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Tararua Tramping Club

Te rōpū hikoi o te pae maunga o Tararua   -   Celebrating 100 years of tramping

Tararua History How We Beat The Mist God

How we beat the "Mist-God"

By IAN MACKERSEY
article published in The Wide World in Feb 1951
For centuries the Māori of New Zealand believed that the fog-shrouded Tararua Mountains, in the North Island, were the abode of a dreaded deity known as the “Mist-God,” who would inevitably destroy intruding mortals. Since then the pākehā has discovered that the region is indeed dangerous, and several rash climbers have lost their lives. This remarkable story relates the experiences of two young New Zealanders who recently set to cross the range by a little-used route.
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Their rocky summits and rain-drenched subtropical forests towering into the perpetual cloud of the Tasman Sea, the Tararua Mountains dominate the landscape of the southern end of New Zealand's North Island. Rising behind a series of foothills, this 5,000ft. range comprises of densely-bushed ridges, jagged peaks, and deep, vertical-sided gorges, which fifteen swift-flowing rivers roar down to the sea.

The old-time Māori regarded these mountains, with their mantle of sombre grey fog, as sacred and forbidden. During the thousand years they lived beside the range and travelled round it they never ventured to incur the wrath of the dreaded Taniwha, the Mist-God, by intruding upon his sinster domain. They believed that evil spirits dwelt in the mysterious cloud-layer which keeps the Tararua forests a brilliant green and fills the rocky gorges with boiling torrents. So the mountains were declared to be tapu, and left severely alone. When the pākehā (foreigners) arrived in 1840 they laughed at the superstitions of the indigenous folk, but later on they had reason to alter their view, for the Tararua Mountains proved decidedly dangerous to inquisitive explorers; during the last twenty-five years alone they have claimed the lives of nine young New Zealanders. A fellow-climber with whom, not long ago, I attempted a crossing of the range by a little used route nearly became a tenth, but a dramatic rescue-expedition robbed the Mist-God of his victim. Here is the story of our experience.

What is known as the Winchcombe Ridge a is a route which mountaineers in the Tararua Mountains carefully avoid; it is trackless, rugged, and takes half a day longer than the more frequently-used routes. The two men who first negotiated the passage, some fifteen years ago, reached open country three days later with their clothing almost in rags owing to the thickness of the sub-alpine scrub which covers most of the terrain. Studying our maps of the mountains, my friend Peter Josephson and I became obsessed with the idea of attempting to follow this formidable ridge and cross the range from east to west.

It would be something to remember later on!
We set off one week-end in early autumn, before the first snowfall made the project completely impossible. Our packs weighed a comfort able 30lb, apiece - light by Tararua standards. We were suitably equipped for such a trip, wearing old shorts and shirts, heavy socks, and well-nailed boots and puttees; we carried spare warm clothing, storm-coats, sleeping-bags, sou’-westers, gloves, torches, candles, compass, maps,first-aid kit, and a supply of food.

On the Friday night a very bumpy railcar took us to Kaitoke, a tiny settlement thirty miles north of Wellington. We followed a main highway for three miles, trudging along a winding side-road for another two, and eventually picked up the muddy trail which would lead us into the mountains, This was scored with the prints of hundreds of nail studded boots, for the first section of our journey lay through the beautiful Tauwharenīkau Valley, where deer and wild pigs abound, and several huts provide excellent bases for shooting and climbing parties. Three hours' trek by torchlight on 1,200ft. Puffer Saddle, down the valley of a small stream which we had to wade several times, and we were at the Tauwharenīkau Hut, a little two-storied building which, at 1 a.m., resounded to the healthy snoring of a dozen deer-stalkers. Ten minutes later we were sleeping as soundly as the rest.

Dawn was just breaking when we snatched a quick breakfast, shouldered our swags, and set off in the half-light on the second stage of our trip. A rough track led us eight miles up Tauwharenīkau Valley, twisting gloomily through the huge rimu and totara trees. Close alongside the Tauwharenīkau River, which was to play a prominent part in our lives during the next few days, bubbled clear and cold over the boulders.

