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Wrong Turn on to the Central Otago Rail Trail
Posted On 2009-10-25 , 3:40 PM
After pledging to sharpen up and improve our fitness, and it wasn’t even New Year, my good friend Val and I had rushed off and bought nice shiny bright red Mountain Bikes from an enthusiastic bike shop owner in the small lake side town of Cromwell, in Central Otago, New Zealand. The owner operator was so caught up in our excitement and long term planning that he threw in water bottles, helmets and a free check up (on the bikes) in the next 4 weeks.
Our first expedition the following week, was to be a short ride alongside the Clutha River from Clyde to Alexandra, both small fruit growing townships in the arid countryside of Central Otago. We whizzed through the ankle deep autumn leaves along the riverside track stopping to watch fish jump, vowing to bring along fishing rods next time, after all we had been to fly fishing courses hadn’t we, and spent hours untangling our lines out of the willow trees.
Along the way we explored derelict gold mines and eventually stopped for some lunch, designer bread and a tin of sardines quickly thrown together. The sardine tin refused to open despite much verbal and physical abuse, so it was designer bread only, washed down with warm water. On we rode through the township of Alexandra and onto a section of the Otago Central Rail Trail that was to take us back to the vehicle we had left in Clyde Township - this last leg should have been an 8-10km ride.
The Central Otago Rail Trail had been set up when the train line from Dunedin, on the east coast of the South Island, to Cromwell became obsolete. It was picked up by an enterprising trust after the lines were sold off and the railway sleepers which were, and still are, very trendy garden accessories fetching great prices. This acquisition smoothed the way for a four day adventure bike ride through arid sun drenched countryside; gorges, tunnels, and passing many old hotels and pubs that were alive and well during the gold mining era in the 1860’s. These relics of the past have all been revamped, reinvented and provide great sleepover accommodation with delicious fresh local gourmet menus and excellent selections of Central Otago wines, which are world class. So what more does one need?
So off we rode, heads down chattering non stop, until after about an hour we stopped took a look around us, and voila - these weren’t the Clyde Hills as we knew them - we had gone blindly off in the wrong direction! The tin of sardines was still not opening, we were literally starving, but we found a laden apple tree and feasted off that whilst deciding which way to go, back or forward.
The decision was to ride on, as we must reach a pub or café soon so we rode on and on getting deeper and deeper into foreign country side. I was booked to go to the movies that evening with friends, so I called my husband (cell phone) to cancel the arrangements as we were lost on the Rail Trail. His comment was “How the $!!?/# do you get lost on a Railway line?” - Well you could, we did and we were.
So it was onto the next tree - the next corner - and yea! around the next corner there were buildings with red roofs. Falling off our bikes with excitement we could hardly walk to the counter of the Chatto Creek Tavern, I will love that place forever. After ordering cappuccinos and chicken wraps, the best we have ever tasted, we regaled the bar with our plight.
The general consensus was to go back the way we had come – but as we could barely make the counter from the bike seat we had to think of smarter options. Then the owner of the establishment came to the rescue. We could take her car the 15kms back to Clyde, collect our vehicle and come back to collect the bikes. Whew - forever grateful we fell into her ‘BRIGHT SHINY RED SPORTS CAR WITH THE ROOF DOWN’ - driving took on a new dimension; we vowed to exchange our boring grannies cars for one of these - after all our bikes would look pretty smart on the back of one of these numbers, with the designer sunglasses on of course - on second thoughts the bikes wouldn’t even fit on the back of one of these delicious little cars.
Back to Chatto Creek and a ‘few’ chardonnays later we departed for the journey home, best friends with everyone in the establishment and prepared to get plenty of ragging from our partners and family when we finally got home. They didn’t let us down!
A few weeks later I dropped into Chatto Creek with a team of organised cyclists, having biked for 2 days solid I couldn’t let them pass Chatto Creek Tavern without having one of their very delicious chicken wraps.
As I crossed the threshold a voice bellowed out “WHOEVER LET YOU OUT AGAIN”
And that’s another story.
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Buy Travel Insurance - To Do it or not To Do it?
Posted On 2009-10-13 , 6:51 PM
Zipping back and forth across the Tasman and popping up to Asia occasionally, we had never ventured out of the country with out Travel Insurance.
We always deliberated over the issue - could we risk avoiding buying Travel Insurance or alternatively should we be responsible and lash out and buy - lashing out always won. Then there was the pouring over pamphlets and latterly web sights to see who had the best deal, because that’s what we were after the very best deal available.
