In the Tararuas

On Friday. August 8. Varsity revealed a diabolical plan to get rid of surplus idiots; the Tramping Club encouraged a party to go on a Southern crossing (in at Otaki Forks, cut—if you're lucky—at Kaitoke). Well. I suppose we all have to die some time.

And so a high-octane party of fifteen men, one girl, and Keith Walker, assembled outside the Railway Station late on the aforementioned night in preparation for a weekend in the Tararuas.

After leaving the truck half-way along the road to The Forks, the party led by David Somerset walked to the Cottage (1½ hours) and thence up a vertical ridge in the bright moonlight to Field's Hut (3100ft; 2 hours). Those carrying my sedan chair found it especially hard—that always weeds out the unfit.

At 7.30 next morning the party set off for Kime Hut (4600ft). Far to the west lay snow-capper Egmont, rosetinted by the rising sun. The wind rose to 75½ m.p.h. gusts, the temperature dropped alarmingly, and the rain came [unclear: dqpn] disgustingly. It was a really hard Kime. However, the Heine brothers amused themselves by taking colour photographs of snow. Kime Hut turned out to be a cold, half-rotten, draughty, wet poorly-lit shack, with piles of snow in the bunks—it made one glad to be alive. The party divided into two at this stage: those who wanted to go on, and those who wanted to go home. In the true spirit of the second Elizabethan age. Des. Griffin. David Ogilvie, Bryce Evans, and two Hutt Valley guys, from the first Elizabethan age, headed off over the central range to find their way out the Towherangienakau (1 stutter badly) Valley by 8 o'clock Sunday night. Des reported afterwards that the Central Ridge was very queer country—if one wasn't going up. one was coming down, or sometimes vice versa.

The others winded their way back to Field's Hut; at one stage, as the weather cleared, they had a capital view of Wellington so clear that the gleam of cars' windscreens around Oriental Bay could be picked up. One chap with good eyesight even managed to sec someone swotting on the lawn outside Victoria.

Game seemer fairly scarce, though Graeme Caughley claims to have spotted seven Roger's thesauri down one valley.

The same party left the hut next morning and reached a desired farm house by 2.15 that afternoon aided by Ken Shanks's highly accurate compass and 5-Vol. pocket edition of 7 figure logarithms. From there two taxis were phoned for and we got to Otaki by 3 p.m. Some then hitchhiked home; others waited for the 4.35 bus.

Before shooting myself I would like to dispel any naive illusions about conduct on these trips: we really Do rough it you know. Conversation is certainly not restricted to politics, weather, and philosophy, but embraces the Fine Arts. Anita Ekberg, the Languages of Ancient Europe, Anita Ekberg. Fish Prices in South Africa, 1924, 25, and Anita Ekberg. Mealtime is a simple affair: we completely dispense with the fifteen courses.

But there is always the consolation that one's diet is scientifically planned. Every person on this trip received exactly 8543 calories per meal. I know—I had to count them out.

(Abridged.—Ed.)