We 12/30/98 - Woke inside the cool Blackball Hotel and had another quick look around, in the art gallery with local artists, at the old photos of the town, miners, and the mining operations, and at the furnishings and building itself. I took pics of the inside of the hotel and of the general store, and watched the small scale Blackball Sausages operation through the front windows. Breakfast was another treat inside the Blackball's big kitchen, outfitted with real cooking utensils, and a toaster - yippie!
Tim slipped two backpacks into plastic and strapped them onto the luggage rack with 25m of orange climbing rope and the drive continued south on route 6 in the rain. We were hoping the ski would clear a bit later in the afternoon when we would reach the glaciers. I drove, making a couple of quick stops at Phelps Gold Mine and the town of Ross, another gold center for photos to send as postcards for Ann and Dave.
The rain did subside a bit by the time reached the town of Franz Joseph, home of our first glacier of the same name. The other glacier is Fox, and the two are tourist Mecca's, places to view the glaciers, take a guided tour with crampons, or fly over in a helicopter. Helicopters are popular in New Zealand. From a helicopter you can sightsee, tramp, mountain bike, and ski. There are at least five other glaciers, but these two are the most easily accessible, and we followed the pilgrims to Franz Joseph's face, a half hour walk through a very wide riverbed of turned stones with glacier water running through the center. I have seen a few glaciers in Switzerland and the glacier surface was similar - white, blue, and black in places. The black from dirt and gravel from run off, the white and blue simply the color of the ice. Surprising was the glacier face, a wall fifty feet high, that has cut a u-shaped valley, and a wall that advances and recedes. An airplane that crashed in the mid-40's moved 3.5km since. The glacier has advanced as much as five meters per day, but averages one meter per day. In 1750 Franz Joseph was two kilometers further towards the ocean.
There were warnings about falling ice and other dangers in climbing the glacier. John and I looked at each other and said, "We'll see". We reached the roped viewing area and hopped over. An rock path led to a man carved ice path, up ice steps, and crossed two boards laid over short chasms. Yes, the ice was slippery, surprisingly so. I thought about
______ book "Into Thin Air", that talked about the aggressive possessiveness of companies that clear ice and install ropes and ladders each season. We heard a similar story about companies here. At the end of the chasm sat a ladder and we could hear picks and shovels close by. I asked John to take a photo of me climbing the ladder, and being halfway up, I had to finish. The ladder was secured to the ice at top where a interesting topless passage led to a long ice staircase being spruced up by three men. They glanced down , I walked back to the ladder to wave John up. I wanted my camera to take a pi of the workers who were now obviously annoyed. One asked sarcastically if we felt safe with the anchors and other protection. I answered wisely, "Yes, we feel real safe with it". We scrambled down to find Tim and Megan, and report our find.
Megan dared me to swim in the river exiting from the glacier base through a large hole. I looked at the glacier, at the chalk green water, at the ice being pushed downstream, and at the tourists. It all wasn't a problem, except the flow was too strong. I did, however, think of a consolation event. The gang back in Newport belong to an international running / social / drinking club called the Hash Hound Harriers and one of the many very stupid and silly things they do without reason is to make someone sit on a block of ice naked. I handed Megan both cameras and carefully walked as far as possible to the rivers appearance. Helly Hansen jacket off, fleece shirt off, and the Cape Union Mart shorts fit over my hiking boots. Someone suggested my butt may permanently stick to the ice so I wiggled around and prompted Megan to hurry along. Then about four cameras started clicking from a couple of Japanese groups, later I noticed another Japanese with a video camera at the roped observation area. I put my togs back on with my butt intact, and walked by a handful of grinning Japanese.
The valley walls had a few waterfalls coming off them, but one was particularly good, falling a great length in quantity to the river bed. We wandered over the stones to this southern wall where John and I went for a skinny in the freezing pelting water while Megan fumbled with my cameras. We repeatedly went in and out of the falls for the picture before I realized the N60's aperture ring had came off automatic. Fifty feet away on the main trail tourist stopped to watch and more pictures were taken. We all walked away laughing and drove on to Fox.
We had arranged a bunkhouse earlier and since that chore was completed drove through town to see the Fox Glacier. It was nearing dark, the tourists were gone. The others went ahead so that when I arrived at the rope and warning, I didn't realize which way they went. Thinking I may be foxed, I went back and found another trail. It was the glacier guides trail and I quickly walked on it across a river, then up on the side of the glacier. It was a good alternative to waking to the face. I knew now the others hadn't come this way, but raced on to see what views I could find.
The town is also named Fox Glacier and we took a four person bunkhouse at Fox Glacier Campground. After dinner, Megan and I walked up to the town for an hour of nightlife. A drunk, Moari women sat on the next stool over and laughed because her friend kept throwing beer in her face. She was normally big, and threw a mean look when we met eyes and I smiled. Megan and I moved to a table.
Th 12/31/98 - NEW YEAR'S EVE!!
In our little bunkhouse we took turns sorting through our belongings to make a one night pack. We left our most valuable items with the desk help who placed the package in the safe and we were off on our New Year's Eve tramp!
The car had been acting up the last few days, becoming hard to shift. This morning is was too difficult to ignore. The mechanic at the BP in the town center topped off the hydraulic clutch reservoir. Twenty kilometers south of Fox is the start of the Copland Track to Welcome Flat Hut, and goes onto the Copland Pass. I have been very intrigued and curious about the Copland Pass, the only tramp rated as 'extremely difficult' in the Lonely Planet Tramping Guide. It's rated this way because mountaineering experience is needed, other reasons include steepness, and duration. Mountaineering means crampons, ice axe, and rope is needed. John and I would require a guide, which is about $NZ350 each, although I as hoping to find someone for less and at $200 each I would be game. Second problem is ... it's closed. I am not sure what 'closed' means, because anyone can tramp anywhere they wish, but it is 'closed' probably because a lower part, Stewart Gorge, is impassable as it has been washed out.
The Copland Track to Welcome Flat follows the Karanguan and Copland Rivers 17km and is estimated to take 6-8 hours by DOC. The parking lot at the trailhead was home to 2,863,356 merciless sandflies. The sky was cloudy, air temperature about 70 F, perfect for tramping. We quickly threw on packs and DEET, and walked two minutes to a river to be ford. Optionally, there is a flood bridge five minutes north, but we walked up and down the shore like cats looking for a way across, finally Tim found a spot where a few added stones made the crossing possible. Across the river I maneuvered in front and put on speed. I didn't see any of the three behind for over an hour. I enjoy hiking without someone on my heels, and hiking quickly without any feet to confuse the terrain in front. If I am feeling good, the pace gets the lungs huffing hard so talking isn't easy. The head races with short thoughts on any possible subject, overlapping circling songs lyrics. I took the hint from signs and went to lookout points, then stopped for a picture when the tree side ground turned brilliant green with moss. Slowing to stare up at a large tree with a strange skyward outcroppings of branches, I caught a movement down the trail and was surprised to see John.
The trail gradient is slight. The 17km to Welcome Flats reaches only 650m, so at times the fastest walk is possible, of course obstacles such as rivers, streams, roots, hills, and worn trail exist. Sections through the hike were so green, unusually green. There were trees and shrubs, but add ferns, and fluorescent floor moss, and hanging thread-like moss, bright green moss on boulders in streams. I started to call the trail the 'Green Trail'. But, then two sections closely follow the chalky green river, which provides fun scampering over stones and boulders while having a river view. The river is about fifty feet wide for the distance to Welcome Flat, except near the ocean where it is significantly wider. The volume and speed is impressive, rafting or tubing back down (I don't know if that is possible) would be quick and a blast. The surrounding mountains tower 6000ft or more with waterfalls carrying this wet climates rainfall toward the nearby Tasman Sea. Some spots on the mountain tops have snow, more so looking east toward the main mountains.
There are a couple handfuls of streams and rivers to cross. Six have optional flood bridges, one bridge isn't an option. Finding a way across while not slowing too much is also fun, as was the river John and I stopped at to wait for Megan and Tim for lunch at McFee (?) Creek. We had left a note on the river beach half hour before saying "Lunch, Noon", and they had found and read it. This river also has an optional flood bridge and a depth of four feet in a pool near the trail, enough for a shivering skinny. This was a very pleasant spot for lunch, the water cascading over rocks through a steepish gorge to the unseen river below, and the funky flood bridge fifty feet above. I walked around on the flood trail to the bridge and walked out for a pi. Picture a chain link fence folded in half and bridging the gorge as a 'U'. A walkway through the bottom of the 'U' is a link of boards one foot wide, the whole structure suspended with cables. Walking across, the planks easily swing and bounce, holding on is a must.
After lunch, John and I sped ahead. It feels great moving this quickly, we couldn't have gone faster without running. Hey, we're good. That's the thought until I remembered hiking with others, light steps and wiry and often young, skipping across stones like springbok with finesse. A few I think of are Troy who we met in Huahine, Megan's flatmate John Tucker, Dave Ross' brother, Chris Deangelis, Mike Lanowy. Damn you guys! They all have the described build and have left me as if standing still.
A few features stand out. The 'must do' bridge is over Architect Creek. It's seventy steps across, suspended by cable, a few cables form the sides and suspended wooden planks. Unlike the lunch flood bridge, this was very long and more substantial, but also had a sign saying 'one person only'. John and I took turns hooting and bouncing across, looking down at the river rushing down the mountainside. Crossing Sheils Creek was also interesting, the creekbed is so wide and stumbling steeply downward, I think of a river and landslide rather than images conjured by 'creek'. Water feeding this river could be seen hundreds of meters up in a wonderful long and thick waterfall, lower down in smaller falls, and then at our feet. Comparatively this was a huge scene, one which I had to stop and admire.
I had read of the wood pigeon, a large bird found throughout most of New Zealand forest that can be heard thumping its wings when flying. I found it elusive like the Kynsa loorie in South Africa, an unusual looking bright green bird that I was the last to spot on the Otter Trail. A wood pigeon sat atop a branch above the trail. Ah ha! About time! This bird is twice the size of a common pigeon, the belly bright white, and upper body a dark shinny rainbow like the sheen of oil on pavement. He flew away with the heavy thumping.
