The rest of the South Island

The next few days passed in a blur of driving. When we left Luggate Iain had been having problems with one of his eyes but he didn’t realize how bad it was until we were on the road. He had apparently walked into a tree with his eyes open during the night and we figured he’d scratched his cornea. We wanted to make it to the coast but when we found a hotel in Haast we had to pull over. The mindless TV (all FOUR channels!) was exactly what we needed, Iain doctored his eye and I slurped back ginger tea for the rest of the evening.

The next day Iain’s eye was much better so we moved on up the coast and made a short stop at Fox Glacier. Fox Glacier is one of two world renowned glaciers in New Zealand; the other is Franz Joseph Glacier. On the drive up to the ice fields there were signs indicating the year the ice was at that exact point. In the 1940’s the ice had been almost at the highway, it appears to have receded a dramatic distance. The parking lot was full of buses and camper vans and throngs of people taking the short hike to see the ice. The river bed was almost a kilometer across and right next to the parking lot. It was full of rounded gravel and debris from the glacier. We could see the effect of the ice on the sheer rock cliffs on the far side of the river bed. Iain was itching to climb them, but the piles of shattered rock at the base of the cliff put me off.

We followed the well worn path along the river bed and up to the viewing point. I’ll confess I was more interested in the rock fragments along the path than the piles of ice at our destination. After spending years watching mini glaciers form and recede at Diavik and in the canyons in Norman Wells I was under-whelmed by the ice. It was a unique experience to be so close to a mammoth glacier, to hear the ice calving as it melted and to see the river rushing out from its belly. But I found it less amazing than the break-up of the Mackenzie River. We took a few photos, laughed at the hazard signs and watched a guy hike off the ice and back to the trail head where we were. I was amazed that someone could wander around so blithely in an area where tourists are killed every year by falling ice. I was more astounded when I realized he had been out there with his headphones on. Shaking my head, I headed back to the van. We decided not to do the long drive up to Franz Joseph and pushed on up the coast.

Our destination was the small town of Hokitika. Hokitika is geared entirely towards selling pounamu (New Zealand jade). There are at least ten stores selling jade jewelry and sculpture and many of them had work shops where we could watch the pounamu craftsman at work. I was on a mission to find a unique necklace to take home as a souvenir and I dragged Iain through every store to find the perfect stone. Iain had a better eye than me; he found me a beautiful pendant of deep green pounamu that was unlike anything else we had seen. It was perfect.

We didn’t spend too long in Hokitika, we wanted to find a cheap campsite for the night. The highway took us inland and up towards Arthur’s Pass. Iain was adamant that I see the pass, it was our last chance to see Kea parrots and the highway through the mountains was an exceptional sight.
The drive reminded me of heading into Banff from Calgary. Rugged mountains, sandy grey scree slopes, coarse yellowed grasses and stunted trees, a dusting of snow near the peaks. The afternoon light gave everything a steel-blue tone in the shadows of the mountains. I watched the scenery pass by outside the windows expecting to be spit out into the praries at any moment. Iain and I hadn’t had to use the heater very often but I was grateful for the warmth on my feet as we climbed higher and higher towards the pass.

We were finally driving above the tree line, up a causeway that crossed the pass itself. We pulled off the highway to a lookout point, where we could see back down the valley we had so recently climbed up. As we pulled into the parking area there was a Kea pulling sentry duty on the welcoming sign. This was the bird I had waited so long to see!

When I was very young a friend of my aunts had brought my brother and I each a book from New Zealand. Adam’s book was about the yellow crested penguins and mine was all about the Cheeky Kea parrots. I’ve never forgotten the book or my desire to see one of the birds up close. I was thrilled to see one so quickly upon our arrival in Arthurs Pass! As soon as we stopped the van two of the bold birds fluttered up to the guardrails where we had parked. They eyed us up for a few minutes then launched their sneaky attack on our poor vehicle! They work in teams of two or three, while one bird is entertaining you the other one or two will be sneaking around back to rip and tear at anything made of rubber or plastic. Our mirrors, tires, rubber window seals, antenna were all fair game! One of them noticed a shoelace dangling down from the sliding door and spent a good ten minutes wrestling with it!

Kea are alpine parrots, they are quite large with iridescent sage green plumage. They have intelligent eyes and sharp, hooked beaks that wreak havoc with camping gear and vehicles alike. We only spent a half hour watching three parrots entertain the travelers in the parking area, then the howling winds became too cold and we had to head off. The Kea lived up to ever expectation I had of them and while I would have loved to watch them for days I’m sure amusement would quickly turn to exasperation when the van was chewed to shreds!

We drove down through the town of Arthur’s Pass and out of the park until we came to a DOC campsite at Lake Pearson. The site was beautiful, situated on a large lake that was home to multitudes of ducks, geese, swans and other migratory birds. We arrived at dusk and found a quiet grassy corner to watch the stars come out. It was cold when we arrived and the night continued to get colder. I wrapped myself up in our two sleeping bags while we were cooking dinner and we pulled out all our wool and fleece clothing to wear to bed. We could see our breath in the van that night and it seemed to take hours to warm up. I was very, very grateful for all the Mont Bell gear Andrew had given us, without it we would’ve been two popsicles the next morning.

The day dawned overcast but warm and we lay around in bed reading until it started to drizzle. We thought about spending another night at Lake Pearson but after the cold night before and the dreary weather we headed down the road again. We were also tired of being accosted by silly stalking ducks. All morning they would slowly waddle towards Iain and when they reached him they would start quacking away, begging like puppies. We would shoo them back to the water, but within the hour they would be back. Obviously they were used to getting scraps.

On the way out of the mountains we pulled in at a ‘point of interest’ Cave Stream park. The area was mostly limestone and the rock was riddled with caves. Cave Stream was just what the name implies – a box cave with a stream running through it. During the dry season it is possible to walk upstream through the cave, all you need is a flashlight and a desire to explore.

