We enter the ranges through Waiohine Gorge, into a damp, ancient world that has evolved as continuous forest since the last ice age. Two days exploring the contours of the mountains, every new pocket a microclimate with its unique combination of altitude, water and light– where dense, vibrant fern forests meet towering moss-covered trees rich with life on every limb. The trail of steep rocky crags of mud, wet roots and slippery stones leads through an ever-unfolding verdant wonderland punctuated by cascading streams and birdsong. The beauty is boundless and almost overwhelming. I take in deep breaths of the cool forest air and remark on its purity. We gulp cold mountain water straight from the river under a clear sky– I walk in the highest of spirits.

After descending toward the sound of water, the forest revealed Cone Hut in the fading light- nestled above the banks of the Tauwharenīkau River. With an eighty-year patina, a deer skull,  jawbone and primeval spiral on the door welcome us across the threshold. Inside, we build a fire with newspaper and wet wood. The matches are
hard to light when the sandpaper is soft and damp. Candles are burning in their
stainless steel shrines. Wax-covered wine bottles have never looked less self-conscious. Waterstained maps lie trapped behind plastic, mould and moss grow side by side on the window whilst wet socks dry above the fire– I fall asleep in perfect blackness, satisfied I am alive. 

In the morning light, the river stones in the fireplace are
covered in ash. The constant hush of the river outside reminds me of rain. I think to myself, the river never stops running- it is a planetary system. The subtle tinkle of the embers reassures me there is still energy present. Old metal blackened kettles with wire handles gather dust. Eerie steel hooks dangling in the fire remind me of days gone by. I imagine a mountain man, at peace with no audience and no one to impress.  A big black fly rests on the mantelpiece where people’s names are carved into wood; I wonder who they are and how long ago they were here. A stack of damp visitor books half falling-to-pieces sits in the corner– everyone reads a few entries, but no one reads them all.

- jw

We enter the ranges through Waiohine Gorge, into a damp, ancient world that has evolved as continuous forest since the last ice age. Two days exploring the contours of the mountains, every new pocket a microclimate with its unique combination of altitude, water and light– where dense, vibrant fern forests meet towering moss-covered trees rich with life on every limb. The trail of steep rocky crags of mud, wet roots and slippery stones leads through an ever-unfolding verdant wonderland punctuated by cascading streams and birdsong. The beauty is boundless and almost overwhelming. I take in deep breaths of the cool forest air and remark on its purity. We gulp cold mountain water straight from the river under a clear sky– I walk in the highest of spirits.

After descending toward the sound of water, the forest revealed Cone Hut in the fading light- nestled above the banks of the Tauwharenīkau River. With an eighty-year patina, a deer skull,  jawbone and primeval spiral on the door welcome us across the threshold. Inside, we build a fire with newspaper and wet wood. The matches are
hard to light when the sandpaper is soft and damp. Candles are burning in their
stainless steel shrines. Wax-covered wine bottles have never looked less self-conscious. Waterstained maps lie trapped behind plastic, mould and moss grow side by side on the window whilst wet socks dry above the fire– I fall asleep in perfect blackness, satisfied I am alive. 

In the morning light, the river stones in the fireplace are
covered in ash. The constant hush of the river outside reminds me of rain. I think to myself, the river never stops running- it is a planetary system. The subtle tinkle of the embers reassures me there is still energy present. Old metal blackened kettles with wire handles gather dust. Eerie steel hooks dangling in the fire remind me of days gone by. I imagine a mountain man, at peace with no audience and no one to impress.  A big black fly rests on the mantelpiece where people’s names are carved into wood; I wonder who they are and how long ago they were here. A stack of damp visitor books half falling-to-pieces sits in the corner– everyone reads a few entries, but no one reads them all.

- jw

We enter the ranges through Waiohine Gorge, into a damp, ancient world that has evolved as continuous forest since the last ice age. Two days exploring the contours of the mountains, every new pocket a microclimate with its unique combination of altitude, water and light– where dense, vibrant fern forests meet towering moss-covered trees rich with life on every limb. The trail of steep rocky crags of mud, wet roots and slippery stones leads through an ever-unfolding verdant wonderland punctuated by cascading streams and birdsong. The beauty is boundless and almost overwhelming. I take in deep breaths of the cool forest air and remark on its purity. We gulp cold mountain water straight from the river under a clear sky– I walk in the highest of spirits.

