the domination of secretary island

Bad weather prevented many previous attempts of conquering The Beast. Steve France alone had had five attempts, all unsuccessful. The plan was to divide into two groups, each starting from one end of the island. We'd leave the boat at one end. The two groups would walk towards each other, cross paths, and end up at the other side of the island. One group would then pick up the boat and collect the other group. That was the plan, anyway.

I spent all day working on my applications for Dalhousie medical school. Needless to say, it wasn't stellar, but hopefully good enough to score me an interview. Mailed the application, then headed to Clubs and Socs, where I sat outside on the pavement mending my trousers. Yup, looked quite the geek I must say. Met a few others going on either the Milford trip with Maureen or the Doubtful trip with Adrian. Everyone finally arrives and we pack up into our respective vehicles.

There's Adrian's jeep, with Adrian, Espen, and Neil. Though Neil barely made it along. A few minutes before we left, Maureen asked "Where's Neil? He's got a map for me." Adrian decides it might be a good idea to remember to pick up Neil from his house as promised. We'll call these people Group #1. Other members of Group #1 were Danilo and I, who rode with Maureen in the Milford van since there was too much stuff in Adrian's jeep.

Then there's Kelvin's car, with Kelvin, Steve France, Steve Catty, and David Lamond. We'll call these people Group #2. Also in Group #2 was Sandra driving on her own from Invercargill.

Finally, there's Maureen in the Critic van, loaded with people headed for the Milford Track, plus Danilo and I as I've already explained. As usual, Maureen and I talked about boys. Later, Maureen decided to impress me by naming all the provinces of Canada, from west to east, including their capitals. She did remarkably well, and I was duly impressed. I tried to do the same for the American states, but I was woefully ignorant. Felt less ashamed when the numerous Americans in the van couldn't name the states and their capitals either. Then we switched to countries of the world and their capitals. That was fun. Went on for ages, though. Paramaribo... that's the capital of something in South America, isn't it? But what's the capital of Paraguay??

Stopped in Gore as per the usual for a feed. Another endless search for vegetarian food in rural New Zealand. Hmmm. Shall I get greasies from the takeaway? Or choose between a 0.5kg and 1kg slab of bacon from the dairy down the road? Difficult choice, I know. Eventually I settled for an apple. As per the usual.

Finally left Gore behind for the bogans to enjoy, and headed west to Pearl Harbour on the east end of Lake Manapouri. Maureen dropped Danilo and I off in the parking lot, where we joined Kelvin's car and Sandra. Mo then headed north to Milford with her van full of crazies. The rest of us sat and waited for Adrian. As per the usual. We stand around in the loos, sheltering from the rain and avoiding the smell of the loos. There's always this awkwardness at first. The hard, experienced trampers standing around, chatting with each other and making the occasional polite comment to the novices or newcomers standing in the shadows. After a year, I still consider myself a newcomer, especially in the company of people like Kelvin, who seems to have been everywhere and done everything there is to do in non-urban New Zealand.

Hours later, it seems, Adrian's bright yellow jeep finally pulls into the parking lot. Here's Neil's version of what he's dubbed The Fuel Saga, with a few explanatory comments from me: "We pulled up in Lumsden to transfer diesel from the drums, and found nothing but petrol [Kelvin had transferred about six tanks of petrol from Adrian's jeep to Kelvin's car in order to lighten the load a little; unfortunately some of the tanks were diesel that Adrian needed to get his jeep from Dunedin to Pearl Harbour; the petrol was for Adrian's boat]. As we were wondering what to do, some drunken fellow walks up and starts yarning away to us. He seems like a good keen man, and is a bit dismayed by our plans and lack of fuel [apparently the man was into fishing, and upon seeing the boat Adrian was towing behind his jeep, decided the guys were "mates" and worthy of some assistance]. He however has some spare diesel in his shed and offers it to us. Once we had left, we were debating whether he went inside to bed or back to the pub to spend the money from the fuel!"

