Whatever Happened to Georgie Pie?

Hey all... For some reason I have a whole load of trip reports that I forgot to email to Rebecca for Footprints, so thought I might upload them here.

“Whatever Happened to Georgie Pie?” – A Kawekas Adventure.

Listen closely, oh best beloved, and I shall tell you a story. Once, long, long ago, there was a clever prince named Georgie Pie whose people loved him dearly, for he made the best and tastiest pies in all the kingdom. But the wicked lord Mackers was jealous of Georgie Pie, and offered his parents much gold if they would surrender the prince to his evil clutches. The prince’s parents, lured by the villain’s ill-gotten gold, agreed, and thus the fate of Georgie Pie was sealed...

A little closer to home, and considerable less long, long ago, Jeff and I were planning a Kawekas trip, and wondering how we were going to manage to get from Taranaki to Ngaruhoe on Saturday, Nagruhoe to Auckland on Sunday, drop the car back off to my parents in Pukekohe on Monday, and somehow end up in the Kawekas by Tuesday night. This particularly convoluted state of affairs was made even more so by the fact that Eric was somewhere in National Park and completely un-contactable, and that Tommy, who was supposed to be with him, wasn’t. Throw into the mix the fact that Anton wanted a meeting with us on Tuesday morning, and that Rion wanted us to drop off some rocks to Logan’s Dad in Cambridge, and the logistics of the thing started to resemble a particularly intricate Gilbert and Sullivan number with accompanying tap dance.

For the first and only time in my experience, everybody met at Uni exactly on time. I should have known that it was an inauspicious beginning.... We made good time to the Gulleys’ place, and, dodging nimbly through the traffic, were navigating merrily through Cambridge by 11.00. We were just congratulating each other on our collective brilliance, when my phone rang. It was Anton, uttering what were without a doubt the least welcome words I have heard in some time: “Um... you do realise Tommy left his boots sitting in our driveway?”

Faced with such a setback, we each did what we do best. Tommy, alternately swearing and apologising, turned the car violently around, and began what appeared to be an attempt at some diabolic cross between a land-speed record and a game of dodgems. Jeff, the eternal optimist, started making suggestions about everything from buying a pair of Warehouse sneakers to doing the entire tramp in bare feet. Eric asked a lot of confused questions before subsiding into a silence which plainly stated the fact that he considered us all to be lunatic incompetents. I, meanwhile, had decided that the whole trip was doomed anyway, so philosophically resorted to banging my head against the car door.

Several hours, and one incredibly painful detour later, we had finally managed to extricate ourselves from the labyrinth that is the Auckland suburbs, and with the aid of ginger ale and pizza shapes, were beginning to feel cheery again. It was then that Tommy, in an inspired moment, set us all a challenge which was to define the trip - by the time we reached Taupo, we had to collectively compose a story. Our subject: the terrible fate of Georgie Pie.

The evil lord Mackers came by night, armed with a vicious spear of rebranding, and wielding all the power of corporate takeover. Brave Georgie never stood a chance. He was abducted so swiftly and silently that the people were scarcely aware of it. One year he had been there, the next, he had gone, and not a fragment of pie crust remained. The only trace was a faint, sweet scent of sugared blackberry and apple, and the memory of the lingering taste of chicken nuggets with sweet ‘n’ sour dipping sauce. Mackers imprisoned Georgie deep in the bowels of the ghastly pit, Ngaruwahia, but even then, the thought of Georgie Pie still living brought anger to his cholesterol-choked heart. So, in the dead of night, Mackers had Georgie brought in chains to the Huntly power station, and there, the brave prince suffered the fate most terrible to pies – he was overcooked, indeed, crisped to a cinder, and the evil lord Mackers laughed in the manner of all tyrants, and stomped the sad remains of Georgie Pie beneath his oversized red clown shoes....

It was a good game, and kept us well amused for most of the six hour drive. By the time we had finally located the track end, it was dark, and starting to get cold. Any thoughts we might have had about pitching a tent at the track end and sleeping there were soon quelled by the revelation that Jeff had forgotten to pack the tent. We had Eric’s little one-man tent for absolute emergencies, but given that the walk in to the first hut was only three hours, that seemed infinitely preferable to spending a night in the car.

Night time in the Kawekas is an excellent time for walking. The tree cover up along the ridge to Makino hut is fairly thin, and the night was clear and cloudless, allowing us glimpses of the stars through the branches, and the hills silhouetted against the sky. The moon was near full, providing light enough to follow the track without torches. We reached Makino hut in just under half the time suggested by the signposts, and managed to cook dinner and attain the longed-for comfort of our sleeping bags at a relatively civilised hour. Makino is one of the huts currently serving as a base for the Kawekas kiwi breeding programme, and several juveniles have this year been released near the hut. The hut book recorded many instances of trampers hearing kiwi, and even a couple of sightings. Needless to say, we weren’t so lucky, but there was still something rather special in knowing that they were nearby, and were probably aware of us even if we weren’t aware of them!