Insurance had always conjured up images of tall concrete sky scrapers totally owned by ‘The Insurance Companies’ financed by my humble contributions. It’s called ‘Peace of Mind’ by some, whilst others referred to it as ‘The White Mans Plague’. I wanted to belong to the latter group but somehow my wanting to be in control of my life I always joined the “Peace of Mind” group.
After many years of buying and never using, which I must add, we were totally fortunate, ‘The Insurance Companies’ were certainly on the make here, I tried to resist on our last trip. The general plan when you go to distant shores is enjoy new climates and cultures and that you stay healthy, and you certainly work on this as the last thing you want is to end up in a foreign hospital out of control of your life.
You certainly don’t want to lose your luggage, your digital camera, notebook computer etc. not that we generally take anything of value but our whole life is on the computer all the family photos, I should imagine it would be totally inconvenient to have to replace your gear in a foreign country, even though you have the occasional flash of tossing the whole wardrobe and splashing out, it all gets too hard and takes valuable time.
Last trip we made a calculated decision not to buy Travel Insurance, and the very next day ABC television announced a really sad story of an Australian man who went to India minus insurance, which he no doubt cursed the day he made that decision, he fell down a bank whilst walking down a road and injured himself so badly he wound up a paraplegic. His medical bills to date were $35,000 and my bet is India isn’t the most expensive medical destination in the world. To fly him back to Australia it was going to cost him a cool $250,000. A really sad story, well presented on TV and lucky for him appealed to the Australian public and no doubt the airlines. The funds were quickly raised for him to return to his friends and family.
Then I recalled the horrendous time my niece had, contracting Malaria in Indonesia, she knowingly hopped a plane to Kuala Lumpur and ending up in Hospital there on renal dialysis and life support. My sister fronted up every morning at Administration to pay her daily NZ$1,000, which fortunately the Insurance Company reimbursed. They couldn’t have been more helpful, bringing in translators, supplying accommodation, support person and constantly checking on her and my niece’s progress.
Ah so this is where the money goes. I didn’t mind a bit of that although I would have preferred my niece not to have had the horrendous experience. Fortunately the story has a happy ending, and despite all odds Pip now participates in Iron woman competitions and runs marathons, etc.
I digress - so a quick turn around, we could not wander or explore and enjoy distant shores knowing we could be a liability to our family. So ‘Peace of Mind’ lured its lovely head yet again and off we ventured not a worry in the world knowing if anything happened we would be taken care of.
I do strongly recommend if you can’t afford Travel Insurance - stay at home - or lower your sights and aspirations and buy it, do the back packers and eat McDonalds - way to go, at least you get to go.
We do recommend Travel Insurance - it’s affordable, covers the field, and we know they do care when the chips are down.
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A Wet Trip on the Famous Routeburn Track
Posted On 2009-10-08 , 10:12 PM
 My friend from Brisbane, that I had met whilst we both were doing an 8 week contract at the Cooktown Hospital one winter, decided to come across to New Zealand and hike the famous Routeburn Track, of course I couldn’t let her do it alone.
We had had a great eight weeks together at Cooktown ‘Hash House Harriers’ where we plunged into the Australian bush, following pieces of toilet paper attached to trees, ending up at a fellow Harrier’s yard, whilst he/she stumbled off to rescue a pot of Cooktown stew and arrive back still jogging with it under his sweaty armpit.
We climbed Mt Cook, the highest Mountain in the region which saved me climbing ‘Mt Cook’ at home which is about 3300m higher than the Cooktown model. We hiked to isolated beaches, explored WW11 relics along the isolated coast line and enjoyed fun meals together.
We then planned to walk the Routeburn track together and established that Feb was the best time for weather, generally being settled at that time and warm enough for an Aussie to handle, me being a Kiwi I was used to diverse weather conditions. Her daughter and partner also decided to accompany her which was great, the only small problem being that these three delightful people didn’t eat anything that had been killed!!!!
Now here was a challenge, I was pretty excited about them coming to our lovely town and planned lots of sightseeing and fun places to explore before our 3 day 2 night hike. I sat in the sun and devoured vegan recipe books, jotted own menus, trialled vegan dishes on my carnivore shoot anything with 4 legs husband. In fact even the poor old shag that settled on a jetty pole above the lake in front of our house got plugged as they allegedly stole our fish. Wow - heavy stuff, it took a few years of convincing that the shags were more entitled to the fish than us.
