TWISTED, BUT NOT BITTER - Cradle Mountain NP trails and photography

Words and pics by Ian Smith

2.30, it’s 2.30, as in a.m.  Doubts arise as to the sanity of doing anything at this time of the day; sorry, night, but I’m driven.  Once before I’d made the sunrise at Dove Lake, back in the days when you could still drive your motorhome to the water’s edge.  These days it’s so popular they have an automated gate that locks when the carpark is full and signs forbidding everything save ordinary cars, but right now I’m a long way from there. 

First I have to get ready.  Through bleary eyes I start to make my walking breakfast, the one I’ll eat on the trail, as distinct from the cereal I’m eating now.  My head wants to be on a pillow but the driving factor of the possibility of seeing stars over Dove Lake is irrepressible.  I’d been thinking about it for months.

It’s raining outside, another reason I shouldn’t be going.  The weather forecast has consistently said, “slightly cloudy”, maybe Cradle Mountain will be different.

I’ve already packed my camera gear when I finish with eating I get appropriately dressed, leave some food for the surprised animals and I’m on my way except, 8 kms down the road, the thought that my wallet isn’t on board registers and I turn back.  If it was only for my licence I wouldn’t have bothered, but I know they’ll be looking for my national parks pass and I’ll be starving later thus money will be required.

Refocused I recommence my journey and the one thing I constantly worried about takes about 20 minutes to eventuate – potoroos!  Whatever road you travel on up here you’ll see many that have successfully achieved their suicide mission.

They’re everywhere, it’s like driving through a never ending chicane.  You can’t do more than 70 with any measure of safety so it adds over half an hour to the trip.

   I’ve taken the slightly longer route in error as well, meaning there’s more corners and more possibilities of hitting animals.  With every passing kilometre the slip-slap of the wipers is incessant, making me wonder about the wisdom of the venture even more.

There’s nothing on the road except animals and it keeps you alert and takes my mind off the improbability that I’ll be successful.  The final road in is Belvoir Road and, about 20 kms shy of the national park, the rain finally stops.  At least I’ll be able to get a shot perhaps I’m thinking.  Then, through a narrow gap in the clouds, a crescent moon briefly puts in an appearance.  A shining light of hope perhaps?

Then, as I turn onto the final entry and head down the last 8 kms, there’s no more rain and occasional breaks in the sky; by the time I reach the shore of Dove Lake, it’s like a miracle has occurred; there’s not a cloud in the sky.

Just how shy of dawn it was I had no real idea, I just rushed to get my camera gear ready, fumbling here and there in an effort to get everything together, making sure I had some food and drink.

At this time of day, in this kind of place, it’s eerie.  Your ears are straining for sounds that never come, your eyes seeking somewhere to place your feet safely on the ground, your olfactory senses picking up some scent or other from the native bush; everything is heightened.  It’s not until I reach the shore when the soft sound of tiny ripples stirs my eardrums that I can relax a little.

I’d hoped for millpond conditions so I could get the stars reflecting in the surface but there’s a surreal mist clinging to the surface of the lake, its ephemeral nature will become apparent when the sun bursts through.  Meanwhile, I’m stretching out my tripod, getting the settings right on my camera (not as easy as it sounds) and praying conditions stay the same.  

                                                                 

The shots start clicking off, 30 second exposures of the Magellenic Clouds hovering over Cradle Mountain and then the artistic side of my brain starts running amok.  “Where can you get a better angle?” it keeps harping; so I find myself moving hither and thither around the northern end of the lake, at times stepping in the muddy foreshore.  I play the light of my head torch onto the foreground to try and add some depth, maybe pick out the fog or highlight some reeds.  It’s like working to a deadline governed by the sun.

Mercifully I’ve arrived early enough so that I can make some mistakes but hopefully ensure that there’s some good shots in amongst them.  Then I get a fetish to go and shoot the famous boatshed; it’s a sort of “have to do it while you’re here” thing but halfway there realize it’s taking up valuable time and it gets overridden so I do a U-turn and I start my big hike, initially on the eastern side of Dove Lake until I reach the Y intersection and turn left onto the Lake Rodway Track, starting the climb to Mount Hanson.

