On the advice of a chap that I met on the Milford and Routeburn track I decided to change my accommodations at Te Anau to a cheaper hostel that was actually closer to town. As I paid cash for the other room, I gave a lame excuse and they were fine with giving me a refund. Thanks to this move, I am now sitting in the lounge area wide awake due to the smell of vomit that currently permeates my former room. I was unable to get in to the one he suggested and ended up in a shared room at a backpacker place near the lake. There were only three of us in the room and I was actually drifting off when the incident occurred. I believe alcohol may have had something to do with the inability to contain his stomachs former contents. Waiting to find out about another room.
Over the last few months sleep has been a rare luxury that usually occurs when I am in a tent or lucky enough to get a single room in some seedy motel. As most trampers will attest, if the huts are inhabited, their will be many different nocturnal sounds that will make sleep an impossibility. This particular situation however, is a first. "Ah to be young and stupid".
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tramping the Routeurn
I just finished walking in possibly one of the most stunning places on the planet. The Routeburn track is a true mountain tramp that travels over thirty two kilometers through both the Mount Aspiring and Fiordland national parks. The Track traverses wild and scenic mountain country between the Hollyford and Dart Valleys at the base of New Zealand's Southern Alps.
I have been fortunate over these last several months as I have had mostly great weather on many of the hikes. For these three days The weather was absolutely incredible. Bright blue skies, beautiful cool evenings and mornings and stunning light as you will see in what are probably the best photographs that I have taken so far.
There is a considerable amount of climbing in a consistently upward trajectory, but one would expect this when you are hiking in an alpine region. The first day involves a walk through the beech forests until you begin a gradual and at times, steep ascent up to the falls hut. The views along the way are breath taking and at one point you come to an area where there was a Massive land slide in 1994.
The second day was the kind of hike that you dream about. Much like some of my days of isolation on the Togariro Northern Crossing or out on the Heaphy track, I Had that same feeling of elation and euphoria. I was feeling physically strong and getting closer to the completion of an often daunting goal. To complete all nine of New Zealand's Great Walks. With the completion of the Routeburn I only had The Keppler and Raikura tracks and the Whanganui River journey left and I will have accomplished what I at times, thought was going to be impossible.
The second day encompasses the walk up to the Harris Saddle. After leaving the falls hut, you begin a steep climb up towards the Harris Saddle. Once the hut is out of sight you come in to an area that is a pristine mountain path surrounded by mountains on either side. The sun was still low in the sky and you were now walking level with some of the clouds that still hung un-moving, below the mountain peaks. Some of the mountains appeared grayish brown in color while others were the color of black granite. Looking back towards the valley, the sun was now brighter and the distant mountains were just grey Silhouettes. After several hours you reach a shelter at the base of Conical hill. Conical hill climbs an additional one thousand five hundred and fifteen meters up and many people pass it by and go on to the next hut at Lake Mackenzie. It was an extremely steep climb and quite challenging with a camera bag strapped over the shoulder but it was completely worth the effort. From the summit, you have endless views of the Darren Mountain range and can see as far as the Tasman Sea. It was a crystal clear blue sky and the white snow capped peaks were stark and bright against the black granite rock. AWESOME.
Along the way, I met some more really great people. The Australian fella that I had met on the Milford track that I talk about in my ode to the American tourist, and a very nice and friendly Australian couple who were semi-retired in their early sixties and vey fit and enjoying life. The husband is my hero as any guy that plunges into a freezing mountain lake in a speedo is OK in my book.
ROUTEBURN PHOTOS AT BOTTOM OF PAGE
I have been fortunate over these last several months as I have had mostly great weather on many of the hikes. For these three days The weather was absolutely incredible. Bright blue skies, beautiful cool evenings and mornings and stunning light as you will see in what are probably the best photographs that I have taken so far.
There is a considerable amount of climbing in a consistently upward trajectory, but one would expect this when you are hiking in an alpine region. The first day involves a walk through the beech forests until you begin a gradual and at times, steep ascent up to the falls hut. The views along the way are breath taking and at one point you come to an area where there was a Massive land slide in 1994.
The second day was the kind of hike that you dream about. Much like some of my days of isolation on the Togariro Northern Crossing or out on the Heaphy track, I Had that same feeling of elation and euphoria. I was feeling physically strong and getting closer to the completion of an often daunting goal. To complete all nine of New Zealand's Great Walks. With the completion of the Routeburn I only had The Keppler and Raikura tracks and the Whanganui River journey left and I will have accomplished what I at times, thought was going to be impossible.
