spot, while Brian and The Orifice do a recce.

The usual strenuous activity leads eventually to Escape Col, on the Adams Range near Mt. Adams. Southwards Mt. Elie de Beaumont dominates, but Cook and Tasman are cloudy. The southerly airstream that persists for the next ten days is here cold, and the usual alarming collection of clouds scuds about, amounting, as always, to nothing. Steep snow to the Escape Glacier, crampons and an easy stroll, and an ace camp on rock ledges beside the North Barlow, looking across to the Great Unknown (hey, isn't this where we were supposed to be at the end of the first day?)

Roll on the worst day of the trip - stunningly hot, mindless grovelling in and out of big gullies as we sidle the Barlow, fruitless climb all the way to the Siege Glacier moraine and back down, and a blessedly cold swim. The final grovel is up to a beautiful terrace beyond the Siege, with a tarn big enough to swim in and a view to make the mouth water - eight and a half hours to come one and a half crow miles. Fantastic clouds grow out of the valley at dusk; huge demons, beasts, and ghostly fingers.

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Grey day but easier travel - the nor-wester brings rain as the Barlow is reached; a terrifically violent, gorged and dirty grey river. An enormous rock is our lunchroom, and by mid-afternoon the clouds have run away pursued by our friendly southerly. After dinner the last twenty minutes to another great campsite above the bush is bashed (hey listen Orifice, we were supposed to be here two days ago!!)

An hour up the moraine of the upper Barlow, all systems go then Mike slips and carves his thigh up. A team of eminent surgeons, headed by Bruce McK, is speedily convened and the patient patched, but visions of several days on the Garden of Eden have flown. Two minimal tent sites are carved out of the rubble and Mike rests up while the four of us carry on for a quick trip to the Garden. The Farrar Glacier - cascading white marble poured from a jug. Turn right, scree slopes and steep stream. One of those notches in the Devil's Backbone is Vertebrae Col. (neat names, huh?) - we choose a rock gully that provides some exciting climbing. The névé is in perfect nick for travelling on, but time is tight. Hurry across and climb Little Unknown (a pile of rocks) for a great view, then find the real col and come down a steep snow slope to the scree (you can see this snow from below).

Next day is another hour-day, back to camp in the grass and sunbathing with more or less clothes on (and more or less sunburn). Mike's leg is a little uncomfortable, but he can get around okay. Stream and steep grass slow our second assault on the Adams Range, as does a knife-edge of crumbling conglomerate above gory drops. Pretty easy tho' Mt. Kensington is dominant along the range. The main Poerua valley is reached down an easy stream and swiftly boulder-hopped down. It is very attractive - lots of rata (not in flower), thick scrubby bush, clear blue water and patterned rocks. We negotiate two "sort-of" gorges, meet the Wilberg River, and stroll up it to camp by a large stream. The only decent spot is in a wee dry overflow amongst rampant olearia regeneration - please don't rain! Some spots send pulses racing and pits flying into tents, but nothing happens.

Yet another hour-day (pretty cruisey, eh?), up to Exit Creek, flats in the sun but the usual cloud massing from the south. Brian, Simon and Orifice race up the Wilberg - very steep and bouldery, but easy.

The fleshpots of Westland beckon us up Exit Creek, entice us up a waterfall, and see us on top of the Wilberg Range for lunch in the hot sun, looking down on the coast. Stunning views enhanced by low clouds. Unfortunately we descend into the cloud going north along the range and take a wrong turn - talk about humid Trev!! We camp by a large tarn near the end of the range - cool until the cloud goes, then downright frigid when the sun sets. More of Bruce's all-thumb joints appear, to enhance the scenery.

The track down to the road is found without difficulty, following poles from the trig on Mt. Wilberg. It disgorges us into the sun on farmland and we collapse by the road to wait for the bus. Above us glints the trig, and all around is our pot of honey. Christopher Robin drags us back up the coast, bumpety-bump, and puts out the light.

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