      

First light is appearing in the sky as the stars are banished for another day and there’s the tiniest wisp of cirrus forming up over Cradle.  I reach the point where Lorraine and I had lunch only a few days earlier and have to make a decision; continue on Rodway or drop onto the category 4 Lake Hanson Trail.  Though I know the former will get me to Twisted Lakes sooner, I’m torn by the fact that maybe there’ll be a photo opportunity at Lake Hanson and also knowing there are chain sections on Mount Hanson so I head down and soon after discover why it’s rated a 4.  It’s rugged and bum slides have to be undertaken here and there just to get down.  It’s certainly not a place for the average stroller.

      

Constantly on the lookout for angles and interesting bits of nature, it’s not very fruitful until I come to a part of the trail that is tree roots and nothing else for about 40 metres before reaching a couple of ponds just above the lake itself.  Here, the still waters and skeletons of trees long since dead lend an artistic atmosphere to the journey and I add some time to get a dozen snaps. 

After this it’s still rugged but uphill, testing your strength and skill at times as you wonder just when it’s all going to end.  It’s supposed to be an hour loop but I’m sure I’ve taken than already.

Then the top of Little Horn peeps up on the horizon, maybe I’m getting close I think.  Within another 20 metres the whole purpose of the excursion becomes apparent.  The vista before me is simply breathtaking.  Twisted Lakes is but a mirror, everything I’d hoped and planned for has come to fruition.

           

When you come upon something as good as this, it’s overwhelming.  The sheer majesty of the panorama engulfs you, its power makes you feel so humble in its presence, there’s a distinct aura of “something else”, but it’s indefinable.  It’s all my grey matter can do to remind me that I’m here to actually take photos.  You just don’t want to stop looking for fear that it will all go away and you’ll be denied any more pleasure; but it stays as I set up the tripod.  It’s not often I put myself in the picture, but here I feel it’s a must.  Then I can look at it and remember just where I sat and how good it was.

There are many angles to be had here.  Faint trails indicate where other photographers have been, little flattened sections indicative of footfalls.  It takes me around 15 minutes to get what I came for and then I sit down and enjoy breakfast, although “enjoy” seems like a totally inadequate verb in this case, there is a higher plane involved here, one you get to experience so few times in life.

The cloud has started to form more seriously now, as predicted, and it adds a little to the experience.  Changing lens and shifting position constantly I can but hope I’ve got it covered and, even as I’m moving around, the first gentle ripples of the day’s breezes disturb the surface.  Had I been here any later I would have missed it.  You like to think it’s good fortune but reflect on that fact that you’ve planned it for a week, constantly following the weather patterns, in the hope that you’ll get it right and leaving early enough to avoid all the problems that occur later.

The time has come to move on.  From here I pick up the Rodway Track again and come across a hut.  About 50 metres in front of the hut is yet another reflective pond so I do a diversion into there before heading out again and soon I turn off onto the Face Track.

 

I anticipate this will be a straight traverse across beneath the Little Horn and then down to Lake Wilks.  Oh dear, did I get that wrong.  It climbs and then climbs some more.  My tired legs are in fear that I’ll have to scale the rock band at the base of the mountains and with good reason.  Though I check my map twice there’s no way I could have taken a wrong turn.  The massive buttress is before me and there’s a small cleft where the trail goes.  My whole body now is rebelling but I have to go there, hand over hand hauling myself up the rock face until, finally, the track turns to the right and levels out.

I stumble gratefully along until the intersection with the Lake Wilks Track is reached.  From here it’s downhill all the way, only it’s another grade 4 route so I anticipate more suffering and am not disappointed.  It’s rugged, rough and, at times, dangerous.  I’m grateful I’m an experienced bushwalker and can negotiate such ways but I’ve exerted more energy than I anticipated and I pause here and there for a drink and to recuperate.
                                 

Then comes the chain section, about 100 metres of it, in order to negotiate what must have been a pretty scary section before they put it in.  As I start the serious descent I can hear voices, the first human sounds since yesterday.  I’m about ¾ of the way down the chain when we meet and greet each other.  They’re from England and have done extensive walking over there.  They marvel at how you can come to a place like this and have it almost to yourself, cross referencing it with the Lakes District where there are crowds wherever you go.

  

We continue our separate ways and Lake Wilks seems to take forever to arrive as the track goes one way and then another.  Eventually I reach it and am surprised at the photo opportunity it offers.  I guess the reason it hasn’t been covered more extensively by photographers is that it’s always on the way to somewhere else, not a destination in itself.  I probe into a couple of spots and then move on.  A pair of tattooed hikers go past as I’m shooting the small stream that flows from the lake.  No greetings are exchanged as they seem to be on a mission so I pack up and move further down towards Dove Lake.
                   