The second day encompasses the walk up to the Harris Saddle. After leaving the falls hut, you begin a steep climb up towards the Harris Saddle. Once the hut is out of sight you come in to an area that is a pristine mountain path surrounded by mountains on either side. The sun was still low in the sky and you were now walking level with some of the clouds that still hung un-moving, below the mountain peaks. Some of the mountains appeared grayish brown in color while others were the color of black granite. Looking back towards the valley, the sun was now brighter and the distant mountains were just grey Silhouettes. After several hours you reach a shelter at the base of Conical hill. Conical hill climbs an additional one thousand five hundred and fifteen meters up and many people pass it by and go on to the next hut at Lake Mackenzie. It was an extremely steep climb and quite challenging with a camera bag strapped over the shoulder but it was completely worth the effort. From the summit, you have endless views of the Darren Mountain range and can see as far as the Tasman Sea. It was a crystal clear blue sky and the white snow capped peaks were stark and bright against the black granite rock. AWESOME.
Along the way, I met some more really great people. The Australian fella that I had met on the Milford track that I talk about in my ode to the American tourist, and a very nice and friendly Australian couple who were semi-retired in their early sixties and vey fit and enjoying life. The husband is my hero as any guy that plunges into a freezing mountain lake in a speedo is OK in my book.
ROUTEBURN PHOTOS AT BOTTOM OF PAGE
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Ode to the American Tourist (not to be confused with tramper)
OK, let me just get this over with and say I love my country and many of the wonderful people who live there. Having gotten that out of the way, why is it that so many wealthy Americans have never learned to keep a low profile when traveling abroad? On my recent foray in to the wilderness I had the misfortune of running in to a group of eight mid-fifty to early sixties friends who decided that a back country tramp through the world famous Milford track would be a fun little adventure.
Unlike most of the tracks, Milford is the most known and attracts the most people. Although it is so vast, you don't see anyone when you are out walking, you do eventually meet up again at the end of the nights at the DOC huts.
My introduction to this group of very loud vacationers first occurred when I was walking out of the bunk room and a young Australian that I had chatted with the day before said "bloody hell, you don't want to go in there." As I approached the communal area I could hear them from over thirty yards away. A series of shrill shreaks, followed by uproarious laughter. "No not here," I thought to myself. As I entered the room there were eight very loud people playing a card game dressed in the latest North Face tramping fashions adorned with much jewelry and wearing the latest designer hiking boots. I looked across the room and noted a separate table with various other trampers quietly eating their ramen noodles with varied looks of disdain on their faces. It was at this point that I wondered if I could do a convincing Canadian accent.
The group was comprised of four couples, with one couple ranging no more than four feet seven to possibly just under five feet. Of course, being in New Zealand, I couldn't help thinking of the hobbit analogy.
If their is one cardinal rule that I have learned on this journey it is this. Don't embark on a major hike over mountain terrain unless you are physically prepared to deal with the pain and discomfort that accompanies such a journey. Over the next several days I would have to listen to loud exclamations of how the DOC literature should do a better job of explaining how hard this is. Also, that no one mentioned how bad the sand flies were.
The worst moments came during the night. If it wasn't for all of the other tough, fearless adventurers sharing the bunk room with me, I probably would have cried myself to sleep. The female member of the small in stature couple, tended to snore as if she was six feet tall. That combined with a variety of other nocturnal and undesirable sounds emanating from her body made the act of sleeping quite impossible. One of the more traumatic moments came the next morning when I opened my eyes to find her in nothing but a bra and underwear bending over at the foot of my bunk, foraging through her pack. I looked away fast, but the image was already burned into my psyche. As I was gearing up and getting ready to head out the door, one of the other ladies with this group approached me and said, in a loud voice. "You are faster than us, so when you get to the other hut can you save eight of the bottom bunks for us?" I looked around the room and could feel the international glare from among the other trampers waiting to see how this American would respond. "No I can't do that...that wouldn't be right." I said, as I walked out the door. you see that very question emphasizes the difference between the American traveler and the American tourist. Could you imagine me getting to the next bunk house and then, as various representatives of other nations arrive, me standing there saying "sorry guys, these are reserved for the Americans." The fact that the question was even asked says a lot.
The following evening it was beginning to get darker and everyone had made it to the hut except for two of the Americans. One of their group had struggled in and exclaimed that the two short in stature hikers, were having a difficult time and that the husbands knee was hurting him and that his wife was having trouble carrying her bag. I, the Australian fella and the DOC warden headed up the trail to find them. After about a twenty minute hike I could hear heavy panting and could see the tops of two heads approaching through the moss covered forest. "I heard they were currently filming the new Hobbit film," I thought, once again, to myself.
Once we had helped them in with their packs and retired to the hut, I could hear a rather heated discussion coming from the common area. One of the American couples were having an emotional discourse about the fact that this was not as relaxing as they thought it would be. I curled up into a fetal position in my sleeping bad and quietly began to practice my newly acquired Lithuanian accent.
Unlike most of the tracks, Milford is the most known and attracts the most people. Although it is so vast, you don't see anyone when you are out walking, you do eventually meet up again at the end of the nights at the DOC huts.
