Tramping in Fiordland

Imagine a land of snow-capped mountains, steep-sided fiords, deep lakes, and unbroken forests. This wild and remote region, consisting of 27,000 km2 of unbridled space, is known as Fiordland, and lies in the southwestern portion of the south island in New Zealand. Together with Mt Aoraki NP, Mt Aspiring NP, and Westland NP, they form Te Wāhipounamu (Maori for place of greenstone). In 1990 Unesco recognized the extraordinary beauty of this area and listed it as a world heritage site, which is thought to contain the original flora and fauna present in Gondwanaland (precursor super continent).


The indigenous people of New Zealand, known as Maori (meaning natural), are a Polynesian people thought to have originally migrated to New Zealand in the 1300's and developed a distinctive culture and language. Following the theft of their lands by European settlers in the 1800's, today the Maori (like virtually all indigenous people) have been subjugated to the lower class of society with all vices associated. For example, they represent 14% of total population, yet 50% of prison population.



Last year, we explored on the north island, the Whanganui River NP, the old Maori trading route which flows from the northern slopes of Mt. Tongariro. This expedition would retrace many of the "greenstone" trails, the Maori carved through the forest in order to collect this revered gemstone. The southern island was not heavily populated by the Maori, yet used it for seasonal hunting grounds and greenstone collection. Pounamu (a greenstone) is a form of nephrite jade, generally found in rivers as nondescript boulders and stones which are difficult to identify without cutting them open. These gems were highly prized by the Maori and they undertook perilous expeditions to collect these mainly for tools, ornaments, and weapons.


The story begins with the author and his Swedish colleague traveling along the southern alps, across tranquil pasture lands, scenic lakes, under the shadow of Mt Aoraki. It was to be a 10 day road trip, consisting of a figure 8 through the National Parks of the South Island. Our first stop was the highest mountain in New Zealand, Mt Aoraki (or Mt Cook), standing at 12,31ft. This eminent prominence is draped by 4 photogenic glaciers, which deposit glacial till in the lakes, creating emerald green heaven. I prefer the Maori name for many reasons, mainly because it means cloud piercer (which it does) versus the European name, which is named after the infamous Captain James Cook who never laid eyes on the Mountain. Geography is rife with the names of old white men, who never laid eyes on the things they were named after.



Following three flights (including 1 red-eye), 4 hours waiting for my traveling companion at the Christchurch airport, and 5 hours en route to Mt Aoraki- setting up camp and calling it a day seemed to be in order. My friend stated "you ready to hike to the glacier", thinking to myself are you completely mad, i replied "no thanks I'm going to set-up camp while it still light". Off he went, as i arranged camp next to a multitude of others, and made my way into the dreaming. The next morning before dawn, i awakened to a rapping on the side of the tent, "you ready to get the jump on the others." No, i thought, but a breakfast of bacon, eggs and coffee would be nice. Off we went in the cloak of darkness into the bucolic hooker valley. Traveling along a serene river we climbed into the glacier carved valley toward the foot of the glacier.



After a last minute change of plans we decided to go separate ways, and I would spend the next week in the mountains of Fiordland. So at the crest of the continental divide, I made my departure from organized society. The Routeburn Track traverses 32km of Fiordland NP over the Harris Saddle into Mt Aspiring NP. It is one of the fabled Great Walks of New Zealand, consisting of red/mountain beech, dense ferns, high alpine ridges, and clear flowing rivers and waterfalls. Having enough supplies for a party of three, including a bottle of pinot noir, jars of peanut butter and jam, a loaf of bread, and numerous other unnecessary equipment, I set off up the track, alone into the wild. The word tramping in New Zealand roughly corresponds with North American hiking, European trekking, or Australian bush walking. All are synonymous with carrying a backpack weighing around 35 pounds with tent, cold/rain gear, sleeping pad/bag, food, etc. Tramping is very popular in New Zealand, with lonely planet writing a guidebook on this sole activity, and a permit system in place to ensure protection of the local ecosystem. Typically, a maximum of 40 trampers can commence from the trail head and sleep in either a basic hut or campground. Huts consists of cooking burners, freshwater, mattress, and toilet, while the campground consists of whatever you bring.


