Aunt Tabbie's Wings Page 3
Exhilaration coursed through Bluey’s excited veins, for the ultimate challenge was looming just ahead of him. Four glorious days alone in the wilderness, soaking up God's peace and friendship in the tranquillity of His creation. He could feel the pent up stress of the past few days travelling, draining out of his psyche as he walked with Hal toward the dinghy, beached on the grassy shores of Lake Te Anau.
Hal jumped into the dinghy, connected the fuel tank to the outboard motor and squeezed the fuel primer bulb a number of times to supply the engine with fuel. Bluey threw his backpack into the boat and when Hal was ready, he pushed it out into the water and hurdled in. Hal pulled the starter cord on the outboard a couple of times. The engine caught and began to splutter for a few moments, before finally bursting into life. He threw the engine into gear, with a c-r-u-n-c-h noise and cracked the throttle open, heading for the centre of the lake.
They’d gone only a few minutes when the engine spluttered and died. Hal glanced at Bluey in dismay, mystified by the motor’s misbehaviour, but they were far enough out into the deep water to make paddling back out of the question. Hal started to search around to find out what had caused the engine to stop, when Bluey noticed water coming in.
And fast.
"Where is all this water coming from, Hal?!" Bluey’s voice strained, demanding an immediate answer.
Hal peered back at Bluey sheepishly and suddenly remembered the bung. "I'd better get the engine going again before we sink. I forgot to put the bung in and we’re taking on water."
Bluey straddled the seats on the dinghy, rocking the boat violently.
"Easy!" Hal complained, grabbing for the side of the boat before Bluey’s movement evicted the old man into the freezing lake.
Bluey pointed animatedly at the fuel hose meandering under the heavy steel fuel tank. It was twisted and the weight of the tank had cut the fuel off to the motor. "Lift the tank, Hal, and untwist the hose," Bluey ordered desperately.
Hal carried out Bluey's order quickly and pulled on the starter cord for the second time. The motor burst back into life, prompting Hal to open the throttle wide. All the water rushed to the back of the boat, causing Hal to lift his feet in a hurry while the freezing tsunami wave crashed against the transom and drained out through the missing bung plug as the dinghy sped across the lake surface. So long as they kept moving, no water would enter the boat through the missing bung, but if they stopped, the boat would quickly fill up and sink.
After the near tragedy, the two men journeyed along in silence. Bluey soaked in the unfolding landscape, gulping in the tranquillity of the peaceful lake and the snow capped mountains in the background. Water birds flapped and squawked loudly, protesting the interruption to their serene habitat. Soon the blue waters of the mirror-like lake gave way to tree lined shores and no human being for miles. Bluey was in heaven and he couldn’t wait to leave Hal behind and complete the isolation.
Hal’s squeaky voice abruptly broke into Bluey's thoughts, "I am gonna have to drop you and run, Bluey. Can't afford to stop or I'll sink." He pointed to a landing on the far bank. "That's your drop off point."
Bluey carefully edged his way back toward Hal and shook his hand. "Thanks for everything, Hal."
"Just take care out there, Bluey. It's not what you think."
Bluey nodded.
Hal dropped the throttle back to idle and coasted into the shore. Bluey grabbed up his pack and jumped out, leaving Hal rocking on his wake. Hal backed the boat up, turned it around one hundred and eighty degrees and opened the throttle wide again, waving at Bluey as he disappeared back out into the deep reaches of Lake Te Anau and the direction he had just come. Bluey strained to hear the fading noise of Hal's outboard motor as he disappeared around the point and out of sight.
Then nothing but blissful quiet.
Standing on the shore of the great lake and listening to the gentle wind, Bluey reached for his pack, threaded it over his shoulders and buckled the hip belt. It was his favourite military styled backpack and although it was heavily laden with survival gear, it was comfortable for long marches over rough terrain. He checked the scenery around him, pulled in a lungful of clean, cold air and exhaled loudly.
He was finally here and totally alone.