My introduction to this group of very loud vacationers first occurred when I was walking out of the bunk room and a young Australian that I had chatted with the day before said "bloody hell, you don't want to go in there." As I approached the communal area I could hear them from over thirty yards away. A series of shrill shreaks, followed by uproarious laughter. "No not here," I thought to myself. As I entered the room there were eight very loud people playing a card game dressed in the latest North Face tramping fashions adorned with much jewelry and wearing the latest designer hiking boots. I looked across the room and noted a separate table with various other trampers quietly eating their ramen noodles with varied looks of disdain on their faces. It was at this point that I wondered if I could do a convincing Canadian accent.
The group was comprised of four couples, with one couple ranging no more than four feet seven to possibly just under five feet. Of course, being in New Zealand, I couldn't help thinking of the hobbit analogy.
If their is one cardinal rule that I have learned on this journey it is this. Don't embark on a major hike over mountain terrain unless you are physically prepared to deal with the pain and discomfort that accompanies such a journey. Over the next several days I would have to listen to loud exclamations of how the DOC literature should do a better job of explaining how hard this is. Also, that no one mentioned how bad the sand flies were.
The worst moments came during the night. If it wasn't for all of the other tough, fearless adventurers sharing the bunk room with me, I probably would have cried myself to sleep. The female member of the small in stature couple, tended to snore as if she was six feet tall. That combined with a variety of other nocturnal and undesirable sounds emanating from her body made the act of sleeping quite impossible. One of the more traumatic moments came the next morning when I opened my eyes to find her in nothing but a bra and underwear bending over at the foot of my bunk, foraging through her pack. I looked away fast, but the image was already burned into my psyche. As I was gearing up and getting ready to head out the door, one of the other ladies with this group approached me and said, in a loud voice. "You are faster than us, so when you get to the other hut can you save eight of the bottom bunks for us?" I looked around the room and could feel the international glare from among the other trampers waiting to see how this American would respond. "No I can't do that...that wouldn't be right." I said, as I walked out the door. you see that very question emphasizes the difference between the American traveler and the American tourist. Could you imagine me getting to the next bunk house and then, as various representatives of other nations arrive, me standing there saying "sorry guys, these are reserved for the Americans." The fact that the question was even asked says a lot.
The following evening it was beginning to get darker and everyone had made it to the hut except for two of the Americans. One of their group had struggled in and exclaimed that the two short in stature hikers, were having a difficult time and that the husbands knee was hurting him and that his wife was having trouble carrying her bag. I, the Australian fella and the DOC warden headed up the trail to find them. After about a twenty minute hike I could hear heavy panting and could see the tops of two heads approaching through the moss covered forest. "I heard they were currently filming the new Hobbit film," I thought, once again, to myself.
Once we had helped them in with their packs and retired to the hut, I could hear a rather heated discussion coming from the common area. One of the American couples were having an emotional discourse about the fact that this was not as relaxing as they thought it would be. I curled up into a fetal position in my sleeping bad and quietly began to practice my newly acquired Lithuanian accent.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Realizing A Dream
Whenever I dreamt of walking in New Zealand it was always on the Milford Track. I would always imagine what it was like to be completely on my own, walking
through Mackinnon pass on a clear and beautiful summer day. Well now I know, except for the clear and beautiful summer day part.
Although there were Many trampers at the hut that first night, I set off at around 7:30am, while most were still making their oatmeal or catching some much needed rest from the previous days hike.
The hike is a four day walk from Glade Wharf on Lake Te Anau to Milford Sound on the South west coast of the South island. Milford sound was formed by an ancient glacier that created a deep, narrow valley that later filled when the sea level rose. The track follows the upstream flow of the Clinton river, and then continues up and over the almost 4000 foot Mackinnon pass, followed by a perilous and slippery descent and then finally passing through the valley of the Arthur river.
The walk involves staying at three Department of Conservation huts all with spectacular placement that allow for incredible vistas of the surrounding mountains. Some soaring to almost seven thousand feet, covered with fresh snow melting into hundreds of waterfalls that cascade continually down the face of the granite mountains. The walk takes almost four days to complete and covers fifty three and a half kilometers, with one full day being a climb up to the top of the McKinnon pass and then all the way down till you reach the Dumpling hut.
The second day involves a walk through ancient beech forests with the constant sounds of varied bird life ringing in your ears. As you walk along the forest path, you are often given brief vistas of the tall mountains that contantly tower over you. At times the tree lines thin as they follow the crystal clear river below and one can step out in to a clearing to see massive granite peaks casting their reflections in the water.