UNDER FIRE

Presently we had to ford the stream and pick up another trail on the opposite bank. For us it very nearly proved the longest of all trails! We had crossed the river, which was running low, and were walking across a large grass flat to enter the forest again when three magnificent deer bounded out of a thicket not fifty yards away. They spotted us, and wheeled in bewildered fright. Suddenly, in the bush behind them, several rifles roared and a hail of lead whizzed low over our heads !

We started to shout protests in the direction of the hidden marksmen, but our voices were drowned as the normally quiet valley reverberated with the crash of a second salvo. Once again we heard the unpleasant whanging of hot lead all around us ! Taking no more chances with these guncrazy fools, we dived for cover into a dried-up creekbed - just in time to be at the wrong end of a third broadside, which ricocheted off the very rocks we were spread-eagled on. We lay there for fully five minutes, too scared to move. Then, risking a bullet through the head, I cautiously peeped out. Down by the river a happy trio of youthful shooters were busily engaged in skinning and cutting-up two deer.

We stalked indignantly toward the scene of slaughter and delivered a heated two-minute diatribe on shooting etiquette, the ignorance of youth, and the extreme likelihood of police action. Then we went on, leaving three rather shamefaced hunters to complete their butchery.

We headed for a long, thickly-bushed spur the up which there was no track, but only occasional “blazes” on the massive trees. We were now was entering seldom-visited territory. For hour after hour we struggled uphill, with the forest around gradually becoming more and more stunted, until we suddenly broke out on to alpine meadow on the top of Cone Peak, 3,700ft.

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It was clear and sunny up there, but where our tortuous ridge zigzagged away for miles ahead, finally climbing into the mists of the main Tararua Divide, the weather was obviously deteriorating. Plunging into the thick scrub again, we stumbled down into the deep Neill Saddle, lying between us and the high country of the main range.

Three-quarters of an hour later we began the steep climb up the far side of the Saddle to the summit of Neill Peak, 3,800ft. The further we progressed the more difficult the going became; we were in a belt of sub-alpine scrub where wiry, stunted vegetation, windblown into fantastic shapes and draped with cerie-looking moss and lichens, conspired to make progress laborious. Hacking with our slashers, and occasionally heaving ourselves over and under huge logs, we moved slowly forward and presently encountered the worst section of the ridge, the razor-back “pinnacles.”

At this stage the rapid approach of a westerly storm forced us to hold a council of war. It was now 3 p.m., leaving us at the most only three and a half hours of daylight. To follow the ridge to the nearest hut-six hours' travel distant, and far above the bush-line would involve route-finding on the exposed summits by night, in rain and fog. At best we could only hope for a wet bivouac above the snow-line, without shelter or firewood; there was, moreover, a strong probability of losing our way in the murk. Eventually we reluctantly decided to abandon the crossing and retreat eastward by a more direct route which would take us into the upper gorge of the Tauwharenīkau River.

A steep spur forking off the razor-back near us was the obvious road to the Tauwharenīkau, a couple of thousand feet below. As we began the descent it started to rain-at first a thin drizzle, but swirling black clouds soon brought a cold, heavy downpour. Our slashers flailed the dripping scrub as we fought our way down the ridge, which slowly became steeper. Ahead of us, indeed, it started to fall away alarmingly. Nowhere was it less steep than 70 degrees, we estimated, and in places, where we were compelled to lower ourselves over terrifying brinks, it was close to vertical; we could certainly never have retraced our steps. How the distorted, wind-torn trees clung to that ridge was beyond us. But for their presence, however, it would have been too dangerous to tackle.

A BAD FIVE MINUTES

At this stage I was leading; it was the steepest section we had yet encountered. I slithered down a soft pitch, feeling for a foothold with the toes of my boots, and was on the point of releasing my hand-grip on the scrub above when I chanced to glance downwards. A wave of horror swept over me; I felt sick at the stomach! I saw that I was suspended above an overhanging cliff, whose scarred clay sides had been undermined and scoured into a great amphitheatre five hundred feet deep! dropped into that I should be smashed to pieces!

