New Zealand: Milford Track

I apologize for the delay in this post. I had some serious jetlag issues after returning, then fell ill, and when I got back to Madison I found our Internet on the fritz.

Our route, Milford Track

Day 1: Te Anau, boat to Glade Wharf, hike to Mintaro Hut

This hike very nearly didn't happen for us because, as the above sign indicates, winter tramping (New Zealand's preferred term for intense hiking) over mountains is not always advisable in the snow, in unpredictable weather, and when there are 56 avalanche zones involved. The Milford Track has all of these, which is why when the New Zealand Department of Conservation told us we should bring ice picks, crampons, compasses, and have alpine navigation skills we nearly nixed the hike. The tone of voice of those unpleasant DOC employees seemed to guarantee that we would be lost in snow and fog for weeks or, at the very least, go on sliding down a mountainside on a wave of falling ice.

At the same time, the much more optimistic man who worked for the company transporting us to the track from Te Anau was very reassuring and would say, "Oh you be awright, you be awright," which for some reason was all the more comforting when laid on with a thick New Zealand accent. And he told us the weather had been pleasant and sunny lately. When I told this to the DOC employee she shook her head and said, "It hasn't."

I don't mind telling you that it was during discussions of safety, a temperamental wintertime Mother Nature with little regard for naive American hikers, and possible alternate hikes that the deepest rifts among our traveling troupe had tensions at a high. But it was worth a few tiffs in the end. We decided to go, and rented both personal locator beacons and a mountain radio to ensure safety, and there was going to be two other trampers joining us. We could always turn around and call to be picked back up where we started from, but none of us were about to wait until spring to come back to New Zealand and try again. And we were already in Te Anau, the disembarkation point for Milford. Te Anau, by the way, being the lousiest municipality in the country for sure; spread out but small, lifeless, characterless, and boring. It was a lot like West Bend. Heather preferred the term "shit-tastic", I generally proclaimed it a "miserable wretch of a town," and Tyler likened it to various forms of poop on the face of the country.

There's a good and brief story about getting that mountain radio, which obviously never left the backpacks after we got it and learned how to use it. On the morning of our hike, with less than 45 minutes before we were supposed to leave, we had our hostel's front desk worker making all sorts of phone calls trying to figure out just where Stew lived. Stew, evidently, being the only person in that town who rented out mountain radios. We finally found out where his warehouse was (earning him the nickname of Storehouse Stew), and of course it was on the far side of town. Walking as quickly as we could with 25-30 pound packs on our backs, we tried to obtain our radio as hastily as we could, but Stew needed to go through half a dozen and test their batteries, getting zapped by a few in the process. We also needed hut passes from the DOC for the track, so Heather and I split off to do that. Stew drew us a map with a shortcut over some fences and through some people's yards, but in the process blacked out all of the street names on the map with the Sharpy he used to indicate our route. Thanks to this, we took a more scenic route than we had time for.

Eventually, and only 30 minutes behind schedule, we were back and picking up Tyler and Laura at Storehouse Stew's storehouse. Of course those other trampers never showed up, and the mountain radio seemed to me such an absurdly elaborate communication device that I seriously doubted that, in an emergency, somebody would have been able to climb a tree for its antenna, then form a triangle of its many wires, grounding this and attaching that, and then find a listener at either 8:30am, 12:30pm, or 7:30pm, which was when mountaineers apparently chatter about the weather.

Additionally, we decided crampons were unnecessary, that one ice pick would suffice — this mostly being a toy for Tyler, who was certain that carrying an ice pick somehow made him cooler, or a more epic hiker — and that we'd go right on and skip the first hut of the track, completing the hike in three days rather than the recommended four, all with limited daylight hours due to the winter season. About all of this I kept my parents on a need-to-know-basis, which is to say that they didn't need to know until I'd safely returned.

View from Lake Te Anau on our boat ride to the start of the track.

Through a misty morning we boated across Lake Te Anau to the wharf where Milford Track starts. We were leaving civilization behind. When I say that Milford Track goes through a lot of unspoiled wilderness, I mean that sincerely. Part of the very immense Fiordland National Park, Milford Track extends 33.5 miles through temperate rainforest that, save for the track and its bridges and the huts you sleep at, is untouched. This isn't like the "untouched" wilderness of US national parks, which usually have highways cut right through them and visitor information centers plopped at the ends of expansive parking lots. This is serious wilderness.

And on that note, I feel like a series of photos puts the track into a better scope than I could:

Not yet knowing the joys of weary legs and sore knees that come about from carrying heavy packs over mountains, we were very excited that first day. Ten minutes into the spectacular scenery Heather was exclaiming, "So far I'm so glad we did this!"

