Six Passes, two Peaks and a couple of Lakes – the diary of an excellent trip (more photos - see Online Magazine)

By Phillip Melchior

Cols, Passes, Saddles. The dictionary makes little distinction between them. They’re all basically physical depressions which provide a convenient passage from one environment to the next.

And that’s their beauty.

When you approach them, they stand as a high door in a generally forbidding wall. Something you have to struggle to achieve.

Cross them, and whole new world opens up and you pass through into a new beginning.

The Five Passes, a classic Southern Alps wilderness tramp, epitomizes this. Each pass takes you dramatically from one world to the next.

And at a time when summer tramping in the National Parks of the lower South Island is becoming more and more crowded, the Five Passes gives you genuine isolation.

How long will it last? It’s not yet in the ubiquitous Lonely Planet Guide ‘Tramping in New Zealand’ – a must for every hiking tourist – and you can find it in Moir’s North, but only by assembling the component parts.

We did the trip in near-perfect February weather, a five-strong party including two guides from Wanaka-based Aspiring Guides, who have a trekking concession for the route.

Day One: At the Paradise road-end entry to the Routeburn Track, the car-park is overflowing. Perhaps we won’t get the isolation we’re after. Across the Routeburn swing-bridge and after just a few minutes, we turn right onto a clear but unsigned track, and within seconds we’re climbing steadily and there’s no-one to be seen. The track is certainly not the wide, benched highway of the lower Routeburn, but it’s fine, and we make good time chewing up the 650m vertical that stands between us and Sugerloaf, the first of our Passes. We emerge from the nice mixed Beech forest about 150m below the pass and out onto sometimes boggy tussock. As we climb the last few metres to the Pass at 1154m, we take a last backwards look at Lake Wakatipu and the Dart River flats and turn our attention to the emerging west peak of Earnslaw and the Rock Burn Valley. And then it’s steeply down the other side, back into the bush, negotiating several windfalls and facing our first navigational challenge as both the sign and the turn-off to Theatre Flat are buried by windfalls. The mid-Rock Burn is intersected with regular stoat lines, which seem to be working. The bird life here is the most prolific of the trip. We hear a Kaka’s call, but see only it’s shadow. But there are dozens of Brown Creepers, Grey Warblers (don’t we have exotic Pakeha names for our birds!), Tom-Tits, Fantails and the odd Robin and Bellbird. The icing on the cake comes when we stop at a small but perfectly formed campsite about an hour short of Theatre Flat – and are joined by three rare Blue Ducks, untroubled by our presence.

Day Two: After the searing sun of yesterday, the day dawns cloudy. It looks at this stage as if it might burn away. We walk easily up the Rock Burn, over a spur and down onto the wide open spaces of Theatre Flat. As we leave the flat, the route heads inland between steep bluffs on our left and a bare schist face on our right. It’s a mini-pass all on its own and we dub it the Between a Rock and a Hard Place Pass. More flats, lunch by the Rock Burn, before another steep climb brings us up to the tarn at Park Pass at 1176m. We’re now on the Main Divide. The Rock Burn drains east into the Dart, but Hidden Falls Creek, miles below us in its dark, steep-sided valley, will end up as part of the Hollyford. The views are vast. Behind us, we can see all the way back to Sugarloaf Pass, ahead through to the imposing snow-clad bulk of Mt Tutoko, Fiordland’s highest at 2723m. What goes up always goes down, and we scramble down steepish tussock to the bushline, where the entry – for the sharp-eyed – is marked by a scrap of orange tape. It’s a very steep drop of around 400m to the creek, flattening out into riverside stands of skinny, primeval Silver Beeches draped with moss. Another hour of serious boulder-hopping up the true left of Hidden Falls Creek and we decide on a grassy campsite, with a bivvy rock (for one) and a nice stand of Beeches. Forest Beech is never the world’s finest firewood and on the damp west of the Main Divide, it takes a serious effort to get the fire burning consistently. And then it starts to rain – lightly, but persistently.

Day Three: The rain, heavy at times in the night, has stopped. To the optimists amongst us, it looks as if it could clear. We start with a brief stretch of bush-bashing before reverting to boulder-hopping up the river until the valley widens in the run up to Cow Saddle. A family of Keas looks interested and follows us for a stretch as we cross a well-cairned scree slope en route to one of the most extraordinary geological features of the trip. Cow Pass is the outlyer for the red, rusting ultramafic rock which characterizes the Red Hills and Olivine Ranges, and it offers a dramatic contrast between the grey scree on one side of the creek, and the vivid orange red on the other. Cow Saddle is bovine. Lumpy, wide, dotted with tarns, it’s the least dramatic of the passes we’ll cross. Down the other side, we stop for lunch as the sun struggles to come out and large chunks of blue sky appear to the south. Fiery Col, deep in snow, looms 530m metres above us and we climb towards it, eating up the vertical on steep but easy terrain. A narrow gut is still choked with snow but we emerge onto big slabs of ultramafic rock which has a sandpaper-like surface which provides perfect non-slip grip. A plateau just before the last push to the Col provides a perfect spot to relax and pick our route. By now the sun has triumphed and the views of Tutoko are magnificent. Traverse across a snowy face, and then climb steeply, kicking steps, to the Col itself. Again, a new world opens up. The snow sits only on the south side of the Col. The North face is clear. As we get lower, the contrast is extraordinary between the lifeless ultramafic moonscape on our left, and the profusion of flowers, Mt Cook buttercups blooming late after the cold early summer, white and yellow Margarites, and many others. A waterfall provides a perfect place to strip off and cool down, drying off in the sun amongst the flowers. A steep climb and delicate traverse through the snow grass brings us on to the Olivine Ledge above the Fiery Creek gorge, and a camp site high on the ledge amongst tarns deep enough to bathe in but shallow enough to have been warmed by the sun. At just above 1200m, we can see the edge of the legendary Olivine Ice Plateau, and a handy rock provides a suitable table for dinner and a game of cards. In the distance at the bottom of the Fohn Saddle route we can see a bright yellow tent. Our privacy feels invaded!