It seems an eternity before I finally reach the most popular of tracks and slump down and have a drink at the first available opportunity.  The car is still an hour away but at least I’m on grade 2 now and can move along at a reasonable pace and there will be conversations to be had.

As I come across “normal” tourists I’m told “It’s not far to go now”.  I must look bushwhacked to them and, since I have boasting rights, I explain I’ve been walking for six hours and not just around the lake as they might be expecting.  When I point out where I’ve been, some sympathy is clearly discernible.

The small climbs up easy steps take on a new dimension.  I want a chopper to come over and airlift me out or to be chaired out on a litter.  Each passing step comes at a cost and my 70 years on the planet are making it known.   Each rest point is utilized as I slowly make my way back to the car.  Someone else who’s done the same walk recorded over 10,000 steps and they ultimately come at a price but, when the carpark is finally reached, I’m so glad I came today and did what I did.  Somewhere deep inside a contentment reigns supreme.

Urupukapuka - An island to remember - Bay of Islands New Zealand

Urupukapuka.  I looked at the word.  Some part of my mind wanted to blank it out.  Didn’t want to know about a word with that many “u”s in it.  After years of playing Scrabble, Words With Friends, delving into cryptic crosswords and testing my etymology knowledge on anagrams, I’d decided that “u” was my least favourite vowel and second only to “c” as my least favourite letter, the latter because there are no two letter words containing “c”.

So it was that when I was talking to locals about it or trying to book a boat to take us out there, I started saying, “That island that begins with ‘U’”.  After a couple of days I started to feel inadequate and decided to add the word to my vocabulary.  Couldn’t be that hard, surely.  No, it wasn’t.  When you realise that the bulk of it is only the same two four letter words it suddenly becomes a whole lot easier.  In no time at all I was pronouncing it and flaunting it in conversation as if to show off my new found skill.  I hoped the island would be the same when it came to walking.

There are three islands available to the casual traveller and Urupukapuka is far and away the most popular.  Research had indicated that the trail was good, though the reviews were mixed and the eating house, the only one on the island, didn’t get rave reviews from hardly anyone.  At least I was prepared for that.

We booked the day before we caught the boat; at least the catamaran ferry wasn’t as packed as the Russell boats, but it was still reasonably full as we departed the Paihia wharf under nine tenths cloud.  While Lorraine thought they harboured precipitation, my take was that they’d burn off as they’d done the previous day.

That the skipper was a comedian became evident early and we looked forward to his occasional interludes.  At one stage he remarked that the Duke of Marlborough, where we’d had a cuppa the day before, was the first licenced premises in New Zealand and that Russell was the first capital, though it was also known as the Hell Hole because of all the debauchery that was partaken in by the lads from the whaling fleets, and others.  These days, he said, only nice people lived there.  He was one of them.

From Russell it’s a long way to Urupukapuka, around ¾ of an hour, but the time passes quickly as you cruise past one picturesque island after another.  Rocks jutting from the water, odd shaped trees, occasional lichen and, in front of every one, all manner of craft, with the accent on yachts, because this is their paradise.  100 sheltered coves, a lee shore around every corner, secluded beaches, for what more could they ask.  I ponder the idyll of it and reflect that in two days the bad weather is supposed to roll in.  I’m glad I’m based on shore.

Then we’re there, filtering down Otehei Bay to the wharf and everything is new to us as we embark.  We’re fortunate that I’d asked the female attendant about tracks on the island and she’d indicated where the maps were and suggested to do the main loop (which was what we’d intended) but add in the Cliff Pa track.

So we trudged off past the eatery and around the back of the restaurant into a number of shacks and we had to ask a young man where do we go from here and he pointed us in the right direction.  Apparently we’d come around the wrong side, but we weren’t the only ones.  An effervescent American lady of Chinese extraction from Boston asked if she could link up with us because we had a map and knew where we were going, ha, ha.

Then we were at the start of the track, or should I say, tracks, because there were several in fact, but to access all of them you started here…..unless you had your own boat and could pull in anywhere.

The lady couldn’t stop chatting as we ascended the first hill and I guessed, correctly, that our association would be a brief one.  We passed through the first gate and made a beeline for the second, our gaze fixed upon a sheep that was scratching itself against the adjacent fence.  In doing so we completely ignored a marker post, one of many dotted around the island, and slipped through the second gate.  Immediately after there was an intersection in the trail, itself only a mown path through luxurious paddocks.