We made the hut before 3pm, in five hours with nearly an hour for lunch. I had reached my limit, my knees and hips aching. The hut is really good, twenty-four mattresses upstairs, large cooking and eating area downstairs. The building is wood throughout, airy inside with a large opening overlooking the center kitchen area from above, big beams running lengthwise. The hut sits in a wide valley with high peaks stretching west toward the ocean, east toward the Copland Glacier, snow patches in the upper reaches, heaps of snow in the eastern reaches. The river is a five minute walk south, and another five minute walk will take you to the flats famous hot springs. The clouds were low, and obscured the mountain tops, but it hadn't rained more than a drizzle and we hoped for clearing in the late afternoon.
John and I chose bedding spots, and went straight for the hot springs. A DOC trough directs very hot water to spill into a series of three pools, each one a little cooler. Mineral deposits have settled differently through the pools, creating three different colors - red, green, and tan. A DOC worker chatted with us and suggested trying the furthest and coolest pool. We bared all and slowly settled in. The tan water's depth was only two feet, but the hot water felt sooo good on the sore joints and muscles. I repeatedly moaned gratefully. One little catch, not to be a pun, was that the bottom was muck, hot like sandy flaky green clay, and it stuck well in body crevasses. It was impossible to rinse it out completely We tried the next hotter pool, the green colored one. Walking back to the hut, we passed Tim and Megan who were heading for the hot pools, so I grabbed the camera for a couple of photos.
To rinse off well, we walked to the river which was extremely cold, near freezing from its glacier source. The headache test verified near freezing water - put your head under and an immediate headache means near freezing! From our vantage point we spied an old footbridge crossing the river, a continuation of the track east. I made four trips to this cool suspension bridge throughout our time here. It was built in 1918, a long beefy looking wooden bridge complemented with a load of cables, a pleasure to observe it's attractive construction. It provides the best viewing spot around - 360 degrees of mountains with a river blowing by beneath.
Inside DOC huts is a folder with local information such as area maps and hiking times and local news stories. An article on the wall talked extensively about the hut and it's attributes. I had to repeat to the others one snip. In 1977 a 400 meter wide landslide had pushed the current hut into the river! Avalanches and landslides are common in this mountainous country, but I boyishly marveled at this event, although chances are extremely slim that it would happen again.
New Years Eve dinner consisted of poor looking cheap sausages, sautéed onions and mushroom, and pasta. The poor sausages were assaulted the night before while sleeping in the freezer. Someone opened the package to steel one, then threw the package back, opened. In the morning they looked freezer burnt. The meal was tasty though, Tim cooking most of it. We played cards and rationed Cadbury Fruit and Nut (the trip standard). As midnight approached, most people made a move for the hot springs, we were last to join with our bottle of champagne. We walked into a surreal scene - a couple candles and moonlight illuminating a colorful plateau of equally colorful hot pools. I counted nineteen mostly naked people laid back and softly laughing and drinking and enjoying the moment. Not needing another green crack problem, we only observed.
Fr 1/1/99 - NEW YEAR'S DAY
In the morning we said goodbye and happy new year to those we met, ate, packed, and set off. John and I asked for the car keys, hiked ahead to make the lot in four hours with only a ten minute stop at the same lunch spot for a dip.
After tramping 34km, my last few steps fording the river near the car was my downfall. Literally, I had three steps to the other side and lost balance. My left foot swung around and back and forth over the water while I twisted like Gumby on my right in an attempt to find a solution, and then it went ker-plunk. Damn, I had yelled in disbelief and John watched and I was embarrassed. Laughing and upset, I simply walked through the river to the shore.
We met the hordes of sandflies at the car so I could cuss again at them, then were back down at the river with soap and clean clothes. Tim and Megan arrived nearly an hour afterward, and I drove back to Fox Glacier.
The car was up its old trick of grinding gears, so I started in first each time we stopped, and skipped from second to fifth. A different, friendly mechanic bled the clutch, said it was a New Year's present, and we were off toward Wanaka.
Our drive down the southern west coast took three hours, we were all beat tired, and I was quickly disgusted with being uncomfortable and drove 120kph. Signs marking the many creeks we crossed were helped a little, with names like Dizzy Creek, Doughboy Creek, Kiwi, Kea, Moa, Gunboat, and Lazy. Crossing the Southern Alps at Haast Pass, the climate changed from extremely wet to very dry. We booked into the last tent sight at the campground in town, set up, and walked around. Wanaka is small, but extremely attractive, especially to young partying kids on break. The town is on the large Lake Wanaka, with a high mountain backdrop of snow dotted peaks., and a simple and neat waterfront. The few bars and pubs were packed. We ate cheap fish and chips and indulged a few times on dessert (oops!), back to tent by 11:30pm
Sa 1/2/99 - Again - woke, showered, packed up the tent, ate cereal with bananas and raisins, toast, and tea in the campground kitchen. A four machine cybercafe costing $NZ10 per hour was our first destination. I spent fifteen minutes spell checking, formatting, and transferring to floppy the journal. I then hopped onto a computer and was dismayed to find my email account on MailCity inoperable. I was disgusted, I hadn't been able to cheek email for two weeks, and when I finally have the opportunity, the service is trash. I was able to reach GeoCities, my website service and downloaded the fifth chapter, the largest thus far - 67.5kb.
Wanaka was bright and warm, the small lakefront town bustling with vacationers, people readying motor boats, walking the strip, and socializing. Lake Wanaka and her shore were especially happening. A sailboat race was passed the waterfront, young people and families lounged and amused themselves. We flocked to the bakery at the front, buying meat pies and cakes for lunch on the beach. Immediately, dozens of ducks were asking for handouts. Did you know ducks don't jump like dogs for scraps?
After lunch, we drove to the far end of town for a swim. Tim found a long old huge tree floating and the three boys took turns trying to stand on it. Two small children stared at the log with bright eyes after we docked, so I went out again, playing the motor for my small passengers. The little girl and younger boy were straddled and clinging on. I ran and pushed and held the log from twisting, then excitedly told the kids I was going to push hard and let go and that they should hold on tight.. The log would slowly roll and we all laughed as they fell into the water. The girl could make the log again without problem but the boy would come up a little frantic from the cold, swinging his arms, trying to stay above water, and clear his eyes all at the same time. He was a funny site and I quickly grabbed him and sat him back on. Ten minutes of running a log through the water was workout enough, so I beached myself.
Tim drove north towards Mt. Cook, Moari named Aoraki, I sat shotgun and attempted typing without becoming nauseous. I glanced up to see the scenery of open dry pasture with high mountains and purple lupines lining the road. With Megan's recommendation, we stopped to see the blue lake, Lake Pukaki, and an outstanding view of Mt. Cook, the countries
We found tent spots in open field at Glentanner with fantastic vistas from our tents of the Southern Alps including Mt. Cook.
Su 1/3/99 - After the morning rituals, we sped 24km to Mt. Cook Village (762m), found the information center, and left a bundle at the hotel for safe keeping. The Mueller Hut fee is $NZ18 pppn, and general consensus was not good, we opted for dragging tents up and staying for nothing. We had also considered other hikes with lower hut fees, but were told the views dulled in comparison. All told, tenting at Mueller was the best move by far.
The sky was perfectly clear, or 'fine' as they would say here, and all peaks were spectacularly visible. Mt. Cook sat high and proud dead North, 12km down the Hooker Glacier Valley. Mt. Cook is the countries highest peak at 3754m (12,315ft), and the Kiwi's treat it as a god. Meeting the Hooker Valley nearby is the Mueller Glacier running from the Southwest. We were climbing to Kea Point near the intersection, then a little South to the hut area.
In drastic contrast to the Welcome Flats tramp, we were faced with incredible non-stop incline for an estimated 3hr 10min. John and I dragged our sad bodies up in about 2.5 hours. We prepared for two nights so our packs were much heavier. I added the tent fly, poles, jeans, book, handheld, and extra food. The pack was heavy! The trail is relentless for an hour, one big reach up after another onto high steps fronted by rough hewn planks. The sun beat on the back, there was a slight breeze. Each step was high and my ass ached for the first time in the trip by the time we reached Sealy Tarnes, a little oasis of a pond stuck on the mountainside. We broke here for dipping in the cool shallow muddied water, lunched, and really enjoyed the views. I spotted my first avalanche across the Mueller Glacier from us. At the end of this hill, an elderly lady was painting a watercolor of Mt. Cook. I sat and chatted, then took a pi of Blackie holding the paintbrush.
John left ten minutes before me We were halfway, and were told the second half was easier. Not! The trail was as steep but more rocky rather than manmade steps. Along the way I gathered encouragement from people descending, and tried to smile appreciatively. I uselessly tried to convince myself this slog was fun and character building. This was not fun. I had to stop to rest more frequently, taking sips of water, letting the heartbeat lower, breathing slow. Hiking is always fun, in retrospect. I passed a long slew of snow and wondered if I could slid down on the way back. At the top of this second half of steep, an old couple happily smiled and said that the hut was only ten minutes and easy as well. Not! Because they said ten minutes, I thought I was lost after fifteen, looking around for a different trail and second guessing myself. this section was relatively flat, I was hopping across stones, then the hut came into view.
I stopped and stared at the hut in wonder. I hadn't known what it looked like, and this was old and funky, a real alpine hut. Although it holds twelve bunks, it seems small. The outside is beat old corrugated aluminum cake with dark green paint, trimmed in red. Outside sit two fifty gallon black plastic water tanks holding roof run-off. Below is the medium-drop, painted similarly, and the immediate phrase to mind was, "Loo with a view"!
