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Was there any other reason why a fairly ordinary girl tending toward the boringly normal, should, in the middle of a cold and frosty June, strip off her wedding finery, put on jeans, jersey and a jacket as her going-away outfit, board a train with a hefty pack on her back and head for the hills? It wasn’t that I was a mad keen fitness fanatic either.

All week I sat behind my desk. A walk around the corner to the Snack Box for my mid-day pie was the extent of my Monday to Friday exercise. At one point I took up ballet lessons to strengthen my leg muscles in order to keep up with this fit and energetic outdoor man what I had met and taken up with. All right for some. He spent his week galloping up and down high ladders and playing soccer.

The weekends were quite a different story. Saturdays and Sundays were devoted to health-giving walks. Nothing over the top – just a stroll around the Summit Road from the Takahe to Sumner or a quick trip over the Bridle Path from Heathcote to Lyttelton. I must admit that, much as I moaned and groaned, I really enjoyed the walking and the sunshine and felt marvellous afterwards. So that was probably how I came to be conned into spending a honeymoon walking the Bealey River bed to the Mt. Aspiring hut, instead of being swathed in luxury in a posh hotel. Well, there was one other reason why the swanky hotel was not considered – money! We didn’t have any.
So there we were, climbing off the train at Arthurs’ Pass and hoping that someone would give us a lift to the holiday home we had borrowed from a guy at work.

Being mid-June and high in the mountains, the house that had been empty since the previous summer was as cold as charity and the fire didn’t work properly. It smoked and sulked and refused to send out any heat. We had a few words. I reasoned, seeing I now had a brand-new husband who claimed he could light a fire with a wet match and two bits of confetti, why didn’t he just do it? He reasoned that I should just shut up and let him get on with it and stop nagging like a wife. I reasoned that I was now a wife and it was my place to nag him. We were very reasonable people.

Anyway, the fire finally decided to burn but not with any sort of conviction. It was a smoky, stuttering, stop-go affair and left us no choice but to climb into bed. It was damp and not at all romantic.

The next day we packed up our gear and headed back to the Bealey bridge having first eaten the heartiest breakfast we could manage – soggy cornflakes and milk made with powdered milk which went lumpy. We were saving our eggs for the trek.
I eyed the white frost under the trees with suspicion. There had been no frost the night before so that just had to be old stuff. The sort of frost that lies around for days and never thaws, just growing colder and harder with every night that passes. We’re going to be sleeping in that, I thought with a shudder. In huts, of course. Even my brand new husband wasn’t stupid enough to consider a tent at that time of year.
My spirits lifted as we walked along. The scenery was magnificent and the sun was warm and comforting on my face. I thought it was possible I might even go home with a suntan.

We reached the first hut in the early afternoon and were relieved to find it empty.

Spending the third night of one’s honeymoon sleeping with complete strangers wasn’t part of the plan, though it could have happened. By 3.30 the sun had dipped down behind the mountains and we began to pay the price for that gloriously clear day. It was clear that night was going to bring a killer frost. We gathered together as much dry firewood as we could and soon had a roaring fire going in the grate. The hut was warm and the meal I cooked over its leaping flames was wonderful. I only burned my hand once. The bunks were singles but to two honeymooners swathed in Everest quality sleeping bags, lack of space was a mere nothing. I awoke through the night, shivering violently as I tried to get even closer to his warmth. My front was fine, but behind me lay an Arctic wasteland which sent plummeting temperatures to ice up my back.

The morning brought more shocks. The fire was almost out and the eggs that we had left handy on the table were frozen through. The water in the pail had an inch of ice on top and our milk was all crystalised with frosty spears of ice.

The bravest thing I have ever done was to climb out of the sleeping bag, onto the bare floor boards and put on my stiff and unyeilding clothes.

The day was promising much as the sun warmed the landscape and we soon forgot about the discomfort of the previous night. We set off again with a song on our lips and hope in our hearts. This mood of optimism lasted until we reached a bend in the river that I could not see how we were going to get around.

“There’s no way around,” said my brand new husband quite cheerfully. “We go across.”

“Across!” I shrieked, my voice growing squeaky at the horrible thought. “You mean, we take off our boots and walk through THAT? It’s practically ice!” I yelled.

“Wrong,” he said.

“Phew!” I breathed a sigh of relief. Of course we weren’t going to wade through that river. That idea was patently ridiculous.

“We don’t take our boots off,” he said. I wanted to cry. And I did as over the river we went. My feet were numb, my legs were numb, my trousers were wet and cold and I wanted my mother.

I don’t need to draw a picture, do I, of the rest of that trip? As I said, it had to be love that made me do it. So why is it that I look back on the whole five days now with such affection? I think I know. That part of the country is magnificent and not many people are lucky enough to see it.  Winter added an extra dimension with the snow-capped peaks looming over and guarding us. Ice crystals may be cold but they are beautiful and I watched them with awe.  The exercise made our blood sing in our veins and filled us with well-being. We did spend a night with a stranger but he was a really nice guy – a deer culler who made us venison stew and bread in a Dutch oven. We were sad to leave him. A kea made off with our frying pan and we had to go searching to find it. We met a party of equally silly people out for a few days tramping for the good of their health.

Oh, and one more thing. I can boast that, despite the cold and hardships, I managed to leave the Bealey, just like a true pioneer, PREGNANT!!

THE END.

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