Anyhow back to the Routeburn Track. Having walked it many times in soaring temperatures, snow, sleet, rain, and high winds, I launched into booking beds, coach trips to and from the track, organising dehydrated food and stocking my fridge with anything which was grain, pasta, had a root system or pips.
After decking out my friends with suitable beanies, gloves and thermals that are simply not on the list of what you need to wear in Brisbane, departure day arrived, up early and boarded a bus to the ‘Divide’ (502m) on the Milford Road, the start of the Routeburn Track walking West to East.
The weather forecast was grim and sadly it never reads wrong, despite what the cynics say. Unfolding ourselves out of the bus we tugged our wet weather gear on and disappeared into the thick beech forest on a steadily up hill climb to Key Summit 980m, at Key Summit the general rule of thumb is to lounge around for hours drenched in 180degree mountains snapping off more photos than you need, of course we saw nothing. I didn’t even want to describe what they were missing as that was like rubbing salt into a wound.
On we trundled, stopping Lake Howden for lunch, and to kill a few million sand flies, 3 hours later we arrived at Lake McKenzie Hut on the shores of Lake McKenzie. The first time I ever arrived at this hut was in the 1960s, a new one has since been built, although my memories of the old one linger and are probably grander than it was, the lake was a scum of soap suds, true everyone went down to the lake washed their bodies, hair and clothes, and a fine dirty scum covered the whole mountain lake which has a very small outlet.
Since those intrepid days Fiordland National Park and Mount Aspiring National Park have been formed and the Department of Conservation have management of the parks, plus people today are totally aware of the devastation of leaving that trail of human debris behind.
We fortunately got a view of the lake and walked a little way around it, the next morning when we scrambled over the rocks and rubble, and small waterfalls on the steep switch back track out of the valley and onto the Hollyford Face, we did get glimpses of the valley floor far below and it was spectacular, with clouds swirling around the Mountain peaks, photos were snapped in-between buckets full of rain falling.
The alpine flowers thriving in this environment and the mosses and ferns were alive and well. We wound our way around the Hollyford Face head first into the wind and rain, as the shelter on the top appeared so did our spirits – a hot cup-a-soup with crackers and some dried fruit and nuts which the chocolate had long been picked out – yum. We rested a bit, swapped stories with other trampers as they are called in New Zealand, whilst the young ones of the party strode off up Conical Hill (1515m) for that elusive view over the Fiordland Mountains, I personally saw no need to extend myself having been there before in dry weather.
Off we hiked over the Harris Saddle (1255m) and wound out way around Lake Harris, which I had to admit looked like a grey austere rather large puddle in the slate grey mountains. I have seen this Lake in it’s many moods, the one I like most is the sunny day where you can see a dragon fly buzz up the lake leaving a flies wake in its tracks. The smells of the sun warmed fell fields and the warm water trickling over the rocks into the lake have tempted us to swim in there strictly to cool off, but no Olympian strokes in those chilled waters.
The rocks were pretty slippery by now so we carefully picked our way to Routeburn Falls, aptly named after all the water that trickles or gushes down the mountain sides and gathers at the ‘Falls’ that spill over the hillside before dropping into the lower Routeburn Valley. The Routeburn was named in the early 1880s being the Route up the river and over the Mountains to the West Coast Greenstone or pounamu deposits that were used by the Maori people for making weapons and tools.
Routeburn Falls is a favourite place on a hot day where Mt Cook Lilies cling to the steep rocky sides of the falls and on a sunny day it is a favourite place to plunge into the chilly waters and cool off quickly. But not tonight, a quick glimpse and back to the shelter of the 40 bed hut as snow flakes were beginning to fall - this got the Aussies really excited.
The bunk room was pretty much full so we found a spot by the door, as 20 sweaty bodies in one long room can be claustrophobic. And I have an affinity with the door - first out if there is a fire - that’s me. The next morning the rain was relentless with small clearances we glimpsed the mountains around us with that summer dusting of snow, which looked pretty spectacular, more so if it didn’t happen to be February.
It was all down hill from here the forest was lush and green and the large beech trees sheltered us somewhat from the pelting rain. The Routeburn was roaring down the gorge pounding the huge rocks on its way out to the Dart valley far below. Three hours later we reached the end of the track on the Routeburn side, the new shelter which has been recently built was a welcoming sight.