The weather was 'fine', and many said it was not common and should be taken advantage of. We can do that! Outside the hut are two tent platforms made by scraping rocks aside within a circular windbreak of stones. I felt I was standing in a mini-castle and challenged Megan to a war. We were able to enjoy the hut facilities, the cooking area and utensils, the eating table, and the loo, but saved on the hut fee and were probably more comfortable in the tents. From the tents we could hear the Hooker River 3200 meters away, the avalanches across the Mueller Glacier and below Mt. Sefton, 4km Northwest. The surrounding peaks are snow covered with bare rock on steeper slopes. This was the perfect spot!
In addition to our clear views of Mt. Cook, Mt. Sefton and his neighboring 9000ft peaks, avalanches, the Mueller Glacier, and the Hooker Glacier and Valley, to the south is a series of mountain peaks easily accessible from here - Oliver 6288ft, Kitchner 6700ft, Annette 7365ft, and Sealy 8651ft.. (I am using a mix of meters and feet only because the maps I have access to are different, feet = 3.28 * meters) I spoke to a Kiwi who recently summitted Sealy. His group left at 3am and returned at 7pm, dawdling some, mountaineering required.
I studied the Mt. Cook chart on the hut wall to get these numbers. I was surprised to realize that Welcome Flat was only eight miles in a straight line from here! It took us days of driving and a day of sweat between the two.
The hut folder has a number of articles of interest including details of the previous three Mueller Huts. The first hut was built in 1915, the second replaced it in 1950, but lasted four months before an avalanche swept it away. (This sounds like Monty Python's Holy Grail). The third hut was built from debris and temporary. "The present Mueller Hut then, is the fourth hut by that name, but the first on the present site. It's position on top of the ridge was chosen as it was free from avalanche danger, although exposed... Mueller Hut was named after the Mueller Glacier, which was named by Haast after Baron Ferdinand Von Mueller (1825-96),a Danish born scientist and explorer an Director of the Melbourne Botanical Gardens."
I have never slept in such natural grandeur!
After settling in, I walked toward Sefton for an avalanche show. The highest rock has a ledge four feet down where I used my day pack with cameras and computer inside for a pillow, and stared. Like lightening and thunder, the sound comes afterward, about five seconds here, which is cool. I was very comfortable on my hard hummock, dreamily scanning the massive terrain. I heard many more avalanches than I saw, they were out of sight, although I did see good number. One corner, near a long waterfall, repeated the natural spectacle. I slowly dozed, warm on the pink granite in just a T-shirt and calm wind. About fifteen minutes later a wind ran for a minute and I felt a little too cool, then it was calm. This repeated and I said to myself I would stay for one more cycle and then find the others. Instead, I laid for half an hour more, simply relishing the beauty that nature dynamically provides.
The hut was occupied with seven others, two Aussie men, two Israeli girls, a couple from Liverpool, Harry and Rebecca, both pediatricians, and a strange Yank looking for someone to mountaineer with. Around 7pm our foursome cooked first, bad lamb sausages and great frozen veggies and pasta. We all sat around the table as people cooked and ate, and chatted. The Liverpool couple should be working in Bulawao, Zimbabwe soon. We exchange email addresses. The Israeli girls traveled Oz for three months and are here for one and a half months, then onto Thailand. Of the Aussie's, one schools south of Sydney, the other lives in Singapore building climbing structures.
Later, around 10:30pm, we all watched the full moon rise over the eastern mountains. The moon glow warned of its rise, so nothing was missed. I hadn't seen a full moon rise before, I am sure others hadn't either, certainly not in this environment, and we all were elated. A satellite passed overhead, and Megan's famous constellation, The Hairdryer, eventually appeared. We talked nonsense and laughed and slowly each one of us turned in for the night.
Facts for Mueller Hut Area:
Mt. Cook Village (762m) 2519ft
hiked track to Mueller Hut, stopped at Sealy Tarns (1250m) for an hour. made it there in 1 hour, estimated 1.5 hours
then to Mueller Hut (1768m) in about 1.5 hours
Mt. Cook (3754m, 12,315f) 12km away
looking at Mt. Sefton (10359f) 3 km away and The Footstool (9073f)
straight line to Welcome Flats is 8 miles
Mo 1/4/99 - We slept great, except for a windy hour that blew the nylon around loudly. I was up at 7am to find John reading per norm and all but the Liverpool couple heading down the mountain. John reported that group were up for sunrise and peeled off just afterward. The last couple were off by 8am. Again, the weather is perfect, sunny, blue, and warm even at 6000ft. I found a comfortable position looking toward Cook and awkwardly wrote five postcards, then typed most the morning.
While John had gone off hiking across Mt. Oliver and some other peaks outside the cabin, we hesitated with lunch, finally ate , and set off toward Mt. Sealy only to see John descending towards us. He told of scary thrills while hiking alone and returned to camp. We followed the common contour path and soon found a slope steep and long enough for a slide. I had donned my fashionable alien green Mt. Washington wind pants and blue Helly Hanson, while Megan and Tim used plastic bags. We went for one slide while admiring the surroundings and carried on transversing steep slopes of glacier turned rock and snow. Two older mountaineers stopped for a chat and I asked questions about mountain names to learn another version. We sat and laid and enjoyed the view while deliberating whether to go on to Annette Plateau or head back for more snow sliding. A half hour passed and I relented, we turned back. On a different slope when ventured high and did half hills for a while. Slide of the day - Tim on his back with plastic under him, head first, legs apart, and Megan laying atop. I laughed as they slid past, Tim asking Megan for steering directions and obstruction updates.
Back at Mueller, I felt suddenly exhausted. The hike itself was unsubstantial, the weariness must have been an accumulation of overall exercise, today's sun, and unruly sleep. I found the tent sitting happily and looking comfortable on its dirt and walled platform, I crawled onto the Thermarest mattress and opened Wilbur Smith's 'Sunbird'. Laying and relaxing quickly and suddenly replenished my energy and zapped the tiredness, I consciously wondered how this could happen.
An hour and a half later, I had been listening to the wind whip the tent and fly in increasing violence. The sound, which we had an hour of the night before, was very loud and grating. I look again at the dome being forced to lee, and through the screen window watched the edges of the fly shuddering in rapid harmonics. Examining the tent pegs I found only one had held on the windward side and relied only John's pack was holding the tent down. The wall did provide some protection from the wind catching the tent from underneath, but having the tent blow away was realistic. A young man with long dark curls hanging down his face, maybe French, stopped by and told of losing tent on a mountain in high wind. I reset the pegs by laying them horizontally and securing with large flatish rocks, then tying down two fly points with my long nylon clothesline to the haphazard rock wall. I studied the gyrations of the tent again, and started to build up the wall. I looked around for John, and wondered if he took any notice of the wind and if he worried about the tent. John, Tim, and a girl walked out of the nearby hut laughing and walking to see the snow cave just below the hut that my have been used as a bivy. John then waked over to my efforts. I told him the tent wasn't happy and without much hesitation John suggested that we take the tent down. After considering the options and then the worse scenario, that the tent could be damaged, I agreed. We packed our backpacks and the tent came down. We also decided that dragging mattresses out of the hut and sleeping under the sky would be a good alternative. (Two others did this the night before) I mused at the thought of this - I had never slept the night without some structure over my head and have relished the idea. Yes! That's the ticket!
In the early evening, two Kea's paid a visit. Helen told of these curious, crazy, intelligent, and annoying birds in French Polynesia. Here, finally, we met Keg's! They are alpine pretty parrots, big at a foot tall, green, yellow with a stripe of orange under wing, with the hooked parrot beak. Keg's have frustrated and maddened many people with their antics, most importantly chewing rubber from automobile windscreens, and nabbing food and other belongings to fly away with. A newspaper article in the hut folder tells of how trampers plans were thwarted when they were locked into the hut for hours by Keg's who latched the door. Helen says to take care of a Kea acting up and obtaining your attention because behind you a gang of others could be rifling through your back! Here, a comical Kea tried to lift a water filled ladle from above a water tank, which would have been a bad thing because it would have fell into the tank, while the other squawked atop the cooking area exhaust, sending echoes through the cabin. When I move my face close to tell the bird he was silly, instead of backing away he moved closer, and I was the one to retreat. They aren't afraid of people! I snapped a few pictures, and realized how silly we must look to the New Zealanders - Keg's are found throughout the south, often at carparks.
Hut patrons for the night were Louise from Melbourne, and two guys who arrived a bit after one another. The two conversed very little with one another, or with anyone else. I wondered how they could be so inward, but later on in the light full evening, the younger opened up with, as did the other but with prodding. John, has been a criminal lawyer for two years in Wellington, Thomas (not sure of his name), was a surgeon in Melbourne. They had met on a mountaineering course a couple years earlier. John the Lawyer argued fashionably with John, Megan, and Tim about the ethics and morality defending a known criminal. I admired his command of himself, his self confidence, quick thinking and rebuttals, and his broad knowledge of mountaineering and other topics. I was jealous.
More interesting to me was Thomas, a big, almost burly, and quiet guy who I pegged for a more common occupation, such as engineer or laborer (I didn't find he was a surgeon until our trip down), had been around the world tramping. His opinions were flat and curt, and he wasn't overly warm, but when I heard the word 'Kenya' trail through the conversation, I stopped typing and looked at him. I drilled questions and he happily but stonily replied. He had attempted Mt. Kenya, turning around at 5000 meters because of weather. His duo were taken advantage of, per norm, by the guides and porters who quoted a price pre-trip only to unscrupulously demand more once the trip is underway on the mountain.
Thomas also climbed Kilimanjaro. I excitedly queried him, wanting to add to my long list of Kili accounts. Even more stone faced, he first replied, "It's only a walk". I asked if he had difficulty and again without any enthusiasm, "It's only a walk". This annoyed me, I wanted to then ask him why he did it then, he certainly would have known what to expect beforehand, and therefore, how and why would he regret it? He refused to give recognition to summitting the highest peak in Africa, one where less than half complete. Virtually every account is the same. The trip takes three or four days up, two down. Most people use the Standard Route and by the last day, which starts at midnight for the summit, everyone is puking and struggling for breath as the labor upward, walking a few paces, resting, then repeating. It's the hardest venture in a lifetime. Thomas said he didn't have a problem, neither did his girlfriend companion. They did have a full rest day, that may have helped, and didn't take any altitude sickness medications. The cost, in conflict the Lonely Plant, was $US780, and guides are now required. This was interesting to get a recent account of costs, but even more notable, this was the first Kili story I have heard that didn't make the trek sound like hell. Their total time on the continent was three weeks, besides climbing a day in the Masai Mara ($US100 each for vehicle, and the same for lodging!!), and flew into Victoria Falls.
