By Chris Tuffley

I’ve always been afraid of dogs. So it’s something of a surprise to find myself carrying a pig dog across an 80-metre swing bridge, high above the Waiohine River in the Tararua Range.

Steve, Louise and I are walking into Neill Forks Hut for the night, so I can bag one of the last few Tararua public huts I haven’t been to yet. Louise went ahead on the way down the hill to Tōtara Flats, where we planned to stop for lunch. When Steve and I reached the bridge just before the hut, there she was waiting for us with some unexpected company – a black dog with a white stripe down its nose. And that’s when the weekend took an unexpected turn.

“Remember that note back at Holdsworth, about a pig dog that got lost in here last weekend? I think I just found it.”

Note? Oh, yeah, that’s right . . . there was that note back at the road end saying “lost dog“, with a number to call. I take a proper look at the dog and there are a couple of big bulky collars around its neck. It’s the very picture of a dog that has been lost in the bush for a week: skinny, gaunt and sticking close to Louise like now it’s found her, it’s never going to let her go. She must be right. Damn. That complicates ticking off Neill Forks. “What do we do now then?”

Louise is feeding the dog some crackers. They disappear in an instant. “You and Steve can carry on to Neill Forks if you like. I’m going to take it back out.”

“We’ve only got one stove. How’s that going to work?”

“I’ll go back out with it today.”

Today? It’s three or four hours back out, and we drove here in one car, too. “Tōtara Flats is just across the river. Why don’t we have lunch at the hut and decide what do there?”

“Sure, if we can get the dog there. They don’t like swing bridges. If we want to get it there we’ll have to carry it across.”

“They don’t? Why not?”

“They don’t like it when they can see through what they’re walking on.”

Oh. I look from the dog to the bridge, a standard New Zealand Forest Service swing bridge – a slender arc of steel cables and wire mesh suspended between metal towers on either bank. There are bridges just like it throughout the backcountry. But this one’s longer than most and it’s swaying in the wind coming down the valley. Carrying a dog across it isn’t going to be easy.

I eye the river and see that even downstream where it’s wider fording isn’t an option today. “We’ll just have to try the bridge,” I say.

“You do it, Chris,” says Steve. “You’re the biggest and strongest.”

Me? No way. I was chased by a dog when I was three and I’ve been jumpy around them ever since. I’m not as skittish as I once was – I even graduated to walking my flatmate Rachel’s dog Shep, back in Davis years ago – but I’m still wary of dogs, especially strange ones. And a pig dog? Fergeddaboutit.

“Sure, I’m the biggest,”I say, as I’m six four and there’s no ducking that one. “Dunno if I’m the strongest, though.”

Louise rolls her eyes, then bends down and picks up the dog. It remains still in her arms, calmly letting her pick it up without struggling. Great! Louise can carry it across!

She shakes her head, putting it down again. “It’s too heavy.”

Steve steps up to it. “I’ll try“ he says, bending down and lifting it up so that it’s across his shoulders. It calmly lets him, just like it did Louise. “No,” he says, lowering it to the ground. “It’s too heavy for me too.”

Damn. I guess I have to try too now. As it didn’t seem to mind when Steve and Louise picked it up, maybe it won’t mind me picking it up either? I drop my pack, then nervously step up to the dog to bend down and scoop it up in my arms.

Whew! It stinks. But it remains still and calm, and it doesn’t seem that heavy. Before I have time for second thoughts, I walk up the bridge approach and start across. It’s awkward crossing the bouncing, swaying bridge with the dog in my arms. But the dog stays calm, despite the motion and the clumsy way I’m holding it, so I continue across.

As I get further out, the bouncing gets worse and it’s harder to keep my balance without a hand on the top cable. My left arm is wrapped around the dog’s torso just behind its forelegs. I adjust my hold and manage to get my left hand on the cable. It’s steadying, but my hold on the dog feels less secure now; and the change means its paw, draped over my wrist on the cable, is catching on the uprights of the bridge. They’re placed about a step apart and it’s awkward for me to free its paw each time.

Steve appears behind me, lifting the dog’s paw to keep it from catching. Shhh! Don’t tell DoC we’re breaking the max one person load limit. With Steve’s help the crossing goes more smoothly. But the dog is growing heavier and heavier in my arms, so they’re starting to ache. 

There’s nothing for it but to keep going, and step by step the far side is getting closer. At last we reach it and I can set the dog down again. Made it!

Over lunch at the hut, we discuss what to do. Louise is adamant she isn’t going any further. She’s happy for Steve and me to carry on to Neill Forks, but that hardly seems the thing to do. Reluctantly I set aside my hopes of bagging Neill Forks this weekend and suggest we all spend the night at Tōtara Flats, then walk the dog out in the morning.

After lunch Louise tends to the dog – feeding it, cleaning the wound on its neck where the studs on its shock collar have rubbed the skin raw and making sure it feels loved. I get busy cutting firewood. Wood barks too, but it doesn’t bite! More trampers arrive at the hut, including one who has a dog with him and some dog biscuits he can spare. That solves the problem of what to feed it for dinner, as all we have are the soba noodles we’ve brought for our own. Later in the afternoon Steve, Louise and I go for a short walk down the valley. The dog comes too, sticking to Louise like glue.

In the morning, it falls to me to carry the dog across the bridge again. But I’m not worried this time – I’ve done it once, I can do it again. It’s windier today and the bridge is swaying more, but we have the drill sorted now too with Steve coming across behind me from the start. Louise found a short length of rope in the hut to use as a lead, but she scarcely needs it. She’s the dog’s new best friend and wherever she goes, it goes too. 

We reach Holdsworth and go straight to the caretaker’s house to call the owner, but the news has preceded us and he comes barreling up in a ute even as the caretaker is ringing his number. He’s overjoyed to have the dog back, telling us that he’d have been out looking for him if he hadn’t just had knee surgery. We finally learn the dog’s name, Butch, which seems entirely at odds with its nature. It may be a pig dog, but it’s the sweetest gentlest thing.

We return to our car and begin the journey home. As we drive I reflect on the trip’s unexpected success. I didn’t make it to Neill Forks, but something bigger happened: I crossed a bridge inside.

The events recounted here took place in August 2015. Since then I’ve come to enjoy tramping with my friends’ dogs, sometimes even getting told off for patting them too much.

I made it to Neill Forks over Queen’s Birthday 2016 and ticked off my last Tararua public hut in December 2016.

FMC thanks Chris Tuffley for contributing his story to Wilderlife.

Do you have a backcountry trip or adventure to share? We’d love to hear from you. To learn more, email communications@fmc.org.nz.