One of the wonderful things about tracks like this is that you meet some interesting folk. We saw nary a soul that first day, until about 5 hours into our walk we came upon a middle-aged woman taking photographs. We weren't entirely sure what to say to her, as it was very odd to suddenly see anyone at all in the middle of nowhere, but we sidled up next to her and took our own photos of the same waterfall, choosing to avoid awkward introductions by just not saying anything and trying to make our presence known with noise. But here's the thing, she didn't know we were there. We were less than 8 feet from her taking photos, and she sauntered on without so much as glancing at us. We didn't know what to make of that.

Less than an hour later we rounded a bend and saw her up ahead on the trail again, only this time she was squatting in a ditch with her pants at her ankles. Heather turned around and gave me a look of such shock and confusion that you'd think she'd just witnessed the spontaneous combustion of a cute puppy, were it not for the smile that was creeping across her face. The woman was pooping on the side of the trail. Tyler, who was in front, saw fit to just keep on trucking forward. She held up her pants as we walked quietly past, avoiding the awkward obviousness of the situation. The unholy stench was so great that I almost had to stop and ask if she was feeling ill and whether she was quite fit to even do this hike.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone else was on the trail," she said.

About 45 minutes later we passed a lovely and helpful man named Ron who apparently was this woman's personal guide. We never learned her actual name, but for some reason we all settled on Penelope, I think just because it's an ugly name for an ugly woman that none of us liked. She was an irritating old bat from Connecticut who was prone to saying stupid crap like, "Holy shit, look at that waterfall!" and, to her guide, "Here, I forgot to give you this to carry," or, also to her guide, "Then can we have tea after lunch?"

But that night we made some special friends. After reaching the first hut we were to stay at after about six full hours of hiking we found a raucous crowd of about 13 already at the hut, all members of the Christchurch Over 40 Tramping Club. They were hiking the track backwards in the opposite direction of us, and had come over Mackinnon Pass earlier that day. One of them helped us with dinner (even letting us use his stove so we didn't have to burn our own fuel), one gave us salami, one came over and carefully inspected our cooking gear and took a great fondness of Laura's collapsable dish-washing thingamajig. And after pleasantries about Wisconsin and their invaluable advice about hiking over the Mackinnon Pass the next day we all sat around a cast-iron fireplace telling stories. And boy did they have some stories to tell. One Irishman told us about the time he told his boss to fuck off and about his personal experiences with the Troubles in Ireland. Their president told us a tale about drunkenly painting moving railroad cars that was so preposterous it had to be true. And they told us about Minties Moments. They gave us each a New Zealand candy called Minties and told us about an old advertising slogan that goes, "It's moments like these, you need Minties," which was to be used in any number of unfavorable times, and were given to us in case we ran into any troubles on the pass the next day.

Enough fond words cannot be said of these men (and one woman). The eldest member with them was 72. One of them had had a hip replacement not 6 months prior to this hike. And here they were, laughing and wandering through the wilderness like teenagers. One can only hope to be so amiable and so lively at such an age. They were a very agreeable clan indeed. Even the elders in New Zealand are extreme.

Day 2: Mackinnon Pass, to Mintaro Hut

The next morning we awoke cold and a bit sore, but refreshed, and after speaking with the Christchurch Over 40 Tramping Club once more were very excited and confident about Mackinnon Pass. We went to filter some water from the rain collection barrel outside of the hut, whereupon one of the trampers said, "What are you doing? Are you filtering that water? This is New Zealand, this is the purest water on earth!" I dare say they were actually offended that we were filtering their water. It was the last time we did.

Meanwhile, hopping along the water tank and biting at our water bottles were a very curious type of bird, the Kea. I don't mean to say that they're odd birds, though they are, but I mean very literally that they're curious little critters. They're a beautiful breed of parrot — one of the only alpine parrots in the world, named for the type of cry they make — and are known to tear apart shiny things left unattended by foolish trampers. And evidently, in other parts of the country, they've actually developed chemical addictions to those little rubber linings along car doors, and have taken a fondness to tearing those apart as well. I suspect they would make lousy house pets, but they are among very few animals of any concern at all in New Zealand. As far as I've been able to tell by perusing the Internet, New Zealand has absolutely no poisonous animals or insects and virtually nothing wild to be afraid of. No bears, no coyotes, just the occasional deer and quite a lot of cattle and sheep in pastures.

About two grueling hours later and 400m higher in altitude we were tramping through ankle-deep snow and looking back at the valley floor, amazed at how quickly we'd gotten so high up. It was around this time that I did my best impression of Gimli from The Lord of the Rings and said, "Why go over the mountain? Let us pass through it! Let us take the Mines of Moria!"

Now the keas flying about were generally far below us. This proved very distracting for me as I'd developed an irrational fondness of the birds and was prone to watching them more closely than the unstable, snowy footholds on the mountainside I was climbing. And as we reached the summit the snow got deeper and more unpredictable, and our feet began falling through it about every fourth step on average. Sometimes only to our ankle, sometimes up to our knees and, a few times at the top, right on up to our thighs. But we were so incredibly proud of ourselves for ascending the famed Mackinnon Pass that this was all just a novelty to us, and we were laughing hysterically every time Heather would fall up to her knees and then forward onto her face from the weight of her pack. Besides, as true Wisconsinites, this wasn't really any worse than walking to class in February, you just had more to lose if you took a tumble in the wrong direction.