It was spitting with rain and cool outside when we pulled into the parking lot. I was really wishy-washy about going through the cave system, but Iain had done it a few years previously and really enjoyed it. After taking a short walk around we decided to grab our flashlights, put on some wetsuit gear and give it a try. We saw a youth group heading down in spelunking gear so I figured if it was safe enough for kids it would be safe enough for us!

The water was nearly waist deep when we entered the cave; we could hear the laughter and catcalls from the boys ahead of us as we splashed through the cold water. The mouth of the cave was fairly wide with smooth undulating sides worn away by the rushing water. Soon enough we were in complete darkness with the cold humidity surrounding us and the water sucking at our feet. The cave was quite narrow in sections and we frequently had to climb up between rounded boulders, against the current, gaining elevation in the heart of the hillside. About halfway through the hike I realized I was more claustrophobic than I thought. We had passed the school group and the only thing I could hear was the splashing water and our footsteps. At times the current seemed to speed up and my imagination ran rampant. When we finally came to the exit I was quite happy to see the sunlight and while I was glad I had gone through the cave I was not eager to do any spelunking in the future.

We dried off, and drove off, deciding to head all the way to Christchurch for a burger (they have GLUTEN FREE burgers in this country!!!) and some time at our favorite free camping spot. We made one more quick stop at Castle Rock to check out the funky rock formations but it was too late in the day to do any climbing.

Burgers, beer and sleeping with the waves crashing behind us on Sumner beach brought us full circle. It felt like we had come home.

Ludicrous Luggate

The drive from the fiordlands to Queenstown was a blur to me. I remember eating a lot of ginger candies and staring blindly at passing fields. Iain reminded me that we stopped for a snack at a café/art gallery at a highway junction in the middle of sheep fields. My first view of Queenstown was from across the Lake Wakatipu. Queenstown is the ‘adventure capital’ of New Zealand and a favorite location for backpacker and travelers. The town is the hub for all kinds of water, land and air adventures and looking over at it I could understand why.

The country surrounding Queensland was very reminiscent of Osoyoos and Kelowna, with dry scrubby terrain, huge rock walls of beautiful gneiss and schist formations and long, clear blue lakes. We could see jet boats and windsurfers on the water and the large rock outcrops where there was world-class climbing.

We drove into town, past all the resort hotels and luxury condo’s on the waterfront and into the small downtown. We took one look at the excess of neon lights, the throngs of 20-somethings and turned the van around to head back out of town. We tried a few hotels on our way out but everything was expensive and grotesquely tacky. It took us less than ten seconds to decide to push on to Wanaka.

Wanaka is a beautiful town on the end of Lake Wanaka, it is also an adventure destination popular with backpackers but it has a distinctly mellower vibe than Queenstown. It was dark by the time we crossed the town limits and we were ready to spend the night at the first hotel we came across. Unfortunately we had poorly timed our arrival and every single hotel was booked up. It turns out there was a huge agricultural fair in Wanaka that weekend and we were out of luck for the next two days. Sigh. We knew we wanted to stay in the area so pushing on seemed silly. I remembered we had seen a hotel on the highway before the town limits so we turned around to find it.

We pulled up in front of the Luggate Hotel and Iain ran in to find out about a room. He came out shaking his head and looking bemused. It turns out the Luggate Hotel hasn’t been a hotel for 40 years, but since it has been called the Luggate Hotel since the 1800’s the fact they don’t have accommodation seemed insignificant. The bar manager was very friendly about it (apparently she gets asked about accommodation all the time) and recommended we pull in next door at the cricket pitch. We were too tired to ask about the wisdom of sleeping on a cricket pitch so we headed in, found a spot by the fence, pulled out the tent and set up our bed in a mouse-free environment.

We woke up to blue skies and hot sunshine and an odd caravan park set up on the edges of the Luggate cricket pitch. There were toilets, hot showers, laundry and lots of green grass all for $5 per person per night up to a maximum of $25 per week. I was a little disturbed by the number of families vacationing at the spot but I guess the price was right and it was an easy distance to Wanaka or Queenstown. Since we had been blessed with good weather we emptied the van and cleaned every box, bag, nook and cranny of the van. We found lots of proof that we’d had a rodent living with us but saw no sign it was still around. Iain figured we’d left our stow-away in Milford Sound and I hoped their trapping program was better than ours.

Chilling out in the sunshine in Luggate for one day turned into three days thanks to the law of inertia. We were definitely objects at rest! We caught up on our reading, rested our legs, did some more laundry and generally imitated sloths. We did venture into Wanaka to look around the town and we spent one afternoon in the AMAZING, STUPENDOUS, MIND BENDING, WORLD FAMOUS PUZZLING WORLD!

Yeah.

Iain had wanted to visit it the first time he’d been in Wanaka but had missed it, so we decided to explore it together. It had an interesting history; it was the first, largest non-hedge hedge maze in the world. The maze was constructed from wooden fencing and there were kilometers of dead ends, four towers, two bridges…I never finished it. The indoor center, which was built years after the maze, was dedicated to optical illusions. There was a room of holograms that moved, a room of three dimensional faces that seemed to follow you and a myriad of images on the walls to bend your mind. The crowning glory was the slanted room where water seemed to flow up hill and you could sit in a chair that gravity moved towards the ceiling. Just a cautionary note, optical illusions are very, very bad for people experiencing vertigo. I enjoyed the experience but never want to do it again!

Our only other excitement in Luggate was an evening at the Luggate Hotel. We headed over on our second night for one pint after dinner. The pub was less than five minutes walk from the cricket pitch which turned out to be very important later in the night. We headed over, grabbed a pint and sat outside in the soft evening light. The pub was beautiful with original hardwood floors and fieldstone hearth. The bar was well stocked with high quality spirits and wines as well as local and imported beers. Outside the patio wrapped around the building with cozy tables set up under heat lamps. We joined the bar manager at her table and chatted with her about the local area and the misnamed hotel.