Thomas said he wouldn't go back to Africa, he didn't appreciate the people at all, and that Peru was his favorite trekking spot. He has also been to Nepal. As I type, I wish I could ask Thomas more questions.
Darkness fell about 10pm and each night either John or I made an excited comment about it. John, Megan, Tim, and Louise were still playing 500 when I decided to try our new sleeping arrangements. The wind had calmed earlier, but was now blowing strongly again. I sent my Mag light on my shoulder, laid head near the wall, and open Wilbur Smith. The French chap stopped by soon afterwards to see how I was and nervously voiced concern about the Keg's. He said that they attach animals, thirty ganging up on sheep to kill it. I quickly dismissed the humorous mental image of a flock of Keg's flying his death pecked body of the ridge. His story sounded like a drama, but Megan corroborated that Kea have been known to kill sheep by burrowing through the back into the kidney.
I read until my upper body, exposed to allow my hands free to read the book, was cold beyond comfort. The nearly full moon had not risen yet, and over the western peaks only faint light from the sunset remained, so overhead the stars shown well. I quickly spotted Orion, and the Southern Cross. The four star diamond shaped Southern Cross has 'pointers', two bright stars on the western side, a line through which intersects the Cross. Megan's hairdryer was visible. I thought to look for satellites and immediately saw one traveling west to east, and not another afterward.
I was finally 'sleeping under the stars', and loving it. The mattress, old and dirty and suspect, kept me wondering about bedbugs, but it was extremely comfortable compared to the Thermarest. My sleeping bag is only rated to 40 degrees F, and with the wind hollowing over the rock wall, a line of heat exchange ran along the ridgeline of the sleeping bag. The cool was annoying but not unbearable, and I was soon asleep. For some unknown reason I was fully awake about two o'clock, heard John and Thomas depart for Mt. Sealy at three o'clock, and then was asleep again with my head and face inside the bag so my breath could supply warmth for my body. What appeared to be soon afterward, I was astonished to find the sun bearing down at 7am when John announced raising time.
Tu 1/5/99 - What's that Prince song? "We're going to party like it's 1999..." It's 1999! How could that be?! I remember while in grade school calculating my age in the year 2000, well, it's coming. Wow!
The trip up to Mueller took about 2.5 hours hiking time, while the climb down from was 1hr 10m for John and I, twenty more minutes for Megan and Tim. With about three quarters of the descent behind us, my legs were started to shake, a little while later a knee half gave out on a long step. We were coming down this steep trial quickly and our bodies were not used to this abuse. I stopped for less than a minute to sit with little relief, up quickly to catch John just ahead. I would find out later that all four of us would be hurting from this descent unlike any hike yet, hurting so bad that we were moaning and stretching and walking funny for three days!
- John drove to Queenstown, I sorted through all my paper and photo stuff
- stopped to watching bungy at Kawarau Bridge, 1880, first bungy site
- bummed around town, others went to see movie, I was on email and phone
- pub meal, only choice 'huge steak, onions, heaps of potatoes' I cooked onions and potatoes myself.
- Helen met us, out to Lone Star for huge desert of apple pie and ice cream
- up at Helen's till after 1 talking, bottle of wine, great eleven minute video mage by Helen of 'the ice', Seal, Robert Palmer 'Simply Irresistible' background music
We met Helen with her boyfriend from 'the ice', Troy, in Huahine, French Polynesia. They had captivated us with there stories and explanations of life at Scott Base in Antarctica. Since then, Scott Base and the American base, McMurdo, have coming cropping up as topics in conversions through our trip Helen thinks it's an omen and we should go for a year because of the great experience and a year's saving of wages. Helen was raised in Hamilton, and moved to Queenstown in 1990, spending all but two winters as a ski instructor. I am amazed at her outdoor lifestyle. Work?! Perhaps daily activities appear within relatively themselves as the grind, but besides working as a booking agent for the many thrill activities of the area which allows her freebies to evaluate the companies for future recommendations, she spends free time training as a river boogie board guide (don't think this a pansy ride, they attack up to grade four!) in anticipation of a job in Zimbabwe under Victoria Falls on the Zambezi, and also has a month long trip plan to trek Annapurna and Everest Base Camp in Nepal, and then another year back on the ice.
We 1/6/99
- up at 9:20a, talked mostly of Antarctica, refereed to as 'the ice', photos of ice, while john did his journal
- met Megan and tim for lunch at 1p
- met Helen at Avanti in The Mall (outside tourist walkway) at 730p
- to lone star for dessert-
- home by 10:30p
- fell sleep on couch, too lazy to make bed on floor
Th 1/7/99
- up after 9 again, poured again last night and this am, cleared about noon
read a little
- john and Tim went shopping for our tramps in Cornwall while Megan and I did laundry and then walked town
- met Catherine, daughter of dairy farmers rob and Bethany in Leppertown
- met up with john and Tim at campground
- walk town alone, to stone church on hill to check out and possible viewpoint for picture, through park
QUEENSTOWN - Queenstown is a cool tourist town on the huge Lake Wakatipu. Although settled in the mid 1800's, it has a new flair to it with modern style buildings and construction. It caters to the adventure tourist with an amazing amount of booking centers throughout for bunging, speed boat river rides, parasailing, paragliding, canyoning, Fly by Wire, river boogie boarding, and so on. Looking at the main drag, Shotover St., it is littered with advertising for this commercial adventures. This father of bungy, A J. Hackett, has his name plastered over town. Helen works for a booking agent and is training to be a river boogie boarding guide, where she intends on taking a job on the Zambezi in Victoria Falls.
There are also an abundance of souvenir stores, restaurants, cyber cafes, and more than a handful of bars and nightclubs. Although Queenstown is small, only 10,000 people, it's an interesting, fun, and attractive town to visit. As I type in the town gardens, I having been exploring town, still looking for a vantage spot to take an overall representative picture of Queenstown without spending $NZ12 for the gondola to Bob's Peak, which would probably work. Otherwise, it is impossible I believe, and a series of pictures are required. Perhaps a pi of the tidy Mall, an outdoor walkway lined with restaurants and shops, and normally a token street performer. Or possibly a pi of the lakefront, with its big old coal tour boat and waterfront establishments. Or maybe a pi of Shotover and Camp Streets, full of adrenaline pumping action adventures. Walking the streets are tourists from varying home countries and of varying ages, although I find more young people here than other places I have visited. As far as locals, the service industry must rank first, and of course they are into the great outdoor adventures. Nearby, the Remarkables can be seen, a long mountain range of jagged peaks not far from town, home to paragliding, rock climbing, hiking, and winter skiing.
Fr 1/8/99 TRAMPING ROUTEBURN - DAY 1
We're doing it! After anticipating this series of tramps, we are finally on the start. It was six months ago I had phoned to inquire about the Milford Track and then phoned Megan who made the booking. Considering that rain is so common in the Fiordland Area, we reasoned that the more days on the trail, the more chance of good clear weather. So, we also booked the second most popular tramp, the Routeburn, and to terminate near the car, the Greenstone or Caples will be our return route after the Routeburn. The three trails will total nine days of tramping out of ten for John, Megan, and I.
The logistics of a one way tramp and transporting six people from Queenstown to the trailhead and leaving the car at an accessible return point was a challenge for Megan. Tim stopped by Helen's an hour late and instead of a carload continuing on to the trailhead we regrouped in Queenstown to sort ourselves out. John drove Jillian, Tim, and I into Mt. Aspiring National Park, at the southern end of the Southern Alps and to the trailhead called the Routeburn Shelter, then returned the car to Glenorchy, where he and Megan and Catherine then bused to the trailhead. It all worked out, and by two thirty we were all together and tramping.
The hike had a posted time of four hours, John and I arrived at Routeburn Falls in one hour fifty. The trail first led to Routeburn. Flats camping and bunkhouse are through low laying red and silver beech forest on a flat well manicured trail. Our packs were the heaviest ever on the trail, but we walked quickly to the Flats, passing an interesting slight waterfall delicately sprinkling down bright green moss covered walls, and over many fun suspension footbridges spanning gorges made of chain link sides and two plank floors. Here, the trail climbed for the second hour and the heaviness of the pack wore on my legs and lungs, I was not enjoying the trail, laboring behind John. The trail works were a little less managed, although there was a concrete and steal bridge and in general more bridges than other trails.. I guessed the DOC were maintaining an infrastructure to support the popularity of the trail, maybe I could have guessed what was at the days end.
As we neared the treeline, a large object glared down at us - a new huge green corrugated building running out from a hillside on stilts, a monster. I guessed it was the hut for guided walkers I had heard of, ones that pay big bucks ($NZ1800), then I groveled about it ostentatiousness and ridiculousness. No, this was our hut, built a couple of years ago to accommodate thirty trampers. It was an amazing, huge (in comparison), comfortable, spiffy, stilted house! Wow, now we were liking it! There are two bunk areas and a large eating/fun area, all shinny new. The main view looked down the powerful falls with the Routeburn River continuing on to snake across the Routeburn Flats. We were in the Humoltd Mountains. A gorgeous view simply made better by walking up to an open area of the cascading falls.
This I did three times that night. First, only a bit after reaching the hut, then to show the girls, and late, for long exposure photographs using a cheap and simple tripod I had found on the Mueller Hut trail. But first I explored the falls, finding that only a small hop across a narrow rushing gorge would allow access to the center of the falls, an area surrounded by sweeping sections of the river, each finding a unique route through the rocks, creating fascinating rock carvings, pools, and falls. I decided that this would be a good place for a dip, but later on, maybe tomorrow morning when I wasn't so cold. Also, I could imagine a few different vantage points that may work for time lapsed pictures. On the third trip here, I walked jumped around on the falls in the dusk, trying to find a route to a small grassing island in the center of this section. I treaded carefully over sloping damp rocks, realizing a slip would mean losing the camera and the handheld I should've left behind and maybe myself. I wouldn't want to ruin the others holiday on a manhunt, ahh, bobhunt. I wonder if those photos will be legible, I haven't attempted long exposures in years.