While ascending into the alpine of the Routeburn track, i struggled under the weight of an immense pack, in addition to the comments of fellow hikers. Usually, they carried about a 1/4 of the load this yak had, commenting "that's a heavy pack there, "are you a Sherpa", "what do you have in there a library?" Although portrayed in a jovially manner, my first extended trek in over 1 year and feeling like atlas with the weight of the world on my shoulders, the emotional barbs were sharp. I took it in stride as New Zealand humor is a bit more dry than its American counterpart. After a few hours along the Jurassic park fern line, I came to Earland Falls (178m), which burst over the tall cliffs above creating a virtual mist.



I started to hit my stride after a quick PBJ sandwich, recalling the enjoyment of the mountains. There is truly nothing like an extended foray into the wild, leaving your fictional worries at the gates, while more immediate concerns surface. Such as, what am I going to eat, do I have enough water, or is this wine really necessary. Higher and higher the track climbed until it reached above the tree line and the magnificent alpine scenery came to life. I guess pain and pleasure do have a certain covalent bond, as the things in life you remember and truly hold dear are things you've struggled to obtain. Many weeks can pass in civilized life where you simply cannot recall many significant details, yet carry 40 pounds over a 4,000 foot mountain pass and you can remember the pungent smell of dew on a fern leaf (not to mention your body odor). The captivating landscape of the deeply carved fiord was spell-binding, with each step you were reminded of how truly small your existence really was. Ancient tress of 2,000-3,000 years old smiled as you the babe in the woods trudge past.


The first night lead to glacier fed Lake Mackenzie, where the campsite was located. After assembling the tent and arrangement of foodstuffs, I went for an evening stroll beside the lake. Around a bend in the lake I met an Australian couple in their late-seventies, who had been avid hikers for over 40 years. We discussed the different aspects of tramping in New Zealand, Australia, and South America with the warmth of old friends. It never ceases to amaze me the kindness you encounter when people slow down, you take away their possessions, and simply place them together in natural surroundings. People become very friendly, sharing, and reminiscent of life in general- loosely much closer to how human beings were designed to function. We got to discussing our gear, and they berated me for carrying so many things, telling me I needed to get "up to date" or "modernize" my equipment. Having senior citizens encouraging me to "get with it" provided instant humor to my evening. How had a man in his 30's living on a small island in the south pacific fell so far behind the times? They graciously agreed to share my bottle of wine that evening, so with another German couple we sat by the lakeside drinking a bottle of red wine as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. A small group of people from different age cohorts, various parts of the world, meeting on common ground of understanding in the wilds of Fiordland.


That night I was awakened to a neighboring tent listening to lord of the rings (part 1 fellowship of the rings) on their iPod. Although this seemed a bit tactless, before I fell back to sleep I recalled that just over the mountain pass was the fictitious town of Isengard. The next morning, as I packed my bag for the saddle crossing, I watched a park warden berate a German couple for not holding a camping ticket, thus having to pay double for laying on the earth. The sky looked overcast, which was not uncommon in the fiords, where the local weather consisted of either showers or rain (never saw a sunny day forecast). As the clouds mounted their strength for a storm, I passed the Australian couple on a switchback. The wife could hardly contain herself "calling me a crazy Samoan" for the size of my pack. As I walked through a fairy tale setting, winds ripped across my face and the rain began to fall. By the time I reached the Harris Saddle, my rainproof jacket didn't feel so rainproof and I had violated a strict law of the mountains- never wear cotton. After a quick refueling stop at the saddle hut, I picked up the pace down the beech lined path toward Routeburn flat falls. In the midst of the downpour, I opened my map, which stated to expect at least one day of rain during your hike, fair enough I thought, as a young Irishman rounded the corner. He was fixing to hike all 32km in one day, had only a fanny pack around his waist and stated his girlfriend was meeting him on the other side. I'm not sure which was more ridiculous, my pack which looked bound for Mt. Everest or his plan to complete the Routeburn in 1 day. I asked him if he had a headlamp and said thank goodness for girlfriends, we laughed and parted ways.