Terrified, I clung to the none-too-secure shrub above me, but its roots began to give way, and wet mould dropped on to my upturned face. Feeling like a drowning man, I shouted to Peter, who was luckily quite close, to help me up. Fastening his pack to a tree, he edged his way down toward me and, leaning over as far as a dared, held out the handle of his slasher for n to grip. His position was so precarious, however, that he couldn't pull me more than a few inches without losing his balance.

I felt the strength slowly ebbing from my hands and arms, realizing that I couldn't hold much longer. I didn't dare to look down again. It seemed to me that my last moments were very near; it was merely a matter of how long those yielding roots would hold. But Peter wasn't beaten! Lowering himself down a sapling growing on the cliff beside me, he gripped me firmly by the arms and heaved. For a dreadful moment my pack wedged me immobile. Then, suddenly, I was free, and flopped eagerly to a stronger shrub. I gave myself ten minutes to recover, after which, with great difficulty, the pair of us hoisted ourselves away from the precipice, crawled round the brink, and started off down the ridge once more.

The legendary Mist-God, lurking in the grey wet fog which concealed everything but the small circle of sodden bush in which we edged toward the river, must have cursed with disappointment at our escape. But this Tararua Taniwha is not easily foiled, and an hour later, as darkness crept upon us, he again tried to destroy us.

Our spur had petered out, leaving us stranded above a narrow, steep-walled rock canyon. No matter how far we peered over the edge we could not see the bottom, but from out of the gloomy depths came the roar of a cataract plunging toward the Tauwharenīkau. Obviously, if we were to reach the main river valley that night, there was only one course open to us. We must follow the brink of the gorge down to its junction with some other stream which might offer easier going.

It was almost dark when we set off again. For half an hour we maintained a sort of crawling, clambering progress, lowering ourselves from tree to tree alongside the unknown depths of the ravine. Then came a difficult pitch; for about twenty feet we were forced to find hand- and footholds in the actual side of the rock wall. Presently Peter followed me out along a crack in the slippery stone. At the far end I was temporarily baulked by a complete lack of holds. A slender tree-branch of dubious strength lay almost within reach. I made a desperate flying leap for it, and luckily it held.

DISASTER!

As I crept to comparative safety, however, Peter's unstable foothold began to crumble; he shouted for assistance. But it was too late ; he was well beyond my grasp ! Frozen with horror, I watched him plunge, rolling helplessly over and over, down into the canyon and out of sight.

For what seemed like fully ten seconds I could hear him crashing from ledge to ledge. Then the sounds died away, and nothing was to be heard but the sullen roar of the waterfall far below. For perhaps half a minute I was too utterly shocked to do anything. Then I shouted. There was no reply. I tried again, cupping my hands to my mouth and bellowing until my lungs felt as though they would burst. To my overwhelming relief an answering cry came back. Peter was evidently trying to tell me something, but the noise of the cataract all but drowned his voice, and I could only make out unintelligible sounds. All the same, it was wonderful to hear him; I had feared he was dead. Suddenly, while he was still shouting, he broke off abruptly with a scream of sheer agony.

"Stay where you are!” I yelled over the brink. “I'll try to get down to you."

In spite of my best efforts, it took me half an hour to reach him. First of all I had to climb a difficult hundred yards along the edge of the gorge until I found what looked like a possible route. There were no trees here to help me; I just let myself go, slithering down from ridge to ridge until I was standing up to my waist in ice-cold water at the base of a forty-foot cascade. Peter, I imagined, was somewhere above this point. I shouted, but received no reply.

To my consternation the section of the ravine above the waterfall seemed inaccessible from all sides, being completely hemmed in by high, slippery rock-walls.

