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.

Stewart Island - Part 3

We were once again the last pair up and moving. The average hiking time was six or seven hours on a difficult day so neither Iain nor I could understand the need to rush out of the huts at dawn. Leaving around 9am gave us plenty of time to pack, hike and explore our destination.

I awoke suitably humbled after the previous day’s meltdown. I vowed to myself and Iain that I wouldn’t be so ridiculous and melodramatic again, that I would take more frequent rests if needed. In fact I never had another problem on the rest of the trail, once I stopped fighting the mud and the roots and the rain and the pain everything became a lot more fun!

We said our goodbyes to the hunters, put on our soggy gaiters, grabbed our hiking poles and headed off for Long Harry Hut. Early in the day we crossed one of my favorite New Zealand hiking contraptions, the suspension bridge. I have no idea how much money gets spent on the park system here but the bridges and the huts indicate a HELL of a lot. I think the bridges are wonderful; they are found at the worst river crossings and take a fairly big leap of faith to get on. They bounce and sway over turbulent waters and each end is bedecked with an ominous sign reading “ONE PERSON AT A TIME MAXIMUM”. Every time I saw one I wanted to test the weight limit, but figured I should lighten the pack a bit before I did so in case I ended up swimming.

Hiking day two was very different from day one. We still spent most of our time climbing; either large hills or out of the never ending gullies that line the hills, but the big difference was the changing scenery. The forest became beautiful, filled with mosses on the ground not just a sea of never ending mud. There were variety of trees I had never seen and I began to see glimpses of the stunning coastline Iain had been telling me about for months. About halfway through the day we emerged out of the manuka forests onto Smokey Beach a long stretch of golden sand soaked in longed for sunshine and pounding surf. I basked in the sights and smells, the salty tang of sea spray hanging in the air and the raucous cry of shore birds disturbed from their afternoon foraging. We made slow progress down the beach, stopping for photos and simple sightseeing.

We encountered our first river ford at the far end of Smokey Beach. There was a turbulent tidal river filled with rust colored sands. I asked Iain to cross it first as he was taller and stronger than me. If it looked too deep I would have to walk upstream a few kilometers and cross the bridge then walk back to the shore to meet up with Iain. As it turned out it was no more than thigh deep and with the hiking poles to help with stability I made it across with no problems. We had caught up with Emma and Jenni at the river crossing and spent a few minutes basking in the sunshine with them before getting chased back onto the trail by vicious homicidal sand flies.

The trail off Smokey Beach led us past a group of enormous granitic boulders all tumbled together like a giant’s marbles. The trees were creeping over them, splitting them slowly and quietly with their relentless root systems. We played in the cracks and crevasses for a while until Iain found a route to the very top of the pile. I scrambled up with the camera and was presented with an unparalleled view out over the dusty green canopy of manuka. We could see Smokey beach behind us and Long Harry in front of us and the big blue ocean all around. It was a wonderful peaceful spot for a little reflection and a lot of water drinking. Eventually we had to don our packs again move on.

We made it to the hut while the sun was still high. We had seen men fishing off the rocks below the trail so we expected a few people at the hut when we arrived, however the mess we were presented with was gruesome. It turned out to be six hunters, younger guys with no camping or hunting etiquette to speak of. Their gear was spread across the entire hut, there was a deer carcass hanging in the vestibule with a tangle of bloody hoofs sitting uncovered on the bench underneath. There was no water in the tanks and the number of flies in the area spoke more of an abattoir than a coastal cabin. I was appalled by the condition but it was worse for Iain who had beautiful memories of this hut from his first hike on Stewart Island.