After descending toward the sound of water, the forest revealed Cone Hut in the fading light- nestled above the banks of the Tauwharenīkau River. With an eighty-year patina, a deer skull,  jawbone and primeval spiral on the door welcome us across the threshold. Inside, we build a fire with newspaper and wet wood. The matches are hard to light when the sandpaper is soft and damp. Candles are burning in their
stainless steel shrines. Wax-covered wine bottles have never looked less self-conscious. Waterstained maps lie trapped behind plastic, mould and moss grow side by side on the window whilst wet socks dry above the fire– I fall asleep in perfect blackness, satisfied I am alive. 

In the morning light, the river stones in the fireplace are covered in ash. The constant hush of the river outside reminds me of rain. I think to myself, the river never stops running- it is a planetary system. The subtle tinkle of the embers reassures me there is still energy present. Old metal blackened kettles with wire handles gather dust. Eerie steel hooks dangling in the fire remind me of days gone by. I imagine a mountain man, at peace with no audience and no one to impress.  A big black fly rests on the mantelpiece where people’s names are carved into wood; I wonder who they are and how long ago they were here. A stack of damp visitor books half falling-to-pieces sits in the corner– everyone reads a few entries, but no one reads them all.

- jw

We enter the ranges through Waiohine Gorge, into a damp, ancient world that has evolved as continuous forest since the last ice age. Two days exploring the contours of the mountains, every new pocket a microclimate with its unique combination of altitude, water and light– where dense, vibrant fern forests meet towering moss-covered trees rich with life on every limb. The trail of steep rocky crags of mud, wet roots and slippery stones leads through an ever-unfolding verdant wonderland punctuated by cascading streams and birdsong. The beauty is boundless and almost overwhelming. I take in deep breaths of the cool forest air and remark on its purity. We gulp cold mountain water straight from the river under a clear sky– I walk in the highest of spirits.

After descending toward the sound of water, the forest revealed Cone Hut in the fading light- nestled above the banks of the Tauwharenīkau River. With an eighty-year patina, a deer skull,  jawbone and primeval spiral on the door welcome us across the threshold. Inside, we build a fire with newspaper and wet wood. The matches are
hard to light when the sandpaper is soft and damp. Candles are burning in their
stainless steel shrines. Wax-covered wine bottles have never looked less self-conscious. Waterstained maps lie trapped behind plastic, mould and moss grow side by side on the window whilst wet socks dry above the fire – I fall asleep in perfect blackness, satisfied I am alive. 

In the morning light, the river stones in the fireplace are
covered in ash. The constant hush of the river outside reminds me of rain; I think to myself, the river never stops running- it is a planetary system. The subtle tinkle of the embers reassures me there is still energy present. Old metal blackened kettles with wire handles gather dust. Eerie steel hooks dangling in the fire remind me of days gone by. I imagine a mountain man, at peace with no audience and no one to impress.  A big fly rests on the mantelpiece where people’s names are carved into wood; I wonder who they are and how long ago they were here. A stack of damp visitor books half falling-to-pieces sits in the corner– everyone reads a few entries, but no one reads them all.

- jw

We enter the ranges through Waiohine Gorge, into a damp, ancient world that has evolved as continuous forest since the last ice age. Two days exploring the contours of the mountains, every new pocket a microclimate with its unique combination of altitude, water and light– where dense, vibrant fern forests meet towering moss-covered trees rich with life on every limb. The trail of steep rocky crags of mud, wet roots and slippery stones leads through an ever-unfolding verdant wonderland punctuated by cascading streams and birdsong. The beauty is boundless and almost overwhelming. I take in deep breaths of the cool forest air and remark on its purity. We gulp cold mountain water straight from the river under a clear sky– I walk in the highest of spirits.

After descending toward the sound of water, the forest revealed Cone Hut in the fading light- nestled above the banks of the Tauwharenīkau River. With an eighty-year patina, a deer skull,  jawbone and primeval spiral on the door welcome us across the threshold. Inside, we build a fire with newspaper and wet wood. The matches are hard to light when the sandpaper is soft and damp. Candles are burning in their stainless steel shrines. Wax-covered wine bottles have never looked less self-conscious. Waterstained maps lie trapped behind plastic, mould and moss grow side by side on the window whilst wet socks dry above the fire– I fall asleep in perfect blackness, satisfied I am alive. 

In the morning light, the river stones in the fireplace are covered in ash. The constant hush of the river outside reminds me of rain. I think to myself, the river never stops running- it is a planetary system. The subtle tinkle of the embers reassures me there is still energy present. Old metal blackened kettles with wire handles gather dust. Eerie steel hooks dangling in the fire remind me of days gone by. I imagine a mountain man, at peace with no audience and no one to impress.  A big black fly rests on the mantelpiece where people’s names are carved into wood; I wonder who they are and how long ago they were here. A stack of damp visitor books half falling to pieces sits in the corner– everyone reads a few entries, but no one reads them all.

- jw