As the hours went by one pint became rounds of pitchers and our cozy table of three became a party of eight as the bar shutdown and the rest of the waitstaff joined our table. We met a hilarious group of the local colorful characters and swapped stories about the trials of tourists, working in the hospitality industry and why ‘Ice Road Truckers’ is the worst thing to come out of Canada.

It was only midnight when the bar-maid (a fellow Canadian from Ontario) kicked everyone out and locked the doors. I was sure the stars shouldn’t be spinning quite so fast, but Iain assured me it was the road that was spinning – the stars were being still. I can only imagine the racket we made as we staggered across the cricket pitch to our van. Earlier in the evening a large hedgehog had gone snuffling past our chairs and we had managed to get up close to it and even pet it. We spotted the poor thing again when we stumbled to our camp and Iain decided it was time to become good friends with it. I couldn’t focus on the poor animal so I crawled into bed and promptly passed out. I only found out how close Iain had come to it when I looked at the photos the next day.

I woke up the next morning sure the mouse in the van had crawled into my mouth and had a fiesta while I was passed out. I reached over to see how Iain was but found empty space next to me. At first I was anxious, sure he had gone wandering during the night, then I spotted him curled up in the tent. Poor Iain had slept under a tarp on the hard ground. Neither of us moved far from the van that day and neither of us visited the pub again!

We left Luggate on the afternoon of day four. The rain had finally arrived and we felt the need to push on. We didn’t get to do the climbing we had hoped to try in Wanaka but we figured we’d have other opportunities.

Another World - Fiordland National Park

We left Invercargill with sunshine behind us and thunderclouds in front of us. The weather was boiling overhead and we were treated to pelting hail, howling wind gusts and lashing rain interspersed with weak sunlight peaking through the clouds. We wanted to cover a lot of ground but the van was being pushed all over the highway as we curved along the coast line. We stopped at a lookout point and watched the waves roaring towards us. Iain braved the elements outside the van and walked to the edge of the bluff, the wind was so strong he kept being buffeted back towards me. We took off just before the next squall hammered our van and thanked our decision to leave Stuart Island when we did. It would have been a very wet trail had we stayed.

We turned inland, heading north into the Fiordland and slowly the scenery changed around us. The pastures and farmland along the coast transitioned to rolling hills, then mountains with jagged peaks and impenetrable green forests. We didn’t stop driving until we reached the tourist town of Te Anau. The town was picturesque but definitely a hub for tour busses, it reminded me of Saltspring Island in July. We asked about accommodation at the I-site and spent an hour at the DOC office looking into hikes in the surrounding area then headed out of town to the Henry Creek campground on Lake Te Anau.

The camp ground was a long narrow stretch of forest on the edge of a vast freshwater lake with a flat pebble beach. We snagged a private campsite that backed right onto the lake shore. We had a spectacular view of the purple mountains across the blue-black water and enjoyed a bottle of champagne in the salmon pink evening light. The clouds had cleared off enough for us to enjoy a dramatic pink and gold sunset and we cooked our dinner under the brilliance of the stars as they emerged in the dusky light.

We thankfully crawled into our van that night having missed our cozy home while on the trail. Falling asleep that night wasn’t a problem, but we were both woken up during the night to the sounds of scratching under our heads. Iain heard the noise first, it was very quiet, but soon enough I heard the scratch, scratch, scratch as well. It appeared we had picked up a hitchhiker on our travels…we were not impressed! We couldn’t do anything about it in the middle of the night so we tried to get back to sleep, but we spent a restless night imagining a mouse living in our stuff.

The next morning we were up early and debating what to do. The day was overcast and threatening rain so pulling our gear out of the van to search for a rogue rodent didn’t seem wise. Since we would have to backtrack into town to find a hotel room we decided to do a daytrip to Milford Sound first and find a place to fumigate the van that night.

The drive up to Milford was one of the most magnificent trips I have ever taken. The highway was narrow, winding through steep mountains carved by the relentless progression of glaciers. The sheer, vertical walls of rock loomed overhead at dizzying heights. It was virtually impossible to get perspective in the bends and twists between chasm and cliff. The low clouds added to the mysterious and foreboding ambiance of the drive, keeping the mountain peaks out of view or laced with a grey and white miasma. We stopped to catch our breaths just before the entrance to the Homer Tunnel. There are supposed to be Kia parrots hanging around in the scree sloped valley, but they were absent that day. We did see the remnants of seasonal glaciers carved by narrow waterfalls that tumbled hundreds of feet to the piles of rocks below.

Homer Tunnel is a single lane tunnel that was blasted through the virgin rock between Mt. Belle and Mt. Talbot. The walls of the tunnel are bare rock with none of the modern stabilization techniques in evidence – no bolts, shotcrete, mesh or steel along the entire length. Having worked underground I found the experience of driving through the tunnel unnerving, but it was another aspect of the remarkable drive I wouldn’t give up.

We passed through the tunnel unscathed and continued through the ever steeper mountains. The drive was slow, filled with hair-pin curves and narrow views. The rock walls around us showed signs of weathering by wind and water and most sported veils of dripping green lichen. In the chasms below the native forest was lush and dense. The mist above us continued to rise and fall, looming like a living creature. When we finally arrived in the town of Milford Sound I found it anti-climactic, but still harshly beautiful.

My vertigo had been bothering me again so we only walked around the actual town for a short while. We spent a little time looking out into the sound from the harbour and I wished we could kayak out to St. Anne Point through Milford Sound itself. Unfortunately I didn’t think getting into a tiny boat when I had trouble walking would be a good idea! Soon after we arrived in the town we turned around to head back. I wasn’t upset because the drive was arguably the most spectacular part of visiting Milford.