The second day involved the realization of my dream. After leaving the hut early before anyone else, I was once again alone in the forest, and I was heading for the beginning of the famed Mackinnon pass. I cannot completely explain this to anyone who has not walked alone in such a wild and stunning place. For me it was a feeling of complete euphoria. A religious experience in the truest sense. I walked out of the forest and into the start of the pass. If their are such things as earthly cathedrals then I was in the most holy place that nature could create. I was encompassed on either side by massive granite snow capped peaks. the warmth of the sun was melting the snow and you could hear the constant distant roar of a hundred towering waterfalls cascading down the face of these giant black granite monoliths. The path meandered through a valley of tussock grasses and smaller forested areas with a multitude of rivers fueled by the waterfalls pouring down from the mountain peaks above.
I have stood before, in some awesome man made structures that pay homage to a higher power. Buildings such as the Vatican, Notre Dame and Canturbury Cathedral all have a certain iconic force, no matter what your religious or spiritual beliefs, but for me on this day, I was alone in the most pristine and awe inspiring cathedral of them all. I was surrounded by nature in it's most primal and beautiful state, untouched by man, powerful and overwhelming and capable of turning a fifty one year old man into a child filled with wonder and complete joy. whether I was trying to call over a rare blue duck, eating a protein bar next to a hidden lake or taking ridiculous pictures of myself with the self-timer button on the camera, I was in a state of complete and utter happiness.
After arriving at the Mintaro hut, I met up again with The two young men from the Czech Republic, the Australian paramedic, a young married couple from China and Tony the sixty year old diabetic from Sheffield England, who struggled along much of the track with severe cramps in his legs. Someone I would later sit with at the top of McKinnon pass as we both sought shelter from the storm at the top of the mountain.
The next day, was the toughest and most daunting part of this particular tramp. We already new what to expect as the DOC hut warden had posted the weather on the board in the hut. We were told that the climb was going to be a difficult one due to rain, fog and cold temperatures at the top. Most (sensible) people decided to wait out the storm, as it was supposed to improve later that day. Yours truly, was not so bright. Tony set off first, about a half hour before me. I soon found him leaning against the rock face about five hundred feet up. His diabetes was affecting his leg muscles and once again he was struggling with cramping. I asked him if he wanted me to stay and climb with him, but he insisted he would be fine. After several hours of going straight up the mountain, my supposed wet weather gear was soaked through. My gloves were wet, my hands were freezing and I was walking along these switchback sections at the top of the pass with misty, cloudy views of the mountains to either side and the valley now thousands of feet below. When I finally reached the peak it was hard to see anything and it was extremely cold. At first I was a little concerned as I was shivering fairly constantly and was having trouble finding the continuation of the path. I finally located a sign that said "hut 20 minutes.". After a half hour or more I had that similar feeling of dread I have had before on some of the walks. Did I go the wrong way...should I try to go back? At this point I was freezing, soaking and needing shelter fast. There was no greater feeling in the world than finally seeing the shelter in the distance. I went inside, stripped off my wet things, changed in to long underwear and put on a new fleece top. There was no heat but momentary shelter from the rain and freezing wind was a complete luxury. After sitting there alone and wondering about Tony, in he walked. "Bloody hell that was murder," exclaimed Tony. I could only agree.
After waiting for about a half an hour, it seemed that the weather was not going to get any better. On with the wet rain gear and down the other side of the mountain I went. the descent was in some ways more challenging. Murder on the knees and very slippery. There were often awe inspiring views as the clouds and mist would some times part and you would see the valley floor below.
Finally arriving at Dumpling hut was a joyous feeling. I fired up the gas cooker and Tony and I both enjoyed a hot coffee. Hours later various other trampers began to straggle in to camp. Most added the comment that they had waited for the weather to clear, and that it had been quite nice comming over the ridge. Tony and I just glared at them and said nothing. after all where was the adventure in that.
The next day was beautiful once again. Eleven and a half miles to the boat at sand fly pointe, a short cruise through the spectacular Milford sound and then back to Te Anua for a two day recovery. Then off to do it all over again.
PHOTOS AT BOTTOM OF BLOG
through Mackinnon pass on a clear and beautiful summer day. Well now I know, except for the clear and beautiful summer day part.
Although there were Many trampers at the hut that first night, I set off at around 7:30am, while most were still making their oatmeal or catching some much needed rest from the previous days hike.
The hike is a four day walk from Glade Wharf on Lake Te Anau to Milford Sound on the South west coast of the South island. Milford sound was formed by an ancient glacier that created a deep, narrow valley that later filled when the sea level rose. The track follows the upstream flow of the Clinton river, and then continues up and over the almost 4000 foot Mackinnon pass, followed by a perilous and slippery descent and then finally passing through the valley of the Arthur river.
The walk involves staying at three Department of Conservation huts all with spectacular placement that allow for incredible vistas of the surrounding mountains. Some soaring to almost seven thousand feet, covered with fresh snow melting into hundreds of waterfalls that cascade continually down the face of the granite mountains. The walk takes almost four days to complete and covers fifty three and a half kilometers, with one full day being a climb up to the top of the McKinnon pass and then all the way down till you reach the Dumpling hut.
