Daily Photo – Toward the Hawkdun Range

The valley opened out in front of me with wide, open spaces filled with nothing but pale tussock, each clump standing like a small island in a sea of dry grass. They stretched away in every direction, shaped by long Otago summer and a few decades of wind. Ahead, the land rolled upward in soft folds before rising sharply into the distant ridgeline of the Hawkdun Range. Up there the brown hills gave way to streaks of lingering snow, clinging stubbornly to higher gullies and shaded slopes. From where I stood the snow looked almost painted on, white lines cutting across the dark ridges like careless brushstrokes.

Heavy grey clouds hung low over the mountains, threatening rain, while a narrow band of blue held its ground above the ridge. Every now and then sunlight slipped through a gap and wandered briefly across the hills before disappearing once more.

I walked on for a while, partly because it felt good to move and partly because the valley had a an intriguing quality that’s hard to explain. The walk was refreshing, enjoyable as the mountain range loomed larger and larger the closer I got. It was somewhere around this point that a small but undeniable flaw in my plan became apparent. At some point I’d need to walk back!

I turned and looked behind me. The road ran all the way back across the valley floor toward Blackstone Cemetery, where my car was parked beside the gate. I began the slow trudge back to my car, some five kilometres away.

Daily Photo – Gravel, Wind, and the Hawkduns

I’d spent the best part of three days wandering around the Ida Valley in Central Otago, drifting between the small towns of Omakau and Ophir, and up into the hills around Poolburn. By the fourth morning, I found myself at Blackstone Cemetery, wandering among the old graves and a nearby abandoned schoolhouse that appeared to have closed its doors to the world some time ago.

The night before, I had stopped at the local pub in Oturehua for dinner and a quiet pint. What followed was a thoroughly educational evening spent talking to the locals about the weather, the railway that used to run through the valley, sheep, and several finer points of farming that I almost certainly misunderstood. The beers arrived with alarming efficiency, and by the time I eventually stepped outside, my legs had developed a curious independence from the rest of my body.

Now, having showered, eaten, and injected several litres of caffeine into my system, I was beginning to feel almost human. I decided a walk might improve matters further.

Earlier, I had spotted a line on the map called Home Hills Runs Road, which seemed to strike a perfectly straight path toward the distant ridges of the Hawkdun Range. It looked short enough to manage without a total physical collapse, so I left the car by the cemetery gate and set off.

The road stretched ahead through endless tussock. There were no houses and no traffic. There was only the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot and a zephyr wind sliding across the floor of the valley.