In the hut I read under one of the gas lights swinging from a wire, positioning two wooden benches together pointing toward the entrance to catch the light properly. I laid across these and probably looked strange, but felt comfortable as I read until I was the last there, until near midnight.
Sa 1/9/99 TRAMPING ROUTEBURN - DAY 2
While I heard people stirring, I rolled in my bunk, assuming it too early you rise, and trying to persuade myself that I didn't need to pee. Relenting, I rose and found half the people milling about and the clock reading 8:30a.
John and I walked ahead, once again by the upper falls and above the treeline. The views here were outstanding, a high treeless alpine valley surrounded by snow patched peaks. with the grace of a French Curve, the river winded through the green valley, streams surging down the hills to meet the larger artery. I stopped ahead of John to photograph a large unusual slanted rock monolith when John wearily walked up and said he was feeling like hell and felt nauseous. My offer to carry some of his load was refused and I hiked on and ahead.
An hour though this open country, after a high easy contour following the undulating hillside above the big, clear, gorgeous Harris Lake (I wanna go for a dip!), I crested the trails high point, the Harris Saddle (1277m) to find a new brown corrugated A-shaped shelter I dropped my pack off my back and sat and leaned against the structure in the sun. The others arrived closely grouped and John was gray. He laid his bag out and crawled in for a rest. With nausea, chills, and sweating, it appeared as a flu type virus, and I gulped at the thought. The timing could not have been worse - the second day of a five day trek. I wondered how long it would last and whether Megan, Tim, or I would be next. I then remembered climbing to Chimney Pond at Mt. Baxter with a horrible bug, sweating and weak and breathless, only to find Dan Fazekas an Stuart Beazley had earlier humorously sneaked a six pack of beer into my pack. I was miserable and I felt for John. I then noted that a repeat was near guaranteed in Asia.
I spoke for a little with a girl named Sarah, traveling alone, from NW London, who I met last night, and who I learned had been to Nepal. She went a year ago last November and trekked the Annapurna in two and a half weeks. She sauntered off and two Israeli girls also from the Flats Hut and who I walked past earlier strolled up on a day trip. Similar to the two other Israeli girls we met at Mueller Hut, they were in horrible hiking shape but keen to have a look at tramping.
Nearby a sign read '1 hour return' to the top of Conical Hill where various people and references claimed a great view. I whined until the hill was declared the lunch spot and we climbed, leaving John behind and Tim as nursemaid. I assumed that the sign was generous, that the limb must actually be short and easy, so I made the blunder of carrying my pack up. Trying to meet the pace of the girls carrying nothing was a real effort. This climb zapped a significant store of the days energy from me. Silly boy. From the top, though, were great views of distant mountains and valleys and rivers. Most interesting was Martin's Bay and the Tasman Sea, maybe forty km away..
At the bottom, John was still looking bad in is sleeping bag, dozens of people around on the A-frames platform in the sun. Tim had taken some of John's food from his bag, I grabbed the rest and his mess kit. My pack was now the heaviest yet, but not too bad until toward the end of the days hike.
We then entered Fiordland National Park, and I walked along near the girls, stopping for a few pictures of the largest mountains daisies, up to three inches across, then I motored ahead. Eventually I came along a new friend on the trail, this was really curious and amazing. A small bird the size of a sparrow, but very lean, with bright yellow and brown stripped head, a brown patterned body, and orange patches at the base of the tail. She landing a few steps in front of me. I hesitated and mused. I stepped forward and she hopped along the trail then turned sideways to look at me. As I neared again, she flew a handful of steps, landed, and again watched. This repeated for two minutes, she would land just ahead and when I came close, hop or fly ahead! She was a Chaffinch.
For a little while the trail was above treeline, and after a rounding, the Mackenzie Hut could be seen way below at Lake Mackenzie. Long cutbacks led towards the hut and suddenly into an exciting wet lush forest. The ground coverings had jumped onto everything nearby. Fallen trees and rocks with height from just above the ground to my head were covered with moss and implanted with grass and small trees. Even upright trees had moss and grass and trees growing from them!
The Mackenzie Hut isn't as flash as the Routeburn Falls hut, but quite homey, with a mattress room for twenty-one above the kitchen and common area, and a bunkhouse next door. I threw my kit down one end of the room, leaving space for the others and set out for a swim in the cold adjacent lake. Because soap products are a hazard to the eco-culture, I used a hose at the toilet area for a shampoo and felt great. While I was chatting to a hiker from Germany named Herdis. I had heard commotion and screams of panic as people tempted the cold water, to find that the others had arrived. Dinner was marinated steak, rice pilaf, gingersnaps and hot chocolate. The others had chose the bunkhouse, and I was subjected to a nigh long chorus of snoring, rustling, burping, and gassing. I did not sleep well.
Su 1/10/99 TRAMPING ROUTEBURN - DAY 3
I was happy to find John downstairs reading, he felt better but not perfect. And, I was also delighted to find the sky clear again, low sun creeping over the mountainsides to illuminate the lake below. I indulged in a great, massive breakfast in the following order - a couple of gingersnaps, a bowl of rolled oat Muesli with powdered milk, a cup of hot chocolate, Cabin Bread (large hard biscuits) with peanut butter and honey, three pancakes, muesli in the hot chocolate, a couple of pieces of steak, then three more pancakes.
After filling my old grocery store bought, beat up, one and a half liter water bottle, and drinking half of it, I tramped ahead of the others to Howden Hut. I finished the three hour hike in two hours, the hike was relatively boring and inconsequential. The trail is nicely manicured, slowly climbing, and I imagined that I would soon be above treeline like yesterday to see the far reaching views of the valley and snow speckled mountains off my right shoulder., but the trail was a tease and would provide this view only a few short times. Along the track were small, glistening, moss covered waterfalls. The sight of the day came through a wide tree opening forward of me. The mountain tops on the trail side of the valley were visible and two waterfalls shown falling on the great sheer rock, one smashing onto a ledge and fanning outward away from the bluff, the other a long straight fall to the floor level with the trail. This last is called Earland Falls, 80 meters high. I stopped to marvel and snap four pictures, trying not to let wind carried water touch the lens.(I have been very upset with my camera lately, I can not focus to a sharp image even though the filter, lens, mirror and eyepiece are clean).
I hesitated crossing streams an gorges, leaning on the footbridge handrails, happy to analyze the vegetation, curves, carvings, and other details. I stopped for a cute, small, pudgy, nearly tailless bird, dark back and bright white tummy, a rock wren, to watch him hop around a thin tree. On a footbridge I noticed a black plastic water hose running from somewhere upstream along the underside, then guessed that Howden Hut must be nearby. I finished this relatively unremarkable section in an one hour forty five minutes, posted time is three hours.
I dipped into the tawny lake while the others came up and settled down for lunch. Megan's friend Emily was waiting for the troop, put down her Bible at the arrival and a loud, boisterous greeting took place. Emily is also a teacher, so that makes us six of seven with teaching degrees, John the odd or maybe normal, one.
Before departing, to our humor, John snuck a large flat rock into Tim's pack, but coincidentally Tim had one more adjustment to make and made the discovery. It's always interesting to watch someone's reaction when discovering the attack. Emily led us south along Lake Howden, then over the Greenstone Saddle. At the first rest break, John and I passed the group for hiking freedom, quickly watching the trail pass under our boots. The track was very easy and level, gliding through the forest until it opened onto a long plane of grass at the head of Lake McKellar. Walking through the grass was different and interesting providing an open view of the neighboring mountains, until we stumbled into thick wet mud patches under the grass, "slosh, slosh, slosh".
McKellar Hut is on the start of the Greenstone Track, on the Greenstone River, an easy long walk through forest. It was the best hut to stop for whether we continued on the Greenstone, or back tracked to the Caples, which is hard, two hours further, and provides some views. The hut was not particular notable, twenty beds, and set in a pasture next to a shallow stream. John and I immediately attacked the stream for a skinny, John a few minutes before me. When I arrived, his belongings weren't there and I eventually started to worry, thinking during his ending delirium clunked his head on a rock and his body was floating downstream. He finally walked up, swearing. He said he was preparing for a naked dip and dropped his shorts, used daily for hiking, into the stream. He contemplated running naked downstream after them with his butt flying in the air, but thought it may look too strange if someone saw him. Instead he jammed his night shorts and Tevas, but lost sight of his shorts and searched downstream.
Later, the others came into camp and went to the river to clean. John and I sat n the veranda, talked, and then ventured as to what the others were doing so long at the river. John wandered down to ask about dinner, and found them chatting and snacking. When asked as to whether he was feeling better, he replied 'somewhat', and Emily looked up and thanked the Lord.
The night centered around dinner pasta and sauce, and bed was about 10:30p.
Mo 1/11/99 TRAMPING CAPLES TRACK - DAY 1
After breakfast Tim called a meeting to decide which track to take, either continuing on the Greenstone, and easy forest covered track with four hours to the Mid Greenstone Hut, or walk the hour back through grassland to the Caples Track, a more difficult six hour track with views. I voted the Caples because of the views and that the first hour was said to be straight up. I pictured 'straight up', as a scrambled with views. We decided on the Caples (he was some frontier dude), and I was very wrong about the ascent. The ascent is 300 meters in 1 km over a chaotic mass of tangle roots and exposed rocks. In fact, this section was so broken and steep, without views or quality, requiring anguish and toil and endless sweat, that it earned the reputation as the worse piece of trail yet encountered. Atop was the McKellar Saddle (936m), and the encounter was a tease. The sky opened blue through the trees, a hint that the top is near, but this continues as you ascend, and then the trail runs horizontally - urgh!, let's go straight up and off this endless hell! After the endless hour, the saddle was a great relief, open grass, and views back across the valley. A great, Matahorn-like, snowed covered peak shown majestically alone across the valley between two tall moss covered trees, Mt. Christina (2500m)..
