Gorge Hill

Time: 2 hours and 30 minutes
Distance: 4.2 km
Start: Cave Stream Reserve car park
Finish: Same place. It's loopy.
Date: Friday 12th December 2025
Warnings: The track is closed for lambing from 14 Oct - Dec 1. There is a river to cross (twice) - don't cross if it's too swift.

The Castle Hill Basin. He ataahua. Thirty million years ago it was an inland sea, with layers of shells and creatures forming limestone that was subsequently eroded by water into the wonderful sculpted landforms we see today. Ngāi Tahu called the area Kūra Tawhiti - "the treasure from a distant land" - referring to kūmara that was once cultivated here. In 1848, the land passed to crown ownership via the dubious Kemp's Deed (basically theft). Pastoral leases were issued to colonists and stayed in families for years. 

Fast forward to 2004, when the Natural Heritage Fund (the government's conservation land agent) paid $3.5m for 8517 ha of the 11,124 ha Castle Hill Station. The purchase included Mount Cheeseman Ski Field and two rock climbing areas, Gorge Hill and Prebble Hill. The deal was a "partnership" (of sorts) with Auckland business woman (and "socialite") Christine Fernyhough, who - despite no framing experience and all the naysayers - went on to run the Castle Hill Station as a successful sheep and beef farm for 10 years. At some point she wrote a book about life on a high country station, which I haven't read.

We parked the car in the flashy touristy Cave Stream Scenic Reserve car park, and set off on the flashy touristy trail to the flashy touristy viewing platform, where we could look down into the Broken River gorge and plan our off-piste route up Gorge Hill.  

From the viewing platform, through a gate, the path deteriorated rapidly as we descended to where Cave Stream exits a cave which resembles a giant butthole attractively fringed with pretty (albeit pesty) pink lupins. 

We pfaffed around looking for the ideal place to cross Broken River, before finally settling for a good spot a wee bit upstream from the cave.  The rocks looked super slippery but actually they weren't at all, and we were all soon safely on the other side.

We proceeded to scramble straight up the hill, through the prickly dog roses until, after a few minutes of pain, we intersected with a faint path which took us steeply up around the bluffs. Eventually things levelled out a little and we found ourselves on an easily negotiable grassy slope, dotted with matagouri and stony outcrops. Good fodder for photographic poses. 

On the ridge there was a barely discernable grassy trail all the way to the "summit" of Gorge Hill (793 m). The summit is not particularly prominent because the landscape is expansive here - big skies and mountains in all directions.

We were keen to explore beyond the summit, so we contined to traverse the ridge to a point where we could drop down to a small boulder field. We walked amongst it all, spotting the weird and wonderful rock sculptures - a cork screw in a cat's arse and a giant schlong. More posing for photos and pausing for paramanawa. 

On the way back we decided to search for a less scrambly way down. First we climbed the fence (not electric) and bypassed a couple of sinkholes. That was slightly unnerving - you could just imagine a "thwump" sound as someone disappeared into one of those. From there we picked up some sort of cattle track and eventually found a clearing through the matagouri where we could descend to the river. A graceful tumble into a daisy field was like Andrew Wyeth's painting Christina's world (or a Vietnamese copy). 

The river crossing was a cinch and, on the other side, we discovered an old path - well formed and daisy-lined (ox-eye, not edelweiss), that took us straight back up to the carpark.

Darfield felt a million miles away but we got to Dalethorpe House Cafe eventually. Starving though. Salads, flutes, and hot chocolates all around. Then it was time for a quick gander at the shops (a.k.a. honeycomb candle traps). I would have bought a coffee cup but when I looked at its bottom, it was $130 (branded apparently), and, besides, I think I have reached my trinketies limit. But I did manage to score Christine Fernyhough's book, The Road to Castle Hill, at Lot 53c Vintage Store (Kim, I owe you $15). These days she is a philanthopist. I have always wanted to be one of those.

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