By Kathleen Griffin, 09 July 2023
As the club’s newest ex-president, I felt that I had to do some grand hike with our last ex-est-president while he was in Queenstown. But as usual, we faffed around a bit (a lot), & went ski touring with Cassidy, leaving us only one day for magnificence.
Since our own laziness had hindered us, hut-bagging seemed to be the best bet for a meaningful trip. Skippers was the obvious choice with multiple huts yet to be bagged by VUWTC. I’d heard that the road was a bit sketch, but perhaps we weren’t entirely prepared for the rutted and muddy obstacle course it turned out to be.
To begin with, we naively attempted to keep our boots dry, as we were unaware that the rest of the track essentially transformed into a river walk. It was a crisp July morning, so you can imagine the feeling (or lack of).
Reaching the dam we faced our first challenge. There were rocks on the side to climb over, but they were coated in a solid layer of ice. We literally crawled over, trying not to entertain thoughts of a tumble into the raging water below. Numb fingers & toes now, we pondered turning back at this point but decided to push onward, hoping for better fortunes.
It didn’t get better, but it also didn’t get any worse & soon we reached Dynamo Hut. Although it had its charm, it did smell kinda funky. We paused here for lunch, and Patrick found an unopened V, which he gleefully added to his pack as a gift from the hut gods.
On our way again, we popped over to Clyma’s Hut. This was a treasure trove of history, housing the oldest hut book I’d ever seen, from 1994. The odor here was even funkier, so after inspecting all the knick-knacks, we pressed on.
The trail to Archie’s Hut was “unmarked,” but it was arguably better marked than the rest of the path. However, that changed quickly when we went up the Aurum Creek where the track vanished, replaced by very soft snow. Every third step, the snow would give way, sending our shins into Spaniards. Many swear words later, we reached the Aurum Basin.
Archie’s Hut, is quaint with beech tree bunks & a scenic view through its door. With few daylight hours and the impending drop in temperature, we knew we should start hustling back. Amongst the snow we found something that vaguely resembled a trail, only to lose it instantly. After 40 twists of my knee and much whining on my part, Patrick graciously took the lead once more.
Back on the actual trail, it was relatively fine for a while, until we hit the river walk again. Initially, it was manageable, but it very quickly became exceedingly unpleasant. I briefly pondered the dire consequences of falling in.
After an exhausting day, we finally returned to the car. I promptly changed into dry socks, & the relief was nothing short of heavenly. Patrick took the wheel for Skippers Road, but when we switched at the Coronet Peak Road, he instantly dozed off.
Despite it possibly being the coldest I’ve ever been and acquiring hundreds of Spaniard shaped-induced holes in my legs, it was an immensely satisfying day. Hut bagging with an ex-Presidential twist.