However, the first hurdle presented itself almost immediately. A stretch of the Clinton River blocked his access to the track beyond, but the only access from one side of the Clinton River to the other was a dilapidated swing bridge, hanging tired and fraying and looking for any excuse to dump an uninformed tourist into the freezing and crystal clear water below. Bluey contemplated crossing the short expanse of the swiftly flowing current and decided to risk the swing bridge instead. Clear water can be deceptive in its depth and a stream may look shallow until you enter, finding the bottom a lot further away than anticipated. Although swimming in mountain water didn't faze Bluey, it was early morning and keeping dry for the first couple of hours made good sense.
Climbing the rocky steps, he tested each wooden rung carefully before trusting it with his full weight. With the pack slung over his shoulders, he estimated his combined weight had to be close to 350 pounds, a big ask for any weather-beaten wooden slat.
Soon he was halfway between river banks, taking in the thick scrub and trees that lined the river. At the end of the rickety bridge, he could see the opening to the track. Below him, fish could be seen swimming in the clear mountain water. Cautiously stepping onto the final rung, the old suspension bridge breathed a sigh of relief with a loud creak and recoiled like a snake when Bluey stepped off the other end, sending a reactive wave from one side of the bridge to the other and back again.
Relieved to be off the bouncing bridge and back on solid ground, he repositioned his pack again and tightened the belt over his hips, then began to trudge along the beginning stages of the track, scraping his boots along the gravelly path as he went.
The Milford Track followed the Clinton River Basin northwest until it climbed 3,000 feet up and over the Mackinnon Pass and back down the other side; then it followed the Arthur River Basin northeast, finally reaching Milford Sound thirty miles away. Bluey's plan was to camp out the first night under the stars and then tackle the Mackinnon Pass the second day, sheltering in Mackinnon Pass Shelter Number Two on the second night; then camp out under the stars the remaining night, before making Milford Sound on the fourth day.
Hal had warned him about the basic nature of the government run huts. They were clean, but that was about all. Some had a rainwater tank attached to the outside but at this time of year, it was more than likely frozen solid. If you were fortunate enough to find a hut that had been resupplied with firewood before the winter, then chances are you would survive. If not, it was a painful way to die, frozen solid inside a hut in a winter storm that could sometimes last for days.
Bluey would’ve camped out on the treacherous pass too, except that the unpredictable Mackinnon was worrying Hal and at his repeated pleas not to, changed Bluey's mind. Convinced that Hal may have a point and aware of his local knowledge connected with the changeable and extreme weather associated with the dangerous pass, Hal made Bluey promise to use the hut. He would at least be safe from the sudden storms and the wind chill factor in the crude shelter, increasing his chances of surviving should the Mackinnon live up to Hal's dire warnings.
Soon, the thick bush gave way to alpine scrub. Lichen hung from the stunted trees and the ever present Clinton River babbled close by. The valley walls were rocky, sheer and snow capped, causing the giant Aussie to crane his neck for once and take in the distant summits of another giant.
This is what heaven will be like, Bluey contemplated with growing awe.
The first day turned out to be an easy five mile walk to his planned camp site, an eagerly anticipated end to a perfect day. An overgrown trail led off to his left and an urge to follow it overtook him. Traipsing through heavy lichen and thick scrub, he finally came out into a clearing surrounded by the high peaks. Laying his
pack down on the squelchy alpine carpet, he dropped to the ground and leaned against it and listened. In the quiet, he could hear strange birdcalls: tuck, tuck, tuck, taaaruck interspersed with a shrill high pitched t-i-i-i-ch. Bluey rolled onto his back and stared up into the cloudless blue sky, feeling warm and at peace with his Father in Heaven.
It seemed like moments had passed but as he checked his watch, he realised he must have fallen asleep and it was approaching 1 pm. He climbed to his feet again and hoisted his pack, back onto his hips and shoulders then tightened the hip strap tightly.
