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.