In our household a long weekend means just one thing: adventure time. Easter weekend provided us with a favourable forecast for three of the four days, long enough to tick off a long-anticipated trip to the Reischek Hut. To get off-road was a mere 90-minute drive from Christchurch, southeast to Glenfalloch Station, an idyllic spot situated at the mouth of the Upper Rakaia. To get to the Reischek Hut, however, was another 25 kilometres of bumping and bashing, head scratching and splashing, with little to no landmarks by which to guide ourselves.
In addition to the whole family in our ’93 Pajero, we had co-chair of the Cashmere 4WD Club and quite possibly the only other remaining member, Dave, better known as “Big D”, in his nearly identical ’93 Pajero. Our small but mighty twin convoy set off on Good Friday, hot cross buns and chocolate eggs packed, fuel tanks topped up. As we aired down at the end of the gravel road, little Jack (now four, he would like everyone to know) busied himself collecting “dinosaur bones” (skeletons are conveniently abundant in this popular hunting area), and then advised us that this trip was “already taking too long”. Sorry little man, the driving has just begun!
We had been watching the river levels closely as the week prior to Easter was a wet one in mid-Canterbury. The first river crossing was one of the deepest, and as we pulled up, we met another group staring at the pale glacial water, wondering who was going to strip down and start wading. A brave volunteer was selected (sacrificed?) and walked in, getting iced out just above the knees, a marker we were happy with. Big D nosed in first, recovery strap on the ready to minimize time should he get stuck. The crossing was bonnet deep and bumpy, but no big deal, and our truck and the other group followed across without incident. It was here we split ways with the young river waders, as they headed towards the Mathias and we turned west up the Rakaia.
Being a four-day weekend, we expected to see heaps of other drivers out enjoying the sun and solitude. As it turned out, the truck we had just crossed the Rakaia with was the only other group we saw driving for the entire weekend. Perhaps the higher river put some off, or the requirement to be at mum’s table on Sunday meant us expats had the place to ourselves. Apart from three hunters, the only other living souls we saw were feathered.
An obvious and marked double track guided us for the first few kilometres. The scenery took precedence on the radio chat: we had reached the true southern alps. Each bend in path took us around another hill revealing views of bigger mountains and more glaciers. The chat casually morphed, however, into “What line did you tak?e” and “Watch out for that boulder over there”. The marked double track had ended with abruptness and a small sign, and what lay ahead was choose-your-own-adventure territory. We were navigating the ever-evolving riverbed of the Upper Rakaia, and if were there ever beaten tracks to follow, the storms of 2022 had likely beaten them right out of the valley.
As we progressed, very slowly, and very bumpily, we came across a larger, wider, deeper braid of the river. Confidence from our first crossing was still high, but this section had a swiftness to it that felt deserving of some respect. We nudged up and down the bank a few times looking for the best entry point with a safe, downriver exit point. If anyone else had been here recently, there was no sign of them! We took our time searching for a wide spot with a shallow exit, and once again Big D was the sacrificial easter lamb, charging first into the river. This time the water lapped briefly onto the windscreen, and the truck’s forward momentum was combined with a forceful nudge downstream from the river. Since this was anticipated, the vehicle travelled across and downstream as expected, lining up beautifully with our planned exit point. It feels good when an idea goes to plan!
Our Pajero crossed with equal ease, though it was exciting seeing the freezing cold water less than an arm’s length away out of the passenger window. We continued our rock bashing navigation, eventually (and accidentally) stumbling upon the private Washbourne Hut. A friendly hunter advised us we were less than an hour from the Reischek Hut, so we pushed on. It was from this point that the scenery became even more impressive, our valley narrowing between even taller peaks, glaciers hanging above our heads, waterfalls crashing down the steep terrain. The last hour felt like only a few minutes (except to Jack) as we enjoyed the changing extraordinary scenery.
We were surprised to see no other vehicles when we idled up to the Reischek Hut. A few hunters greeted us as they headed out for the evening, and with that we had the place to ourselves. We quickly set up camp and got a fire going, anticipating a night in the low single digits. Three adults and a child is still plenty of company, when there are marshmallows to be roasted, campfire stories to be told, and stars to be counted. The moon rose an hour after dark, illuminating the valley with a brilliant glow. As with every trip, we reflected on how lucky we are to have 4WDs that take us to places such as this.
The sun rose in the morning to battle a dense fog that had settled overnight. We drank coffee bundled up, willing the sun to melt through. For our second day we planned a pretty intense hike, several kilometres around the bend of the Rakaia and up to Meins Knob, elevation over 1,200 meters. While not the hardest walk we’ve ever done, it’s also no easy feat with 15kg of wriggling chatterbox on one’s back either! Scott hefted the wee one to the top and back down, navigating some very steep, overgrown terrain and only falling in one hole along the way! Lunch and hot cross buns on a mountain peak, marvelling at the glaciers and sweeping view, felt like a fitting acknowledgement of the easter holiday. We didn’t linger long, as the return hike was not one to be caught on without light. In addition to multiple native bird sightings along the way, and some kea calling overhead, we were lucky enough to watch three whio navigate the river, giving us side eye as we hiked along the shore taking photos. We made it to camp just in time to enjoy Pajero-heated hot showers before dusk (best mod ever!).
Sunday, we awoke to fog again, but this time the Easter Kea had come (as the Easter Bunny simply couldn’t hop so far into the bush), leaving chocolate eggs scattered around camp for us all to find (and the littlest of us to eat). Chocolate hunting activities provided the excitement and distraction required to let the sun to break through once more and allow us to feel downright smug about having stunning weather all weekend, in such an incredible place, and all to ourselves. We ate and packed at a leisurely pace, our only plan to head back the way we had come in two days prior. Except. How did we even come in two days prior? Less than an hour into the 2-3 hour drive out, we lost our tracks again. All landmarks looked the same. Rocks. As we came upon the same deeper, faster braid of the Rakaia, we struggled to find the spot where we had crossed before. Navigating up and down the river looking for a good place to cross was time consuming, with huge boulder fields slowing the trucks to a meander, at best. Luckily, we had all the time, and fuel, in the world, so we bounced up-river some ways, until we came across a wider, shallower spot. We both crossed safely and without incident, however, were also grateful to be on the other side, as both trucks experienced more river push and carpet saturation than we probably would have liked.
At this point, the navigation became easier, the rocks smaller again, and eventually some faint tracks appeared, taking us back to the lonely “end of the marked road” sign we had barely noticed on the way out. We stopped for lunch, and to take even more photos of the same mountains and glaciers we’d been snapping all weekend. In a place this beautiful, this special, you want to ensure you remember everything correctly, remember all of it. So taking way more photos than you will ever even look at feels, in the moment, like the only way to honour it.
We bounced along the double track once again, pointing out dino bones (sheep skulls) and dino poos (cow pies) along the way. Just as we forded that initial river crossing and parked up to air up the tyres, clouds began to form over the mountains from where we had just come. Half an hour later, the entire landscape was obscured by darkening weather. Drinking a celebratory beer at the Blue Pub in Methven, we reflected on a stellar weekend, as the first drops of rain began falling on our heads.
