Puffed chest, I knowledgably looked at the map and in my, ‘I’m so at home in the mountains’ voice proclaimed,
“it’s on the true left”
I then stuttered, paused, looked utterly confused and stuttered,
“which bloody side IS the true left”
The orientation of the valley from high ice plateau to ocean would pronounce the north side of the valley as the true left, but the river wasn’t flowing out to sea. Therefore by using the river as the reference, the south side of the valley is the true left.
“What the blimen heck is that river up to? It’s flowing the wrong way – where does it think it is going? Into Lake Vanda? But where does the lake flow out? Nowhere!”
Intriguing. I love maps and geomorphology, and this is a fantastic quirk.
I finally got there, the mystical Dry Valleys. It was a bit like my first time to Antarctica. Before my first trip south, my mind became a creative but uncontrollable pessimistic monster. I couldn’t foresee past the crazy things that WOULD prevent me from getting to Antarctica. Maybe I would be the victim of a “you’ve been punked” episode on the flight down, arriving back on the tarmac in Christchurch, movie cameras focusing on my beetroot face as I exited the airplane. Of course this didn’t happen, but it was touch and go for a long period. Getting to the Dry Valleys were much simpler, I got in the helicopter on a beautiful calm day, and 45 minutes later I was at Lake Vanda, Wright Valley.
Lyrics in my head….
Let’s have bizarre celebrations, let’s forget who forget what forget where.
Let’s pretend we don’t exist, let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica. Of Montreal
Nothing remains of the old Vanda Station, although stories and nostalgia roll through my mind. In fact the old site is almost completely under the lake, which I suppose isn’t surprising seeing there is no lake outlet. It must be a sensitive hydrological system – certainly not prime lakeside real estate. Beside the newer hut is the old tinny, an overturned memory of lakeside summers from days gone by.
For me, there was the novelty of natural noise after 3 months of almost none! A noise so homely and soothing, the cascading Onxy River. On the river bank I set up my Trango tent, a 4m3 cocoon of warm, glowing space. My own space (the only all season, having shared a room at Scott Base). Time out! Bliss!
The Onxy River is the largest and longest river in Antarctica (40km). It was flowing at approximately 1 cumec, which with a little problem solving was just rock hopable. According to the stream gauging crew who helicoptered in to gauge the river, it can reach around 10 cumecs. In 1984 back in Vanda Station days, the Onxy River was rafted. Bloody good year 1984. First raft descent of the Onxy River (up valley???), Poi Eh was written by the Patea Maori Club, and I was born!
After a hard days scientific research, while the sun circled overhead, we ate our packet curry dinner and listened to the crackly news bulletin broadcasted from Scott Base. The bulletin was finished with a flourish – a static infused rendition of Poi E! Beaming out of the wee handheld radio, Lake Vanda’s links to NZ were a million miles away but as strong as steel.
Rere atu taku poi ti ta’ taha ra
WHAKARUNGA WHAKA RARO TAKE POI E! Patea Maori Club