We boarded a pre-arranged with our friend Pete, bus back to Queenstown, Pete operates an award winning Day Walks and Heli Hikes business out of Queenstown, known for his jokes, humour and knowledge he uplifted our spirits and certainly was a diversion from the sodden clothes we were silently enduring.
Pete filled us in on his new winter venture - ‘Snow Shoeing’ in the Mountains around Queenstown, there had been keen interest internationally and bookings were looking good so guess what, we are lined up for a shot at that, and fingers crossed for a bright sunny day. 
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Hiking Gillespies Pass in the Southern Alps of New Zealand
Posted On 2009-09-09 , 9:36 PM
Friends from all over the South Island of New Zealand managed to get together for three days to hike the Wilkin - Young route over Gillespie’s Pass. At 1500m right in the heart of Mount Aspiring National Park, this rather taxing hike could only be described as spectacular despite the changeable weather we experienced.
We all met and spent the night at Makarora, a small pastoral settlement on the banks of the Makoara River, there was lots of chat, catching up on gossip and sorting out hiking gear and food. The long term weather forecast was dodgy, but we figured good keen southern women could handle anything.
My husband decided to come along as the token male at the eleventh hour for which I was pretty happy about, as a cold front was washing up the country, his life long mountain experience wouldn’t go amiss. The possibility of off loading some of my gear on him is a plus. Plus it’s always good to have a man about the house.
We were all pretty keen to climb up to Lake Crucible a small mountain lake on Mount Alba; this would be a full day side trip. To save a day we elected to take a fixed wing aircraft into the Siberia Valley early in the morning, dump our packs at the hut and go ‘DO’ Lake Crucible that day, and we would leave a car on the other side of the Makarora River for our return journey.
After a good sleep and a healthy breakfast we took the 25 minute flight into the remote Siberia Valley and surprise, surprise, the valley did not at all resemble its name, no austere grey rocks and rubble, no salt mines, bogs and stunted undergrowth. The valley floor was a mass of wild flowers; the rugged mountains soared high above us, with many hanging valleys and glaciers. A delightful mountain stream gurgled its way across the valley to drop down the steep mountain side to the Wilkin River far below.
This had to be heaven - until we took our off boots to wade the cute little stream that intercepted with our nights accommodation – wow! It was colder than cold. After warming our numbed feet we dumped our packs on bunks in the hut and set off along the valley floor absorbing the sheer beauty of the place.
The markers turned abruptly up out of the valley into the beech forest for the 880m ascent. The steady up hill seemed relentless; I had just finished a stint of night duty so wasn’t on top form, all body functions were ass about face, this was the hardest work I had done since I had had my babies, whilst my school teacher daughter loped effortlessly uphill I figured the relevance of age. Oh yeah - I had been in denial.
Coming out of the forest at the tree line gave us all a new lease of life. The sky was blue, the midday sun was beating down, the boulders got bigger and the scree became more unstable. Over a moraine mound and there was Lake Crucible, and wow! It had real ice bergs, no need to do that Antarctic trip that was on the wish list. This was a photographer’s heaven. We settled on a hot rock to enjoy lunch surrounded by this amazing panorama, crickets croaking around us the alpine grasses smelling sweet, Kea’s circling high in the sky eyeing up a free lunch, sorry guys not today.
What an amazing day on top of the world - tired and weary we made our way down the steep mountain side, along the valley floor to our very welcoming mountain hut and yeah we had it to ourselves. And the very best thing about the husband coming along, besides his great company and mountain experience, is that he loves to carry in red wine, I myself would do water and hope it would turn into wine, but somehow that doesn’t happen.
The next morning we woke to rain pattering on the tin roof – ‘damn’ the cold front had come through. Wrapping up in all our wet weather gear we looked up into the mist shrouding the steep route up to Gillespie Pass and it did not look at all welcoming. During the 550m ascent from the hut, the rain continued pelting down turning to sleet the higher we climbed, snug under all the layers of poly prop, gortex and water proof boots we plugged on into the mist and on reaching the summit where it was zero degrees the cloud dispersed long enough for us to take a few snap shots of the great views of the Southern Alps. Stunning is all we could say mainly because we were slightly short wind.
Over Gillespies Pass we plodded and down the 550m descent into the Young Valley, the rocky track wound its way down the mountain side awash with Alpine flora, gentians, orissas, buttercups, the Mt Cook Lillie’s had just finished blooming but their dead heads stood tall on healthy stems, small ferns grasses and mosses mingled with the rivulets of water running down the steep mountain side all good enough to drink.
