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.

Curio Bay

We found paradise in Curio Bay. We had stopped at a stunning beach the night before we arrived at paradise and visited a beautiful waterfall enroute to paradise but neither could touch the combination of raw rugged power surging on one side of Curio Bay and the serene, peaceful tranquility that made up the inner bay.

Curio Bay is a small cove on the south side of a small headland that protects Porpoise Bay from the Pacific Ocean and Foveaux Straight. If you walk west away from Curio Bay campground along the rocky coastline you stumble upon the remains of a petrified forest. This is also where some of the few remaining Yellow Eyed Penguins have their nests (5 nests in total) at the base of the low cliffs where they join the mud and siltstone. Porpoise Bay is a long, curving white sand beach, with enough swell to surf.

When we arrived at the camp ground an older gentleman decked out in full tourist garb (black knee socks with Birkenstock sandals, khaki shorts with a plaid short-sleeved button-down shirt tucked in, an enormous black camera dangling around his neck and an olive green Tilley hat in pristine condition shielding his face which still had smears of sunscreen on his nose and ears.) scuttled up to us and whispered “there are DOLPHINS down there!”. Iain looked at me and grinned and as soon as we’d paid up and found a camp site with an ocean view we donned our wetsuits and headed down to the Porpoise Bay beach. There was a small cargo van parked on a grassy slope just above the beach with surf boards for rent so Iain grabbed one for the day (we’d left ours in Wellington not expecting any surf in the South). Within 20 minutes of arriving at the camp site we were surfing with the Hectors dolphins, the rarest in the world. They are very small, no more than 5ft long and mottled grey in color with small, rounded fins. There was a whole pod with babies and they were right in the surf with the people. As long as we didn’t chase them they would come right up along side us. It was amazing!

After a few hours the water got too cold so we headed up for a shower and set out to explore the rest of the area. The headland is not much more than a grassy knoll about half the size of a football field surrounded by sandstone and mudstone cliffs. The campground is set on the narrow strip of land that separates the knoll from the mainland and the two sides couldn’t be more different. Our camp site was very private with 10 ft high flax bushes surrounding it on 3 sides. There was a 3m wide strip of grass between our site and the edge of the cliff which was about 3m high. The rocks stretched out from the cliffs in a flat shelf for about 30m then there was nothing but the fury of the Pacific. We spent many hours of our three days at Curio Bay watching the waves crash against the boulders that had tumbled down from the headland. The only way I could describe the scene was ‘biblical’.

Our first night finished with a walk out to the petrified forest (180 million years old) which survived wind and water erosion but has been almost completely destroyed by tourists who each want to take a piece of history home with them. We walked along the beach in the hopes of seeing some penguins and were rewarded for our stealth and perseverance. We came upon four of the comedic little birds waddling around in the rock pools after a hard day of fishing and feeding their young. We chatted with a volunteer who spends each night of the breeding season guarding the nests from over enthusiastic visitors, stoats, cats, and dogs. He was full of amusing anecdotes about the social life of the penguins and the various intrigues they get up to. Apparently their nest habits are more like soap operas than Disney cartoons! As the sun set and the sky turned purple and blue Iain and I walked home along the road watching the moon and the stars materialize one by one. We had found a truly magical place.

We did not want to leave Curio Bay but were awoken three mornings later at 7am by a frantic DOC officer who informed us there had been an earthquake in Chile and there was a Tsunami expected to hit our coast in less than an hour. We’d had a late night so neither of us were well rested but we grabbed our gear and within 15 minutes were heading down the coast highway to Invercargill, bleary eyed and confused. We found a radio station that confirmed there was a Tsunami expected (I was beginning to think it was a terribly bad joke being played on the tourists) and we listened to updates as we drove and arrived in Invercargill about the time the first waves were being noticed by the bouys (20 whole centimeters!!!). Coffee, internet and a hotel were our next priorities and we holed up for 3 nights to watch the end of the Olympics, do some work and prepare for Stewart Island.

Moeraki Boulders

On our way to Dunnedin we made a brief detour to the Moeraki Boulders, a scientific reserve on Koekohe beach. The boulders are septarian concretions that formed in the sea floor sediments 60 million years ago. They are now emerging out of the black mudstone that makes up the majority of the cliffs along the beach. Each spherical boulder was released from the mudstone through coastal errosion and now they litter the beach like gigantic marbles. The Maori legend says the boulders are the remains of calabashes, kumra and eel baskets from the legendary canoe Araiteuru which was wrecked on Shag Point (Matakaea).

The Moeraki reserve is quite popular with travellers and New Zealanders and when we arrived at mid-morning the beach was thronged with people. We spent an hour poking around the boulders but had to leave when bus-loads of photohappy tourists showed up.

Botanical Gardens

After our hike we headed south and wound up in Oamaru, a small town with beautiful old buildings and gorgeous botanical gardens. Iain spent a few hours taking beautiful photos while I wandered and enjoyed the inherent peace of the slow moving river and the quiet old trees surrounded by hundred year old gardens.

Mount Somers conclusion

Our last day of hiking on Mount Somers started early as the other groups in the hut wanted to be on the trail by 8. Four teenagers do not move quietly at 7 am but it worked well for us, they were a very effective alarm clock!

It was another beautiful day, we could not see the sunrise but we watched the light on the mountains change from deep pink to light peach and finally a clear deep blue, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. We made it onto the track around 10am, a little slower than we had hoped but we had spent an extra hour talking politics with a Kiwi hiker who was enjoying a lazy morning on the veranda.

The track was mostly uphill for the first 5 hours. It was much easier to head up hill on day three, the views just got better and better. Most of the day was spent just below the alpine walking into and out of creek beds, skirting scree slopes and staring down sheer cliff edges with nothing but a few intrepid cacti between us and the bottom. However, in the heat of the afternoon the last big push up hill seemed to last forever - we marched upwards through dry pine forests filled with small birds and strange fungus for about an hour. New Zealanders do not believe in switchbacks. I think the birds were mocking me as they flitted from branch to branch just ahead of my slogging pace. Eventually I made it to the top and flopped down next to Iain, sure I would never make it up another hill again. Of course, after crackers and peanut butter and a LOT of water we were both ready to tackle the last part of the hike and I felt very silly for my drama!

The afternoon saw us finally heading downhill. I have no idea what elevation we had gained in the previous two days of hiking but the last few hours were spent creeping down a goat track that followed one narrow ridge all the way to the valley floor. We had finished off our water with lunch and had hoped to find more as we crossed creeks later in the day. Unfortunately, the trail kept us on the highest point of the ridge, and while we could hear the water crashing in the valley below us we didn't find any until we reached the car park at 5:30pm.

We were stunned when we stumbled into the car park, one minute we were hiking through the pines and ferns and the next we could see the backside of our wonderful van. We damn near ran the last few meters scrabbling around in the packs for our keys so we could chug some much deserved water. We caught our breath and congratulated each other on making good time then headed towards the river we crossed on our first day for a very, very cold bird bath. It felt amazing to scrub off the salty sweat and dust but the sand flies had us running back to the van soon enough. After a few minutes of reorganizing, we hit the road.

We decided we'd done very well considering the lack of physical activity we'd had in the previous 4 or 5 months and so we deserved a hotel room and a big dinner. We found a funky old bar hotel in a small town on the way to Dunnedin and an even funkier Irish cafe/pub. The lamb, steak and heaps of potatoes were heaven, and we enjoyed watching part of the Olympics while sipping cold beer/cider. It was a wonderful way to end our first hiking trip in New Zealand.