A Trip to Siberia
A Trip to Siberia
Up the Young and down the Wilkin. It was the tramping expedition we had been planning for years, had never done, and would now need to go back to complete. I had been to the area once before, as a teenager, crossing the Makarora River with my father and two brothers into the mountainous bush between the two rivers, looking for deer. My mother has a photo of us on her wall at home, sizzling sausages over an open fire, lying beside a mountain tarn, with a view of Lake Wanaka in the distance. I don't remember it being difficult. I have driven past many times since, usually with my wife and family, trying to keep an eye on the road while looking into the two river valleys and imagining how they might be connected. I knew it is possible to take a side trip, once in the Siberia Valley, to Crucible Lake, which is highly recommended. My wife and I resolved, after combining two longer but easier walks in the Nelson area, to give it a go.
There are a couple of easy options. The quickest, and most expensive, is to take a plane or helicopter flight into the remote Siberia Valley, from which the Siberia River runs into the Wilkin. The other is to take a jet boat up the Wilkin to Kerin Forks and walk into the Siberia Valley from there. Both are popular with tourists, who will often fly in and boat out, taking extra time if they feel they are fit enough to make the side trip up from the Siberia Valley to Crucible Lake. Before the COVID pandemic, many of these people were from other countries, but now there are an increasing number from New Zealand. We decided that we would take the slightly more challenging option of walking up the Young River, over the 1600 metre Gillespie pass, stay a couple of nights at the Siberia Hut, and get the jet boat out.
I felt somewhat unprepared, having worked some extra shifts for a colleague who had taken a few days off work with a cold, which he had caught from one of the other doctors. He came in to thank me at the meeting the day before we left. I started to feel the first symptoms when we reached Makarora—runny nose, cough, headache, sore throat. We thought about calling the whole trip off, but it was going to be difficult to pull out at this stage. It would be a long drive backwards from Makarora to Wanaka to get seen by a doctor. Oh well, I thought, I can tell people in the huts I haven't been swabbed, but the two people I caught it from have both tested negative for COVID. I never thought about influenza or other respiratory viruses. The planned first day, a twenty kilometre walk up hill, was either going to kill me or cure me. We decided we would set out and see how things went.
We elected to stay in a comfortable motel in Makarora the nights before and after the tramp. For us, the area is the antidote to the dry brown hills of Central Otago, which we love, but we need our occasional fix of bush and running water. The next morning, I felt no worse. We had planned a leisurely start, at 9.30 we thought, taking a jet boat across the Makarora to the mouth of the Young River so as to avoid starting with a possibly perilous river crossing and wet feet. The boat trip we decided would be easier than walking the extra six kilometres from the Blue Pools car park, which has been shifted a kilometre further north and away from the start of the tramp.
In the morning, we filled up at the local cafe with fresh fruit juice, a cooked breakfast, and good coffee. Better to carry the food in our stomachs than on our backs, we reasoned. Then we shouldered our heavy packs and walked across to Wilkin River Jets. Carelessly, I left my glasses sitting on the table where we had had breakfast, creating some excitement in the small community. As I returned to the cafe to retrieve them, one of the staff came running out the door towards me carrying my glasses in her hand.
At the jet boat office, we were greeted by Hayden, the boat driver. "We have been waiting for you," he said. It turns out the time was supposed to be nine o'clock. We apologised. I made the short trip across the busy long straight main road to an unofficial car park where, for a donation, the landowner allows trampers to leave their vehicles. My wife, the driver Hayden, and a lovely couple from Nelson who were doing the same trip, were patiently waiting for me back in the office. By that time, there was another staff member, who recognised me.
"You're the guy who left your glasses in the café," he said. I nodded.
"Don't worry," he added. "You won't need them where you're going".
"I don't know," I replied, trying to adopt a similar tone. "I might have something to look at."
