Holdsworth-Dorset-Carmeek-Ohau

This is [unclear: not] your conventional ego-inflating trip account of interest only to party members. It is a libellous inflamentory account of the dupin of several good keen men. Certin things, like the time of the trip and a page break detailed list of members I won't supply.

Nevertheless, some 8 of us were climbing up to Mountain House last year (or was it the year before?) A strong memory of late arrivals [unclear: urging] continuance to Powell assails me at this point.

Next morning must have been fine, because we could see where to go, and further more it must have been, frosty because various yokels were skating on terms, and dropping great sheets of ice on their heads with evident (masochistic or egotistic) satisfaction.

Anyway we got to Dorset after the trial of de-ciding whether or not to adopt a short cut from Girdlestone Saddles. (We didn't)

The second morning dawned with a gusty norwester, and shortly after that dawn we forged to the end of Dorset Ridge, and plunged into the bush, losing the track without the slightest effort. With considerably more effort we failed to find it, and bashed on downwards regardless. Tantalizing elimpses of ridges and gullies put in appear-ances and I'm sure every individual know where he was. I come out down a [unclear: wee] creek that ran into a river but some other bods came out downstream. And this is where the story really starts.

Because here the party divided into two camps, (if one person can be called a camp) a [unclear: go] upstroam to the forks' camp and a 'go downstream to the forks' camp. One camp used maps, compasses, and even an altimeter (corrected for a pseudo-anticyclone), The other used his nut. Denocratic proceedures sent the whole lot of us upstream, with a dissenting, meaning [unclear: lagger]. After an hour 'they' still swore the miserable trickle was the nighty waiohine (below Park Forks) to the dissenter's di sgust. This was the place I remember an [unclear: agile] ballet dance down a slip.

Finally we came to a fork - with a disced track. Even the dissenter cheered (as he said it was a Forestry track from carkeek to [unclear: Tarn] Riadge).

Up hurtled the party, in good spirits now, confident the hut Nicholls was soon to be reached. (It was flaming well obviously not Park Forks.) Soon we passed the bushline and [unclear: miserably] floundored around in the mist-nothing seemed to fit - it was bitterly cold. Night appr-oached so the tents were pitched just in the scrub (on an excessive slope) Water supply shouldn't have been a problem - I was certainly allocated a small river. But it was nuddy so several of us floundered along the spur to a water place - remember this distance, as it aquires significance later. (50 yds)

First, a final comment on that second day, some-body said "Where do you think we are "The" go downstream "party's sole member said "Carkeek" (But he didn't realize) how close to the end of the ridge he was, he hadn't been there before. Neither had anyone close in the party.)

Our third morning was - unusual. Certainly I woke up with cold feet, and I could see cloud, transparent cloud seudding across the ridges. At least I Could see some page 19 some distance. Then truth [unclear: damned]. My feet were out of the tent, there was snow on their, and the clouds were snow [unclear: sh]owers.

We had breakfast, got up, and packed the tents ([unclear: agony] with frozen fabric, frozen guys, andfrozen knots) and strode back onto the ridge. To see the hut 100 yds away.

To cut a sick story short we screaned back onto Lan-caster then out via a normal Northern Crossing, but it was winter and we came out from Ohau in the dark.

So always believe an old lag before a scientific instrument.

-B. the B.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *