‘Well, this was a waste of time!’ Ian announced as we arrived at the summit. Considering the effort it had taken to get here, I thought he would have been a little more ecstatic. He stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head from side to side. I personally thought it was quite a nice view.

What started well…

We were at Mt. Richardson, the next in the list of peaks that make up the Canterbury Foothills. We had recruited Scott, from Craigieburn fame, to join us on the trip. And I will admit that my initial excitement at the additional company was slightly dampened by the lack of Zeus, which I really felt was the ‘Fizz’ in the ‘Bucks Fizz’ partnership of Scott and Zeus. But Scott did bring a nice hat, which compensated nicely.

I was a little apprehensive as we set off from the large, grassy car park, mainly as it sounded as if we were walking into a forest sized wasps nest. The faint buzzing noise of thousands of black and yellow horrible flying things was everywhere. However, it may have been apt because if a wasp was a walking track, then it would be the Mt. Richardson summit track – a relentless, steep ascent with absolutely no redeeming features.

At times, the trail amounted to an awkward scramble over muddy ledges and under fallen trees – as if the forest was doing its best to prevent us from enduring the experience any longer. A warning that no better was to come. That it wasn’t worth it.

… ended badly

Or more likely, doing exactly what a wasp would do if it was a walking track.

With the canopy coverage obscuring any possible views that would improve the walk, it was left to Rusty and me to provide some entertainment for the humans. We ran back and forth between Ian and Scott, trying our best to inject some energy into the excursion. They generally responded with sweating profusely, breathing heavily, and emitting a tirade of unsavoury language.

Good times, I thought to myself with a roll of my eyes and a fake smile.

You would have thought, seeing as it was Ian’s idea, that he would have made more of an effort to put a positive spin on things, but it appeared that bone had been buried once the wasp metaphor had been sufficiently developed. However, the sting in the… abdomen, so to speak… you know what I mean, was still to come.

From out of nowhere, a small, green sign emerged from the bushes, declaring that we had made it to the summit.

I gathered from his fist waving and short exchanges with Scott that Ian wasn’t overly impressed with only half a view from the top. On one side was the Lees Valley and Puketaraki Range, and the other were… trees, that did a lovely job of blocking views over the Canterbury Plains and the east coast.

‘Well what was the point in that then?’ Ian shouted at the forest. I don’t think he was even being rhetorical, he wanted an answer. I guess he was expecting a panoramic, uninterrupted 360 degree view, free from the scars of civilisation. So the sight of neatly arranged, well irrigated fields may have spoiled the adventure a bit. So why he was so annoyed at not being able to see the Canterbury Plains, which basically consists of neatly arranged, well irrigated fields, is anyone’s guess.

Personally, I thought it was quite nice. The four of us spending time together. The sun was shining. There was no one aroun –

‘It’s going to take ages to walk back, too!’ Ian interrupted, evidently still angry at the situation he had bestowed upon us. It appeared the return track was a further distance than the route we had just come up, and Ian’s stubbornness at not returning via the wasp track meant we would be out for several more hours.

During the extended walk back to the truck, I couldn’t help think that Ian may have started taking this country for granted a little. Considering that he lived in London for several years before moving out to New Zealand, you would have thought he’d be a little more appreciative of any view that wasn’t obscured by concrete.

I went to explain that he may have been spoilt somewhat with the experiences we had shared together so far, and be grateful that he is in a position where he is fortunate enough to go on these tri –

‘Quiet Oshy!’

I don’t know why I bother sometimes.

I’d heard much about the Hanmer Springs hot pools; the soothing, calming effects of the geothermally heated water, the relaxing environment, reasonably priced coffee and so forth. All the things a more civilized canine, such as myself, appreciates when out on a morning walk. I attempted to explain this to Rusty, my fellow furry counterpart, but he didn’t seem that interested, and just continued to lick himself in areas I’d rather not go into detail about here. So you can imagine my excitement as we drove past the Hanmer Springs welcome sign. Finally, I would be able to experience the pools and give my associates at the Canine Club something to be jealous of.

We drove along the gently meandering access road towards the quaint, alpine village located at the base of Mt. Isobel and Mt. Dunblane. Tall, proud trees lined the road as we entered the township, with people everywhere going about their morning routines. Sipping cappuccinos and browsing the morning paper, this was my kind of scene. All in good time my friend, I had to keep reminding myself, we’re here for the hot pools. I shouted out, ‘Good day to you all!’ to the morning folk, who just responded with a slightly concerned look and shake of their heads. Obviously the morning caffeine hadn’t taken effect yet.

The closest I’d ever get to a Maître D

We trundled past local shops and houses, and soon we were in the depths of the forest, negotiating gravel roads and potholes. Coming to a stop at the end of the road, Rusty and I were released to explore our new surroundings as the humans, Ian and Kat, gathered our things – presumably towels, cosmetics, hair dryers and the like.

OK, so I like the setting, very natural, I thought, but where are the pools? We were surrounded by the green and brown blur of the forest. Skinny trees extended high into the canopy, and the sound of running water could be heard in the distance. The only thing of note was a sign that read ‘Waterfall Track 2.5hrs’, and a path leading into the forest. Well I guess the pools need to filled somehow I mused, and then dashed after the others as they disappeared into the blur.

The rocky track zig-zagged its way through trees, crossing several streams in the process, as it gradually climbed up the hill side. Slowly, the temperature started to drop and things began to get a lot whiter. A thick blanket of snow coated the branches above us, and a layer of skiddy ice encased the ground below. I had secretly hoped that we would be able to enjoy a nice thermal dip surrounded by snow. I began to get excited as my mind went into over-drive, painting an over-elaborate mental image of what our experience would be like. Nestled deep within the forest, we would soak in the deep, warm waters, surrounded by bitches and chew toys. A cute waterfall would patter behind us, as I tucked into a fine T-bone steak, sipped strawberry daiquiris, and delivered witty, insightful anecdotes that entertained our pack.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I impatiently waited for the humans to keep up, as they slowly negotiated the ice under paw. I ran between them attempting to demonstrate the superiority of our four legged walking technique, over their two legged method, shouting out instructions in the process. But they were having none of it, instead telling me to be quiet and stubbornly continuing with their ‘frantically wave arms around and wobble up the path’ approach.

Not even a single bitch

This continued for a good half hour, before the tell-tale sound of falling water gave away the approaching waterfall. I bounded into the clearing, eyes wide with a sense of anticipation, to be greeted with a tall, noisy waterfall pouring liquid into a shallow, moss covered pool below. Where was the Parisian-style tiling, the foot spas, the Maître D’?

The humans seemed pleased enough though, evidently having much lower standards. They busied themselves taking photos and saying ‘Oooh,’ and ‘Ahhh,’ as their eyes scanned the column of water tumbling down the cliff face. I approached Rusty and expressed my concerns, who just shrugged his shoulders and went back to licking himself. How does that saying go; ‘Ridgeback Staffie crosses from Saturn, Huntaway Collie crosses from Mars,’ or something like that.

With nothing left to lose, I leapt into the pool, safe in the knowledge that if nothing else, at least the water would be warm, soothing and comforting. It was not.

Wet, cold and disappointed, I followed the group back to the car. At several points I just watched with a blank face, as the humans slipped and skidded down the icy track, letting out whoops and yells which echoed around the forest. It was dark by the time we returned to the car. I stared glumly out of the window, my hair wet and matted, trying to understand how things could have been so different. We turned onto the high street and I absentmindedly watched smiling adults and children in swimming attire and carrying towels, walk towards a wooden, steep roofed building. A flag hung from a tall lamppost that read ‘The Pools’. Ahhh…

Approximate Track Stats

Distance: 3.3km

Time: 2hrs return

Elevation: 300m

Map courtesy of topomap.co.nz

‘I mean seriously. This is just a total disaster.’ I turned to Rusty, who was busy posing for the camera, looking very pleased with himself. ‘Anything for a bit of attention,’ I muttered, and returned to staring at the thick quagmire that extended ahead of us. The humans set off, side stepping over roots and rocks, attempting to negotiate the brown, muddy puddles underfoot. Rusty leapt after them, not a care in the world, as he ploughed through the sticky horribleness. I looked down at my new shoes, all clean and fresh, and quietly sighed.

Today’s fashion parade was to be at Mt. Grey, which made a nice change to the long drives, cold mountains and deep snow that we had come to expect on our adventures. We also had a new human in the pack, who went by the name of Adam, whose only redeeming features I could tell was a winning smile and a preference to not wearing orange pants… unlike Ian.

Some were more impressed than others with the choice of footware

After the Mt. Potts incident, the humans had got their act together and kitted us canines out with smashing new booties, courtesy of the lovely people at Further Faster. With our paws nicely protected within a combination of fabric, rubber and Velcro, we were ready to take on the world; and every sharp, uncomfortable rock it could throw at us.

Smugly charging out of the truck once we had parked up, my heart instantly sank when I saw the state of the track that we would be walking. ‘A pair of gum boots would have been more suitable,’ I sarcastically said to Ian, who just ignored the comment and told me to stop barking. I looked over at Adam, who smiled back. He gets it, I thought. Maybe there is more to this human than nice teeth and choosing not to wear orange pants.

We set off, and soon each step began to feel heavier and heavier, as mud started to accumulate around my paws. At one point I looked down and could just see my ankles, with the rest of my legs, and more importantly my spanking new shoes, submerged under water. I’d given up tiptoeing by this point, and instead just stomped up the path in protest.

But by the end of the day, someone had definitely changed their tune

Finally, we left the bog behind us and the trail began to zig zag, as it climbed through the forest. A tributary of the Grey River followed the track below, the sound of flowing water a constant companion during the ascent through the dense, green trees. Unfortunately, the soothing, calming properties of the forest weren’t to last, as we broke through the tree line.

Our bubble of tranquillity was now replaced with bland, low lying, grassy wafts, reminiscent of our Double Bunk trip to Hakatere. Now free from the protection of the trees, a deafening wind howled all around us, causing the grass to ripple like waves, and my smart, well-kempt, long black hair to descend into something entirely unmanageable.

We soldiered on, battling against the wind and the humans’ stubborn insistence to make it to the top. Emerging onto the final ridge line that would lead us to the summit, expansive views appeared in all directions. On one side was the flat Canterbury Plains extending out to the coast where they promptly fell into the sea. On the other were the dark green peaks of Mt. Thomas and Mt. Richardson, with the snow topped mountains of Lake Sumner in the distance.

The summit was nice. Windy, but nice. The humans tried to make the best of a bad situation, mainly by having lunch and struggling to hold a conversation over the noise of the incessant wind. Rusty and I killed some time by posing next to the summit sign, and getting stuck into some Bitchin Beer Treats. Thankfully, at Adams request, we began our retreat to the safety of the forest. He’s alright that Adam, I thought.

The windy summit

With Ian’s orange pants flapping away in the wind, I opted to stay up front with Adam, trying my best not to be associated with that fashion disaster. Like the forgotten Japanese soldiers who still thought WWII was being fought long after it had ended, Ian now resembled a warehouse raver; lost to the hills many years ago, and ignorant of the knowledge that the 90s were over.

Ian’s glow sticks are just out of shot

With my booties now clean and dry, and a more respectable human to accompany, we descended off the mountain. Out of the wind and into the peacefulness of the forest, I started to enjoy myself again. Which was a mistake, as I‘d forgotten about the bog we would have to endure to be able to make it back to the truck. My heart sank once again, as the path quickly turned spongey underfoot, indicating that the fun was over and it was time to get my freshly cleaned shoes muddy… again. Taking solace in the fact that no matter how muddy I got, I wouldn’t look as ridiculous as Ian, I instead decided to embrace the situation, and bounded past, covering him in a spray of water and mud, ensuring that the fashion hierarchy was firmly established. Catching up with Adam, I gave him a cheeky wink, and he responded in kind. This could be the start of something beautiful…

Approximate Track Stats
Distance: 13km
Time: 4 hours
Elevation: 700m

Map courtesy of www.topomap.co.nz

I bounded over fallen branches and spindly, green vegetation. The tall, skinny trees passed me as a blur, as I ran deeper and deeper into the forest. The scent I had detected was becoming clearer and more pungent as I homed in on the source. Finally, after all these hunting trips, I was able to showcase my ninja-like hunting skills, and prove to Rusty that the ‘Hunt’ in ‘Huntaway’ was completely justified. Rotten branches exploded under paw, and a loud rustling echoed through the trees, as I landed in a clearing to come face to face with… nothing. Just an empty, grassy clearing, enclosed by moss covered trees. I looked around, confused. I was convinced that this was where the scent was coming from. Rusty, the ever-annoying Labrador would once again put the ‘La’ in ‘laughing at me’ at my inability to catch anything. I took a moment to concede that the ‘La in laughing’ comment didn’t really work on any level, and then begrudgingly turned around to join the others.

Positioned within the centre of the circular clearing, I quickly realised that I had no idea which direction I had arrived from. The surrounding trees and undergrowth all looked the same, acting as a barrier to the shaded forest behind. ‘Not to worry, I’ll just follow my nose’, I smirked to myself, and looked around to see if anyone else got the joke, confident that it was an improvement on the previous attempt. Remembering that I was on my own, I instead raised my nose into the air, attempting to detect the stench of Ian’s tuna fish sandwiches, or the condescending aroma of oxidised iron. Smirking to myself yet again from a joke at Rustys expense, and again remembering I was on my own and no-one was here to witness my return to comedy form, my smirk turned to concern as I could detect neither scents. It started to dawn on me that I might be lost…

Several hours earlier, Ian, Rusty and I had arrived at the Mt. Cheeseman ski field access road, located in Craigieburn, 1.5 hours’ drive from Christchurch. It was another fresh day, with blue skies, no wind, and a radiant sun hanging high above us. Parking at Texas Flat – which is a bit of an odd name I know – we would the walk up the Cheeseman access track – which also is a bit of an odd name, I know – and then turn off onto the newly signposted Cuckoo Creek trail – I’ve heard worse names – and return via the Dracophyllum Flat track – it’s a native New Zealand plant before you ask.

Strutting my Stuff on the Access Track

The access track was typical of most access tracks, a winding rocky road that gradually made its way skywards. While Ian busied himself photographing every possible angle of it, Rusty and I inspected a new type of medium under-paw. Not quite snow, and not quite frost, a glassy film coated the road in several places still protected from the sun’s rays. It would either shatter with a satisfying crunch under our weight, or instead provide entertainment as we watched, with our heads cocked to one side, as Ian attempted to walk across it, his arms flailing and shouting words that I shall not repeat here. The amusement was eventually brought to a close an hour of wobbly walking later, when we arrived at a signpost indicating the start of the Cuckoo Creek trail.

The trail abruptly dropped away from the road, and we were immediately immersed in browns and greens, as the squidgy, earthy trail disappeared into the woodland. White, crystallised frost lined the fallen trees and branches where the morning sun hadn’t taken affect yet, as slivers of light penetrated the canopy where it could, illuminating small patches of undergrowth. Rusty and I darted around, exploring this territory full of new scent and sounds. As our names were called, we returned to Ian, who was making his way along the slowly descending path, to collect another delicious Bitchin Beer Treat, before heading back out on our investigations, which so far were proving fruitless. After thirty minutes and 2km of this, we arrived at the Dracophyllum Flat track.

We turned right and headed back towards the direction of Texas Flat. A little disappointed by my hunting endeavour, I was close to giving up, but then detected a faint scent emanating from somewhere through the trees. I sprang to attention and sprinted off to track it down.

Now stood in the clearing, it became evident that I may have been a little too ambitious with the exploring, and I found myself in a bit of a predicament. Unable to hear or smell where Ian and Rusty were, I frantically looked around, attempting to recognise something that would lead me back to where I came from. I cast my mind back to the blur that was the forest when I was dashing through the trees, and it quickly became obvious that my memory was going to be of no help. As my nose was failing me, I stood still and held my breath, trying to make as little noise as possible while I flexed my ears to detect any Ian or Rusty related sounds.

‘Ooooooossssssssssssssshhhhyyyyyyyyy…’

I thought I heard something in the distance, coming from somewhere behind me.

‘God damn it. Where are you? Katrina is going to kill me’.

That was definitely Ian. There was only one person I knew who lived in such fear of his partner’s wrath. Suddenly I was able to detect the unmistakable smell of terror, as Ian’s sweat glands went into overdrive. Acting as a homing beacon, I chased the scent down to finally be reunited with a relived Ian, and a nonchalant Rusty. Re-joining the path exactly where I had enthusiastically left it several minutes ago, Ian immediately clasped a leash on me and we walked in silence, with a smug Rusty up ahead, walking with that annoying swagger that he does.

The Look of a Canine Still Trying to Work out the Oxidised-Iron Joke

The remainder of the Dracophyllum Flat track climbed steeply out of the forest and into a grassy clearing, providing views over the surrounding mountains. By this point Ian had calmed down and released me from the leash so I could play with Rusty, as he spent several minutes photographing our every move. Which I will admit, was a little creepy.

The final obstacle before we made it back to the Texas Flat was crossing Tims Stream – I don’t know who Tim is before you ask. What should have been a straightforward exercise in fording a watercourse, was instead dragged out and complicated by Ian’s insistence of not getting his feet wet. Rusty and I stood, chest deep in the slowly moving water, with our heads cocked to the side once again, as we watched Ian pick his way over slippery rocks. Sadly not falling in, I was instead comforted by the fact that no matter how bad I think I’ve got it, Ian will always have it worse.

Approximate Track Stats

Distance: 8.5km

Height Gain: 273m

Time: 2.5hrs

Comments

Route can be mountain biked in the Summer

Map courtesy of www.topomap.co.nz

I leapt forward again, hoping this time to land on firmer ground, but to no avail. Once again I was up to my furry chest in marsh water. I sighed and looked over towards Rusty, who was opting for the ‘head down and go’ approach, weaving his way through the pedestals of reeds. Glancing up at Ian, who was currently fighting with the marsh over who had ownership of his right shoe, I reminisced of a another time, all of ten minutes ago, when we were on a lovely dry path, enjoying our day.

Today’s exploration would be of Lake Emma, located within Hakatere Conservation Park. Ian had come across it on an earlier trip to Mt. Sunday, and from what he told us on the drive over, it was going to be an easy walk following a 4×4 track around the lake, ending at the unimaginatively named Lake Emma Hut.

Lake Emma Hut

However I was more concerned about the weather, as I stared out of the truck rear window into the dark and damp morning. ‘Maybe it won’t be that bad once the sun comes up’, I hopefully mentioned to Rusty, who stretched himself out further across the back seats in agreement, and fell back to sleep. The morning light of the rising sun served to only dash my optimism, as the moody looking grey clouds above us were illuminated. Undeterred, Ian continued to point us in the direction of the mountains and we sped across the flat, flat Canterbury Plains.

I drifted in and out of concentration, as the hypnotic properties of the endless fields spread out in all directions. I casually looked ahead and saw what appeared to be a thin slither of blue sky on the horizon. With a small sense of hope growing inside me, I nudged Rusty to show him the exciting new development. Barely lifting his head from the seat, he took one look out the window, and then at me with a facial expression of ‘you woke me for this?’, and went back to doing what he does best.

The distant slice of blue steadily grew in thickness as we approached, and in no time at all we had broken through the greyness and into dazzling blue sky. Ian nodded in approval and slipped his sun glasses on, no doubt attempting to imply that he knew this would happen all along. Or he was attempting to look cool. Whatever he was attempting, it really wasn’t working.

We turned off the gravel road that had previously taken us to Mt. Sunday, and followed a bumpy 4×4 track for several minutes before coming to a stop and being released. The cold, miserable climate of Christchurch had been replaced with the fresh, crisp air of Hakatere. Rusty and I did a quick perimeter check for Ice Cream Vans – a reference that will only make sense if you’ve read the Mt. Sunday adventure – and happy that the coast was clear, we embarked (clever pun intended) on the walk.

Setting off towards Lake Emma Hut

Located at the base of the Harper Range and hidden from the road, Lake Emma is peaceful and sedate. Mt. Harper is reflected in the calm of the lake, and views all the way to the snow-capped Cloudy Peak Range can be enjoyed. However Rusty and I had no interest in this, as we set about playing in the morning frost – ‘poor man’s snow’ as Rusty calls it – and gradually made our way round to Lake Emma Hut.

The ramshackle hutThe 4×4 track slowly undulated its way round to the hut, providing excellent views over Lake Emily and down into the valley. Arriving at the ramshackle hut, Ian disappeared inside while Rusty and I busied ourselves with a spot of swimming and general, good-natured frolicking. Which was fine until I jokingly referred to it as such, at which point an evidently sexually insecure Rusty decided he was done and it was time for lunch. Ian emerged from the shack, shrugged his shoulders unimpressed and sat himself down to enjoy the view and the warmth of the day.

Took this when they weren’t looking 🙂

Suddenly he announced that we were going to arrange a Bitchin’ Beer Treats photo shoot, requiring Rusty and I to join him by the lake. Obviously not looking my best, as a result of the aforementioned manly frolicking, I decided to freshen up by jumping into the lake. Emerging from the frigid water, I gestured to Ian to bring over some grooming products and kindly spruce me up so I was able to look my best. He, and Rusty for that matter, just stared at me blankly. I’d obviously underestimated the hut’s facilities. In typical, obstinate fashion, Ian continued with the photo shoot regardless, as I sat there looking ridiculous next to Rusty, who spent the whole time with a stupid grin on his face.

God I hate that dog

The shameless product placement exercise over with, Ian took out his map and began ruffling his brow. He looked left down the track we had just walked in on. Then right, up the track that traversed around the other side of the lake. Then back at his map. With a nod of his head, he confidently folded it up and we set off to the right, to continue on around the lake, which is about where things went from bad to worse.

The 4×4 track continued, and started well enough, but it became evident that it was beginning to take us away from where we had parked. As the path continued off perpendicular to the truck, Ian decided that instead of just turning around and heading back the way we came, using the easy to follow, well defined path, he’d just straight line it through what was clearly marked on the map as marshland. ‘Can’t be that bad’, announced a still confident Ian, evidently rhetorically as he set off before Rusty or I could object.

The view further around the lake with Mt. Taylor in the background (and some lovely reflective work in the foreground)

After twenty minutes of wading through belly-deep water, I felt it was probably as bad as I had expected, seeing as it was a marsh, located next to a lake, in a depression in the landscape. Undeterred, most likely out of stubbornness, Ian pushed on, occasionally getting his walking poles stuck or stumbling forward into the brown, cold water. ‘I’m fine…’, informed Ian. Neither of us looked up, or frankly cared at this point, as we fought our own battles negotiating the reeds as we inched closer to the truck.

Emerging from the marshland muddy, out of breath and with a renewed dislike towards Ian and everything he stands for, we were ushered into the truck and driven back to Christchurch in silence. It could have been such a nice day.

Taking a moment to contemplate how much I hate Ian right about now

Approximate Track Stats

Distance: 7km

Height Gain: 20m

Time: 2.5hrs (walking)