On our way back out of town we stopped at a place called ‘The Chasm’. It was a short walk to a bend in a river where the water had worn through the softer sedimentary rock and created a smooth sided chasm. They had built a bridge over the powerful waterfall so people could see the remarkable sudden drop where the water seemed to disappear through the stone. The river edge was littered with enormous boulders and tree trunks that had been torn down during past flooding. The water whirled, churned and pounded through the rock creating swirls, pockets and tunnels through solid stone. It was mind bending to look at, the whole shape of the rock seemed to shift and change before our eyes. We got lost in the visual magic of the water, enjoying the rushing, elemental sounds from below and the forest all around us. We headed back to the van with regret; it was a wonderful place to get lost in.

Our return trip along highway 94 was no less magical than the drive in. I could enjoy the scenery as it passed, picking out certain mountains to focus on rather than attempting to see everything at once. The warm afternoon had lifted the clouds away from the peaks which somehow made the mountains smaller and less mysterious but no less fiercely beautiful. We emerged into the lowlands with increased speed and a feeling of lightness as if the majesty of the landscape had weighed on us physically.

We breezed through Te Anau without looking for a place to stay- we knew the prices would be sky high. We decided to use the rest of the daylight to push on to Queenstown where we hoped prices would be cheaper.

The Fastest Indian

Iain and I made it off the ferry into our van and into Invercargill in time to get a bed in a downtown hostel a few blocks from a much dreamed of Irish pub. We had almost been locked in the parking lot in Bluff when we couldn’t find our voucher, but the woman who was locking up took pity on us and for the price of 9 days parking set us free. We also lucked out at the hostel, the woman at the desk had just locked the door but we must have looked truly pitiful because she opened her door to give us a bed and a discount.

We hobbled the two blocks to the pub and were greeted by live music and a very lively after work crowd. We found a corner table and stared vacantly into space as we waited for a waitress to bring our beer. Iain’s first sip of the rich, dark Guinness transported him to a happier place for a few moments. Then we dug into our lamb dinners and relished every bite of fresh food. I was overcome by exhaustion as deep as my hunger had been and pulled Iain away from the pub after two pints. He was ready to party and all I wanted to do was sleep for days! I crashed and he went out for pizza but eventually sleep caught up with him too.

We were sore the next morning; my legs felt every step of the 23kms I’d walked the previous day. We wanted to hit the road fairly quickly so we were checked out and had the van repacked by 10am. Before we could leave though we had to go back to the local hardware store and see the Fastest Indian.

When Iain had first mentioned that he had seen the fastest Indian I thought he was making a very politically incorrect joke. I soon found out that the Fastest Indian was a motorcycle built by Burt Monro, a New Zealander. I may be the only person in this country who hasn’t seen the movie based on the story of the legendary bike! The original Indian and various other prototypes built by Burt Monro had been bought by the hardware store owner and placed around his store for display. It was an unusual combination of specialty museum and old fashioned D-I-Y hardware store. The owners, E. Hayes and Sons had branched out over the years; they started with the Fastest Indian and other antique motorcycles and incorporated antique chainsaws and lawnmowers. It was a fascinating place to waste time and we spent an hour reading up on the various bikes before we hit the road.

Stewart Island - The conclusion

We spent a restless night in Freshwater hut. Both of us were nervous about oversleeping and consequently not having enough time to hike the full distance to Halfmoon Bay. We were up early, but didn’t get on the trail until 8:30am which was 2 hours later than we had hoped. The DOC estimated 13 hours hiking time from Freshwater to Halfmoon Bay and we needed to be at the DOC office before they closed at 5pm. We had left a clean change of clothes, our cell phone and wallets in a locker at the DOC office but if we were late getting off the trail we would have to wait until 8am to get our gear. Between the prospect of a hot shower and hot food and the 5pm deadline we were very motivated to finish the hike.

The DOC told all prospective hikers that the hardest leg of the trip was the section between Freshwater hut and North Arm hut. The elevation gain was the same as all the previous hills but it was a long climb with a fairly steep descent. The section was also hiked by twice as many people as the rest of the circuit so the mud was deeper and the bad sections were longer and wider. When we hit the trail we noticed the mud got worse very quickly. DOC had put boardwalk in certain areas (a sure sign the trail was hiked by less experienced people more frequently) but they were made slippery and dangerous by the lichen, moss and muddy slime. Neither of us found the trail to be more difficult than previous sections; however we could understand why they would caution people. Day-trippers with little or no trail experience or low levels of physical fitness would find it overwhelming. As before, the root systems crossing the trail were treacherous; like eager fingers waiting to twist our ankles. Hidden hazards lay at the bottom of every muddy segment; our hiking poles were a God-send. The most difficult aspect of the trail that day was the speed we were hiking. We stopped just short of jogging, but blazed along as fast as our eyes could identify danger and our feet could dance over the terrain.

The hike from Freshwater to North Arm hut was 11kms and took us five hours. The scenery had been dull compared to the sweeping vistas we had enjoyed for the past 6 days. We had moved inland away from the coast and were now hiking around the North Arm of Paterson Inlet. The water was brownish grey, full of the red soil and yellow sand prevalent in the area. The forest was dense and primordial with moss coated limbs dripping towards the water. We rarely stopped to take in the scenery, but we were under-whelmed when we did. The one point of interest was a small waterfall trickling down a series of flat rock slabs. We stopped to refill our water bottles and catch our breaths and it was the one time I stopped to look past the end of my toes.

About one kilometer before we reached the North Arm hut we reached the end of the Northern Circuit trek and moved onto the Rakiura Track, one of the Great Walks. The change in trails was marked by a small sign and the appearance of almost constant boardwalk. We were climbing wooden stairs instead of root ladders and walking over the worst of the mud instead of through it. We figured Iain would have a much better chance of making it to town before 5pm than I would as his stride is longer, so I kept going at my top speed and watched him disappear down the track ahead.