The first part, once the boat dropped us off, was an easy 10 kilometres up the main part of the Young River, slowly climbing through the bush to bypass what we could hear were steeper parts of the river. Most of the time, we were shaded by tall beech trees, with the occasional more exposed part across open grassy flats. We came across a number of stony side streams tumbling into the river, which was often far below us, where we could rest. I felt surprisingly fatigued. Ahead of us I could see that we were coming up to the fork on the map, where the North and South branches of the river meet. It seemed to be taking an unusually long time to get there. My legs were tired and weak. I found myself resenting every little rise, or what I saw as a wasted downhill section.
My tiredness was disappointing. We had managed the Great Walks in September much more easily. On our days off at home, we had been for walks on the Carrick range behind our house, or some of the day walks around Wanaka, which were longer and steeper and sometimes rougher. Perhaps it was the pace we had set out at, or the heavy pack I was carrying, including an old woollen jersey that I like to wear in the huts, which my wife hates, and loaded with what she referred to as "a year's supply" of scroggin. Or the effects of my non-COVID virus. Or maybe I was just not as fit as I thought I was. Or could it be age? The track was described as suitable for experienced parties, mainly I think because of the river crossings. Unfortunately, I have found, experience and youth do not often go together.
After crossing a bridge over the north branch of the Young River, the path doubles back on itself and follows the south branch, which cascades at this point out of its own valley. The track steepens, climbing up a series of narrow spurs and sidling across a number of side streams and waterfalls to stay above the river. "Keep moving forwards," is what we usually tell ourselves on these long walks. But this turned out to be impossible. Every few metres, we found ourselves contemplating another steep slippery staircase of tree roots or rocks, unable to imagine how we would get ourselves up to the next piece of manageable track. At one point, the track was washed out. We had to cross a steep clay bank, twenty metres above the raging torrent, with no safe footholds, clinging to the precarious roots of the tree directly above us, frightened to hold on too hard in case the tree itself became unstable and fell on top of us. This track we decided was at the upper limit of our abilities. But somehow, we got there, as most people do. After almost eight hours, we slowly trudged into the Young Hut. The DOC sign said it should have taken us six or seven hours. We used to laugh at the times on these signs, saying they were for old people with bad legs. Now that was us. Or me anyway.
At the hut, we cooked up the fresh vegetables I had carried in for the first night, relieving me of some of the weight in my pack, also relieving me of some of my anxieties about how I might manage the next day. We had climbed 500 metres the first day and would have another 800 metres to climb to get onto the ridge above the pass. There were people arriving at the hut from both directions but not much conversation. Everybody was tired. One of the late arrivals asked who was the loudest snorer. I put my hand up, so she moved her stuff into a different bunk room. It was a settled night, and an early start the next morning, though we were the last two to leave.
It was a steady climb through the bush away from the hut. I was determined to take it slowly. Above the bush line, we came into the Young Basin, dominated by the wonderfully named Mount Awful. Mountain daisies were in full flower all around us. The giant buttercup we call Mount Cook lily was just starting to come out. It was a magical place. We stopped frequently to take photos, to fill up with water, and to rest and conserve our energy. Ahead of us, towards the head of the valley, we could see the steep ridge to the left of us that the track would have to climb to get out of the valley and up to the pass. We tried not to think about it. Until we had to.
At least one person has died in this scenic area. In 2015, a young woman wearing only light clothing, desperate to get to the Young Hut after coming off the pass, in worsening wet weather conditions, became separated from her companions, was unable to follow the track, which had been flooded by the swollen river, and probably fell into the river while trying to negotiate the steep banks. Like us, she had been doing mainly Great Walks leading up to this tramp. Last year, another three people drowned in the main Makarora river. We were happy to have mainly fine weather, and we were happy with our decision to take the jet boat to the start of the track.
We met a family from Christchurch. Mum and Dad were leading, then two young teenage boys who looked like twins, then the older brother bringing up the rear, carrying the tent. They had crossed the pass the night before and camped in the upper Young Basin. They too were enthusiastic about their surroundings. They asked us how many nights we would be staying at the Siberia Hut and if we would be making a side trip to Crucible Lake, to see the lake in its own steep valley, which they said had been the high point of their trip so far. They were especially excited about the icebergs they had seen on the lake. We said yes, we were planning to go up to the lake, but were going to concentrate on getting the first steep bit done first.
