Two plus Two on Tennyson
Date: 15 Dec 2001, The Press, Christchurch, page WE11
Captions: The two toddlers, wrapped in their safety gear, are paddled across the mirrored surface of Lake Tennyson which is reflecting mountains, sky, and valley in the early-morning light. (Below): Anna-Marie, left, and Ben play near the campsite.

Two little ones are awestruck by the spectacle and the experience when their fathers take them canoeing on Marlborough's Lake Tennyson.

Weighed down with two large packs, two tents, food, sleeping mats, cooker, and spare footwear, my sleek green Canadian canoe is sitting low and squat in the cool, choppy waters of Lake Tennyson in the Clarence headwaters, Marlborough.

Gingerly I lift Anna-Marie (3 ½ years old) into the bow seat while I clamber into the stern section. With a hearty push we are "at sea" on the wind-ruffled surface of the lake, while Ben (also 3 ½) and father Tim walk in along the stony shore.

This luminous body of mountain water lies at an altitude of 1100 metres beneath the Crimea and Saint James ranges which, here, rise to over 2000m. It is a striking region made more so by the harsh, dry country immediately east and south of the lake. At a little more than 3km long and 1km wide the lake is small yet adds a large dimension of space to the mountains guarding its flanks.

There are small patches of bush on both shores where relatively sheltered campsites can be found by following a rough track around the shore.

Shelter is at a premium in this exposed mountain environment which is frequently lashed by nor'west gales hurtling out of the Clarence River beyond the lake and descending the steep, eroded flanks above to erupt as windbursts on the lake surface.

Lake Tennyson, like all high-country lakes, has both a gentle and a violent nature. We are thankful to embark on our paddle-cum-walk on the tail end of a southerly blow with the promise of fine, calm weather to follow.

The mid-afternoon sun dances across the wavelets that slop against the sides of the canoe as we push up the lake aided by the tail wind. Soon Ben and Tim are tiny figures against the vast scree slopes of Mount Southey which ramps up against the eastern shore of the lake. As we pass around a small promontory they are lost to sight and I begin in earnest to paddle on to the camp.

Anna-Marie, hunched down in the bow with only her bright-blue hat and orange lifejacket visible above the mound of packs and gear, is strangely silent as we plough toward the instant headland and small patch of forest that will become home for the night.

The southerly pushes us on as we glide easily on the small swell, scant metres from shore, finally turning and scrunching ashore on the tiny sandy beach adjacent to the campsite.

It has taken barely 25 minutes to complete the trip. The other two do not arrive for another hour, so we busy ourselves beaching the canoe, unloading equipment, selecting a sheltered camp among the trees, and arranging the fireplace. Above us the brooding peaks of the Crimea Range, still flecked with last winter's snow and bristling with jagged bluffs, cut off the lakehead and any views further into the Clarence Valley.

Anna-Marie is somewhat concerned when our two companions do not show, so it seems that a brief sortie along the lake shore, on foot this time, will allay her fears. Within 10 minutes we spot Ben, trudging wearily on followed by his father Tim and a steady stream of encouraging words.

We join up and trek the final section through the trees to camp, whereupon general bedlam ensues as Ben and Anna-Marie chase each other around the shoreline, and the two dads attempt safety watches, dinner duties, and firewood collection.

With dinner soon over and little chance of an early night for anyone, we opt for a quick paddle to the lakehead on the now-calm waters. Gliding across the flat blue surface as the sun sets on Mount Princess 1200m above us, geese honking their lonely echoing call provide a memorable finale to an exciting and varied day.

We beach at the river mouth and Ben and Anna-Marie run and play in the tall tussock grass as dusk slips into the valley and a gentle wind stirs the lake. As the first stars flash from the deepening sky it's a bedtime story before welcome rest for this weary group of campers, all of whom sleep soundly, lulled to sleep by the soothing slap of waves on the beach stones.

I rise before dawn next day in an effort to catch some quiet moments as the light returns in brilliant hues on the mountain tops. Lighting a small fire beside the shimmering lake I brew the billy as the sunlight cascades down the mountain walls opposite.

Soon little heads begin to stir and are on the go once more, keen for breakfast and another paddle on the lake which has now transformed into a brilliant mirror surface reflecting mountain, sky, and valley.

Our little charges, Ben and Anna-Marie, gaze in peaceful wonder as the mountains slip under the keel and canada geese call from the shore.

We beach again at the lakehead and journey into the Clarence Valley, striding through fields of flowers beneath the towering peaks, throwing rocks into deep, green pools, hiding among the tussocks, and spotting trout in the shallow lake waters.

As the morning draws on we return to camp for a swim; very cold and very brief, where little bodies have to be carefully watched on the narrow shelf of shallow water next to the plummeting depths of the lake.

We strike camp and all of us bundle packs, tents, and bodies into the canoe for the cruise along the lakeside in the hot summer sun with the wind once more at our backs and a sparkling lake to spirit us home.