The second day involves a walk through ancient beech forests with the constant sounds of varied bird life ringing in your ears. As you walk along the forest path, you are often given brief vistas of the tall mountains that contantly tower over you. At times the tree lines thin as they follow the crystal clear river below and one can step out in to a clearing to see massive granite peaks casting their reflections in the water.
The second day involved the realization of my dream. After leaving the hut early before anyone else, I was once again alone in the forest, and I was heading for the beginning of the famed Mackinnon pass. I cannot completely explain this to anyone who has not walked alone in such a wild and stunning place. For me it was a feeling of complete euphoria. A religious experience in the truest sense. I walked out of the forest and into the start of the pass. If their are such things as earthly cathedrals then I was in the most holy place that nature could create. I was encompassed on either side by massive granite snow capped peaks. the warmth of the sun was melting the snow and you could hear the constant distant roar of a hundred towering waterfalls cascading down the face of these giant black granite monoliths. The path meandered through a valley of tussock grasses and smaller forested areas with a multitude of rivers fueled by the waterfalls pouring down from the mountain peaks above.
I have stood before, in some awesome man made structures that pay homage to a higher power. Buildings such as the Vatican, Notre Dame and Canturbury Cathedral all have a certain iconic force, no matter what your religious or spiritual beliefs, but for me on this day, I was alone in the most pristine and awe inspiring cathedral of them all. I was surrounded by nature in it's most primal and beautiful state, untouched by man, powerful and overwhelming and capable of turning a fifty one year old man into a child filled with wonder and complete joy. whether I was trying to call over a rare blue duck, eating a protein bar next to a hidden lake or taking ridiculous pictures of myself with the self-timer button on the camera, I was in a state of complete and utter happiness.
After arriving at the Mintaro hut, I met up again with The two young men from the Czech Republic, the Australian paramedic, a young married couple from China and Tony the sixty year old diabetic from Sheffield England, who struggled along much of the track with severe cramps in his legs. Someone I would later sit with at the top of McKinnon pass as we both sought shelter from the storm at the top of the mountain.
The next day, was the toughest and most daunting part of this particular tramp. We already new what to expect as the DOC hut warden had posted the weather on the board in the hut. We were told that the climb was going to be a difficult one due to rain, fog and cold temperatures at the top. Most (sensible) people decided to wait out the storm, as it was supposed to improve later that day. Yours truly, was not so bright. Tony set off first, about a half hour before me. I soon found him leaning against the rock face about five hundred feet up. His diabetes was affecting his leg muscles and once again he was struggling with cramping. I asked him if he wanted me to stay and climb with him, but he insisted he would be fine. After several hours of going straight up the mountain, my supposed wet weather gear was soaked through. My gloves were wet, my hands were freezing and I was walking along these switchback sections at the top of the pass with misty, cloudy views of the mountains to either side and the valley now thousands of feet below. When I finally reached the peak it was hard to see anything and it was extremely cold. At first I was a little concerned as I was shivering fairly constantly and was having trouble finding the continuation of the path. I finally located a sign that said "hut 20 minutes.". After a half hour or more I had that similar feeling of dread I have had before on some of the walks. Did I go the wrong way...should I try to go back? At this point I was freezing, soaking and needing shelter fast. There was no greater feeling in the world than finally seeing the shelter in the distance. I went inside, stripped off my wet things, changed in to long underwear and put on a new fleece top. There was no heat but momentary shelter from the rain and freezing wind was a complete luxury. After sitting there alone and wondering about Tony, in he walked. "Bloody hell that was murder," exclaimed Tony. I could only agree.
After waiting for about a half an hour, it seemed that the weather was not going to get any better. On with the wet rain gear and down the other side of the mountain I went. the descent was in some ways more challenging. Murder on the knees and very slippery. There were often awe inspiring views as the clouds and mist would some times part and you would see the valley floor below.
Finally arriving at Dumpling hut was a joyous feeling. I fired up the gas cooker and Tony and I both enjoyed a hot coffee. Hours later various other trampers began to straggle in to camp. Most added the comment that they had waited for the weather to clear, and that it had been quite nice comming over the ridge. Tony and I just glared at them and said nothing. after all where was the adventure in that.
The next day was beautiful once again. Eleven and a half miles to the boat at sand fly pointe, a short cruise through the spectacular Milford sound and then back to Te Anua for a two day recovery. Then off to do it all over again.
PHOTOS AT BOTTOM OF BLOG
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Made it to Te Anau
Bus transportation in New Zealand is interesting. Whether you want to or not you will be stopping at least once for a snack and a visit to a road side cafe. In order for the drivers to get a break they pull in for regular scheduled stops in little towns with names like Bull, Harihari, Waimangaroa and yes, even Charleston. This is a good thing, as it simply means that my driver, who is operating a very large bus, is relaxed and refreshed as he drives along a winding dirt road spiraling eternally around a very steep mountain.