We had planned on spending a rest day at Long Harry because Iain had enjoyed his time there so much the first time around, however the six hunters were there for a few more days, the flies were intolerable and the prospect of hauling every pot of water up a long hill from the beach meant we would keep moving the next day. We did do some beach exploring in the long shadows of the evening, moving from spot to spot trying to outwit the sand flies and finally finding some reprieve in a rock cave on the east side of the beach. We dodged the tidal surge until the water rose too high to make it back to the hut dry. Back in the hut we quickly crawled into our bunks with the other hikers and tried to sleep. It was the first night I used my earplugs, the hunter’s conversation was no louder than the night before but there was an edge to it. They were no happier to see us than we were to see them.

Stewart Island - Part 2

Our first day of hiking started very early – not by our choice. Our fellow hikers seemed to think it imperative to start the day with the dawn. We enjoyed being the last pair of hikers to set out, drinking our leisurely breakfast of coffee and breakfast shake (….mmmm, powdered milk…) and secure in the knowledge that we were fresh so the day would go smoothly. Ohhhh, the naivety!

The day was overcast and dreary with frequent rain squalls. It was exactly what I expected from the previous three days of coastal weather and what the DOC office in Halfmoon Bay had predicted. The trail was muddy, full of twisted roots and ankle hazards and it seemed to climb forever. Even when we were headed down hill we were climbing up and over trees and other fungus encrusted forest fodder.

Iain settled into the weight of his pack more quickly and gracefully than I did. I slipped and slid through the mud puddles for the first half of the day, diligently trying to dodge the bigger boggy sections. I learned my lesson by the end of the day – it’s easier on your body and your mind to just power through most of them. However, I was still attempting to stay somewhat clean on hiking day one. I was sure I would be the first woman to come through the Stewart Island Northern Circuit Trek unscathed. HA!

We stopped for lunch in the shelter of the trees at Lucky Beach. We ate some of our weightier food (the luxury of canned fish with no fear of bears or cougars following our trail!) battling the sand flies while we weren’t moving. Then it was into the sideways rain and miserable wind on the slick rocky beach. For twenty minutes I missed the mud while we scrabbled along the high tide line, then we were back in the forest and I took back every charitable thought I’d had.

An hour or so before we made it to Yankee River Hut I fell face first towards the mud, almost leaving one boot behind me. That was when I lost my temper. I had a completely illogical and useless temper tantrum in my head and poor Iain was left following me as I stormed along the trail. Twenty minutes later I finally ran out of energy and cried out all of my frustration into Iain’s shoulder. I believe he had a moment of panic imagining eight more days of hellish dramatics with a hiking prima dona…but I managed to suck up the last shreds of my dignity and keep slogging forwards.

We made it to the hut well before sunset and found a hot fire and four friendly hunters waiting for us. We had passed the rest of our fellow hikers during the day so we were the first group to meet the old guys. They were a funny group, happy to share their boiling water with us and full of stories about the island and other hikers that had passed through the area while they’d been there. Before too long we were joined by the other mud-farers, three of the guys continued on to the next hut and we met a new couple that had choppered in to Christmas Village like us. Iain taught me the considerate camper’s hut etiquette of always gathering wood for the fire and it earned us a cold coke from the hunters.

It was a quiet evening for all of us. The sun made a belated appearance just before it set and we got to see one of the phantom white-tailed deer in the evening light. It tantalized the hunters for a brief moment, then with a flick of its tail it ghosted across the beach and disappeared into the dense manuka forest without a single shot fired. We fell asleep to the rowdy sounds of four old men swapping stories of bigger and better hunting while besting each other at cribbage.

Stewart Island - Part 1

After three days holed up in Invercargill, watching the Olympics inside and the rain outside, we headed to Bluff and the ferry to Stewart Island. The weather had been stormy and it was with great trepidation that I donned my terrifyingly heavy pack for a long hike through the knee deep mud. Of course, before we started the hike we had to make it TO the island and watching the boats in the harbour crashing into each other at dock I was dubious the ferry would leave the safety of Bluff. I guess the ferry operators in the extreme south are made of sterner stuff than Canadian captains because we headed out into the murky, steel grey seas with no regard for the rain sluicing off the windows or the evil green clouds that swirled overhead.

