Adventured Oct 21

This was my entry to the NZ Outdoor Photo Story Competition 2022. Its a really cool new (in 2022) competition where participants are challenged to submit up to 5 photos and 1,000 words about an adventure they’ve had in the outdoors. Both the photos and the story are weighted equally, and it produced some really cool tales, with a bit of background behind the epic instagram posts!

There will be longer post(s) about this adventure in the future, because it was truly epic.

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A South Westland Week

A trickle ran down my neck. I shivered and pulled my sodden jacket closer around my face. Sandra and Nick looked equally miserable. Hunched beneath a log the three of us chomped on sodden wraps and stared out into the rain. Nick swallowed the last of his and stuffed the rubbish into a pouch and hauled his pack out of the dank South Westland soil. We locked eyes for a few long moments. Waves of mist floated through the trees. He turned and disappeared into a tangle of twisted trunks.

Thin fingers clutched at my pack and tugged at my jacket. My boots scraped furrows in the soil as I struggled up through the relentless bush. My paddle seemed to snag on every branch. Time crept by with the careless slowdom that can only be found when suffering. Up we climbed, dripping and defenseless. The bush turned to scrub and added variation to our struggle. A thick shroud of fog hung about us. A small white bubble, a hill, lots of scrub and three adventurers.

Through the fog, I glimpsed a horizon. A glimmer of hope flickered deep in the back of my mind. The horizon turned into a plateau and the glimmer glowed stronger. My eyes darted along the plateau searching its every detail. We huddled around the map and jammed grubby fingers at its various plateaus. Then the thick white curtains, until now held so jealously closed, drew back to reveal the grandeur of the scene. Scarred and jagged mountains hung above us on all sides, and most glorious of all, the revelation we had arrived at our campsite. The sun cast vivid colour onto this magic world and Nick threw open his arms, basking in the warmth and the glorious mountains.

I gasped as I sucked deep mouthfuls of the crisp air. The sky was lit in brilliant cobalt blue. The black pool of the valley below stood in stark contrast, as the light had not yet reached it.

We followed the jagged axe edge of a ridge. The mountain dropped away into dramatic valleys on both sides. The laughing cry of kea drifted down to us, and on a day like this it was easy to turn our squinting eyes upwards and laugh back. They swooped and careered around us, taking turns to fly in close, before launching away, cackling.

The rain of the day before was a memory, I looked over my shoulder and saw Nick and Sandras’ teeth glinting like the snow. We scrambled around scrub choked bluffs, wriggled under boulders, and skirted across snowy faces. My paddle had never looked so out of place, held across the body and stabbing into the snow for support. Far below us, the tiny speck of a hut drew closer.

Three lights bobbed along the riverbed, flashing on boulders and tussock. The river rushed nearby, nearly drowning the rustle of our drysuits. I felt the first hot bead of sweat run down my back. Out of the darkness the shine of my headlight glinted back at me from a dark mass ahead. We were close.

I dumped my pack on the gravel. Fog rolled into the shore of the glacial lake. The black had softened to a violent blue, and I stared between squeezes of the filler bag at the grand theatre appearing around me.

The day was still young as we eased the packrafts from the shore into the lake. A tide of emotion washed over me. Who had paddled this lake before? I didn’t know their names, but I knew it was a short list.

The water hissed against the hull of the boats, punctuated by the slapping of paddles in the water in the still morning air.

At the other end of the lake we stood, amazed and silent. The mountains rumbled, as avalanches and icefalls crashed into the valley. It was not a place to linger.

The silence was disturbed by the gushing of air of deflating packrafts. There was a pass to get over today, and the weather threatened once again.

The river lapped at the boulder I stood on. The crossing of the glacier lake felt so long ago. It had been two days since we had last blown up the packrafts. In that time, we had struggled over a mountain pass, down the upper reaches of the river and boulder bashed our way through a gorge. At last, the river looked paddleable. The sieves of the upper section now largely behind us, it was time to get on the water again. Excitement buzzed in the air. It was time. Sandra hung in the current above the first drop, before spinning and pulling an immaculate boof over the lip. We followed with less grace and whiter knuckles.

It was slow going. No quicker than the tedious work of the boulders on the bank. But the whitewater was a change and the feeling of adventure nourished us.

I hauled my boat over the boulders, trudging around a rapid. I dumped my boat beside Sandra and turned to see Nick charge into the current. Angry white foam stormed around his boat. He pulled a few hard strokes and bounced through the crux move. I felt my breath ease out of my lungs. Grinning, he turned to face the final move. The river had other ideas. The current snatched the bow of his boat and hurtled him sideways against the buffer wave. Sandra sunk into a crouch. No sooner had his head reappeared from the waves than the rope snaked through the air. He flung a snatching hand towards it and swung to safety.

The roar of the rapids receded as we exited the final gorge. Deep calm and accomplishment settled over the group. For seven days, every kilometer had been difficult and tiring. Now they floated by with mindless ease, the river drawing us to the end of our trip. Battered, exhausted and satisfied, we let it.

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Make sure you get your entry in for the NZ Outdoor Photo Story Competition!