After departing Dunedin at 1:55pm, I arrived in Te Anau at around 6:30pm. I understand that this may be becoming somewhat cliche at this point but once you get past Invercargill, the surrounding country side is stunning. Before that it is just plain beautiful. Rolling green mountains on either side, frame a variety of farm lands inhabited by sheep, cows and oddly enough deer. (That's right folks deer farms....a very strange sight to behold). The mountains are gentle and sloping at first, as if formed out of liquid magma. they take on these undulating rounded forms that seem to intentionally frame the lower grasslands and funnel the eye forward towards the approaching Alpine landscape.
The closer you get to Te Anau, the larger the looming mountains begin to appear. On this day it is grey and cloudy with moments of heavy rain. The massive Alpine mountains seem all the more imposing as the peaks are once again, shrouded in clouds and mist. As if this wasn't enough to stir the emotions, thunder is roaring in the distance. Once again I disembark the bus, look up at the peaks and think to myself. Here we go again.
This will be my base for the next two and a half weeks as I attempt to complete three of the nine great walks. Arguably the most famous walk "The Milford Track," followed by the "Routeburn," and finally the "Keppler track." I have no illusions about how challenging this is going to be as some bad weather is inevitable and these are all difficult walks indeed.
If I can successfully get through these, I will be a very happy fellow as I will have completed seven of the nine walks. After that I plan to find my way to Stewart Island and then all the way back up to the North Island and Ohakune so I can Kayak the Whanganui.
After departing Dunedin at 1:55pm, I arrived in Te Anau at around 6:30pm. I understand that this may be becoming somewhat cliche at this point but once you get past Invercargill, the surrounding country side is stunning. Before that it is just plain beautiful. Rolling green mountains on either side, frame a variety of farm lands inhabited by sheep, cows and oddly enough deer. (That's right folks deer farms....a very strange sight to behold). The mountains are gentle and sloping at first, as if formed out of liquid magma. they take on these undulating rounded forms that seem to intentionally frame the lower grasslands and funnel the eye forward towards the approaching Alpine landscape.
The closer you get to Te Anau, the larger the looming mountains begin to appear. On this day it is grey and cloudy with moments of heavy rain. The massive Alpine mountains seem all the more imposing as the peaks are once again, shrouded in clouds and mist. As if this wasn't enough to stir the emotions, thunder is roaring in the distance. Once again I disembark the bus, look up at the peaks and think to myself. Here we go again.
This will be my base for the next two and a half weeks as I attempt to complete three of the nine great walks. Arguably the most famous walk "The Milford Track," followed by the "Routeburn," and finally the "Keppler track." I have no illusions about how challenging this is going to be as some bad weather is inevitable and these are all difficult walks indeed.
If I can successfully get through these, I will be a very happy fellow as I will have completed seven of the nine walks. After that I plan to find my way to Stewart Island and then all the way back up to the North Island and Ohakune so I can Kayak the Whanganui.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Nelson to Christchurch to Dunedin
This constant travel thing can be quite frustrating. Up early in Nelson and then five plus hours on a bus to Christchurch. Spent over an hour walking around the city looking for a cheap place. Finally....yet another hostel. Sharing toilets, showers and another dirty room. Up early again and another five hours further South down the East coast to the Otago peninsula. Once again saw many seals sunning themselves on the rocks as we drove along the coastline. Wish I had more time to stay in the area as there are many seal, sea-lion and penguin colonies. Who knows maybe on the way back from Stewart Island. This walking mission can be frustrating as I am always on the move. Another cheap room and five dollars for an hour of Internet.
I do have to say the drive in to Dunedin was once again, beautiful. It reminded me of the Scottish Highlands around Ben Nevis. Green rolling mountains and then a drive down into the Valley by the sea. Another night...hanging out with myself, watching the world go by. Oh well at least I get to get up early and head off on a bus in the morning.
I do have to say the drive in to Dunedin was once again, beautiful. It reminded me of the Scottish Highlands around Ben Nevis. Green rolling mountains and then a drive down into the Valley by the sea. Another night...hanging out with myself, watching the world go by. Oh well at least I get to get up early and head off on a bus in the morning.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Call of the Weka and other Adventures on the Heaphy Track
Before I start. I would like to give a shout out to two beautiful, and intelligent young German doctors who laughed a lot along the way, to a young male English doctor who practices medicine in Wellington and who fully understands how fortunate he is to live in a place such as this, a young adventurous fellow from Singapore who I met several weeks ago, who hikes in those rubber toe shoes that look like gloves for feet and who laughs at everything, an Irish woman who has spent years comming to this wonderful place and who occasionally talks to birds, a very cool young German student traveling alone and Rambo, the strange but likeable French speaking fellow from Switzerland who showed up at night during a storm, dressed in army wear, cleaning his massive hunting knife by the light of his head lamp.