And speaking of tumbling, we shortly came upon a portion of the pass that presented itself as the most ill-conceived path imaginable, pictured below.

Of course, at this point, a large cloud came blowing over the pass, limiting our visibility. Unfortunately, before this happened I noticed that the tracks you see here went along that ledge there, and next to the ledge was a good 1,500ft of sheer cliff. It seemed a bad idea to go traipsing over there, because snow has a unique quality about it, which is to say that it falls. It slides. It forms little avalanches that make it less than ideal for relying on when walking a few steps from a very long drop. And I can honestly say that this portion of the hike was far more frightening than preparing to bungy jump. People rarely die when they go bungy jumping, but people fall off of mountains all the time, and there were no guarantees on the Milford Track. It was a Minties Moment, to be sure. So we made Ron, the guide, go first.

Panorama of the other side.

The loo with a view (actual title), looking over the valley we came from.

After all that we spent a good deal of time feeling a great sense of accomplishment, and were basically ready to take on anything that came our way. We'd made the pass, and we were ready to flaunt it in the face of every damned harbinger of bad news at the Department of Conservation. The ninnies!

And then, realizing we had a good six hours of hiking still ahead of us, we headed downwards. I cannot stress this enough. After hiking upwards 400m, we went downwards 800m. Down, down, down through snow, rocky avalanche leftovers, and stairs fashioned of wood and stone for so long that my right knee was sore for nearly a full week afterwards. But what a day! We lost the trail on the side of the mountain twice in what must have been debris from a landslide or avalanche, we walked along a beautiful, brilliant blue river that had waterfalls every few feet, and always the mountains! I spent most of these days walking around with my neck craned, in awe of the immense mountains surrounding me, much like a Manhattan tourist shocked by an endless array of skyscrapers. Those mountains struck me as more beautiful than the Appalachians, the Rockies, even the Alps seemed slightly petty in comparison.

And then, lest we enjoy our accomplishments too much, it rained on us for the rest of the day and then into the night after we found ourselves overeager and venturing off on side trails to see the great Sutherland Falls. Walking through a jungle in the rain in the night is not pleasant.

Day 2 Photos

Day 3: to Sandfly Point, Milford Sound, a Reunion with the Christchurch Over 40 Tramping Club

We had a boat to catch at 2:30pm, so we wasted no time in the morning and at the crack of dawn began tramping with a brisker pace than I'd have preferred. It was a misty morning, which made the scenery resemble those Chinese and Japanese woodblock prints of mountains rising from the fog.

It felt like the longest day yet, and knowing that too many pictures, too slow a pace, or other slowing endeavors would leave us on the Track for the foreseeable future made it somewhat less enjoyable. Fortunately, the scenery was no less spectacular that day, and as we neared Milford Sound, a world-famous part of the fiordlands where Milford Track ends, the mountains got grander, the sky bluer, and the bodies of water larger and calmer.

Day 3 Photos

Then something wonderful happened. The path leveled out. The path became wider. The path became smoother and was apparently kept up in this area. And suddenly, a little yellow building came into view through the woods announcing our arrival at Sandfly Point. We'd done it. We'd finished the Milford Track. In winter.

It was a remarkably anticlimactic moment. We were greeted by one lone man with a dingy who clearly had never done the Track himself and failed to understand what an understatement and how downright idiotic it was to make remarks like, "Had a bit of a walk did you?" But that was no matter, for we had completed one of the Great Walks, earned lifetime bragging rights, and really just wanted a shower and sleep and to stop aching all over.

Then we were jettied across the sound and taken back to Te Anau.

Our first view from the boat.

Looking back in the direction we'd come from after being ashore again.

But our fun was not yet over! Wear and tired and wanting nothing more than a big ass hamburger from The Moose (our tavern of choice in Te Anau with the curious slogan of, "Where Legends Are Made."), who should we coincidentally find the very moment we got off our bus? Why, the Christchurch Over 40 Tramping Club, of course! We thanked them for their company, for their help, and for their tracks in the snow.

Later that evening, at The Moose, we saw the trampers again!

The Christchurch Over 40 Tramping Club with the Wisconsin Strictly 22 Tramping Club

Now having established a firm sense of camaraderie, we looked at each others' photos on our cameras, regaled them with the epic tales of our time on Mackinnon Pass and how we thought for sure we were going to go tumbling down the other side. Heather and Laura told them about our Minties Moment, at which they laughed gaily before making us — get this — honorary Kiwis.

"So, what did you think?" their president asked of me.

"It was incredible," said I. "It was awesome, but probably the most physically challenging thing I've done in my life."

"Really?" The 40-some-year-old's eyes widened, "This is what we call a nanny walk."

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