The next few hours passed in a blur. I remember seeing signs appear telling me how many kilometers I had left to hike and I remember my knees and feet being painful then numb and then painful again. I passed three different couples as I rushed along, each pair looking clean and cheerful, one woman with makeup on, hair done and perfume lingering in the forest. Each time I passed people I became aware of my own unwashed body and the odor trailing along behind me. I would grin at the people and they would smile and move as far out of my way as the boardwalk allowed.

I had no idea how much time had passed since Iain and I split up on the trail. I was sure I was moving quickly but I couldn’t see the sun and had no watch. I kept myself motivated with the thought of clean clothes and potato chips. I decided that the boardwalk was much more boring than the flat section between Mason’s Bay and Freshwater. I’m sure it had its own appeal, but compared to the raw, rugged terrain we had seen in the more remote areas, it was plain and dreary. The forest had been logged within the last 50 years so the trees were small and there was either no underbrush or it was so dense there was nothing to see except a wall of dirty brown shrubs. We had moved further inland away from North Arm so there were no water views to look forward to and even the birdlife which had sustained me during harder sections was absent in the higher traffic area.

Eventually I stumbled upon the trail entrance, just two kilometers from the town center. I spotted a small creek where I stopped for a few precious minutes to wipe some mud off my lower body. Within minutes of hitting the chip-seal road I was wishing I was back in the bush again…locals must be used to seeing hikers come off the trail but they still gave me odd side-long glances as I poled my muddy bulk past their houses. All of the businesses were still open when I made it to the town center, and I spotted Iain sitting on a bench on the waterfront drinking a beer. I staggered up to him dropping my bag in the grass and using some very foul language expressed how happy I was to be done the trail. It turned out that Iain had covered the last 12kms in 2 hours and I had finished them in 2hours 50minutes, it was just 3:50pm! We were very proud of ourselves and very, very, very tired.

We sat in the sunshine for 20 minutes or so, enjoying a drink and the feeling of being in civilization again. We decided to head back to the van in Bluff that night as we had made it to Halfmoon Bay so early. We staggered our jelly-like limbs the 200m to the wharf, purchased our tickets, dumped our backpacks and headed back into town to find somewhere to have a shower. We were told the Backpacker’s would sell shower time to hikers, so we crossed our fingers and limped over. The manager of the hostel was an interesting character; a German posing as a Maori channeling Seinfeld and after regaling us with his ‘humor’ gave us towels and hot showers for $5.00 each. The shower was worth every cent; I would have paid $50 for the pleasure of clean hair and shaved armpits! Once we were clean we decided we needed food, we didn’t think we would leave the pub if we went in so we got a delicious and nutritious lunch of potato chips, ginger beer and fresh juice from the grocery store. We sat by the water and hoovered back two bags of chips while we waited for the ferry, we didn’t say much, we were enjoying the success of completing the Northern Circuit.

Our ferry ride back to Bluff was much less dramatic than our first crossing. The sky was clear with brilliant golden sunshine glinting off the whitecaps. The swell was still massive, but the waves were regular, rhythmic and enjoyable. I could actually see the birds soaring over the breakers; the giant albatross would dip and wheel between the wave troughs skimming up and over the crests with consummate grace. The smaller Mutton Birds would make shorter, darting motions between the larger birds in a chaotic ballet a hand-span above the waves. I relaxed back into my seat, letting my body unwind and resting the muscles in my legs and feet. The ferry was a peaceful transition from the calm regimen of the trail to the hustle and bustle of traveling.

Stewart Island - Part 7

I had a very, very lazy morning at Mason’s Bay hut although it started early. Most of the folks who were catching the water taxi in the morning left the camp at 6:30am and their rustling and chit-chat woke me up. The water taxi arrived at the peak of high tide which was 11am that day and the hike to the launch was approximately four hours. I hoped no one would fall into the swamp in the dawn light as they headed for the boat! After they left I lay in bed and dozed until 9am or so.

Iain got up and made coffee and breakfast while I stayed in my bunk and caught up on my journal. Our last hour in the hut was spent sweeping floors, tidying the kitchen area and turning mattresses on the bunks. It falls to the last people out of the hut to make sure it’s tidy for the next set of campers; it’s a nice feeling knowing the next group was getting a beautiful place to stay. By the time we were hiking from the hut past the old homestead where the DOC officers stayed it was past 11am and we were the last people on the trail. The early hikers had left with a thick, grey fog hanging over them, but as the day progressed spikes of sunshine broke through and by noon we were hiking under blue skies.

Looking back, Iain and I agree that the hike from Mason’s Bay to Freshwater hut was the most boring hike we had done in New Zealand. It was 15kms of flat marshland with boardwalk over the challenging bits (that would be the waist deep swamp water). The trail started in the low dunes then moved through the remnants of fields and then followed old drainage canals dug out by settlers in the late 1800’s. The perseverance of the first farmers in such inhospitable land amazed me. The families had hoped to farm sheep on Stuart Island, but the landscape was against them in every way. The central area which the Northern Circuit Trek circumnavigated was swamp land, the forest in the surrounding hills was almost impenetrable and the hillsides were dreadfully steep and riddled with gullies. Mason’s Bay was on the opposite side of the island from the only port. Any supplies would have to come from Bluff (which was a daunting crossing in 2010) and be hauled overland from Halfmoon Bay to Mason’s Bay. The settlers eventually lost the battle against Mother Nature and had to abandon the idea of farming the area. However, 100-odd years later we could still see traces of the attempt in the landscape. DOC maintained the homestead buildings and the fences around it and the drainage canals were the hiking trails for part of the hike, each canal lined with flourishing manuka trees and flax plants.

About two hours into the hike Iain and I stopped for a snack in the manuka forest alongside the creek. The clouds had begun to pile up above us and the first few drops of rain made it through the thick silvery-green canopy while we relaxed under cover. The walking may have been dull but the picnic spot was peaceful and lovely. Unfortunately the prospect of napping in the rain had no appeal so we moved on.

