Kangchenjunga from Pelling

The evening I arrived in Pelling, West Sikkim, after a long and very rough ride involving several changes of jeep, Kangchenjunga and the adjacent mountains hid behind cloud. By morning, though, most of the cloud had cleared, and I'd had a good enough sleep to get out of bed and walk down the road to watch the sunrise on these spectacular mountains.

All content © 2017 Pete McGregor

Sunrise at Darjeeling

I've posted some photographs of Kanchenjunga, the world's third highest mountain, at sunrise and sunset on my instagram page, but Kangchenjunga wasn't the only mountain in the view from the rooftop of my hotel in Darjeeling. If anyone knows for sure which mountain this is, please let me know.

I arrived today in Pelling in Sikkim, much closer to Kangchenjunga, but the mountain's remaining stubbornly hidden behind cloud and the first light rain I've seen since early November.

[On another matter, last night I posted another installment of the travel log on Pohanginapete.]

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Oroua headwaters, mid winter

I walked partway up the Tunupo track today, but despite the effort I remained cold. Still, the views were worth some mild discomfort.

[1/800 at f6.3, ISO 200]

All content © 2016 Pete McGregor

Morning weather, southern Ruahine Range

Plenty of weather around the southern Ruahine Range this morning. By late afternoon all this cloud had cleared and the tops sat in cold sunlight under a gibbous daylight moon.

[1/320 at f8, ISO 100]

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Ruapehu from the northern Ruahine

On the walk back out from Rockslide Biv to Masters Shelter last Monday, we were treated to brilliantly clear views of Ruapehu (shown here) and Ngauruhoe. Even Taranaki appeared, small but distinct, in the far distance. The ground remained largely frozen but the cold made for ideal tramping weather.

[1/640 sec at f8, ISO 250]

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No. 1 Line jungle

As I left the No. 1 Line car park, I stopped and looked back towards Matanginui Stream. Misty rain drizzled the bush, making it look old and mysterious and slightly dangerous, as if it might hide things that could kill you if this had been jungle somewhere in Asia or Africa or South America. It looked like the kind of jungle where explorers spend fourteen hours travelling a couple of hundred metres then die of some terrible fungal disease that eats them from the skin down to the bone, or of an amoeba that kills them from the inside out, and their skeletons are discovered, if at all, decades later with the remains of their boots still clinging to the bones of their feet.

I wondered how many of those explorers thought, as they lay dying, that their travels had nevertheless been worthwhile; that, given the chance again, they'd still have chosen their explorations even knowing how they'd die. Maybe most of them feared death in a teeming jungle less than an anonymous death in a suburban room in an unremarkable city.

[f7.1 at 1/125 sec.; ISO 200]

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Whio pair in the Pohangina headwaters

I returned this afternoon from two nights at Leon Kinvig hut in the headwaters of the Pohangina River. I'd hoped to see and photograph whio, and I wasn't disappointed. On the first evening, although tired after climbing over the Ngamoko Range to reach the hut, I wandered downstream and came across a lone male whio. I managed some photographs in the fast-fading light, but hoped for better. The next day I saw no whio until the evening, when this pair greeted me just a short distance downstream from the hut.

[f4 at 1/80 sec.; ISO 200]

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Whio habitat — Pohangina river headwaters

Once, whio probably lived throughout much of Aotearoa, inhabiting lowland rivers as well as the mountain headwaters to which they're now restricted. The sad fact is that now, with few exceptions, the lowland forests have long gone and as soon as the rivers leave the mountains and begin to make their way through intensively farmed lowlands, they begin to deteriorate. It's rare to find water as clear and clean as this outside the headwaters.

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Waxeye on the Tunupo Track

As kids, we knew these little birds as waxeyes, and Mum used to put out fat for them. She had a particular fondness for them and went to some lengths to make sure the food she left wouldn't be cleaned up by larger, pushier birds like starlings.

I photographed this one — part of a small flock — on the Tunupo Track  in the Ruahine Range just over a fortnight ago.

The more usual common name among the bird people is 'silvereye'. If you want to be exact, the scientific name is Zosterops lateralis ssp. lateralis, but that's too much of a mouthful for me. I think I'll stick with 'waxeye'.

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The No. 1 Line track

This is where the No. 1 Line track ends. Well, this is where DOC's maintenance of the track ends; the old track continues right through to Kiritaki hut on the other side of the Ruahine Range, but that's negotiable thanks to the efforts of volunteers from the local tramping club.

This is a panorama stitched from three photographs. I originally stitched six together, but realised it was pointless when viewed on a computer monitor. A print running most of the length of a room would be a different story.