The climb to the pass wasn't as difficult as we thought. The track was rough but well graded. We gained height quickly. The first part was the hardest. At the top of the first steep spur, the track sidled across a steep face around to the left, back in the direction we had come up the valley, at one point deviating to make a steep short climb up to the right to avoid stranding us on a high ledge above a cliff, over which a small stream tumbled down into the valley 400 metres below. We made slow but steady progress. We knew to be careful on the narrow track, not wanting to emulate the stream tumbling down to the valley floor. Looking down was like the feeling you get standing on the railway platform when the train comes past, anxious that you will be sucked towards it. We were determined to look ahead. But not too far ahead. We had two new things to tell ourselves: "slow and steady wins the race;" and "it's not a race."
Once we had done the steep part of the climb out of the valley floor, and were more than half way up, we rested our packs on a rock ledge and took out some biscuits and water. A young woman came down the hill carrying a heavy pack. She had started that morning from the Siberia hut, where we were heading, and was going on to the Young Hut, where we had come from.
"You're making good time," we said.
"I'm used to carrying a pack," she said scornfully. It turns out she had set out that morning before six, and at the rate she was travelling was going to spend most of the afternoon, in triumphant isolation, at the hut.
"Where are you from?" we asked.
"I'm from Ruapehu," she answered, giving us the name of a volcano in the North Island, but not the name of any town I am aware of.
What? I thought. Did the mountain spit you out?
Instead, I said, as she probably expected: "Wow! You must be really used to this sort of terrain." She nodded. We told her, when she asked, that we were from Bannockburn. She said that she thought she knew two brothers from there who had done one of her avalanche survival courses. There was something else about her mountain rescue activities. She added that the brothers from Bannockburn were into split-boarding, which we didn't immediately recognise as a form of snowboard touring. She seemed to become concerned for some reason about our probable lack of experience.
"How long has it taken you to get up here?" she asked.
"About five hours," we replied, not bothering to tell her about our deliberately slow trip through the Young Basin.
"Well, it's going to take you about twelve hours altogether to get to the hut," she informed us.
"That's fine," we said. It was three days away from the longest day of the year. Even in the valley it would be light till nine.
"Have you got warm jackets? Have you got head lights? Have you got a topomap? Have you got a tent?" she asked us.
"Yes. Yes. Yes. No." we replied.
My wife, who also grew up on a volcano, walking around in bare feet, picked up her water bottle and returned it to her pack, impatient to get going.
"Don't worry about us," I said. "We have done this sort of thing before."
I was resisting the temptation to add that we were perhaps not quite so keen on talking ourselves up. I can understand that a section of the climbing community may want to compete with others as to who can climb the highest or fastest or up the steepest slope, or with the best gear. But I couldn't comprehend the woman's apparent need to hold a competitive conversation with a couple of ageing part-time trampers. Maybe it came from a need to help others. We carried on. Once we escaped from our would-be rescuer, and had recovered our confidence, our legs became stronger, and we were soon at the top of the hill.
We were rewarded by a view of our journey ahead. The Young Valley was behind us. Gillespie pass was down to the right of us. Beyond the pass was Mount Dreadful, the sister to Mount Awful. Directly beneath us was the Gillespie Stream, flowing into the Siberia River, making its long passage across grassy flats, then through a short gorge, out to the Wilkin Valley. Coming in from the other side of the main Siberia valley was the surprisingly steep valley leading up to Crucible Lake. At the head of this valley was Mount Alba, covered in snow. As we watched, we heard the rumble of an avalanche, and watched the snow pouring down the side of the mountain, probably well above the lake, but close enough to be frightening for any trampers who happened to be on that track.
We found our way over between some precariously placed boulders, through a series of rocky basins partly filled with snow, which we skirted around rather than walking across, not knowing what was underneath. We could see the bush and the river, a long way below us, but it took a lot of scrambling across the top before we eventually started heading down a ridge. Once we were among the trees, there were still a few steep downhill sections to negotiate before we eventually reached the banks of the Gillespie Stream. The DOC brochure describes this as "a beautiful place to rest for lunch". It was mid-afternoon. We decided to press on.