Finally we're all together. Eight guys and two token females.

Discover that Danilo pronounces it "se-CREE-tory" instead of "SEC-re-tary." We think this is immensely funny and eventually all of us are calling it "se-CREE-tory" island.

Debated the wisdom of crossing Manapouri in the dark, in the rain. To my great surprise, Adrian said we'd cross the following morning, SINCE IT WAS TOO DANGEROUS. It seems that my devious and subversive plan to indoctrinate Adrian with public health philosophies had succeeded.

Neil and David bed down in the loos, out of the rain. The rest of us crawl under a tent fly someone has set up next to the loos.

Wake up, pack up, launch the boat, and cross Manapouri. Catch the bus across Wilmot Pass and tow Adrian's boat on a trailer behind the bus. Launch the boat in Deep Cove at the eastern end of Doubtful Sound. Boat along to Blanket Bay and deposit Group #2 at the "Blanket Bay Motel," a little shack with a dock on a tiny island. We are later told that the Blanket Bay Motel had a dehumidfier inside. Someone with a twisted sense of humour told them to plug it in and place it outside for our trip. Funny only when you realise that Fiordland gets over 8m of rain each year and is thus perennially wet and damp.

Group #1 plus Steve France float off the shore of Secretary Island and set up mooring lines. Steve will drop us off on the opposite end of the island, return to pick up Group #2 (of which he is a member), and leave the boat attached to these mooring lines. In any case, we boat past Group #1, seated on the dock outside the Blanket Bay Motel. The guys decide to moon Group #2 as we whiz by in the boat. Danilo, Espen, and I just sit back. I consider getting out my camera, but then think better of it.

Drive the boat to Astelia Creek. There is nowhere to moor the boat, so Danilo hangs onto the boat while his legs are anchored to the shore of Secretary Island. Slowly the boat drifts away from shore. The angle between Danilo and the water becomes smaller and smaller. Soon Danilo is completely submerged benearth the cold water. He quickly emerges, dripping wet and looking rather unhappy. Steve France is laughing his pants off.

Steve roars off with the boat to rejoin his mates at Blanket Bay Motel. We in Group #1 get ourselves sorted. Danilo changes into dry clothes, although the impending rain makes this a rather futile activity. It's noon, and we laugh at the thought of stopping for a lunch break before we've even started tramping. Finally we head off into the bush, following Astelia Creek up a spur. Our destination? A hut on the western edge of the island, looking out onto the Tasman Sea. At the moment we are on the eastern edge, facing Deas Cove in Thompson Sound.

Neil in the rain

The weather is miserable. Being good keen men (and one good keen woman), we brace ourselves and trudge through tussock up the spur and along the ridge. Though we have all experienced the perpetual wet weather of Fiordland, the rain and cold wind still make for a rather unpleasant trip. We had decided to stop at Lake Astelia for lunch, but being really hungry and not knowing exactly how much longer it would take to the lake, we stop by some shrubs, set up the fly, and eat lunch. By the time we finish, there is a river flowing through our little shelter, threatening to wash the jam and cheese down the slope and far beyond our reach. Sadly, we disassembled our little red fly and set off into the driving rain once again. We decide that there's not a chance (I believe Neil used other words but my mother has to read this...) that we will make it to the hut tonight, and decide to go as far as Lake Astelia.

Lake Astelia

Soon we arrive at the lake, and spend the next half hour searching for a suitable place to set up our fly. We have the luxury of time, since it is summer and we have hours of daylight left. There is a small patch of soggy ground on our campsite, so Adrian decides to play in the mud, in the guise of "building a culvert to divert water from the soggy bits and drain our campsite." He then plays some more, constructing a modified aqueduct by placing flat stones over the culvert, "so people can lay on the culvert without impeding its function." More like: Boy sees mud and rocks. Boy must play.

