Preached as No Preacher Can Preach

In 1912 the Southern Crossing of the Tararua Ranges was completed. The builders of the trail wanted tourists to flock to the region and promoted it as an ‘escape from the city’. It never quite became the Tara-vegas they had hoped, yet the crossing remains a highlight of the forest park, revered by local hunters and trampers. Linking the Kapiti Coast to the Wairarapa, the route takes in lush river valleys, stunted beech forests, ferocious hill climbs and steep-sided and tussocked alpine ridges where even in the shoulder season, knee-deep snow is not uncommon.

It’s a region that lacks the tourism and associated 'high-end' park management of other areas, like Milford and Tongariro. You’ll often find yourself on your own in one of the many huts in the Tararuas with only the tui and the creek sounds to keep you company. And the odd person you do meet is more likely to be a local pig-hunter than a backpacker looking for something to do between bungy jumps.

One of the original colonial explorers of the Tararuas was a man named George Adkin, otherwise known as the King of the Tararuas. In 1909 he made the first recorded crossing from Levin to Masterton. He was an amateur archaeologist and geologist who kept a meticulous record of his discoveries and theories about the natural and social history of the Tararuas. When tramping became popular in 1920's a series of near-tragedies inspired him to form the Levin-Waiopehu Tramping Club, and to produce reliable maps, build huts and lead rescue parties.

Some of the Tararua huts are almost 100 years old, built by hand from surrounding trees or carried in on the backs of volunteers piece by piece. When sitting outside them, your back to the rough plank walls, it's not hard to imagine the age of tough colonial explorers and Māori routes through the hills.

In 1920 a promotional booklet called Across the Tararuas and Beautiful Otaki was published by Frank Penn and described the area:

Photographs can only show in monotone the physical facts of nature—they cannot convey the spirit, and they cannot reveal the great beauty that is everywhere. Somehow in the mountain tramp which this book attempts to describe, the winds, the moss and lichened trees, the cascading waters, the steel-cut stars, the distant views, the mountains, and the birds, all bring their sermon, preached as no preacher can preach. There is a feeling of aloofness, of being alone with nature, and the grandeur, the vastness is over everything! You must and will feel it, and will surely retain some of the feeling of reverence that enters.

Not long after this lavish praise was written, and with the Tararua tourism industry burgeoning, two young men, Alan Bollons and Esmond Kime, made the crossing and became lost in thick fog and snow. They separated. Alan made it back to Alpha Hut after two nights in the open, and was found by rescuers. Esmond wasn't so lucky and it was a further three nights before he was found crouched behind a rock, hypothermic and frostbitten. Newspapers reported that he had been rescued and was alive. After returning to a hut he was given brandy and placed in front of the fire, only to die an hour later. The next day, those same papers reported the tragic outcome to the story.

It was a sobering moment for those who built the track and who had perhaps underestimated the harshness and variability of the weather in the area. Further huts were built to make the crossing safer, some of which were barely warmer than the air outside, although dry and wind-free.

Just in time for this winter, a new insulated hut named in memory of Esmond Kime has been built high on Mt Hector. And perhaps fittingly, as a chilling reminder of the local history, it still has no heater.