The Young Hut was so welcoming set on the valley floor surrounded by soaring mountains, 100 pictures later we wrung out our wet top layers and hung them up to dry, which they didn’t, warming up we cooked up some truly gourmet instant soup followed by packet pasta, but sadly no wine tonight girls.
A few games of cards by candle light, lots of jokes and gossip - we hadn’t run out yet, we turned in for the night. Only to be woken by crashing thunder followed by flashes of lightening. The bounce rate off the mountain side had a wow factor. It was consistent and so loud you felt the mountain side would crumble.
The next morning was a valley walk out to the Makarora River where we had left our car on the other side. The forest was magnificent, the ferns and mosses thriving in this wet environment. The thunder and lightening didn’t let up as we trundled down the track over gushing streams holding hands terrified of being swept into the raging river below.
Around midday at the insistence of our lone male we stopped to have hot soup and soggy bread and 4 hours later we arrived tired, wet, hungry and happy at the swirling mass of water, the Makarora River - no way could we wade across. There was a small shelter with only a roof so we decided this was it for the night, not quiet the Hilton - but we all had excellent down sleeping bags.
It was then that we spotted a red button on the side of the structure and a worn out notice saying “ring this buzzer and the National Park Office will answer”!! With fingers crossed that they hadn’t closed early, we rang that buzzer, and lo a human voice, no music, no press one for a jet boat hire, 2 for human resources and 3 for bookings. They could send a jet boat up for us but were so sorry it would cost $40.00 each, I’m sure we would all have paid ten times as much to get to the other side. The ‘other side’ had taken on a new meaning, hot shower, dry clothes, good food, and the all enticing warm dry bed.
The trip back down river was scary but our trusty boat driver was so experienced and confident we merely clung onto the rails till our fingers went numb and rolled with it; the boat was tossed like a match box in the ocean. But a hot shower changes everything, with renewed energy and zest we devoured huge steaks and salad washed down with no not pure organic mountain water, but beautiful mellow truly palatable New Zealand Merlot.
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Chaos at the Hanoi Railway Station
Posted On 2009-07-21 , 2:44 AM
Finding ourselves only partially stunned in the streets of Hanoi North Vietnam with cook ups and sweet smells wafting from alley ways, pre school tables and chairs out on the pavement luring customers to sit down- yeah and break their chairs- and eat their noodles.
Mass motor bikes powering along the roads in unison the drivers gloved and masked. Finding the prescribed travel agent who was to escort us to the railway station was a synch on a tuk tuk. A bit in awe of the need for an escort we soon found out why it was totally essential, the Hanoi railway station was total mayhem, we were lead like babes in the woods through the seething throngs of humanity to our allotted carriage on the overnight train to Sapa.
How this agile quick thinking, know everyone guide knew where he was going was one of life’s great mysteries. We were poked onto the train stunned beyond help. The fierce guards opened and slammed flimsy doors that we were advised to lock, checking and double checking tickets, the bunk beds were suspect, two other tourists shared the sleeper with us, the linen a subtle shade of gray, the bathroom and toilets awash, food was hawked through the carriages. The train rocked and rolled out of Hanoi 260kms into the mountains of the North West.
We hunkered down for a nights sleep which simply didn’t happen, the higher we got the colder the carriage got, so at day break the best option was rather than fawning sleep, to brave the bathroom and absorb the passing vistas. Wise move, the train climbed steadily to 1600m passing bamboo stands, terraced gardens, paddy fields, corn crops and small railway villages supporting assorted livestock, no caged animals here. Every living thing had complete freedom of the mountain side. Industrious farmers out tending crops at 5am seemed extreme, but held us in raptures with our noses pressed against the window of the train.
It was wonderful to pour off the train at the city of Lao Cai, and who knows how anyone knew but every mini bus driver had a mission and knew who his clients were, and off we went on the last lap of the journey winding up the mountain side to Sapa at 1600m above sea level.
I started mentally preparing myself for the return journey, was there a better way out of this mountain retreat? I happily forgot the mission and immerged into the culture of the place, who wouldn’t, it was great.
Returning to Hanoi by train was a complete contrast for the same price, whiter than white bed linen, a red rose on the pillow, a dainty tray of bottled water snack biscuits, fruit and juice. The bathroom was pristine and no fierce guards. Had I been dreaming – no - arriving at Hanoi at 5am, the place was unrecognisable. Nothing open, the streets were clean and empty, we did find some breakfast and board a coach for Ha Long Bay, but that’s another story.
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