Frocks on Frew
‘This is the stuff dreams are made of’ said Dave the possum trapper, his mouth dropping slightly ajar in astonishment as beads of soapy water dripped from his eyelashes.
Only moments earlier had Dave bent to wash his face in the outdoor sink at Frew Hut, blissfully unaware that whilst washing away a day’s hard work he was also washing away his post Covid bubble of serenity. His last night of peaceful solitude disappeared down the drain as nine wāhine appeared one by one out of the bush line.
It was mid-winter and at 330pm, dusk was fast encroaching upon the West Coast’s Whitcombe Valley. That difficult time in the afternoon knowing you could easily get in another hour tramping before dark, yet was it really worth it? This was the discussion we’d had as a group just ten minutes back down the track. In what I can only imagine is typical Outward Bound fashion, we sat round in a group and discussed our options. The DOC sign pointed right to Frew Hut or left to Frew Saddle; a 6Km steep ascent suggesting 5 hours. Day one and feeling fresh, it wouldn’t hurt to put in another few hours before setting up camp we thought. We had a couple of pretty gnarly days ahead, requiring hard slogs over rough terrain with limited daylight hours, so squeezing in all we could definitely wasn’t a bad option. The alternative was to get up well before dawn and attack the climb to Frew with fresh legs and sharp eyes. Afterall no one really knew for sure if we would even find a suitable place to pitch a camp for nine en route. Worst case scenario we’d find ourselves on Frew saddle at midnight, starving, tired and likely pissed off at those who voted to keep going. One of which being me. How glad am I the majority voted we turn in early for the day.
So, a night with Dave in the 10 (wo)man hut it was. Resolved to the fact he wasn’t hallucinating, Dave turned out to be a very amicable guy and highly knowledgeable in the art of trapping and skinning possums.
See I was the only non-Outward Bound instructor on this trip and having never officially ‘done’ Outward Bound myself I could only imagine this was their initiation process of me into their posse. Think Outward Bound journey on steroids. A week before lockdown I’d completed running the length of New Zealand on the Te Araroa Trail, a feat I felt had earnt me the honor of joining such an epic group of wonderful humans. They knew I had the legs, but could my mind cope with the grueling terrain, freezing rivers, limited daylight hours and above all, a frock wearing dance party?!
If reaching Frew Saddle safely wasn’t cause for a dance party in itself, finding what must be DOC’s entire emergency supply of loo roll in the most well stocked back country Bivvy in New Zealand for sure was! Que the frocks on Frew dance party! How surreal to be dancing on a remote saddle in glorious sunshine whilst surrounded by epically stunning scenery. It felt like we were starring in some kind of pop music video. Except we weren’t dancing for anyone other than ourselves. The sheer joy and delight from dancing, literally like no one was watching, was all-empowering. Nine strong and beautiful wāhine feeling like bosses.
From Frew Saddle we slid through spikey Spaniard down into the Hokitika River. Navigating through its freezing waters we zigzagged across the riverbed, our toes taking the full brunt of the Hokitika’s icy apathy. The shadows cast by the surrounding mountains rapidly engulfed us and by 2pm the valley had fallen into sub-zero temperatures. We scrambled to stay upright on the frozen rocks and our fingers locked painfully around our hiking poles. Our slow speed meant Poet Hut would not be in our grasp before nightfall. The West Coast had embraced me in its heartless cold, and I realized this was a far cry from the summer warmth of the Te Araroa Trail.
The fall of darkness changes nothing and everything. The intensity of the raging Mungo River rapids grew ten-fold, scrambling over huge frosty boulders I became extremely aware that one slip could end up with a dangerously wet ride back to Hokitika. The river’s roar caused a silence to fall amongst us, the effort of being heard over the noise of the river was too much, instead our hungry bellies navigated us the last few kilometers to Poet Hut. We all shared that same feeling anyway, no need to complain about our numb feet, sore legs or vocalize that nagging question in our heads ‘how much further is it?’.
The 4-bunk Poet Hut slept nine that night. Decked with fairy lights it became our luxury AirBnB. Damp socks hung to dry over a roaring fire and finally with warm hands and hearts, our laughter turned to soft breaths of sleep.
Another pre-dawn wake up followed with a second leg burning, lung busting climb to Toaroha Saddle which woke us from our sleepy stupor. Hot brews in the saddle’s Bivvy were joined by taunts from cheeky Kea; intrigued by both our hotchpotch of retro thermals and the sweet smell of morning tea. Some ladies even chose to exploit their femininity by continuing down the steep muddy guts of Bannatyne Creek wearing their dance party attire.
Finally, the call of Cedar Flats hot springs could be heard echoing up the Toaroha valley. We were nine grimy, scraped and bruised wāhine, beelining down boulders to get to those hot springs by night fall. Nothing was getting in our way. My shoes strapped against their will with electrical tape were making that final stretch with me. Blisters gained but friendships strengthened, I think I’d made it into the OB whānau.
For the joy and nourishment gained from this all-female epic adventure, I feel part of my heart and soul were left in that West Coast wilderness, or at the very least, part of my green tutu.