By the time he completed the five mile walk and found a suitable camp at the Clinton Forks, it was 3 pm. The Clinton River divided around the range at this point and Bluey was surrounded by mountains on all sides, while the Clinton River itself babbled furiously in the quiet, directly in front of him and offered to serenade the Aussie tourist throughout the cold night. Settling in to enjoy his first evening in heaven, Bluey dismantled his backpack and a comfortable camp unfolded.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 5
As the Milford Track descended into darkness, a chill tickled at Bluey's neck, sending a shiver down his spine. The final bird calls of the day sleepily faded into a tired shrill, giving way to the change of shift as the night creatures began to wake and forage for food.
Bluey had assembled his camp bed on the lichen covered soil. A folding, lightweight frame clicked together with slats of canvas, creating a makeshift mattress. The frame would allow him to sleep elevated six inches above the cold ground, preventing the chill from seeping into his back and dropping his body core temperature dangerously.
He unravelled a rescue rope attached to his pack frame and tied one end to a nearby tree, then ran the rope directly over his bed and tied the other end to another tree, pulling it tight with the rope strung like a washing line four feet above his bed. Then unfolding a piece of heavy plastic, he threw it over the rope and secured the loose ends with tent pegs, creating an A-frame shelter over his camp bed. Satisfied with his completed refuge, he gazed up at the stars.
Not a cloud in sight!
Reaching for his pack once again, he removed a small fuel burner and a single pot, setting up to cook the food he had allotted for that day. After consuming his meal, he placed the unwashed dish and the food scraps into a heavy plastic bag and hung it from a close by tree, hoping to deter any night creatures from trying to invade his camp and chew his pack to pieces in search of food. Making a trip to the river to gain fresh water to wash his dish before morning light was not wise, tempting an injury on the dark, uneven ground.
Bluey yawned, took a final look around his shadowy surrounds and climbed into his bed. Pulling the zips of his sleeping bag closed around himself, he could feel his body heat being insulated against the cold outside air. The plastic sheet, draped over his bed in an A-frame, blocked out the stars, but allowed plenty of light through the open ends and protected him and his pack from rain. Contented, he listened to the rustlings and noises of the night and then drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
*~*~*~*
Set up like a soldier on bivouac, Bluey's ingrained military intuitions were on high alert and his eyes blinked open, intently listening and staring at the confused darkness. It took a couple of seconds for him to realise where he was, but something had disturbed him and shaken him from his sleep.
There it was again!
Something, or someone, was scratching at the side of his plastic A-Frame. He searched in his pocket for a small pencil torch, flicked it on and shone it at the plastic.
The scratching abruptly stopped.
He searched the surrounding bush from his bed with the tiny torch.
Nothing.
Switching the light off and settling back into his warm sleeping bag, it didn’t take long for sleep to come knocking again and he drifted off, floating on the verge of dreams. Just as he was on the edge of unconsciousness the scratching started again, drawing him back from the rest he desired. He flicked the torch on and unzipped his sleeping bag, unfolding his oversized frame from his comfortable bed and wandered around in his thick socks, waving the torch all around his camp.
Still nothing!
This time, he stood on the opposite side of the camp, flicked off his torch and paused in the dark, shivering in the cold night air and waiting for his invader to make his move again. After what seemed like hours in the freezing air but was more likely minutes, the scratching started again. Incensed by the annoying invader, Bluey crashed around to where the noise was coming from and flashed on the torch.
Staring back at him was a furry, cat-sized little creature with dark eyes, ears that looked too big for his head, a pink little nose and sharp little claws. The light surprised the wily possum and his confident demeanour said, as he tried to adjust to the sudden light… "What?!"
Bluey sighed, waved his arms at the creature and scared him off and then wandered back to bed. Wriggling back into the warmth of his sleeping bag, his teeth chattered until his frozen feet began to thaw. Remembering the audacious possum, Bluey shook his head in disbelief and couldn’t understand the impudence of his furry visitor; but then, overcome by warmth and the need for rest, the giant drifted off to sleep again.