“I'll never make it !” I told myself, hopelessly. After an anxious examination of all the approaches, however, I discovered a possible way up the side of the fall. Two small trees, continuously wet with spray, gave me a start. In climbing up them I uprooted both, so there could be no second attempt. Above the trees I came to an overhanging rock. Arms outspread, I just managed to traverse it without toppling over the fall. A minute later I was with my friend.

He lay where he had fallen-in the middle of the ravine stream, which was fortunately shallow. He was soaked to the skin, his clothes were torn, and blood was oozing from several big gashes on his face and an ugly cut on his knee. Although he had suffered numerous cuts and bruises, and some cracked ribs, no big bones appeared to be broken; the most serious injury was to his knee. It seemed to have taken the full force of his fall; the sensitive kneecap had been shattered into a dozen pieces. The poor fellow could not stand, let alone walk, and the slightest movement of the damaged limb made him shriek with pain.

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If there had been four of us it would have been a tough enough job to get Peter out of this canyon trap. For me alone, wearied by fourteen hours' strenuous tramping and climbing, the task looked utterly impossible. Very often, however, it is just such predicaments that spur us to our best efforts; I determined not to be beaten.

Working by the light of my torch, I first took Peter's sodden pack, removed my own, and dropped the pair of them down the rock-wall I had just climbed. Then I went back for Peter. He was stocky and heavily built; when I tried to lift him I found his weight too much for me. That was a bad moment, but we proceeded to evolve the only possible means of progress in the circumstances. With me supporting most of his weight on my shoulders, he hopped along behind on his uninjured leg. It took us twenty minutes to get out of the stream and another half-hour to negotiate that overhang.

Reaching the top of the forty-foot wall beside the fall, we feared we were stumped, but we contrived to overcome even this formidable obstacle. I slid to the bottom, and Peter, crossing his damaged leg over the other, slithered down to where I was waiting to catch him, arriving at such a pace that I was nearly knocked over. Linked together, we hobbled over the stream below the cascade and pulling himself upward with his hands, with me supporting and pushing from below, my injured companion managed to crawl painfully back to the brink of the ravine. Both of us were now gasping for breath; we rested awhile to regain strength for the next stage of our laborious journey.

We were now back again on the steep bush-covered face about a hundred yards below the point from which Peter had fallen. Nowhere could we find a level foot of ground, let alone sufficient space for an emergency camp. There was only one thing for it: we must just keep going till we reached some reasonably-level terrace. To avoid wasting precious time, and possibly leading my injured companion into some gorge from which we might not be able to retreat. I took both packs on my back and set off to reconnoitre the slope ahead. I left one torch with Peter so that he could signal his whereabouts, for it was now pitch-dark.

For half an hour I cautiously felt my way down through the eerie, jungle-like forest. I was out of the sub-alpine region, and back again among the tall timbers of the lower vegetation-belt, when the slope suddenly began to ease off. Soon I was able to move without continually clutching at the scrub for support. Ten minutes later I reached a large river-terrace between the confluence of our canyon and a larger stream. There was half an acre of level ground-an ideal camp-site!

Thankfully dumping the packs, I headed back up into the bush again to fetch Peter. My torch was now beginning to flicker ominously; I had to stop and replace the batteries. To my joy the rejuvenated beam slashed the darkness of the undergrowth like a miniature searchlight. Almost asleep on my feet, I clambered painfully on, hauling myself upward from tree to tree. Half an hour passed; then I gave a “Coo-ee.” Faintly, a long way ahead, I heard an answering call, and soon the light of Peter's torch stabbed the gloom.

PAINFUL PROGRESS

It took me two hours to drag him down that thousand feet of treacherous forested slope. We found that the “hobbling” process exhausted us, so we fell back on another method-one we had tried earlier in the canyon. It was quite simple; Peter merely rested the damaged leg over the sound one and slid on his back. We progressed by short spurts of about twenty yards, with me clambering down ahead every time to clear the way, shift obstructing logs, and catch Peter as he shot down. It was midnight when we reached the camp-site; so far the rescue operations had taken six strenuous hours. I cleaned and dressed the worst of my companion's injuries and then rolled him gently into his sleeping-bag; I had to slash the seams open in order to get him in. Finally I crawled into my own bag and immediately fell asleep.

