Date: April 2-6
Members: Conor Nelson, Debra Ballard, Jade Beckman, Jason Rosinger, Joshua Woolley, Kabir Khandpur, Lorenzo Posadas-Villegas, Seán Thomson, (commander-in-chief), Simon Yu,
Author: Conor Nelson
It all started on a warm April morning. The sun was shining, the forecast was clear, Seán had once again become drunk on the idea of adventure and Whare’s of Iron. All was as it should be. No time to waste, our hero gathered a team, and by gathered I mean to say that he coerced them through unknown means into spending the week with him, a fate which eventually ended in five men sitting in a tight space, developing severe cramps in unspeakable places due to [further content redacted by trip organiser].
We were a motley bunch. Aside from our Great Leader- whose infamy needs no elaboration- among our ranks were recent Bush Skool graduates (Kabir and Jade), thorough thru-hikers (Debra and Josh), a climber (Jason) getting broken in on “lowgrade slab”, and others (Lorenzo, Simon and Conor) who for some reason thought spending a week walking in the middle of nowhere sounded like a good time.
Stuffed into a pair of cars we set off, entertaining ourselves along the way with all manner of harmless tomfoolery, while still being cautious of committing thoughtcrime… a caution which was very soon forgotten leading to a certain individual being condemned by our Queen, facing progressively severe punishments for correspondingly heinous crimes. “100 years dungeon”, we hear as a comment is made passing through some roadworks. “1000 years dungeon”, we hear as protest is made. In his insolence, the condemned continues down the path of sin. “DUNGEON UNTIL YOUR LINEAGE BEARS A 7th SON OF A 7th SON”, the Queen roars, the boundless grace contained within causing all possums in the vicinity to liquify, soon becoming indistinguishable from their road-bound brethren. Thankfully a compromise was found and this sentence was not enforced.
Instead we rerouted ourselves toward Napier, where our Queen stocked up on drugs, placating their anger for a time. A short detour later we came to arrive at the border of the Kaweka forest. Our car is beginning to let off the smell of bacon through the air con. This was especially concerning as our driver was certain that he’d cleaned the engine after his breakfast. We continued on regardless, eventually coming to the carpark where we inexplicably found ourselves, despite our quick dealings with the local cartel, waiting for an hour before the others finally arrived (One can only imagine what they were doing.....). A short walk up a rather steep slope later and we came to arrive at Dominie Biv, a cute little two-man hut perfect for a romantic getaway with your lover. It comes complete with a water tank, two beds, and an outhouse with only the most glorious view one can imagine. Whilst Jason quickly disappeared to admire the scenery, we set about preparing dinner. There was quite a selection, from a mountain of couscous, to Debra’s finest carbonara, to the rather interesting choice of coleslaw. Personally I believe that my dinner of pasta and mince was the best, if only because it made my pack 3kg lighter. Weary from our travels and well fed, our party quickly set about organising the camp. Whilst a small number would sleep in tents outdoors, the vast majority sought refuge within the mighty Dominie Biv, which with its two beds and small benchtop was perfect for sleeping seven people. After some skilful people-stacking, and careful placement of our resident climber upon the bench, we drifted off into sleep, surrounded by warm dreams.
In the morning we awakened. Josh and myself rather rudely so, with our tent attempting to raise a coupe, charging toward the edge of a cliff- our sleeping bags and bedrolls complicit in the plot…! Thankfully after a short battle they were subdued, with the tent later being confined to the inside of a pack as punishment. The morning’s excitement complete, we shoulder our packs and head off toward the nearest saddle, enjoying the feel of the pseudo-scree as we slip our way down the ridgelines.
We arrived at Makino Hut just after noon, much to our glorious leader’s surprise, and perhaps disappointment. After leaving our mark in the hut book, he immediately ordered a death march (for some) and a casual stroll (for others) onwards to our next destination: the illustrious Mangatainoka Hot Springs. We arrived with plenty of time to pitch recalcitrant tents, locate hidden long drops, and scald uncooperative meals into submission, in varying orders and degrees of urgency. For dessert, hot pools: a tramping club delicacy known as human soup, garnished with a combination of sandflies and a single floating aux cord to taste.
The next day proved to be an arduous one for most. Our destination was Middle Hill Hut, in the midst of countless undulations and PUDs (Pointless Ups and Downs). Out of sheer boredom, Seán and Josh devised a private scheme, which went something like “Eating is cheating!”. The pair grew progressively slower as the day went on, yet both yelped with joy and ran to the hut when we drew near, as only then could they sate their many but surprisingly satiable appetites and thirsts. They have since resolved to carry yoyos in order to prevent future idle mindedness. Bunks were claimed and dinners prepared, namely risotto, macaroni and Debra’s finest apricot chicken over bulgur wheat. That night the group slumbered to the shining stars above and the roaring of stags from their leks on the rolling hills beyond.
Almost as soon as the group had started walking, they approached a crossroads. It was here that the party split. With the “Iron Whare” looming ahead, their long-suppressed disagreements over the merits of Marx’s “DasKapital” surfaced, creating a deep schism in the group. My faction (whose views on the aforementioned Marxistliterature shall remain confidential) decided to turn to the horizon. As the opposing movement gained in strength, we courageously turned and fled back up to the tops, returning to the saddle’s loving embrace. Here we enjoyed some life’s simpler pleasures, which have been omitted in consideration of the more sensitive readers among us. Our bodies were drenched and our spirits quenched, so naturally we had no alternative but to strip our raiments. We marched triumphantly into Makahu Saddle Hut as Nature intended, to nary a lifted eyebrow among the opposition.
The lasting horror of the ordeal remains present in the eyes of all who witnessed it, a lingering fog that refuses to lift.
In a final attempt to raise spirits, our Triumphant Leader unveiled a stash of certain consumable goods, and consume them we did, our orifices becoming tingly in the process, later fizzing orange. Our former mentalities restored, and the vigour of youth returning, Josh set about composing an epic ballad set to the tune of “The Fresh Prince” directly into the hut book, leaving behind a legacy for future generations. The morning sun dawned with her red fingers upon the troupe of comrades. The sane returned to their chariot, destined once more for shining Auckland. The far-gone, however, embarked on one more adventure.
After an eventful freediving expedition (where we stumbled upon the priceless treasures that are sight and friendship), our heroes stopped by Turangi’s op-shop armoury in order to acquire suitable garb for the Ironist Initiation ceremonies of both “Cast Iron” and “Iron Queen”. The unlikely quintet made one final stop at Mangatepopo, to pop up and down Tongariro, before they journeyed forth for a meeting with the almighty “High Temperature”, Lord Grey…


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