Once atop the saddle the views kicked in. We walked on a long serpentine wooden boardwalk over mushy ground for a distance while mountains circled. A view, I love a view! Twenty minutes later we were back again into forest with roots but not as steep. Coming upon a decent stream, John and I hurried through a skinny, not having the chance to wash well earlier. The others found us dried and clothed and they carefully chose a spot up river of our dip to fill their waterbottles. In commotion and horseplay, I looked up to see Tim standing in the river and Katherine laughing and struggling while sitting in water up to her waist. The walk continued through the woods, but notably came to a long slope of open ground. There were the usual mass of beech trees, but the ground was consistently flat and without roots or rocks or a worn path through the forest, trail markers on the trees of white and red squares were the only guide. I remarked that if it was snow covered, we could be glade skiing.
Upper Cables Hut is very structurally similar to McKenzie and we were the only ones at the sixteen bunk hut at four o'clock. John and I were hopeful l that we would be alone for the night, then a man came in front of his family of three and said another group of nine were coming. Ok, we suddenly were not going to have the cabin to ourselves.
We hit the river for a swim. There was a decent depth pool which I dove into. As I swam underwater with eyes open I found a large fallen tree in the center of the pool, a scenario for a good accident that I was glad I didn't take part in. I was loving life after I moved from the sand fly invested shadowed side to the other side in the sun. I liberally applied bug juice, put down my blue pattern sulu from Fiji across the river smoothed stones, puffed up a football sized rock for a pillow, and laid with my cap shading my face to continue reading Wilbur Smith. I was definitely comfortable.
An hour later the others came to the river to wash. I walked up to the hut to find a few more people and eventually our quiet sixteen bunk jut had twenty-nine. The warden asked for help to move a two person long drop and most of us obliged. We had good clean fun making latrine jokes and goofing on the pitfalls of falling in. The warden later, Bra, offered us muffins, good fellow, and told us he stays at Mid Caples Hut, only an hour and a half away. He subtlety suggested the whole would benefit if we trooped there for the night. We discussed and we voted and voted again, changed our minds anyway, then decided to go, leaving at 9pm.
The walk took a quick hour and a half, the second two thirds through open fields and pasture, although we saw only a few cows. The open walking helped the decision to go. We didn't use flashlights at all, although the night was dark by arrival. Bra welcomed us and hinted at more muffins in the morning! We soon went to bed, exhausted from a long day.
Tu 1/12/99 TRAMPING CAPLES TRACK - DAY 2
Another reason to move from the Upper Caples Hut to Mid Caples was the weather forecast for rain. I woke about six o'clock and peered outside, my eyes finally focusing on rain. We hadn't seen rain yet on our tramping, and considering this was our last day, no one could complain. It was a lazy morning, we were an hour and a half ahead, and only two hours to the end. After a hearty breakfast including wonderful pancakes from Tim, we lazed around and Bra brought over muffins and offered a choice of tea. I had never been made more comfortable by a warden before.
We set off with raincoats in a light rain, and straight into a commotion about a fish. A young man was trout fishing just south of the hut at a gorgeous gorge feed by an innocent appearing stream. His farmer father, Warden Bra, and the seven of us went for a show. First comment, "John, this is the swimming hole we were looking for!". We all stood thirty feet high above large pools curved into the rock with cool clear blue water. My eyes must have doubled in size as I scoped it out. I had commented to John earlier that I wished would come across a goo swimming hole with pools deep enough to jump from height into, picturing the Basin and the swimming hole on the Cog Railway access road in New Hampshire. Below the young man was reeling in a large trout on his fly fishing rod. We watched him skillfully and slowly bring the fish in, all clapping when he handled it. He walked atop a large rock to proudly display the foot and a half long fish for a picture taken by his father. Unfortunately, we couldn't stay for a swim, the hidden pool must wait for our return.
At the advice of a farming couple, we opted for the old trail on the west side of the river, now a cow path, passing the map marked 'Old Homestead', and running through open pasture dotted with thorn trees. The DOC path was cut on the east side and unremarkably runs through forest.
The homestead was a well wasted structure that "the cows have been through", dilapidated corrugated roof and uncovered damp boarded walls. I pushed through the front door held closed with large field stones, we slowly entered the dark, somewhat eerie and fun old farmhouse. The inside wooden floors and walls were complete enough to appreciate. To the left, the living room still had pieces of wallpaper made of magazine pages from 1938, many pictures of women including southern California's bathing suit winner. A stone fireplace held a grate, a bookcase collapsed on another wall, and a few furnishings sat rusted. The other room, a bedroom, was very musty, a thick, torn mattress on the floor. In the back, an old mildew leather bridal and other riding apparatus hung.
I walked ahead of the gang once again, wondering if I was being rude, but enjoying the long valley and mountains in the light rain, the simple flat terrain, and talking to the cows and avoiding there patties. The first cows I came across, brown and white, stared intently as I passed. The very first, with big brown eyes on his bigger boney head seemed to resent my passing as I said 'hello'. I noticed she wasn't de-horned, and look below to see if she may be the bull and therefore possibly protective. I didn't see any udders, and I didn't see any balls, I am sure something was up there somewhere, but I assumed the worse, that she was a he, made some sugary compliments, and walked by. I then nearly stumbled upon a young calf, wondering why he didn't rise and run off skittishly per norm, and quickly I made a large loop around him in case mama was nearby and nervous.
I sometimes amuse myself. The others were only one half km behind as I approached a stream running down to the river from my right, the cow trail bending up the hill, and I assumed that the stream was impassable at the river. The trail entered the forest on the hillside, then stopped at a rocky, tree strewn streambed. I looked across to a steep hill, seeing a rough sandy slide that could be the path. A big downed tree with large branches laid across the gorge, chest height where I stood. Feeling I was playing a game, I hurried to keep the others at a distance. I needed to cross over this tree and without a step available I hopped up backwards to get my butt on top, trying to be conscious of my pack and how my body was balanced. I failed and fell over backwards pack first, grabbing onto the tree to arrest my stop. I laid there, pack down, suspended between large branch and the main tree, staring at the sky. I jumped up, and found a way across the gorge over rocks and pushed up the sandy slide as gravity and a lack of foothold forced downward. Once on top, I encounter heaps of thorn trees, and John asked from below why I thought that was the route. Already frustrated, I growled that I wasn't sure and that he should decide for himself. I attempted to squeeze between trees with two inch long thorns, the pricks scratching and catching my skin and clothes. I could see the river clearly now below, a flat grass bar ran along the river. I then knew I wasn't on the path, but felt committed after the effort and especially since the others would be across the stream already. Challenged the more, I pushed on through the thorn trees, finding consolation in small short clear paths, and became tangled again. I finally gave up, retraced my route to the ledge as best as possible, then wobbly slid on my feet sideways to the streambed. Instead of picking my way through the forest, I walked the bed to the river across boulders, trying to play catch up. I guess I didn't want to be chided because I lost the path. Then the boulders stopped and I faced a small pool surrounded by bush. I sighed and slopped through it, flooding and doubling the weight of my boots. Instead of stopping to empty the boots and wring the socks, I hurried along, soon faced with a barbed wire fence stretching down a small hill to abut a tree at the edge of the wide river. The river was deep at the edge, the bank a two foot step above the water. I couldn't get around the fence and tree there, so attempted to climb over using a high tree branch as an aid. I immediately hooked my back with a barb and retreated, I didn't dare chance ripping something. Pouting, I sarcastically imagined the others nicely helping one another, smiling, passing the packs over to one another, happy to be enjoying each others company and loving life on the good earth. I was staring at a barbed fence, feet sopping and muddy with water, thorn holes in my arms and legs, hands and arms and face black with dirt, and wishing I didn't climb up that damn hill. I was actually laughing at myself, wondering what I would look like on video, no great damage done, yet. I threw my pack over the fence onto the hill, it rolled side over side towards the river. Urgh! I quickly reached up for the branch, jumped over the fence, and saw my pack stop rolling. When I landed, my feet went out from under me, I was on my stomach - and sliding for the river. Eeerrr! I did stop though, when my feet were submerged. Pack on my bag again, I sloshed onward. If I could cut down the time to catch the others, I wouldn't look as if I made a big error, not ever thinking that they didn't really care. I thought I was smart though. When I could eventually see them ahead on the flat pasture, I placed a group of trees between us and awkwardly ran with my pack jumping up and down over my back, imaging myself a bushman set in an endless trot, but actually stiff legged and looking like a dope. When there was a clear view between us, I walked and looked at the scenery as if I wasn't in a hurry.
There was a free half hour at the trail terminus, so I alone skinny and washed in the swift flowing river, the current so strong that diving down to rinse my head meant being carried downstream, although with all effort I attempted to hold onto the ground. I found this amusing, but found cleaning up in the refreshingly cool water a pure joy.
The trip back to Queenstown was fun. First we were driven in an old looking 1971 Ford bus, then motored across the lake to Glenorchy on an aluminum twin hull boat with two 140 HP Yamaha's. The wind was up so the lake was rough and the boat was banging hard over the waves. We were laughing and hooting and yelling to go faster. Another bus ride followed for those who drew Tim's matches wrongly (the men). After two hours John and I were dropped at bottom of Wynyard Crescent on Fern Hill. One more slog for the trip with backpacks on up and up to Helen's and the great view of the Remarkable Mountains and Queenstown.
Lone Star 7:30pm, everyone and Helen
We 1/13/99 Queenstown Rest Day
To town at 10:45a
post office
internet to Monica about Otter Trail
met Megan, Katherine, Jillian, Emily, and Katherine's friend Rebecca
Lake Harris for lunch
Gibbstons Winery
John, Megan, and Jillian drove the two hours to Te Anua
$NZ15 to share bunkroom
Th 1/14/99 Start of Milford Track, Day 1 - Bark Manuska to Clinton Hut
To negotiate the Milford Track , transportation to the trailhead and from the end is not straight forward. The hike is one way, and the start can not be accessed by a road. We opted for sailing to the trailhead and bussing back.
