Avonburn Easement - Top Timaru Hut via Martha’s Saddle

A wretched start to a day. Gale force winds had pummelled our camp throughout the night. I hadn’t a wink of sleep over the violent flapping of my tent, and my trekking poles keeping the structure up were pulled right out of the ground. Even my mattress had deflated and was in need of mending. The beautiful sunrise and now still air could not outcompete the fact that I’d slept terribly two nights in a row.

I was in a foul mood as I dragged my drained body out of camp and up the long 4WD track towards Martha’s Saddle. My pelvis and lower back ached dully, and I was so tired that I felt like laying down and having a cry. Hiker readers take note: sleep deprivation can hamper your performance worse than bad food, heavy weight, or bad weather. Invest in good sleep with whatever means necessary.

After about two hours of sleepwalking and feeling utterly miserable, I caught up with the boys outside a small, closed hut. I made a cup of instant coffee in desperation (oh, those pre-Master’s degree days), and it gave me the necessary kick to keep going, but also left me quivering and slightly nauseous.

We struggled up the steep climb towards the iron-grey crag wall of Martha’s Saddle. A humongous double decker dragonfly landed on my thigh, probably thinking that my screaming pink shorts were a giant flower. For four hours we climbed up steep scree. My lower back suddenly clenched up so badly that I thought I’d broken it. I felt like throwing up and desperately gushed down two Ibuprofen. We were over 850 km in, and my body was finally starting to give in.

The views at Martha’s Saddle were splendid (as was the telephone signal), but I lay in a mangled heap ready to saw off my back and pelvis. The vast green valley down on the other side was a sight to behold. Once the painkillers took effect, we made quick business of the 7 km down the scree slopes and pristine valley to Top Timaru Hut. A lovely newbuild with a doorless toilet – not ideal – and a perfect swimming hole in the river.

We were hot as steamed vegetables and sunk our stinking bodies and all our clothes into the river. I lay down to nap topless on the stony riverbank, too tired to care about either Patrick, Toby, or the middle-aged kiwi couple sharing the hut with us. A dinner of tuna and taco spiced couscous rejuvenated my spirits enough to enjoy the waning evening light over the green mountains. We enjoyed our evening ritual of raw fruit bars and fruit tea, mentally preparing for tomorrow’s whopper day: two day stretches over Breast Hill in one go. I warned my middle-aged bunk mate that I would throw my socks on whoever snored that night, I needed sleep more than I ever had. He nodded gravely and curled up like a shrimp before the sun had even set.