The Great Divide

Double crossings, level crossings and crossings-out—these you've heard about, but what you've never heard about is a Southern Crossing in weather such as Wotan turned on the week-end before last.

Otaki kept us waiting in its gutters like pot-bellied Maoris of old, gnawing the nail of hurry and crunching fish and chips. Nevertheless, the delay gave the moon time to walk into the spaces of heaven and as we climbed from Otaki Forks the dew shone silver in an orgy of romanticism. Fields loomed up at 1.30 and so to our sleeping bags. "Rise and shine," says the American army. We rose, and the sun shone (and Mr. Oliver did the cooking). Pack up, gentlemen, it's time to pound the leather to Kime!

At Kime there was no snow-drift behind the door and no iced tarn. But the tarn-water tasted like elixir in the sunny hollow. At eleven o'clock we hitched up for The Great Divide.

There were just three mountains to be seen from the Field Peak (excluding Tararuvian pimples)—Tapuanuku, the Kalkoura King, Egmont, a shadow in the sky, and Ruapebu, a Nirvana above the clouds. Trampers stood short-circuited and gazed at the vision.

Hector, Atkinson, Aston, Alpha; yes, we trod them all, a glorious fandango round the Dress Circle; the stage was well lit.

Alpha Hut witnessed one more hell-brew, and cocked a grimy ear to the old familiar songs. Sleeping quarters were more congested than boll was when Satan cast his fecund eye over the teeming multitudes.

The remainder of the crossing passed almost without incident.

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