Our sailing vessel was an 11 meter (36 foot) Norwegian double-ended long keel gaff ketch named Manuska, Russian for 'Little One'. The captain, Murray, was good for a laugh. First impression ... He has a long sleeved red and white stripped shirt, an old ratty round straw hat, long white pants, and bare feet. He has a round leprechaun, stubble bearded face, sun burnt and sea worn. Probably self taught in the mannerisms and voice of a pirate, especially his gruff, gargley, and often booming voice. Murray built this old looking boat over a period of eleven years, launching Manuska in launched 29 November 1986. By trade he was a carpenter building Manuska for a long Pacific voyage, but when the project money ran out half way along, Murray turned it into a profit making venture, hopefully temporarily, transporting hikers to Milford and Kepler Tracks, day trips, and overnighters. The boat, because of its style, ornamentation, use of native woods, a few used materials, and constant use, looks older than its years. The five red sails, jib, staysail, main, topsail, and missen, are red and the decks are teak.
We left at 10:30am, motoring into the 7 knot headwind. The twelve passengers laid about the deck in jackets and sat below reading local information, details and history on the boat, and books on sailing. I asked Murray if we could beat for a bit, he replied something about the period of the lake waves and distances he'd have to cover, and lack of wind. I would have the sails up. I prodded Jillian to ask, eventually she did, and Murray moaned something about the new sails, but within five minutes we were raising them, much to my happiness. Don't let me convey Murray as the awnery bastard he appears, once we all settled in, conversation flowed smoothly, and he was fun and cordial.
Immediately becoming chummy with Murray was Thomas, a Scot who fifteen years ago sailed around the world in a 40 foot John Alden designed ketch. He sailed solo to New Zealand, spending a year, then six months in Australia, taking total of four years to complete his circumference.
When wind and rain approached, the sails came down, and I sat net to Megan below, both reading parts of a autobiography by Serga Este from Brisbane who set a record for solo circumference in the smallest boat - a self design and made eleven foot six inch aluminum sloop. He left Brisbane in sometime in 1986, taking 500 day to complete, not having real experience in blue water or navigation. He suffered many groundings, cyclones, knockdown, and loads of sores from heat an dampness. Sounded like a lot of fun and when I hit Brisbane, I will ask about him.
Skies were cloudy, obscuring the views, and rain was light. The first hut, Clinton is less than one hour walk (3.5km), including a detour to Wetlands, a boarded walk over a brightly moss covered bog. Clinton Hut is 'flash', a common Kiwi expression. Newly constructed roomy, airy buildings, two bunkhouses, kitchen and relaxing building, and drops. We arrived about 5:30pm.
I still haven't a watch, and told myself that I would relax on this hike, taking my time, and snapping more pictures. We'll see. The standard procedures of cooking and eating prevailed for the night. The difference on this tramp is this. The trail set up with three self guided huts, forty prepaid spots at each. Everyday the same forty move onto the next hut, so we will be spending the next three days with all the same people. This turned out well, because of the companionship and relationships that were developed. This first night we met a handful through playing cards, although sat on the sidelines, reading Ian Flemmings, "For Your Eyes Only", which I picked up at the Te Anau camping ground.. (I had just quickly read Joseph Conrad's "The Secret Sharer", a good novelette about a newly appointed commercial sailing captain confronted by dealing with a stowaway who murdered a sailor.)
Fr 1/15/99 Milford Track, Day 2 - Clinton out to Mintaro Hut
Our hut, one of two twenty bunk huts, was woken early by two noisy families talking loudly, allowing the door to slam, and trouncing around. The track to Mintaro Hut (18km), continues along the Clinton River to it's source, Lake Mintaro, is mostly flat, literally manicured, easy. It had rained hard through the night, stopping before we rose, but still the cloud ceiling was about 1000 feet above the valley floor, obscuring views of the higher elevations, allowing views of the numerous waterfalls cascading down the towering walls from last nights rain. The distance between the valley walls is maybe 1 km wide. John and I walked side by side on the wide path as did Megan and Jillian, talking about our possible journey to Nepal and miscellaneous other things. We detoured for the short side trips to see such things as the last Clinton Hut that was wiped out by a high river, and a couple of waterfalls. We stopped for lunch just after noon at a dry river bed where a Kea entertained us for the duration, well, until John eventually shooed him away with rocks. The Kea, a big green mountain parrot, boldly walked up to our lunch food and packs for snacks. We would yell and swing our arms, he would hop a few steps back, then would walk part way around our circle for another go. They surely are not afraid of humans, they must know they are on New Zealand's endangered list. He was able to grab a few scraps of tunafish, but not mush else. We were more wary of their persistence after last night's talk by the local ranger. He told of a couple happenings, one where a Kiwi flew off with a SLR camera, only to knock it into a railing and drop it, and one that would scoop a lunch, store it in a tree, then return for another. There was an incline to deal with before Mintaro Hut, which surprised us. Strikingly, lacebark or ribbonwood trees lined the trail and held masses of white petals, some falling to cover the trail, similar to the exit from a church wedding. We made the hut at about 1:30pm, cutting at least an hour and a half from the estimated 5.5 hours for the 18km hike.
Hanging on the hut porch, I talked with Thomas, the round-the-world sailor, asking questions of his voyage chronologically. It sounded like a fascinating trip, sailing to New Zealand alone, stopping at the Canary Islands, visiting the West Indies for six weeks, then dealing with the Panama Canal where a five mile long lake in the center feeds the locks. He went on to French Polynesia, Tonga, and then to Auckland, where he met his future wife, an Aussie, and her son. He spent a year in New Zealand, then the three sailed the rest of the voyage together, spending six months in Oz, making a couple of stops before Durban, South Africa. A stop at Cape Town, Ascension, Azores, and home to Scotland after four years!
Eventually, Megan, Jillian, myself, and a handful of others walked the five minutes to Lake Mintaro for a swim and wash. The cloud was still cloudy, the air cool. This made the dip extra refreshing. I believe the altitude is 800 meters, alone enough to keep the water cold. The best feature of our swimming hole was a bank steep enough so one can run and jump from the beach. I don't believe anyone, including myself, did not react vocally to the sudden rush of cold through our bodies. Yee, huh!
The posted weather forecast for the day was "clearing, becoming fine". I think we all looked for 'fine' all day. I watched the clouds not far overhead, the sun lightly showing a halo around us, and teasing small spots of blue in the east. Rose the Ranger (I laughed about that name and titled), said there was a chance of clearing, I wasn't convinced. Again we kept peering at the sky. The reason for the extreme interest while at Mintaro Hut was the suggestion of going ahead to the MacKinnon Pass for the views if the day clears. This gives a tramper two chances of seeing the supposedly great views. Suddenly, the clouds were torn away overhead, and blue bound down at us. Half of the hut jumped around excitedly and prepare for the posted two hour hike to the top. Considering the day's hike was five and a half hours (I guess we did it in three to three and a half with break), another two up and then a return was only for hard cores.
Anyway, we all went hurriedly up, I led our little group with two young Swiss-Germans, Stefan and Peter, at my heels. I increased my walk, eventually bounding as fast as possible without running over the mostly flat ground, trying to shake them. After ten minutes we started ascending, they were still at me, my heart and chest pounding. I remembered our (ya, our!) conversation about hiking with younger, wiry, fit guys, and believed that these two were my demise. Although I thirsted, I didn't want to slow. I imagined them thinking, "We'll show this American", and I pushed. I thought of how John and I have spent so much time tramping around New Zealand and the pace we set for ourselves. I only had my daypack with both cameras, Blacky, and the small plastic tasting water bottle, so I was faster over ground. After a few switchbacks, I noticed only Stefan was behind. That surprised me, I couldn't tell the difference between one and two people following. After a couple more minutes, I heard his footsteps fad away. Huh! I was losing them behind me! I kept speed, passing a couple others from the hut and made the pass in less than fifty minutes.
With some others who were already on top, we snapped many pictures of one another with great views behind, in particular a high peak, rocky Mt. Elliot (2003m) with a long flat slope of snow. Many waterfalls fell the distance off it's ledge to the valley far below. Other peaks abound around us, hey, it was crystal clear, and we were standing at the most opportune viewing location on New Zealand's most famous track! There were tarns on top, small brown colored ponds. At the western edge of the pass is a sign reading "beware of cliff edge". Wow! I walked to peer over, and could not see cliff under the edge, I was on an overhang 300 meters (1000 ft) above trees. Stefan walked over, sweat pouring down his face, smiling, and said, "You're fast.". I only looked and smiled. John, Megan, Jillian,
Stefan, Peter, and others were on top, wandering like ants, admiring and appreciating the views. John and I walked atop a hill nearby and sat, drawing in the peaks, waterfalls, valleys stretching into the distant, and in particular Mt. Elliot and it's large ledge of snow.
I walked back down behind the others, talking with a German guy about all the adventures we have had in New Zealand. I listed off the tramps we have down, the places we visited, mentioned the friends we made. In only one short week John and I will be flying from Christchurch to Melbourne.
Sa 1/16/99 Milford Track, Day 3 - Mintaro Hut to Dumpling Hut
The third day's tramping is the hardest, not the longest, 14km, but affords the best features of the Milford Track. Again, we were some of the last to leave the hut and I stayed behind to help Greg from North Island with is Rolleiflex medium format camera. Greg is gung-ho about photography but doesn't have an abundance of experience. He was shooting an enormous amount of Kodak 35mm E100 on a old Nikon autofocus, and carried the recently purchased and very old Rollieflex that uses 120 roll film. His lens would not stop down, so I cut a piece of plastic pen cover and jammed it in to force a f11 aperture. The night before we swapped lenses and cameras around to determine something of why I can not focus - my camera is buggered and needs repair.