Somehow it just didn’t seem right but the trail headed uphill, as I’d been told it would, so we must be going in the right direction.  At the next intersection we took a 5 minute diversion to a lookout over a bay.  While it was nice, nothing prepared us for the 360 degree panorama when we reached the top of the hill.

The vastness of the Bay of Islands was apparent from here and our cameras happily clicked away.  Then we referred to the map again.  I saw people back from where’d come earlier and they were taking an intersection we hadn’t noticed.  Immediately it was clear that we’d come the wrong way again but now, having our bearings, it suddenly became obvious.  All the trails on the map fell into place.

So we had to backtrack and Chinese lady disappeared over the hill, never to be seen again.  We’d only lost about 20 minutes so it wasn’t that bad and as we started the climb from the main intersection I remembered the lady on the boat had said it was a hike up the first hill, something I bore in mind as it ramped up more than a few degrees.

It was time to give Lorraine a push or two as we laboured through the first bit of cabbage tree forest we’d come to.

Reaching the top was blessing, because I’d gotten the impression that this was the only major hill around the place and we’d climbed it.  Everything else would be a breeze; except we’d soon after come upon another hill and then started descending rapidly, which meant only one thing, we’d have to go back up again at some stage.

The long descent would up at a beach and, referring to the map, we figured we’d gone the wrong way yet again.  Lorraine no happy.  Actually, I was disappointed as well.  We met a family coming the opposite way along the beach and complained about the maps to them.  We'd worked out that we were at Paradise Bay, some distance from where we’d hoped to be and we’d just added about an hour to our journey.  The family indicated there was a sign not that far ahead and that would hopefully set us right.

                                              

And so it did, except that it clearly said “Entico Bay”, while our map said Otiao Bay and had “Indico Bay” written in brackets.  Near enough, neither sounded remotely like Paradise Bay.  Happiness reigned, we were on the right trail, even if the signs and maps were like an unanswerable puzzle.

We were climbing again, heading towards the recommended Cliff Pa loop and finding it about 10 minutes later.  The sign clearly indicated where we were and we turned off with confidence and started heading seriously uphill again, a long, winding trail where the grass hadn’t been manicured for some time.

As we gained height, more islands became clearly visible.  It was beginning to be the most picturesque portion of the whole walk.  In fact, over 1/3 of all photos I took this day were on this section.

                                                                                 

The next thing you came to was a steep stairway descent that led to the cliff, the first of a few, only it would more accurately be described as a severe cleft in the rocks.

                                                                              

Then you ascended once more to the summit of the cliff on the other side and here were vistas over the bay that exceeded anything we’d seen so far, though that hardly had seemed possible 10 minutes ago.

                                      

The climbing and steep downhills were relentless but the rewards were many as our shutters clicked obsessively in an effort to encompass all before us.  This was also the most taxing of the entire walk, and that was saying something.  At some point we agreed to stop for lunch, though it had only just gone 11.  It was atop the final descent from the Cliff Pa Loop before you made your way up to the main loop again and, by the time we reached it, our bodies were sending clear messages that they weren’t entirely happy with the situation.

We still had about 1/3 of our drink supply as we moved up to yet again another cliff, every one seeming more dramatic than the last.  At times the trail skirted with edge and when we were in the middle of a forest section soon after we stopped for a drink.  As I sat down I had a dizzy spell.  Though it lasted only 3-4 seconds it was scary.  You couldn’t help but think what might have happened had I been adjacent to a cliff.

At the next intersection where the Pateke Loop meets the Urupukapuka Loop a decision had to be made.  I was firm in my decision to go left, a seemingly slightly longer route but it took us over terrain we hadn’t been on before.  Though this met with severe disapproval from the other member of our team, for once in our relationship I won out, despite continuing protests for the next 15 minutes.

                                                                               

This would take us past Urupukapuka Bay, one we’d overlooked briefly at the commencement of our journey.  Luckily it was the right choice.  There were other people for a start, two dads with their 3 young daughters were frolicking along the trail, much to our amusement because the track was riddled with sheep droppings and one of the bubs was barefoot and doing everything she could to avoid the trail.

                                                                            

At the bottom of the slope leading to the cove was an unlimited water supply and I gleefully refilled our water bottles and we drank like it was our last on this earth.  The joy of drinking plain water had never seemed so good.

                                                                                  

Now there was but one hill and one member of our party was suffering as we approached the four hour mark.  It seemed every part of her body rebelled against the thought that it had to go further as the sun came out and made us sweat even more, although that’s an area I excel in.