*~*~*~*
A new noise interrupted Bluey from his sleep.
As he peered out through the open end of his shelter into the growing dawn, he could hear a slight tapping on his tarp, then it burst into a crescendo of hammering splotches.
Rain.
The outside of his shelter repelled the water easily, keeping him warm and dry, but just as a precaution, he checked the ground around him for puddles then placed his pack on his feet, up and off the ground to keep it dry. Satisfied with his work and sure nothing would get wet, he quickly drifted back to sleep.
When Bluey finally arose, he felt refreshed and ready for the next section of his walk. The climb up to the Mackinnon Pass would be a ten mile uphill marathon, ascending nearly 3,700 feet above the valley floor. With the task firmly on his mind, Bluey quickly dismantled his camp and packed his backpack, making sure it was perfectly balanced and in tune with his stride.
Peering around the rocky walls surrounding him, low hanging dark cloud obliterated the mountain summits and filled the valley, hiding the true immensity of the beautiful scene while misty rain drifted down over the campsite and hung like a wet blanket, drenching everything in its path. Spending time near the Clinton River to wash and dry his pot, Bluey watched in amazement as large, curious trout ventured within what appeared to be a matter of feet from him, totally oblivious and unconcerned with his presence.
Finally, with his backpack properly loaded and balanced, he donned his wet weather gear then threaded the pack over his shoulders, pulled the hip strap tight and lastly, covered the haversack with a specially designed flap integrated into his waterproofs. Once he’d secured the flap strings around his waist, his pack was guaranteed to remain dry. Satisfied all was in order and his load felt comfortable on his back, Bluey did a quick check of the camp site and then turned up the left fork to follow the west branch of the Clinton River and then the Mackinnon Pass.
*~*~*~*
Bluey was beginning to feel uneasy as heavy, dark cloud descended down into the valley while the air was heavy with cold, stinging moisture. The temperature was plummeting and visibility was down to a few hundred yards. But at least the wind wasn't blowing... yet!
Feeling small streams of freezing water running off his waterproofs and onto his chilled hands, he stopped to take a quick scouring glance around his surrounds and noticed even the bird calls had ceased in the thickening weather. He calculated he was about a mile from crossing the Clinton River for the final time and then, the long ascent into the Mackinnon Pass. He pulled up the elastic sleeve of his waterproofs and checked his watch: four hours had passed since he had set off. Bluey was hoping the cloud was thinner at higher levels and just possibly, he would break through into clear skies at the pass. But
somehow, he sensed he was walking into trouble. Maybe Hal was right about the pass, after all.
*~*~*~*
By the time Bluey placed his foot on another dilapidated swing bridge, sleet was beginning to fall. His face was red with the cold and this time, he didn't take the same care with the swing bridge slats.
He heard the telltale crack too late and his body dropped suddenly, through a broken slat.
Grabbing at anything to break his fall and the possibility of a broken leg, Bluey found the rope sides of the swing bridge and held on with all his might. Pausing for a moment and calculating his predicament, he waited for any signs of pain to register before attempting to correct the situation.
Both his legs had slipped through the opening together and his body was dangling above the crystal clear cold waters of the Clinton, but only the backpack coming to rest against the neighbouring slat had prevented him from completely going through and falling into the freezing river.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 6
Dangling precariously above the Clinton River, Bluey cautiously pulled one leg up at a time from the broken slat using his backpack and his back as a lever.
Once in a standing position again, he breathed a sigh of relief as he counted fingers and toes; everything seemed to be accounted for. He’d been concentrating on the deteriorating weather instead of the task at hand and had paid the price for his carelessness, redoubling his determination to rely on his survival training and ignore the distraction of the surroundings. Carefully repositioning his backpack and strapping it down hard over his hips, he tested each new slat before trusting his whole weight to it. When the slats creaked, he situated his foot over the rope, holding the slat at the edge and using the rope to help support his bulky frame.