The Heaphy Track, located in Kahurangi National Park, sits at the North-West corner of the South Island. The entire track covers almost 80 kilometers of varied landscape from forest walks filled with Nikau palm trees, to vast tussock downs filled with copper colored grasses, laced with massive boulders that seem to have been artfully placed along the endless landscape. At times you follow the track through expansive valleys, towards distant fog covered mountains, through green forest trails with enormous trees that dwarf anything that I have ever seen. Towards the end of the track, you continue along moss covered pathways that eventually bring you down to the copper waters of the Heaphy river and out to the pounding sea with waves crashing against a coastline dotted with monolithic stone formations and the bleached skeletal remains of thousands of trees that have washed up on the beach. During this long and beautiful walk, you transverse many rivers and streams, that were swollen, and at times raging, due to the day and a half of rain that happened over the four days spent on this spectacular journey.
Having given the reader a brief understanding of the topography and beauty of the Heaphy track I will now get down to why this may have been one of my favorite walks so far. Their were two main factors that made this track one of the most interesting walks to date. The weather and the other crazy adventurers I met along the way.
As with all of the great walks, you always check the weather reports before you venture way out in to wilderness. I, along with the other trampers did just that. We all heard the same thing, sunny with possibly one day of some light rain. Seemed safe enough we all thought. When I arrived at the Perry Saddle hut 17.5 Km from the start of the track a hut warden informed us that there had been a slight change in the forecast. He then went on to inform us that an unexpected storm system was heading over Kahurangi park and that they were expecting gale force winds and rain for the next day and a half. At that point the few of us that had ventured in to the park were already to far in and already committed to completing this journey. I had just walked 17.5 Km's up to the Perry Saddle hut and it seemed possible that I could get another 7 Km's done before the storm got really bad. So off I went, with the two German doctors close behind and the Irish woman somewhere behind them, as I headed through the open landscape to the Gouland downs hut.
By the time we all got there the wind was becomming quite fierce and the rain even harder. As I settled in, set up my sleeping bag and prepared to weather the storm, I heard a shrill, shreaking sound as if a bird had been run over by a mack truck. I looked at one of the German girls and finally realized that the Irish lady was outside of the hut and apparently engaged in some bird calling ritual as she tried to summon a Weka (A native bird that looks like a cross between a black bird and a hen). Once inside I enjoyed the familiar taste of noodles, tomato paste and chemically treated water as our Irish companion sang along to the song stylings of Jon Bon Jovi. Could the night become any more interesting? Why yes it could. As darkness enveloped the cabin and the weather intensified, the door opened and a very large French speaking man entered the room dressed in some type of camouflage outfit. I watched silently from my wooden bunk as he sat in the light of his head lamp cleaning a large hunting knife, before he clambered towards me took off his boots and climbed in to the bunk above me. Pleasant dreams Greg....pleasant dreams. He would later be called "Rambo," by the various park wardens as he was apparently moving through the park in rapid speed without paying any of the DOC hut fees.
The next morning it was still raining, and I set off for the James Mackay hut approximately 18 Km's away. The guide book for the park states "when the mist lowers, the featureless downs can be confusing and it is easy to become disoriented." I kept this in mind the whole way, as I navigated my way over some streams that were now roaring rivers due to the amount of rain we had received. After finally reaching the hut many hours later, a young doctor from London entered the hut. He had walked over 40 Km's in one day through this storm system and was obviously quite exhausted and sore from his journey. Also at this hut, the young fellow from Singapore, the young German student, the English doctor and myself. The two German doctors were also here but decided to camp outside as the weather was finally starting to ease. This turned out to be a great group of people and I would hike anywhere with any one of them. Anyone who hikes in toe shoes or who brings along a bag of wine and a fishing pole is cool in my book.
The rest of the journey was varied, beautiful and rugged, as we finally crossed the Heaphy river and made it once again to the coast. It is an amazing thing to be walking in a thick moss covered jungle and to hear the pounding surf through the trees. The coast line was strewn with massive rock formations, boulders and sun bleached drift wood and the ever present and relentless sand flies.
On one of the last moments of the track, I sat with my friend from Singapore, another avid photographer who would laugh at me as he turned a corner to find me covered in sand flies taking another photo. We both noted how the photographs can never fully convey the beauty of what your eyes were really seeing. It was sometimes frustrating to think that there is no photographic image that could truly define what the eye really sees and how the other senses soak in the beauty of such a primal and surreal landscape.
Once we made it to the end of the track we took a shuttle to Karamea and the young doctor from Wellington gave the two German girls and myself a ride to Westport. Last I heard the Irish lady had moved on and had spent the night in one of the open shelters. I hope the flies sleep at night. Rambo was never seen again.