We caught up to a group of older ladies who had left a few hours before us. We had enjoyed watching their antics when they were heading out, it was the first time some of them had put on a hiking pack in their 60+ years! They were from the southern United States and were having an adventure in New Zealand before heading to Australia. One of the ladies was having a terrible time with her brand new hiking boots so they had been stopping frequently. The perseverance of the women who were trying something completely foreign to them was impressive. And while it was a tedious, monotonous hike for Iain and me, for them it was a physically challenging adventure of a lifetime.

Shortly after passing the group Iain and I arrived at the water taxi launch which was across the river from Freshwater hut. The river crossing was another suspension bridge, one of the ‘three rope’ varieties. It took a lot of courage for people afraid of heights to cross those bridges and my heart went out to the ladies later on as they helped each other up and over.

The river was deep and fast moving, fresh water as the tide went out and salty as the tide came in. Before we even checked out the hut Iain and I dumped our gear and went down to the waters edge to wash off our boots and gaiters. Iain couldn’t resist jumping in, and enjoyed a very cold swim across the river to the water taxi launch on the other side. I wasn’t so brave; I figured it was too cold with the rain falling so I had a bird bath behind the hut instead.

The hut was much smaller and much older than the Mason’s Bay hut, but it was cozy and had a huge covered porch to hang our gear in. There were two sleeping areas so we left one side of the hut to the women’s group and joined a young American couple on the other side. We had met Julia and David at East Ruggedy hut, they had traded us the deck of cards we had enjoyed so much. It wasn’t much past 3pm when we arrived at the hut so we spent the afternoon chatting with the pair and playing cards. David, Julia and Iain taught me how to play Hearts, which I apparently learned too well as I won the game!

After dinner and card games were finished Iain and I prepped our gear for the next day. We had decided to go straight through from Freshwater hut to Halfmoon Bay rather than stopping for the night at North Arm hut, the half-way point. It was a big push for us, 23kms in one go, but we were really looking forward to fresh food! We decided to hit the trail at first light and wanted everything ready to go outside so all we would have to do is make coffee, grab our packs and go. Everyone else in the hut headed to bed early as well, so we drifted off to sleep listening to the ladies next door snoring. As Iain said the next day ‘that woman wasn’t sawing logs, she was clear-cutting a forest!”…

Stewart Island - Part 6

The day dawned grey and wet. We shuffled around the cool hut, moving slowly while gathering up our damp gear from beside the fireplace. All of our gaiters were dripping wet and freezing cold against our legs and I was shivering when I hit the trail. I had donned all my warm layers before we headed into the mist but had to stop twenty minutes into the hike to strip down to a tank-top again…I had forgotten that in New Zealand you always hike uphill!

It was an eerie morning with the dense fog condensing and dripping off every surface in the forest. As the sun rose higher the fog lingered, obscuring Iain as he hiked ahead of me on the trail. We crested hills and hiked at the edge of the tree line a number of times but all we saw was a brilliant white world at the edge of the forest. We hiked for hours in a saturated backlit world with the flitting shadows of fantails escorting us back down to the sea.

We made it down to a beautiful white sand beach with pounding surf. Iain had been admiring the swell as it became visible through the manuka trees. We strolled along the water line enjoying the breeze and the sunshine…Iain daydreaming about his surfboard. At the far end of the beach we climbed up into the dunes to a grassy plateau and enjoyed a leisurely lunch with Emma and Jenni who had left a little ahead of us in the morning.

The last few hours of the day were touted to be the hardest of the hike. There was a push up over a small headland that separated the beach we were currently on from Mason’s Bay. The headland was almost 400m up and the trail was steep both up and down, DOC didn’t believe in switchbacks. To compound maters there was a section of Masons Bay that had to be hiked at low tide so we had to finish the steep section in less than three hours.

We climbed up steadily using the roots as ladders and crawling in the mud where necessary. I was thoroughly impressed with our progress when we made it to the top and after a brief rest we were ready to tackle the hill in reverse. The trip down was far more treacherous than the trip uphill. Our packs kept us from tumbling head first down the trail but we both slipped and slid repeatedly. There were a few spots where someone had laid ropes down the track for safety, we both laughed at the gesture feeling it was futile in light of all the areas that didn’t have them.

We crossed onto the 14kms of Masons Bay after a rest at the creek that marked the division between the bottom of the hill and the beach. We both washed the worst of the mud off our boots then headed towards the rising tide line. The beach started out rocky at the creek outflow but quickly became a long sandy crescent. The packed sand proved to be the hardest part of the day. Our bodies and feet had become accustomed to the soft springy soil or sucking mud of the trail, hiking on the beach was like pounding along a 14km stretch of golden pavement. We stopped occasionally, watching the Gannets or Oystercatchers playing in the waves and finally about two thirds of the way along the beach we spotted the track to Mason’s Bay hut.

There was a well established truck track along the creek leading up to the hut. The DOC officers had a pretty steady presence in the area and used the old Mason’s Bay homestead as a base for trail maintenance equipment and staff bunks. There were a myriad of crisscrossing trails through the sand dunes and we passed a number of couples strolling to and from the hut looking at the kiwi tracks in the sand. We had seen a small plane earlier in the day, it turned out it was delivering the overnight tourists to Mason’s Bay. These people would fly in for the night, try to spot a kiwi or two and either fly back to Invercargill the next day or hike to Freshwater hut and take the water taxi to Halfmoon Bay. The hut was huge, 24 person capacity, and it was close to full that night. The eager kiwi hunters were not impressed with the nocturnal habits of the birds. The different groups headed out to the dunes near sunset and returned shortly after dark, most of them never saw a bird.