We set up our red tent fly. Adrian notes that he's taken this exact same fly on all his trips this year. He knows this because there is a cat drawn in black marker on one corner of the fly. I say that it would be funny to draw a mouse in the opposite corner. As I was saying, we set up our red tent fly. For those who don't know, a tent fly is open at both ends. One end of this fly faced onto a low rock wall. The guy line for this end was tied to a tree on the other side of the rock wall. The other end of the fly looked out onto a small cliff. Obviously nothing to tie the guyline to. Gear officers stop reading here. Please. Someone had the brilliant idea of tying the guyline to a rock and throwing it over the cliff, inventing the first ever Automatic Tentfly Tensioning System (ATTS, patent pending).

The ATTS

We snuggle into our sleeping bags, and Danilo and I cook dinner under the fly. After dinner, I reveal that my flatmates call me "midget." The boys decide it is an appropriate name, since I am 5'4" and they all tower above me at heights over 6." Since the theme of the weekend was the domination of Secretary Island, I soon become knows as the "dominatrix" as well (sorry to mum). Finally, I am also known as "the token female." Each group has brought along a mountain radio. At specific times during the day (early in the morning and late at night), the IB base in Christchurch reports weather to trampers in remote locations who have rented these mountain radios. It also allows trampers to check in and let someone know they're still alive (doing a "sched" which is short for schedule), plus send out requests. For us, the most important reason for taking these radios along was to communicate with Group #2. We do our sched with IB base (we are IB 159), but are not too worried when we do not hear from Group #2 (IB 160).

We wake up to snow sitting heavily on our little red tent fly. Twice I've been to the Doubtful Sound area, both times with Adrian. Both times I've been sleeping under this red fly with the cat drawn in the corner, and both times it's snowed. Heavily. It continues to snow all day.

We eat breakfast and do our sched, but again there is no answer from Group #2. Collectively we decide to have a pit day i.e. staying snuggled in our sleeping bags instead of attempting a dodgy trip along snow-covered rocky ground. I emerge from my sleeping bag to find Espen's red, bedraggled shorts hanging on a tree where he had left them the previous day to dry. They look like a rag hung out by desperate castaways to attract the attention of a passing ship. I return to the fly and burrow into my sleeping bag.

Being the organised person I am, and seeing random bits of food scattered around the fly, I decide to place ALL the breakfast foods into one plastic bag, ALL the lunch food in a second bag, and ALL the dinner food into a third. The guys laugh at me for being anal. I reply that without me they would all starve because they'd have no clue where anything was.

Next topic for discussion is initiated by me, who has spent the night wedged between Adrian and Danilo. I develop a list of 101 reasons NOT to sleep next to Adrian. With some group discussion, this soon grows to 115 reasons. Then we decide to be nice, and add 20 reasons why Adrian's a good chap. Main reason: he generates body warmth and keeps Christine from freezing stiff at night.

Then I decide to alleviate the boredom of a pit day by playing games like "Who did I shoot?" and "On my trip around the world." These names are, of course, entirely made up. Neil's version of our morning's entertainment: You played mind games with us in the fly! Some remark about women doing what they do well, perhaps?

Eat lunch. It's still snowing. Periodically we have to bash the fly so that the snow slides off and our tent fly doesn't rip from the weight of the snow. We sit and chat during the afternoon. About what I don't remember. Eventually the snow stops, and it starts to rain. Hours later, it finally stops raining. We go for a walk down to the lake. Note for the record that it takes about 3 minutes to get from the fly to the lake, so this hardly constitutes tramping. However, we are feeling decidedly soft, and even Adrian acknowledges the need to perform ablutions.