We came to a bubbling side stream. I was desperate to stop. I took off my boots, careful to keep my socks dry, and soaked my feet and legs in a cold deep pool. I ate some of my scroggin. We looked at the map. It was another four kilometres to the hut. We carried on through the bush, zigzagging down the last steep hill, and eventually reached the lush grassy flat of the Siberia Valley. A sign said the hut was forty minutes away, we walked another few hundred metres, where another sign said it was forty-five minutes to the hut. My legs shared in the feeling that we were going backwards, unable to function after their long walk down hill, and perhaps their premature cooling in the stream. It was slow progress. A couple of times I stopped, but felt myself falling sideways under the weight of my pack. Unable to stand still, I walked slowly forwards.
I was watching a waterfall coming down the slope into the left side of the valley ahead of us. Slowly, we came nearer to it, then level with it. And there was the hut, nestled in its own little clearing on the edge of the bush. We still needed to walk a few hundred metres, across a dry creek bed, up a grassy slope, then the few last wooden steps up to the hut. I sat quietly on the bench outside, not wanting to move my feet, drinking the last of my water, removing my boots, then shuffled inside. I wasn't sure if I would be able to carry on tomorrow. The other people in the hut smiled kindly. The Nelson couple had seen me arrive at the Young hut the day before. They had probably been counting the hours and wondering if we would arrive in daylight.
In the hut, we encountered mainly New Zealanders, some of whom were members of local tramping clubs. I got the impression the clubs are sponsored by the major outdoor equipment retailers: the walkers spent a lot of the time discussing who had the lightest pack, or the strongest boots, or whose equipment could boil the biggest quantity of water. There was an obviously longstanding discussion over whether it is better or not to use walking poles. Some of the trampers had been up to Crucible Lake already. The others were planning to go the next day. They told us, although there is not much climbing overall, it is necessary to cross the Siberia River at the start, and then there were some steep sections clambering over roots to get into the valley, and another rise to get over the last bit of moraine containing the lake. It sounded beautiful, but I was not sure if I was going to get there.
The next morning, my legs were still aching. I still felt weak. I staggered when I walked. I had blisters on the balls of my feet from hopping from rock to rock in my old boots coming down from the pass. The sun was shining. The valley looked stunning, even looking out the window. But there was no way it would be considered sensible to go out and explore it. We needed to overcome our disappointment and take a rest day. The others advised me to put two or three mattresses together on the bunk, and lie down. I tried this, but was not sleepy, and was soon up on my blistered feet looking for something to do.
We found a jigsaw puzzle on a shelf in the hut, 750 pieces, of the Grand Canal in Venice. It looked old, and we had no way of knowing how many bits were missing. We decided to give it a go. The colours, in contrast to the bright fresh scene outside, were faded. We constructed red and white striped poles, pale cream buildings with arches over the many windows, and shutters in a different shade of red, the familiar skyline of Saint Mark's and the other iconic buildings in the background, and in the foreground the canal with a procession of what would once have been brightly coloured gondolas and other water craft. It was all fairly similar, but there were small groups of people on the boats, or looking out the windows, which helped to distinguish which pieces belonged where.
Outside we could see the bright green grass of the valley floor, the blue of the river, the dark green beech forest, the steep brown hillsides, the black rock of the mountain tops, and patches of shining white snow. A yellow plane flew past and landed at the nearby airstrip. A few minutes later, three people poked their heads into the hut, then went on their walk. Otherwise, there were no people in sight.
We decided our legs would take us as far as the waterfall behind the hut for a dip in the cold fresh pool at the bottom. We picked our way carefully across the wet rocks at the edge of the creek, then made our way upstream to the flat bit, for what we later described as a soak in the pool, more accurately described as a quick plunge in the shallow freezing water, and a chance to wash off some dirt and sweat. We were interrupted by the sound of a helicopter, which stayed a few minutes at the hut with the motor running, then flew on up the valley. We dressed and returned to the hut. The helicopter came back. One of the occupants took what turned out to be a radio into the wardens' quarters. The other came into the hut. He looked vaguely familiar. We explained what we were doing there, why we were having a rest day.