Iain and I sat and chatted with a Kiwi couple who had lived in Abbotsford for a few years on a work exchange. They had traveled all over Canada while they had lived there and we swapped stories about traveling and living in the two countries. We all agreed that camping in New Zealand was much simpler than in Canada, the possum is not nearly as fearsome as the bear!

The group that had arrived on the flight brought the weather report with them from Invercargill. A severe weather system was moving from Australia across the Tasman Sea and they were predicting heavy rains for Stewart Island over the next week. Iain and I had carried food for 15 days as we had planned on finishing the Northern Circuit up to Mason’s Bay and then hiking an additional 6 days on the Southern Circuit back to Halfmoon Bay. The problem was the Southern Circuit was very prone to flooding with light rain; people were frequently stranded for up to five days at the huts during heavy rain. After hearing the weather report we decided not to risk running out of food on the trail and leave the Southern circuit for another year.

We headed to bed shortly after dark, listening to the symphony of snoring all around us I was very grateful for my earplugs as I snuggled into my bunk. I was disappointed to not be finishing both circuits, but knowing I was going to be enjoying hot, fresh food in two more days made for sweet dreams!

Stewart Island - Part 5

I was restless all night and awake early on the morning of day five. The hunters had started their day before dawn again and I was up heading for the outhouse shortly after they left the hut. I hadn’t planned on an early morning kiwi search but as I wandered back up the trail I spotted the mottled brown back stomping through the bracken beside the trail. I stalked the oblivious bird as it bobbed in and out of view; I couldn’t help but be thrilled to be so close to the rare species. It was marvelous!

Iain and I got packed up and hit the trail by mid morning, sad to leave the beautiful spot but excited to see the upcoming trail. An hour through the primordial jungle brought us to the sand dunes that mark the entrance to West Ruggedy beach. I went on ahead of Iain so I could get some epic photos of him navigating the shifting sands. The last push downhill was a steep sandy slope that must be a raging river during heavy rains. The water was visible at random spots through the sand and there were rocks littering the sides of the slope, it was a beautiful spot. We played around with the camera until the sand flies drove us onward.

We smelled the beach before we saw it, we had been told about the beached whales at the DOC office before we started hiking, but I still wasn’t prepared for the sight of them. Close to 30 pilot whales had inexplicably beached themselves on the sandy beach a week before Iain and I got there. Sadly, because of heavy weather DOC employees couldn’t get people in to drag them back to sea and had to euthanize all of the whales. By the time Iain and I got to West Ruggedy the whales were either rotting above the high tide line or half buried in the sands along the beach. We had also been warned to stay out of the water as the sharks were swimming in the surf at high tide to tear chunks from the whales they could reach. It was a gruesome sight and I was grateful for the stiff breeze that kept the worst of the smell away from us. We chatted briefly about the tragedy with a hunter we met on the beach but the smell and the flies soon pushed us on.

The morning and afternoon was cool and there was a lingering fog wreathing the hills on either side of the beach. Walking along the beach I felt like I had stepped out of time, the location seemed otherworldly and timeless. The feeling of mystery and awe lingered with me throughout the day.

We enjoyed a short side hike up to another stunning viewpoint and caught our breaths while enjoying the breathtaking views. The high mist lingered over the islands in the distance and we could see strings of golden beaches and lush forestland up and down the coast.

The hike from East Ruggedy hut to Big Hellfire hut was one of the longest of the trip, seven hours of the deepest, longest stretches of muddy trail we had seen yet. The frequent gullies were also steeper and we had a few fun creek crossings. I began to think of it as a climbing trip rather than a hiking trip. By mid afternoon Iain and I were beginning to loose steam and were looking forward to scraping off the mud and having a hot fire and a hot dinner.

In typical Stuart Island fashion our flagging spirits were lifted by a magical moment in the late afternoon. In the deep shadows of the giant ferns and colossal trees Iain spotted the now familiar stumping motions of a Giant Brown Kiwi bird as it searched for tasty grubs. Iain motioned for me to move slowly and quietly as he removed his pack and armed himself with his camera, and then he was in full National Geographic mode. I sat back hoping he would get ‘The Photo’ but eventually I had to do some peeking of my own. The bird seemed completely oblivious to us as we moved gracelessly around it. Our movements became more blatant when we realized the bird couldn’t care less about us. The kiwi appeared to move in a grid pattern leaving no branch, stump or pile of leaves unturned as it searched out a plethora of bugs and other juicy food. I had moved forward with my pack on and Iain caught the kiwi as it clomped in front of me through the muddy trail. I was fascinated as it dove into the mud with its long, strong beak. It wrenched at something with the vigor of a terrier after a rat, shaking and tugging ferociously with its whole head. It slowly moved on, never deviating from it’s set parameters, always moving parallel to the trail gradually working down slope until we could no longer see it through the thick underbrush.

After the kiwi had faded into the distance Iain and I sat staring at each other…what an amazing experience! We had been a hand-span away from a bird that most New Zealanders had never seen. It was a rush that propelled us through the last few hours of the climb to Big Hellfire hut.

We arrived to an empty hut and set to the task of scraping the pounds of mud and sand off our lower bodies. The hut was just under 400m elevation and the fog we had seen lingering all day had surrounded us with its damp embrace when we arrived. We unpacked, selected bunks, washed up and started dinner before the first of the hikers arrived. It was a friendly bunch, mostly women in the hut that night and the first place we didn’t share a space with hunters. There were a number of card games, catching up on the journaling, some yoga stretching and around sunset the fog cleared off and we got a dramatic view into the swampy valley at the center of the island.

Iain and I finished off the day with a walk out to the vast sand dunes that had been pushed all the way up the hill side from sea level. The fog swirled around us in an opaque miasma, briefly clearing at dusk and granting us a hazy view of an elemental coastline. We snuggled in the sand until the chill chased us inside, followed by the sounds of the kiwis haunting the dunes around us.