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Whio, Pohangina headwaters

This is the female — the mother of the five chicks — cruising around with the family when I met them on Boxing Day. I'd love to be back up there now.

All content © 2015 Pete McGregor

Whio family, Pohangina headwaters

On Boxing Day I walked down the Pohangina river from Leon Kinvig hut to Ngamoko hut. The river was gorgeously limpid but many crossings were swift and powerful; fortunately, the deepest (almost reaching my waist) were slower. One small gorge, however, requires either floating — something I wasn't prepared to do on my own — or a steep climb, traverse, and descent along an overgrown track.

I'd almost reached the riverbed at the end of this track when I heard a whistle and knew instantly this is what I'd been hoping for. The track at that point skirts a near-vertical drop, and, looking down, I could see the deep green pool where the river exits the gorge.

Swimming in the pool was a family of whio: the two adults and five chicks.

I photographed them from above then carried on down to the riverbed and continued photographing as they swam slowly into the gorge. They allowed me time for only a handful of photographs, but I'd be a true grinch to complain about having just a few minutes to enjoy the sight of these wonderful birds.

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View from the top seat, No. 1 Line track

Yesterday, after the rain had eased and before it threatened to set in again, I did a quick walk up the No. 1 Line track. I didn't stay long enough at the top seat to brew tea, but I did set up the tripod and experimented with some photographs.

Fine weather's, ... well, fine, I suppose, but weather like this offers more interesting opportunities for photographing. As usual, I felt hugely grateful to have such convenient access to a place like this.

The yellowish-orange plant is mountain horopito (Pseudowintera colorata), the bright green plant is haumakaroa (Raukaua simplex). Both are among the most common shrubs in this altitudinal zone.

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A seat with a view (No. 1 Line)

I've mentioned the No. 1 Line track so often now, I thought I should show you the top seat. I walked up there again today, brewed tea (that's it on the seat) and scribbled a few notes. The shrub's a horopito — mountain pepperwood (Pseudowintera colorata) — one of the most abundant shrubs in this altitudinal zone. The weather's pretty typical, too.

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Kiritaki hut, south-eastern Ruahine Range

The walk to Kiritaki hut (a.k.a. the Sea-Mac Motel, for reasons unknown to me) seems like an age ago now, even though only a few weeks have passed. Still, a lot's happened since then, and no doubt the hut a few days ago would have been embedded in deep snow. When I visited, it sat below the snow and ice, but the ground around the hut in the morning was hard with frost.

[P.S. Apologies for doubling up on the previous photograph. Maybe my brain had frozen.]

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The big chill

Much of the central and southern North Island is currently smothered in snow and ice, with the main highways north closed. The snow hasn't yet got as low as my place, but I thought another photograph from my recent walk to Kiritaki hut would be appropriate.

[New post up on the other blog: 'A kind of review (or maybe not) of Brian Doyle's 'The Plover''. If you're used to my usual kind of writing, you might want to brace yourself.]

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Southern Ruahine Range, midwinter

A week ago I walked up the No. 1 Line track and across to Kiritaki hut on the Hawkes Bay side of the Ruahine Range. The following day I walked back the way I'd come, in better weather that allowed more of a view north along the range. Much of the snow had turned to ice, and, although it didn't extend far down the mountainsides, most of the track wound through the icy zone. Not until I began the descent towards the main No. 1 Line track did I leave the snow and ice behind. When I did, it was with a slight sense of sadness.

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No. 1 Line to Kiritaki in midwinter

The walk from Kiritaki hut back over the range to the car at No. 1 Line tested my concentration. After a bitterly cold night, much of the snow had frozen, making the footing even more treacherous. Still, I had plenty of time as well as the inclination to stop frequently to photograph and eat another biscuit and admire the spectacular environment through which I was picking my way. This shows a typical section of the track.

When I began leaving the ice and snow behind on the descent to the car, I felt a twinge of sadness. Times like this don't come frequently enough.

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The track to Kiritaki hut

Yesterday I walked up No. 1 Line and carried on along the re-marked track, all the way to the other side of the Ruahine Range, to spend the night at Kiritaki hut. I returned this afternoon.

The walking wasn't easy much of the way, but the reward was spectacular — for the same reason. This photograph shows one of the easier sections, on the way in yesterday.

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Through the leatherwood

Beyond the top seat, the old track, re-marked earlier this year, winds its way through horopito and toro and on into dense, old leatherwood. Here, if you stepped off the track and somehow managed to wriggle and heave through the tight tangle of tough limbs to a small clearing somewhere, you'd have a hard time telling which century you were living in.

Remoteness is not always a matter of distance.

All content © 2015 Pete McGregor