A wet dawn filtered slowly down through the drenched trees, bringing a grey shimmer of light to our miserable bivouac. Stiff and groggy. I reluctantly rose to face the day. We had a cold, cheerless breakfast of bread, dried fruit, and cheese. Then I fetched Peter a large billy of water from the stream, left him most of my food and, taking only a small emergency ration, shouldered my pack and departed to seek help.

We had camped on a high terrace above the point where the canyon stream joined another larger one. Where they met I erected a cairn of stone, topped by a stick to which I tied a scrap of white rag. Without a marker it would be only too easy to miss the spot, for scores of other mountain torrents came tumbling down at intervals, all looking very much alike.

The stream I followed led down a narrow, steep-sided ravine. It was choked with gigantic logs, and here and there floods had toppled huge rimu and tōtara trees across the narrow gorge, spanning it from side to side. In other places, where big rock-slides had temporarily dammed the water before it cut its way through again, lofty falls forced me to leave the stream-bed and fight my way round the high cliffs overhead, returning to the valley floor farther on. As I struggled on I asked myself how on earth poor Peter was going to be brought down over these obstacles.

After an hour's trek my stream entered the main gorge of the Tauwharenīkau River at a spot several miles above the open valley we had followed the previous day when we left the Tauwharenīkau Hut, and separated from it by a difficult gorge which I knew to be negotiable only when the water was very low. Setting up another marker flag, I waded into the icy river, which I was destined to ford nearly fifty times before I got through. It was still raining, and my fears that the gorge might become flooded were soon fully justified. The Tauwharenīkau started to rise rapidly; I realised it was going to be a race against the water to the safety of the valley below. In my anxiety I almost ran, blundering across pools where the water rose to my armpits, wading through towering vertical rock-passages, and stumbling over huge expanses of dangerous loose shingle. Then came beds of deep river-mud, climbs over and under great logs brought down by floods, and the circuit of enormous boulders. Every minute, to my increasing horror, the river rose another fraction of an inch! When I eventually emerged from the gorge, after two hours of nightmare travel, floundering thankfully out of the swift flowing stream for the last time, I knew that if I had been only a single hour later I should certainly not have got through.

Now, however, I was back on familiar territory. Hidden in the nearby forest was a decrepit shack known as Sherwood Hut. I found it after ten minutes' search, and took a short rest on one of its crumbling sack-bunks. Then a three-hour tramp down the valley brought me in the Tauwharenīkau Hut, which Peter and I had left exactly thirty-six hours earlier. To my relief the place was full of mountaineers and deer-stalkers, to whom related my tale. A wiry elderly Canadian bushman, Joe Gibbs by name, who used the hut for long periods of seclusion away from the worries of civilization, promptly took charge of the situation. Every man in the hut responded to his call for volunteers for a rescue-party. It was now 2 p.m., and we thought that with a little luck we might reach Peter that night. But we reckoned without the river!

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THE RESCUE

When our little band, ten strong, reached the mouth of the gorge at dusk the stream was roaring down in full food, filling the canyon from wall to wall. Cutting a long pole, we all grasped it and tried to wade into the torrent abreast, but found the effort hopeless, the force of the racing current would have swept us off our feet before we were halfway across. Finally, we were compelled to abandon the idea of using the gorge.

The only alternative route was to by-pass the ravine by climbing a long bush-covered ridge to a bare knob known as Bull Mound and then when another ridge which would lead us back to the ravine near the stream where Peter lay. Before we set off, the resourceful Joe Gibbs sent one member of the party back to the hut with a message indicating our plans for the benefit of other relief parties.

With our torches flickering we filed slowly up the Bull Mound ridge. We struggled on well into the night, with sixty year-old Joe always well ahead.

At midnight, tired out, we made sleeping round a huge fire. As we huddled we thought of the lonely man a few miles lving helpless in his bag, no doubt straining his ears for the sound of a voice that would mean rescue.