Stewart Island - Part 4

It was an early night for all the hikers. Shortly after dawn the first few people were moving around and then we were all packing up and getting ready to head out. It was an unspoken unity, no one planned to move as a group but we were all happy to be getting out early. We got a few evil eyes from under sleeping bags from the hunters who had kept us awake all night. None of us felt any pity. Iain and I were on the trail shortly after eight and happy to be hiking under clear blue skies leaving the flies behind us.

An hour into the walk we came around a bend in the trail and had a beautiful clear view back to Long Harry Hut. We stopped for a short rest and photo opportunity, the view down to the beach and across the water to the hut was wonderful in the morning sunlight.

The hiking through the forest was rhythmic by this point. We had figured out our strides and I had adapted a swinging gate to land on top of roots rather than stumble between them. The mud pools were no more than minor irritations most of the time and there was more than enough bird and plant life to keep me distracted when the hiking did get tedious. The first set of hunters we’d met at Yankee River hut had given me a quick lecture in New Zealand bird life so I could identify Fantails, Tui, Bell birds, Bush Robins, Wrens and the ginormous Bush Pigeons. Iain called the Fantails the ‘fluttery birds’ because they would move along the trail fluttering from branch to branch ahead of you. They would even call sweetly to us if we slowed down or stopped for a rest as if to encourage us forwards. They never failed to make me smile.

About halfway through the day we came to a boulder strewn coastline. The boulders were enormous, ranging in size from a shopping cart to the size of a pick-up truck. I had hiked ahead of Iain and was filling my water bottle from a stream in the rocks when he made it to the beach, it took him a while to spot me although I was waving like a mad woman. We started the long process of hopping from boulder to boulder down the coast, each of us taking a different route. I tended to stay near the bush line where the rocks were flatter while Iain took the faster route near the waters edge. I was trailing behind Iain when I saw him fall; he had jumped onto an algae slick rock and lost his balance about 50m from me. He fell forwards barely saving his face from a large boulder but smashed his shin in the process. I hobbled over to him as quickly as I could without falling myself and was relieved to see him cursing and flexing his foot. I was further relieved when he asked to have photos taken of his injury! A few antiseptic wipes later and we were making our way down the beach again, a little slower and a little more cautious than before.

We stopped for lunch on a wide flat boulder three quarters of the way down the beach. Iain was sore but game to go on after an hour soaking up the sunshine. We were both worried about his leg swelling up and determined to take a rest day at the next hut.

Along the trail to East Ruggedy Hut there was a short, ten minute side hike to a look-out point. We dropped our packs and poles at the turn off and headed through the muddiest section of trail we had encountered so far. Iain made the observation that everyone who hiked the trail once would do that short section twice so it made sense that it was twice as muddy, however I was worried about Iain’s open wounds and loosing my boots in the bog. The view turned out to be worth the muddy slog. We found ourselves perched on a rock surrounded by giant flax bushes looking straight down to a turquoise sea. The world seemed to end in a strand of puffy white clouds where the sky and the ocean blended together seamlessly. To the south-west there was another postcard pretty, golden sand beach rising gently into undulating sand dunes and cut with a meandering river. Past the beach was a string of jewel green islands looking toothy and prehistoric and puttering around below us was a long white yacht filled with eager scuba divers out exploring the teeming reefs. We soaked up the view, absorbed some vitamin D and then hauled ass towards that beautiful beach.

It turned out to be a long ways down. Iain wanted to have a much needed bath in the river before hiking on to the hut but I wanted to get clean and stay that way, not put on my sweaty gear and hike for another few hours so we both kept moving. It ended up being a quick half hour hike through the sand dunes. The manuka brush had grown up so dense around the trail we were hiking through a silvery green tunnel with slippery sand underfoot.

East Ruggedy hut was clean and well supplied with fresh water when we arrived. There was a small creek not too far away so after selecting bunks and storing our gear we went out to do some laundry and bathing. We were ecstatic to be clean and with the prospect of a rest day the next day we enjoyed a lazy evening. We chatted with fellow hikers, traded some chocolate and moonshine for a deck of card (yes, the bags were too heavy to take 52 cards but NOT too heavy to pack 500mls of over proof vodka…go figure) and after dark we headed out into the dunes for some star watching and kiwi tracking. We had heard the spine chilling calls of the kiwi birds all evening – they sound like dying seagulls with the male voice being a deeper death scream than the harsh metal-bending tones of the female. The birds themselves are quite funny looking. They have large rounded bodies, about the size of a soccer ball, with short spiky feathers, beady little eyes, a long narrow beak and great, huge noisy feet. Kiwi birds stomp through the bushes, there is no stealthy sneaking through the underbrush for them. Iain and I heard a bird rustling in the brush alongside the path on our way back to the hut. We used our flashlights to spot the kiwi and managed to get surprisingly close before it noticed us. We spent an hour stalking along the trail in the pitch black hoping to see more birds, waiting for them to cross the trail. Eventually we got too cold to either star gaze or bird stalk so we headed back to the warmth of the hut and bed.

We tried to sleep in the next morning, but the three hunters in the hut were up before dawn to try their luck for white tail or red deer. They were good guys, conscientious hunters who had helped us out by disposing of a deer carcass that had been hung and abandoned behind the hut. Next was the rustling, clanging cacophony of five hikers repacking and preparing for another day on the trail. Iain and I gave up fairly quickly and had coffee while everyone was heading off. When the last person had disappeared down the trail we packed a day bag and headed down to the golden sands of East Ruggedy beach. The day had started out beautiful but by the time we had tried our luck at fishing and mussel hunting it had started to rain and the sand flies had come out in force. Mid day we headed back to the hut and had a short nap before the next set of hikers began to arrive.

Iain and I thoroughly appreciated having a deck of cards that day and night and we played a few great games of crib while we prepared dinner and chatted with the folks around us. We decided against another nighttime kiwi foray hoping for a nice long sleep and early start the next day.