We had a perky first mate who regaled us with local history as we made our way past the lighthouse and into the real waters of Foveaux Straight. Within minutes we were crashing through swells of 20ft or more. My bum repeatedly lifted clear of my seat as we hammered through the walls of white water. I adamantly refused to get seasick (I’m from the coast after all!) but the water pouring off the windows from the roof of the boat made it hard to catch sight of the horizon and when I did it was heaving to a different tempo from the boat. Fifteen minutes into the trip the nachos I’d had for lunch were lurching uncomfortably in my guts. The free coffee and tea offered onboard seemed laughable as there was no way tourists could stagger to the aft and back to their seats holding onto anything other than the support beams or backs of seats. I was alternately laughing at the thrill of the watery rollercoaster ride and guestimating the speed at which I could reach the life vests and don one in the hopes my body would be found when we capsized. Apparently we were at the edge of what the ferry company considers reasonable weather. I’d truly hate to see what ‘bad weather’ entailed and in one hour of cushy ferry crossing my awe and respect for fisherman quadrupled.

We arrived safely in Halfmoon Bay and wobbled out into the perpetual rain to claim our soggy backpacks. I had hoped that the dry weather the South Island had been enjoying would mean relatively dry trails, however the four days of solid precipitation forced me to entertain the idea of mud…lots of mud. Halfmoon Bay is the only permanent settlement on Stewart Island and most of the community is five minutes walk or less from the wharf. Our hotel was a wet two minutes away and we quickly stashed our gear in our room and headed into the pub for a pint to toast our upcoming adventure.

The pub was a typical small town watering hole. The majority of the patrons were local fisherman still in their rubberized rain coats and green Wellingtons. They were rosy cheeked, silver haired and sporting day old stubble or full bushy beards for the most part with the exception of one or two young men. Most of the men were gossiping around the bar like roosters, each one trying to outdo the next with tales of bravery in the Straight. Having seen the water I don’t think they were exaggerating…much. The rest of the people in the overwarm bar were tourists. Most people were older folks on the island for the bird watching, but there were one or two intrepid hikers like Iain and I. The main difference was in the clothes – the birders wore starched and pressed Patagonia and Tilley Endurables gear while the hikers wore a motley assortment of stained and worn clothing, battered boots and drank the cheapest beer on tap.

Iain and I were only going to have one drink, but we made it through two pints then a third seemed like a good idea when we met one of the local fisherman. Before we knew it midnight had rolled around and we were staggering back to our room giggling and shushing each other. I have a hazy memory of completely unpacking my backpack and repacking every item I had carefully stowed away just that morning. I’m sure it made perfect sense to me at the time!

The morning arrived much faster than either of us was prepared for. We stumbled around the room packing the day bags we were leaving in the lockers at the DOC office, enjoying our last shower for a while then after checking out we went looking for a ride up the trail. We didn’t want to start the hike from the town; the first two days of the North Circuit Trek are muddy with little scenery of interest so we wanted to start where the views got good to keep us motivated. We found a cheap helicopter ride and by one o’clock we were sitting on the porch of Christmas Village Hut.

The rain had let up a little bit but squalls kept moving across the island hammering the coast with wicked winds and sideways rain followed by little pockets of yellow sunshine and rainbows. The helicopter that picked us up was an R-44 piston engine and I hope I never have to ride in one ever again. I’ve spent a lot of time in helicopters but I have never been bucked around as badly as that flight. I felt like maple leaf in Winnipeg in November. The best part of the flight was landing in front of the cabin and getting out!

We spent the rest of the afternoon gathering fire wood for the hut and meeting fellow hikers. There were seven of us in total that night, two Kiwis, three Canadians, an American and a German. I was taught a new card game while Iain cooked up our last fresh food for a while. Once the sun set everyone crawled into their bunks for a good nights sleep, looking forward to hitting the trail in the morning.