The Heaphy Track, located in Kahurangi National Park, sits at the North-West corner of the South Island. The entire track covers almost 80 kilometers of varied landscape from forest walks filled with Nikau palm trees, to vast tussock downs filled with copper colored grasses, laced with massive boulders that seem to have been artfully placed along the endless landscape. At times you follow the track through expansive valleys, towards distant fog covered mountains, through green forest trails with enormous trees that dwarf anything that I have ever seen. Towards the end of the track, you continue along moss covered pathways that eventually bring you down to the copper waters of the Heaphy river and out to the pounding sea with waves crashing against a coastline dotted with monolithic stone formations and the bleached skeletal remains of thousands of trees that have washed up on the beach. During this long and beautiful walk, you transverse many rivers and streams, that were swollen, and at times raging, due to the day and a half of rain that happened over the four days spent on this spectacular journey.
Having given the reader a brief understanding of the topography and beauty of the Heaphy track I will now get down to why this may have been one of my favorite walks so far. Their were two main factors that made this track one of the most interesting walks to date. The weather and the other crazy adventurers I met along the way.
As with all of the great walks, you always check the weather reports before you venture way out in to wilderness. I, along with the other trampers did just that. We all heard the same thing, sunny with possibly one day of some light rain. Seemed safe enough we all thought. When I arrived at the Perry Saddle hut 17.5 Km from the start of the track a hut warden informed us that there had been a slight change in the forecast. He then went on to inform us that an unexpected storm system was heading over Kahurangi park and that they were expecting gale force winds and rain for the next day and a half. At that point the few of us that had ventured in to the park were already to far in and already committed to completing this journey. I had just walked 17.5 Km's up to the Perry Saddle hut and it seemed possible that I could get another 7 Km's done before the storm got really bad. So off I went, with the two German doctors close behind and the Irish woman somewhere behind them, as I headed through the open landscape to the Gouland downs hut.
By the time we all got there the wind was becomming quite fierce and the rain even harder. As I settled in, set up my sleeping bag and prepared to weather the storm, I heard a shrill, shreaking sound as if a bird had been run over by a mack truck. I looked at one of the German girls and finally realized that the Irish lady was outside of the hut and apparently engaged in some bird calling ritual as she tried to summon a Weka (A native bird that looks like a cross between a black bird and a hen). Once inside I enjoyed the familiar taste of noodles, tomato paste and chemically treated water as our Irish companion sang along to the song stylings of Jon Bon Jovi. Could the night become any more interesting? Why yes it could. As darkness enveloped the cabin and the weather intensified, the door opened and a very large French speaking man entered the room dressed in some type of camouflage outfit. I watched silently from my wooden bunk as he sat in the light of his head lamp cleaning a large hunting knife, before he clambered towards me took off his boots and climbed in to the bunk above me. Pleasant dreams Greg....pleasant dreams. He would later be called "Rambo," by the various park wardens as he was apparently moving through the park in rapid speed without paying any of the DOC hut fees.
The next morning it was still raining, and I set off for the James Mackay hut approximately 18 Km's away. The guide book for the park states "when the mist lowers, the featureless downs can be confusing and it is easy to become disoriented." I kept this in mind the whole way, as I navigated my way over some streams that were now roaring rivers due to the amount of rain we had received. After finally reaching the hut many hours later, a young doctor from London entered the hut. He had walked over 40 Km's in one day through this storm system and was obviously quite exhausted and sore from his journey. Also at this hut, the young fellow from Singapore, the young German student, the English doctor and myself. The two German doctors were also here but decided to camp outside as the weather was finally starting to ease. This turned out to be a great group of people and I would hike anywhere with any one of them. Anyone who hikes in toe shoes or who brings along a bag of wine and a fishing pole is cool in my book.
The rest of the journey was varied, beautiful and rugged, as we finally crossed the Heaphy river and made it once again to the coast. It is an amazing thing to be walking in a thick moss covered jungle and to hear the pounding surf through the trees. The coast line was strewn with massive rock formations, boulders and sun bleached drift wood and the ever present and relentless sand flies.
On one of the last moments of the track, I sat with my friend from Singapore, another avid photographer who would laugh at me as he turned a corner to find me covered in sand flies taking another photo. We both noted how the photographs can never fully convey the beauty of what your eyes were really seeing. It was sometimes frustrating to think that there is no photographic image that could truly define what the eye really sees and how the other senses soak in the beauty of such a primal and surreal landscape.
Once we made it to the end of the track we took a shuttle to Karamea and the young doctor from Wellington gave the two German girls and myself a ride to Westport. Last I heard the Irish lady had moved on and had spent the night in one of the open shelters. I hope the flies sleep at night. Rambo was never seen again.
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