Day Four: A leisurely start, still having coffee when last night’s distant campers appear over the crest of the hill – more surprised to see us than we are to see them. Route intelligence exchanged, we eventually head off in our separate directions, in our case down through waist-high snow tussock steeping delicately over dozens of hidden channels and rivulets. Another steady climb up through the tussock, past the turnoff to Fohn Saddle and straight up above a gorge to emerge without warning, above the stunningly beautiful Fohn Lakes. This is perfection. A campsite just above the main lake, an iceberg as a swimming platform, too high for sandflies, and a reflection so pure it’s hard to tell up from down. High above us on the slopes of Sunset Peak, a lone Chamois stands in the snow and watches intently. After lunch we decide to circumnavigate the lake, perching on a precipitous saddle above the headwaters of Beans Burn and then, with the valley far below, scrambling up some less than wholly secure rock to the top of Mt Fohn (1777m). We dine on the hill above the lake, watching the sun go down behind Tutoko and its lesser partners.

Day Five: Another perfect morning, and the sun hits our tents before 0800. Clearly, it’s going to be a hot one. The plan is to go only as far as the rock bivvy on the Beans Burn, so we decide to add another unscheduled peak and climb, packless, the 300 vertical metres up to Sunset Peak (1800m) – a trip “high”. The views are good enough to stand out in a trip of awesome vistas – down the Pyke and out to the West Coast and across in the other direction to the huge massif of Mt Earnslaw and the confluence of the Dart and Rees Rivers at Lake Wakatipu. The side trip provides another perfect example of the many different worlds of the Five Passes. Huge expansive views when you look up, but a profusion of delicate alpine flowers around your feet. With Keas flying by but showing no interest, we reclaim our packs and head around the lake, across the outlet neck and sidle round just below the 1500m contour, above a series of rock bluffs, dropping into Fohn Saddle about halfway through. Lunch in the shade, looking down Beans Burn and our way home, is spoiled only by hordes of flies. Where do they come from? The 500m descent through snow tussock starts reasonably enough but gets steeper and steeper. Even in perfect weather it needs concentration to pick a route which avoids the bluffs and keep your footing on the silk-slippery tussock. In rain or snow, it would be a serious undertaking. It’s over 30 c in the valley and we have a horizontal shower, lying flat, face down in the river , before slogging down the valley, through lumpy tussock, sticking close to the edge of the river and occasionally taking to the water to minimize the need for bush-bashing. There’s the odd cairn – the first we’ve seen for a couple of days - but no-one could miss Bivvy Rock, a collection of house-sized boulders covering an amazing selection of passages and caves. But with such perfect weather, who wants to sleep in a cave?

Day Six: The sandflies are milling, one of the many penalties of being off the tops. We head off down the true right of the pretty Beans Burn, the route is generally fairly obvious and we make good early progress. We have a late lunch not far from the flat which marks the start of the lower river where it becomes squeezed into a steep-sided valley. At this point, the map tells us we’ll have the first official “track” since coming off Sugarloaf, and Moir’s Guide gives it as 90 minutes to the Dart. But the topography is a huge jumble of monster boulders, fallen trees and lavish undergrowth. Tramping Law #6 – the less you need track markers the more there are, when you really want them, they don’t exist – quickly comes into play. We miss the track, and when we find it, lose it again with monotonous regularity – following the dozens of false leads made by other searching feet. The route, as we find it, is gnarly in the extreme – it goes over or under, never around. One moment there’s an obvious trail with white parmolat markers, the next it disappears and you have to start again. It’s obviously the price you pay for the perfect trip. Things ease up when we cross the rickety swing bridge to the true left of the river and 30 minutes later we emerge into the waning sun and wide, open spaces of the braided Dart. There’s a wonderful deep pool to wash off the salt of litres of lost sweat and the fire burns bright and instant,

Day Seven: To all intents and purposes, the trip is over. But we still have to get home. We walk easily across the flats on the true right of the Dart, passed by a regular procession of big tourist jet boats, crossing a couple of spurs until we splash across bottom of our old friend the Rock Burn and see a jet boat giving its passengers a genuine bush experience. Yes, they’ll take on hitch-hikers provide we sit at the back in deference to the olfactory sensibilities of the full-fare punters. We split up, our guides racing past Lake Sylvan to reclaim our transport, while the rest of us head for Glenorchy, a beer and a steak sandwich.