Some typical NZ flora around our campsite

A view of Doubtful Sound through the mist

We wander down to the lake and discover bits of mossy soil a few metres from shore. Since we so far have failed to dominate Secretary Island in any sense of the word, we decide to name these bits of moss "Secretary Island," and to dominate them instead. So we do. I ask the boys if we can take a crazy photo. Neil and Adrian take one look at each other, grab my arms and legs, and flip me upside down. At this point I believe that I am going for an impromptu swim in Lake Astelia, so when Neil tells me not to struggle and to let go of his jacket, I don't believe him and continue to claw at his clothing. In any case, we get a crazy photo, and I get a bit too much blood supply to my brain.

We dominate "Secretary Island" (Espen, Neil, token female aka midget, and Adrian)

I am dominated (Espen, Neil, and Adrian; I am the one upside down)

We decide that since it is now "dry," it would be nice to light a campfire. So we gather wood. Not dry wood, not always dead wood, but lots of it. Danilo and I make dinner again, and we all roast our soggy clothing over the fire.

Fire! Warmth! Dryness! (Espen, Danilo, Adrian, and I)

I later discover that my pack suffered some injuries from this experience. My hut pass melted, although I was able to quickly reshape it, no thanks to Neil! A bit of cloth on the bottom of my pack melted as well, and while this saddened me, I am wont to think that it adds an element of character. After all, a pack that looks new has probably never seen much action.

Neil decides that he wants to make pudding for dessert. He dumps milk into a pot, then adds the powder. I interject and say that it would have been much smarter to start with the powder and to add milk gradually so the pudding doesn't end up lumpy. Neil tells me that next time, I can make the pudding myself. Neil does an adequate job on the pudding and leaves it to set in the snow. We devour it voraciously once it is ready. Again, we do a sched but there is still no answer from IB 160, who are supposed to be tramping towards us on Secretary Island. We are still not worried. Our only concern is that we've been soft staying under fly all day. It's possible that they've continued tramping, and will eventually make it to our end of the island. If we don't make it to their end of the island, we will all be in deep poo-poo, since there will be a very long distance between the 10 of us and the boat. Plus our egos will be shattered if the other group has managed to cross the island while we've sat around being soft. Instead, we decide to gear up for a big mission the next day, tramping for about 12-14 hours so we can make it as far along the island as possible.

Today it's up early. Eat breakfast and pack up. Do the sched but still there's no answer.

Tramp along the edge of the lake and up the creek. We then come across a waterfall which we can't climb up, and realise that it will also be very difficult to climb up the sides of the creek since they are nearly vertical. We find a spot to climb up, but have to hoist our packs by rope. This takes quite a while. Eventually we emerge and begin tramping through the tussock. This soon turns into very thick and heinous scrub, growing low to the ground and covered with thorns and black, gelatinous slime. Truly, it is secretory island. Moving forward through this requires crawling on our hands and knees, constantly freeing our bodies and packs from branches which keep restraining us. At times the only way I can move forward is to reach into the scrub, grab two handfuls of branches, and pull myself into the bush. At other times we engage in Treetop Traversing, as Neil calls it. This involves walking on tree branches in the thick and heinous secretory scrub. No idea where the ground is, until your next step is two metres lower than the previous one and you find yourself suspended in mid air, your only connection to terra firma being a branch that has snagged onto your pack.

Crossed Leatherwood Saddle. Discover that leatherwood trees are aptly named.

We gaze across the valley, and think, hey, those slopes look fine, we can probably climb those. Then realise we said the same thing about the thick and heinous scrub we are now struggling through. So... we finally admit that there's no chance we'll make it to the other side of the island. We hope fervently that the other group has given up and turned around. Otherwise the boat will be on the wrong side of the island (and we will look very, very soft). We finally turn around after tramping only 3km (as the crow flies, but up a few hundred metres in altitude) in the past 4 hours.

We eat lunch, and Neil and Danilo decide to go up All Around Peak since they had to dominate something, and had to have something to show for their tramping trip. Adrian, Espen, and I take one look at the clouds and decide the climb is not worth it, since we'll have no views anyway.