The blessed view of the café at Otehei Bay meant that we only had a relatively short downhill to go and the seats there had never borne two more overjoyed posteriors than ours I beg to suggest.

We had 1 ½ hours to wait for the ferry and as we downed our ginger beer/beer/salt and pepper squid/hot chocolate and magnum we gazed out over the delightful sands and regretted not having a pair of swimmers so we could be even more refreshed, as some others were.

Still, it had been a grand, if tiring, day, the rewards had been many and we had much to retell.  We figured it ranked somewhere in our top ten day walks ever.

IRON KNOB

It lay there twisted and winding just outside the perimeter.  It sat there, snake-like, but never threatening, merely promising something that might have eventuated but never did.  Was it really salvation, had anyone tried to use the hose?  These were questions that ran through my brain as I lifted my gaze upwards once again to the burnt out ruin in whose grounds I stood.

Couldn’t help but wonder just how it had started, who had been affected and where their lives had gone afterwards.  It had all the appearance of insurance not being involved.  Nothing had been cleared, the corrugated iron lay strewn where it had fallen, charred bits of wood stuck out here and there, noticeably the beams that once supported the floor.  There were things here, but there was nothing.  It all seemed symptomatic of the town really.  What once was, was no more, but you could still see the signs.

                                     

The Newsagent had long been closed, shops boarded up and the barren multi-hued hill in the background only added to the air of melancholy.  There were indicators to the museum and guided mine tours.  I followed them and, for some reason I know not, decided to go in.  I sort of figured it might be a thrill for those inside to actually get a visitor.  There were sounds and visions of children 50 metres away – signs of life at last!  I took some outside shots of the brightly painted old cart that had been lovingly restored and eyed off some of the freshly painted mining equipment before going inside.

      

I opened the door apprehensively.  The museum may have had lots on show but little had been spent in the lighting department.  They were in somewhat cramped circumstances and a trained curator had been noticeably absent when they set the display up.  There was a significant collection of minerals at one end but you could hardly make them out in the dimness and they were sadly not shown to their best advantage.

                     

The cricket team photo, circa 1913, was something I paused at.  Some of the lads were dressed with shirt and tie and braces, a couple looking decidedly uncomfortable, while the umpire was primed in his 3-piece suit.  It was the scorer that troubled me, couldn’t work out whether he was attired in a monk’s habit, a boiler suit or an unfastened straightjacket.  While most gazed askance, his eyes penetrated the camera and were clearly aimed at YOU, though with what intent I couldn’t tell, but somehow there was an evil there.  Other photos were classics; a dressed up aboriginal family in a cart pulled by camels, a vintage haulage truck from the 20’s and a ten pound Pom recruiting poster.  Then there was a poem from an old people’s home in Monteith, Scotland, extolling the virtues of a lady well past her prime.

Other bric-a-brac and the usual suspects (old typewriter, phone etc.) littered various spaces around the interior and I ended up buying a souvenir tea towel (come on, be honest, how many of you have got an Iron Knob tea towel?) mainly because I felt like they needed some cash flow.

As I paid, I couldn’t help notice the tiny café off to the side whose furnishings were distinctly 50’s, though there were only two tables.  How many people had they served today on their ill-matched tablecloth and napkins I wondered but the lady taking my money had been perturbed that she’d just had 40 school children in.  I guessed that was probably about a month’s worth of normal tourists like me in one hit, so she needed a rest.

Next I headed off, well, almost.  I was intrigued by some buildings over yonder so I drove up a gravel (read “dust”) road to them and discovered it was actually stables and entry was forbidden.  The sign clearly said, “Keep Out Private Propity, by order Babe and Red Dog”.  Well, I certainly didn’t want to argue with that, so I contented myself with gazing at the unusual array of horses and such they had inside.  All manner of same appeared from tiny ponies to something resembling mules to colourful normal sized horses.  How such a collection had been arrived at I was curious to know but would never find out.

                                                       

Back through town I passed the decidedly rustic Buckingham Shack, a corrugated iron abode of mismatched colours with a window either side of the main door and a strange fence of interlocking rings that caught my eye.  The air conditioning consisted of an open front and rear door and I could discern two figures inside.  Someone actually lived there, but what sort of a life was hard for me to imagine.  I’d certainly want a library close by.

                                      

It was time to leave and I bade farewell to the big bucket dredge beside the main road and headed off further west, still with the images of a mining town struggling with the realities of a new century.