By morning the weather had cleared, and when we reached the upper gorge, after a two hour tramp along another spur, we found the river had gone down considerably. I was rather worried, fearing the flood might have swept away my markers, but after we had passed half a dozen identical side-streams we rounded a bend and observed my white rag fluttering gaily on its stick.

It took us more than an hour to scramble up the log-strewn stream, by-pass the waterfalls, locate the second flag, and reach my injured comrade. Peter, of course, was overjoyed to see us. He lay there in his sleeping bag exactly as I had left him, his face covered with congealed blood. He had been all alone for thirty agonising hours, during which he had prayed hard that I might survive the perils of the flooded river and be able to obtain assistance. Rain had fallen almost continuously, and it was so dark under the trees that he hadn't known whether it was night or day. His knee hurt him terribly every time he moved.

The lovely bivouac was soon a hive of activity. A roaring fire gave us hot water for tea and first-aid purposes; it also cooked an enormous stew for all hands. Meanwhile Joe Gibbs, who never seemed to rest, was swinging his axe feverishly, cutting cutting down a couple of young trees. Presently he had two stout poles - the beginnings of a makeshift stretcher. Between these poles branches were lashed and a sleeping bag cover tied on.

At last, very gently, we rolled Peter - still lying cocoon-like in his bag-on to the massive frame. Then, four men taking each end, we raised it off the ground and, with Joe ahead, hacking a path through the vines and undergrowth, staggered off down to the stream. Empty, that stretcher must have weighed at least 80lb, with Peter aboard it was as much as eight of us could manage. We should have tired rapidly enough if we had been carrying it along a level road. Dragging, heaving, and lowering the awkward contraption through virgin semi-jungle, sliding it down the side of big waterfalls, man-handling it across deep pools, and hoisting it over twenty-foot boulders-these were tasks we would gladly have delegated to a platoon of Commando stalwarts.

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It took us three hours to get the injured man down the cataracts of the side-stream to the main Tauberenikau River. Once there we let out a cheer, for a relief party-recruited from trampers who had been intercepted the previous night-came plodding up the stream to our assistance. Thus, we were given some relief from the burden of stretcher bearing. During the remainder of the day the two squads alternated with half-hour spells until, late in the afternoon, a third party came wading up the gorge to meet us.

Our task was now made easier, but the difficulties of the terrain remained. To keep the patient on an even keel we decided to wade along the river wherever it was humanly possible, thus avoiding the boulders and undergrowth of the sides. To do this our little force—now swollen to nearly twenty strong-had to carry the stretcher on their shoulders and cross deep pools which, in places, came up to their waists.

Sherwood Hut was our base that night. Early the following morning-our fourth day out from civilization-we were joined by yet other rescuers. The later relief-parties had been dispatched by the Tararua Tramping Club, which has compiled a long list of members willing to be called away from office and home in an emergency. The feeding of our growing numbers was now becoming a problem, for many of these good fellows had rushed to help at the conclusion of a week-end's mountaineering or shooting, and had little left in the way of rations. Once again, however, the Club came gallantly to our assistance. Runners were sent on ahead of us, and later a victualling-party marched in.

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Down in the Tauwharenīkau Valley stretcher bearing became vastly easier. We picked up a track, paused for a brief rest at the Hut, and then hurried on in order to reach the road-end in daylight. The last lap was over the aptly-named Puffer Saddle. Once past this steep stretch our party, now thirty strong, emerged from the bush and, in the gathering dusk, strode out cheerfully across farm-paddocks. An ambulance was waiting to whisk Peter off to hospital, and he was soon lifted inside and made comfortable. I am glad to say that later on, thanks to the skill of the surgeons, he made a complete recovery.

Away behind us the rugged contours of the Tararua Mountains were already disappearing in the gloom; our seemingly-endless journey was over. We had defeated the Mist-God and robbed him of his victim!

Category
1950 History

Page last modified on 2023 Sep 09 23:15

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