The weather on Wednesday morning was gorgeous, though cold enough for there to be snow on the helicopter pad near the hut. Much of the day seemed to consist of climbing hills of ever-increasing height and steepness. Eric, of course, pranced nimbly up from ridge to ridge with all the agility of a mountain goat, and consequently spent a great deal of time waiting around at the top of ridges for the rest of us to materialise. Luckily for him, however, he possesses the curious ability to sleep absolutely anywhere, so, whilst the rest of us were meandering up the hillsides in shirts and shorts enjoying the sunshine, Eric, bundled up in anorak and overtrou, was happily snoozing away up on the tops. Once up out of the treeline the weather proved to be so glorious that we decided we might as well change our plans and head straight for Back Ridge hut. This meant traversing the best part of the range in one day, but with a beautiful crisp layer of snow and a cloudless, cobalt-blue sky extending from horizon to horizon and offering amazing views in every direction it was more than worth it. The first and only patch of difficulty came when, on our way up to the North Kaweka trig, I managed, with all my customary grace and poise, to trip over my own feet and fall several metres down a slope. I had cause to be very thankful to Owen and Joe for ever having taught me how to self-arrest, but still managed to shred several layers of skin off my elbow and thigh, proving yet again that mountaineering in shorts is not a good idea, kiddies...

We played around on North Kaweka for a bit, climbing the trig, and anything else we happened to find, before heading on down to Back Ridge hut. The defining feature of the hut was undoubtedly the trip to the long drop, which was roughly equivalent to an assault on a particularly well defended medieval fortress, necessitating the crossing of a perilous river on an icy log, followed by twenty minutes of wading through thigh-high slush whilst ducking vindictive swipes from snow-laden branches.

The spirit of Georgie Pie, however, could not be so easily destroyed. It rose from the acrid chimneys of Huntly, and drifted gently across the Tasman to Australia, where it fell as a gentle rain, enriching the grass of the outback. The grass, naturally enough, was then eaten by a passing wombat, who was thus imbued with the extraordinary powers of the George. This might indeed have led the triumphant return of Georgie to his rightful place in our hearts and stomachs, but alas, it was not to be. The wombat was shot by an over-zealous hunter, and his pelt made into a mankini of great furriness and splendour.....

On Thursday, we woke to discover that our thermometer (Tommy’s watch) had frozen to the table. In pursuit of sunshine, therefore, we headed back up to the tops. The sky was still that glorious shade of blue that one associates with jays’ wings or copper sulphate crystals but the wind had come up, twisting the clouds into fantastical shapes. Kaweka J, when we reached it, was rather anticlimactic, and far less impressive than North Kaweka, despite being the highest peak in the range. We each dutifully placed a rock on the memorial cairn, and wandered back down the eastern side of the ridge. Dominie biv provided a convenient lunch spot, and we proved conclusively that raspberry Raro definitely makes the best slushies. We also discovered what is beyond a doubt the world’s most scenically placed long drop – with a door that is designed to stay closed only if there is no one inside, thus allowing the user unimpeded views across the range.

After reaching the treeline again sometime in the early afternoon, we made camp that night in a similar biv at Kaweka Flats. It was decidedly cosy, with just enough room for the four of us to lie at full length provided the packs stayed outside. We played 500, drank ouzo, and snickered at the comments in the vistors’ book, which faithfully informed us that a certain Rion Gulley is an atrocious singer. In the small hours of the morning we were woken by a couple of hunters who wrenched the door open and cheerfully interrogated us whilst we blinked feebly like possums in the light of their head torches, and attempted to muster coherent replies. Eventually it seemed to occur to one of them that they might have been keeping us from our repose, and they wandered off to pitch a tent in a patch of scrub.

The wombat-mankini was eagerly snatched up by a visiting Khazakistani named Borat, who took it home to his native land and wore it with much pride. Until, that is, he very inconveniently decided to become gay, dye his hair blond, and transform the wombat-mankini into a pair of ugg-boots. Upon relocating to Austria, he discovered to his eternal shame that ugg-boots had been out of fashion for decades, and so the faithful wombat fur boots containing the spirit of our beloved George were unceremoniously cast off to an op-shop, and spent the next few years travelling the mountains of Austria upon one pair or another of lederhosen-clad legs.

Friday involved a walk back up the entire length of the ridge line, having to go up and over every spur without the excitement of snow or decent views. The weather had turned grey and sulky, so we were all rather glad to reach the lodge that evening. The lodge, as the name implies, is most definitely NOT a back country hut. It has three tables, sleeps approximately 50, and is provided with built-in gas stoves. Feeling somewhat intimidated by all this luxury, we elected to wander up to the hot pools for the evening. Jeff hit upon the brilliant idea of fondue, so we lazed around in the hot water and floated a billy back and forth, gorging ourselves on chocolate-dipped marshmallows, almonds, apricots, apple, and whatever else we could find really. The whole procedure was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone, including the lactose-intolerant Jeff who, whilst unable to eat any of it, apparently ‘gained enjoyment from our enjoyment’. A highly recommended conclusion to any trip.

Finally, the wombat boots ended up in a monastery high up in the Alps, where they were much appreciated by the resident nuns (yes, nuns) for their implicit kinkiness. And doubt not, oh best-beloved, that the wombat boots reside there still, waiting for some brave tramper to traverse the wild lands between in search of them, and to release the spirit of Georgie Pie in preparation for his triumphant return.

Hic jacet Georgius Rex,
Quondam Rex que Futurus.

And the fantastic four were: Jeff Ducrot (culinary genius, and fondue expert extraordinaire), Eric Lalot (Frenchman, narcoleptic, and mountain goat), Tommy Fergusson (who will always remember his boots from now on), and Kathleen Collier (who should probably stock up on the bandage component of her first aid kit...).