I started the schlep up to MacKinnon Pass with Martin, Greg's buddy from Northern England. We went slowly, talking about New Zealand and other hike. He told of a charity fundraiser walk he had down that followed the route of an old funeral procession covering 46 miles. He walked it in 17 hours non-stop.
The ascent really was a schlep compared to last night's foot race. We carried full packs and the heat and sun were on. The summit was packed with people from our hut and the guided walkers, everyone admiring the views although the weather was not as quite as nice, various types of clouds covered most of the sky. A good number of Japanese were in the guided group, a women walked in native clothing, a patterned dress, shawl, rice hat, and kerchief. Some young Japanese women walked with there faces covered as much as possible and winter gloves on their hands. An old man, hot from the ascent, walked on with a hand towel wet from the tarns over his thin hair.
My comrades were sitting together on rocks, talking, and yelled out 'Bob!', either excited or surprised to eventually see me. Also on top of the pass is the memorial cairn to Mackinnon and Mitchell, dated 1888. Just a ten minute walk away, Pass Hut was the lunch spot for the day for most people. The view was bigger at the monument, but the hut has a gas burner for tea. Ten keas flew down to greet and harass us, hopping around, squawking, and narrowing in on their favorite name brand items (supposedly they recognize and differentiate packaging). A modern loo with a view sat at on a hump over looking the Clinton River and valley.
Sitting atop MacKinnon Pass, I inconclusively compared the Routeburn Track to Milford Track. We had just completed the worse haul (with good vies), although the upcoming descent, 3000 ft in 3.5 miles was a moderate bear. The Routeburn was cool because of the amount of trail above bushline, the Kepler is supposedly similar The best part of the Milford., excluding the Pass, were the features in the second half of this day. We started this descent through zigzags, Mt. Elliot with it's huge ledge of snow (the Jervious Glacier) and Mt. Balloon towering above, the trail followed the Roaring Burn River, formed from Elliott. I walked quickly down with John and Jillian. Once into the bush, a long inconsistent series of flights of stairs and platforms followed the gorgeous cascading river, full of falls and tempting pools arrived into the rock. At every stop we looked and pointed and shared findings, the clear blue pools calling us for a dip.
This was the 3000 feet in 3.5 miles, not anywhere as step as Mueller Hut, but nearing the bottom, I had had enough. We didn't dip on the way down, instead looking forward to Sutherland Falls, the fifth highest in the world, 1904ft (540.3m). At the guided hut, Quintin, we dropped our packs and spent half an hour climbing up to the falls. I was excited, the fifth highest in the world wishing I could remember the stats of other worldly waterfalls. Which is the highest? I am not sure, but Angel Falls in Venezuela and Ignazu Falls in Brazil / Uruguay are two of the highest. I had visited Feather Falls in Northern California with old bud Cheryl Cayer, that is the seventh highest. I have seen Niagara, and Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe / Zambia. I believe Niagara sets a record for volume, but neither for height or width.
Sutherland Falls is high. Real high. It flows from the high mountain Lake ____, falling 2000 ft in three leaps. It crashes into a rocks and coarse black sand, sending a huge amount of wind and spray outward. We walked to the left to find some cover from the spray, sitting on stones within rich grass. Through a notch in the top wall, the river is free from the earth, trying to fly. Two ledges temporarily catch it's momentum on the way to regaining it's composure, but while it's flying, the water is not in one, straight, consistent draught. It flows in waves, sending rippling ribbons of white along the sheer dark wall.
John wasn't interested in attempting the falls, which caused hesitation on my part. After sizing up the situation, I said, "Right", passed my cameras to Megan, and walked with Blacky towards the falls. Clothes or not weren't a choice. I had forgotten my shorts at the previous hut, and left my Tevas imitations in my pack at Quintin. I walked to the last rock that could provide cover for my clothes, de-robed, and walked further on in my boots. I leaned my boots upside down against a rock. I was naked, water spraying against my body, continuously paining like needles. The rocks were ridiculously slippery, I was bare foot, and I staggered through the loud gale, only able to look down. Amazingly, looking down revealed a continuous circular rainbow around me, a colorful body halo for this nut struggling over the rocks with a beanie baby in hand. I guessed I was far enough in, turned, spread out my arms, and looked up in the grass for Megan to snap a picture on both cameras. Blankets of water obscured their view on and off. Surprisingly the water was warmer than mountain streams and then to temporarily escape nature's onslaught, I turn and fell onto my butt into a pool. It was warm, comfortable, almost peaceful.
Dumpling Hut was about an hour away, another new structure, with four bunk rooms. We threw our packs into one nearly empty and hoped for non-snorers and no early rising families. Just below the hut was a great swimming hole on the clear mountain river. After a walk through a rough path, crossing shallow stream roots, and clambering over fallen trees, I hopped to a good jumping rock above an eight foot deep pool on the pen river. Again it was a skinny, I shampooed, and used excess suds to wash the rest of my body. I swam to a cheap rope swing to show the others a flying bare butt. It was a good swimming spot and as long as a person is wet, the sand flies stay away.
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The last day on the Milford ends with a ferry t 2pm, so most people turned in early, as we did after cards with the group. This day was a great tramp day with Mackellan Pass, Roaring Burn River, and Sutherland Falls great features.
Su 1/17/99 Milford Track, Day 4 - Dumping Hut to Sandfly Point
The last 18km of the 58km is over easy, flat ground. We were up and going about eight o'clock, for once relatively early compared to others. We followed the Arthur River through the songs of birds such as Bluebells, Tui, Kea, and others. Although the sun shone high on the mountain tops surrounding the hut early in the morning, fog or low cloud rolled in, and I was sullen to think that our last tramp day would not be clear. Walking along an elevated section of path and turning to cross a suspension bridge, I spotted a mountain top, it's tip sticking through a hole in the mist. The sky was clearing and the rest of the day was fine.
Story has it that Mackay and Sutherland, surveying and pioneering a route to the pass, came across a great falls. They flipped a coin, Mackey winning, and named the falls after himself. Consequently, the next falls discovered was 1908 ft high and name Sutherland. Mackay Falls was impressive also, but not nearly as high, and set in the bush. Nearby is Bell Rock, a piece of stone carved into a the shape of a bell, eight feet in depth, and less across. After carving, a slide brought it to the current resting spot, right side up - for a bell. John and I crawled underneath and in for a look.
The current goal was Giant's Gate for lunch. John and I had passed a few small groups, and when I passed through a series of webs across a handrail footbridge, I wondered aloud whether we were first on the trail. We were, and that was a good thing, because we found Giant's Gate and the best swimming area next to a footbridge. Not far above in the shadow was Giant's Fall, thundering into a large pool. The water, in contrast to Sutherland Falls, was frigid, headache stuff. We did the wash-up routine, then run to the bridge center, over the crotch high cable, and from the end of a bridge brace, jumped - naked. We repeatedly jumped from the bridge, which was maybe twenty five feet high, into water twelve feet deep, swimming quickly out of the chilling, clear, water. We wondered when a tramper would come along and who it might be Without warning, Stefan was on the bridge in underpants. He shredded them, and leaped naked as if skydiving, elbows and knees bent, arms and legs back, mid-section thrust forward toward the water. Urrghh! We cringed, but with confidence he tucked at the last moment protecting his vital parts, and creating a vacuum in the middle of his body as it hit causing a loud 'pop' sound. Only a few times have I seen this maneuver, not recently, and never naked. I was also on the bridge preparing to dive, but Peter beat me to it, however he had on shorts, I didn't and I had a penie whapper, with pain outlasting the swimming hole adventure.
The four of us and Fiona from North-West London stayed on, sitting on a sliver of sand, eating the routine lunch of tuna, salami, ad cabin bread, enjoying the scene more than the lunch. We watched most of the trekkers pass over the bridge before trooping on ourselves. The end of the Milford Track was less than an hour away, passing along Lake Ada. A special feature of the track was a section of incline cut into rock, nearly a half circle, paralleling the beginning of the lake for forty meters. It afforded great open views in both directions of the valley, and of the top of the lake, winding over clear of rounded rocks in changing depths and color. And as we walked, this cutout increased and height, forcing John and I to discuss the outcome of a jump, but there was not an access out of the water.
There is a rest shelter and a sign, 'Milford Track, Glad House to Sandfly Point, 33.5 miles', covered with old shoes, tokens of appreciation left by previous trampers. Part of our transportation package was a kayak to the town of Milford Sound. We passed our packs to a boat then boarded double yellow kayaks. John and I quickly bored and against the guides wishes, played dodge-'ems and splashed the girls, then started paddling across the sound. Milford Sound, the sound not the town, is a curiously gorgeous place, the goal of many travelers to New Zealand, and now we knew why firsthand.
The sky was clear, which is especially noteworthy. Fiordland gets 8000 mm of rain per annum, comparatively New England receives about 900. Our guide said he has walked the Milford nine times, only once in fine weather. We were in the middle of New Zealand's mot famous scenery, in a kayak on the water, and the sun was bright and sky clear! The most photographed peak Mitre (1692m), sat to our left, it's base behind another mountain, it's bare, pointed peak, thrust proudly upward. To the right, Mt. Pembroke (2000m), Fiordland's highest peak, was snow covered with glacier. All around, and not in the distance, were mountains, the sound lapping at their bases. Ahead was the town of Milford Sound with 40 year round residents, and a flurry of small aircraft shooting through the airport.
Our transport but to Te Anau was by bus, the old driver giving a sporadic commentary of Milford Sound, the mountains we passed, and the local history. He was decent enough to leave the PA system always on, so those of us in the back of the bus could hear the engine revving, gears shifting, and the people in front talking and laughing from the speakers above us. The views along the Milford Road were great, again the weather was perfect, but we all dosed. But before I did that, I laid down cramped up on my side melting chocolate in my mouth while gazing up and out the window, seeing the mountain tops pass at an awkward angle.
That night we drove back to Queenstown, ate at a KFC there, then John and I retired early to Helen's while Megan and Jillian camped. We talked until midnight about Milford Track, Nepal, and Zimbabwe.