Somewhere above the bushline, away from the secretory scrub - Adrian, me, Espen, and Neil

The three of us headed back down to Lake Astelia for a third night. Neil and Danilo were not far behind. We set up the fly (again), so quickly that you'd think we'd done it before.

We settle in and I cook dinner, again, this time helped by Adrian. I wack Neil upside the head for various reasons, demonstrating the importance of a cupped hand to create that hollow thumping noise against the skull. More conversation, this time about the dynamics of male-female relationships. So, Christine, what should Espen do if he wanted to flirt with you? Um... OK then, what's the difference between flirting and being dodgy? At this point I feel it important to mention Neil's flatulence, which continued to entertain us throughout the entire trip. I also thought it funny that despite being 26 years old, the sound of someone farting still made me laugh every time. We also discussed toilet habits. The boys asked whether I'd learned anything new about men. Well, I was reminded that when guys need to pee, they just stop by the side of the trail and turn their backs to you. Girls can't do this. Nothing really new though, just confirmed what I'd already known.

Had another fire with the remaining wood. Did another sched, and finally heard that Group #2 had turned back and would pick us up at Astelia Creek. Unfortunately, they could only transmit and couldn't hear a thing we said in reply.

Up early and eat the remaining muesli for breakfast. Neil begs Christine to make pudding. Christine tells Neil to do it himself. After numerous conversations about the CORRECT technique for making pudding, Neil once again begins by pouring fresh milk into his billy in preparation for adding the powder... Doh! Christine calls him on it before the damage is done, and we are able to have lump-free pudding for breakfast.

We make our way leisurely down the ridge, taking a few photos of Doubtful Sound, which for the first time is bathed in sunlight. Below, we see small whitish-silvery shapes in the water, and realise that these are dolphins and perhaps a whale. We pray that the other group is coming to pick us up soon. Eat lunch and doze in the warm sun. I pick up Neil's ski goggles and look out at the world through yellow-coloured lenses. I find this incredibly amusing and am completely entertained for the next 10 minutes. Of course, I look like a blooming idiot seated on the spur in the bright sun wearing ski goggles.

We hear the boat before we see it. In desperation, we wave our red fly PLUS a blue sleeping mat PLUS a teal sleeping bag liner. Below us, Steve sees our signals and does a perfect circle with the boat. The five of us bush-bash downhill through more heinous scrub.

Perhaps an hour later, we emerge from the bush and find ourselves by the shores of Thompson Sound. The other group has been waiting for us at Deas Cove across the way, and within minutes appears on our side of the water. Adrian swims out to meet the boat. We guide the boat to shore, load it with packs and people, and say hello to the other group after many days spent tramping on separate ends of the same heinous island. I notice their scratches, their sunburns, and their sandfly bites. Their stories were much the same as ours. Steve was stoked to finally climb Mt Grono after five previous attempts to dominate the island.

We boat across Doubtful Sound and arrive at Deep Cove. Since we still have a bit of time before the bus picks us up, and since it is high tide, we boat upstream to the old and new tunnels leading from Doubtful Sound to Lake Manapouri. The water flowing through these tunnels keeps the power station at Manapouri running. Take the bus and boat back across Wilmot Pass. Boat across Lake Manapouri, with Kelvin driving and Adrian passed out in his sleeping bag at the back of the boat. Back to Pearl Harbour. Steve and Kelvin nick the parking sign (oops! didn't write that, did I?!).

We drive back to Dunedin. This time I am wedged into Adrian's jeep, and Danilo rides with Kelvin. Nothing is open at the late hour of 9pm, so we stop at a petrol station in Gore for dinner. Arrive home in Dunedin around 2:30am. Dump laundry in the washing mashine and have a shower.

Days later... Espen sends out a plea for the return of his big green cup. It cannot be found, and he believes it has been taken by the gods as an offering to Secretary Island.

Weeks later... My bruises are starting to heal. As of November 5 there are still blackish-yellow spots on my body.

Hope you enjoyed another story of yet another adventure.

Love Christine