"Not a bad day for a swim in the sunshine," he said knowingly. Then he recognised me. "You're the guy who left your glasses in the café," he said.
That night, the hut was full. People came from all directions and by all modes of transport. The facilities, compared with the Great Walks huts, are limited, but still comfortable, and the building was providing welcome relief when needed from whatever the elements outside were going to throw at us. The hut has no piped gas; we had to carry our own. Luckily, we had enough left to boil water for our packets of dehydrated food, and to add more boiling water to the last of our drinking chocolate and milk for a hot drink. Again, I was pleased to be able to take some weight from my pack. The bunk rooms felt crowded. Reluctantly, I gave up my extra mattresses, leaving only one thin mattress to go between me and the wooden bunk base.
Then we had to deal with the toilets. No flush toilets. Trampers approaching a back country hut, like bees searching for flowers, or sharks for blood, can tell when they are getting close by sense of smell. The standard long-drop toilets have effective rotating vents, with the intake above the level of the toilet seat, to take the smell away from the inside and into the atmosphere. They are painted on the outside a uniform dark green, the same as the DOC signs, so that the colour blends in with the surrounding bush, but there is no mistaking their presence. On the inside, they are white or cream, and oppressively hot, the sun outside being absorbed by the dark outside walls. There is also limited space. It feels like moving about inside a paint tin.
At night, there is the added difficulty of negotiating a narrow grassy path, often crossing one or more ditches bridged by a few pieces of wood, to where they have located the toilet away from the hut. Once you have figured out how to work the latch, are able to get in the door, you need to close it behind you, raise the seat, toilet paper in one hand, torch in the other. More sensible than a torch, but less unobtrusive, is to wear a head light, announcing your procession out of your bunk, through the shared bunk room, across the empty living area, and up the path to the toilet, hoping you have got the switch right so that you are not drawing further attention to your procession to the toilet with flashing white and red lights, or worse, inviting complete failure by having the light go out altogether at a crucial moment.
The next day, after our rest day, I was fine. We were ready to go home. It is about a three hour walk from the hut to where we were to catch the boat. We gave ourselves plenty of time. I set out cautiously but was soon into my stride. It was an easy well graded path, climbing steadily to get above a small gorge, then a long gradual drop down into the Wilkin. The vegetation was more varied as we came into the larger valley– totara and rimu and matai growing amongst the beech towards the valley floor. The southern rata was starting to flower, its tiny crimson flowers carpeting sections of the path, occasionally visible in the tree tops. We could see why tourists would pay to do this walk.
We waited for the boat, eating most of our remaining food, playing with the stones by the river, adding to the cairns near the boat ramp alongside the swiftly flowing stream. We found it difficult to imagine how anyone could cross safely to the Kerin Forks Hut, which we could see clearly on the other side of the Wilkin River. The boat arrived on time. We could hear it before we could see it. Hayden again. He gave us an entertaining ride back, swerving at speed into other parts of the river, stopping completely at a couple of points to show us rainbow trout in deep pools under the bank, pointing out aspects of local activity and history. I thought I could pick out the rocky crag above the bush line where my brothers and I had been with our father as teenagers. Before long, Hayden had us safely back at Makarora.
The two main things we needed after our long tramp were a shower and a feed. We got our clean clothes out of the car, leaving our packs in the boot, and took ourselves into the motel room to clean up. Then we made our way down to the nearby cafe. It was a different waiter. I ordered steak and chips with mushroom sauce. There were several men lined up on the table beside us drinking beer. At first, we thought they were locals but we then decided they were probably a group staying at the camping ground. They looked with interest at our food.
"How's your steak?" one of them asked.
"It's excellent," I replied, which was true. "You should have one or two yourself."
When we came to pay, there was a different person at the bar. He hesitated. He looked at me strangely, as if he knew me, or as if I were some sort of minor celebrity.
"You're the guy who left your glasses in the café," he said.