After covering 10km at an efficient pace, I arrived at the peaceful Routeburn falls, where I asked the warden if I could make it to the trail head in 2 hours, hoping to catch the last shuttle back to town for the day. She sized me up (briefly pausing at my pack) and stated that she could make it with a brisk pace and a small backpack. "Thanks, that's all I need to know!" I passed up on my 2nd night of camping due to the rain and made a dash for the end. Through the virgin mountain & red beech forest I spied a hilarious looking man in overtly small jogging shorts and a huge safari hat, which fairly screams of "tourist" down the mountain. We nodded to each other as I made my way over the last few suspension bridges and out of the of the forest. To my surprise there was a group of people cheering my last steps, congratulating me, and giving me high fives. I soon realized I had stumbled into a day hikers tour group, only to disappear from acknowledgment after they realized i wasn't with the tour. Further realizing that the last bus was not coming, I changed into some dry clothes and planned where to spend the night. When along came the marathon runner with the 10 gallon hat, I nearly cheered him in and gave him a high-5, but merely asked if he was headed back to town. Out of breath, he said yes, but after a 30 minute cool down. The runner turned out to be from southern california and agreed to give me a lift back to town. Along the way he shared his passion of orienteering, a sport where you run in the woods with a compass, and along the 2 hour drive I learned more than any man needed to know in a lifetime. We did have a nice conversation though, as we exited the last mountain pass back to the tourist center of queenstown (adventure capital of the world).


Having survived on strictly fruit/vegetables for 4 days, I gorged on bits of thai, turkish, and indian foods that day. I know its pathetic, but sometimes I hike faster with the thought of a dancing swarma (turkish kebab) in my head. After 1 local draft beer I awoke 10 hours later, nearly missing my bus to Te Anau (walking capital of the world) and the Kepler Track. After nearly recruiting 2 doctors to come to American Samoa during the bus ride, we arrived on the shore of lake Te Anau. Later that afternoon, i dropped 3/4 of my gear at a backpacker place for storage, rented a stove/pan/dehydrated food from Bev's camping, got a weather report from Dept. of Concervation Headquartes, and caught a shuttle to the trail head of the Kepler Track.


The Kepler Track is a 37-mile circular trail which passes from the lowland beech/podocarp forest to the alpine moss forest, to deep gorges with lake views. The track was named after Johannes Kepler, German astronomer famous for his laws of planetary motion. On a crisp blue afternoon i crossed a river and walked several miles through the dense/soggy forest to a campsite on the shores of Lake Manapouri. This was a spectacular area of Fiordland, with steep forested mountains plunging into the deep lake below. As I hiked into camp, I noticed a small hut and wandered in for a closer look. A friendly German guy was sitting inside and stated that there was plety of room for me to stay, which seemed be a perfect way to avoid a wet tent on the first night. As we closed mice holes in the floor boards with rocks, he stated that he was from the former East German Republic, (a place the allied military firebombed at the closure of WW2), known as Dresden. He related that he was traveling around New Zealand for 4 months, in an old beat-up van he purchased. its very popular to purchase used vehicles in New Zealand and resell them at the conclusion of their trip. New Zealand has no laws on importation of old cars and in fact no emission testing at all.


The sunset that evening left you with a feeling that the world is good and that you are exactly where you should be at that time. Dining on dehydrated curry chicken seemed extravagant after many days of PBJ sandwiches. We kept warm later that night by a fire, made by a New Foundland guy and his Quebecian girlfriend. They had the philosophy of bringing the kitchen sink, dining on steak, vegetable, wine and dessert. Everything was in place for a perfect evening, until the mosquitoes and sandflies invaded the hut (probably why everyone chose to set up tents). Corresponding with backcountry sharing he let me use his light, as mine had mysteriously disappeared. In the middle of the night I arranged an emergency tent setup, so the German guy (who I knew for 5 hours) and I snuggled in the tent happy to have survived the "mozzie" feast. For the record, this was my first experience sharing a tent with a strange man.



The next day we were met with skies so blue, no clouds seemed to have received an invitation. The Saxon and I climbed up the gradual slope discussing the bombing of Dresden, race relations in the U.S. south, and alternative forms of lifestyle. He was very typical German with strict orderliness, efficiency full tilt, and love of technological machines. He was an acoustic engineer, he loved camping from his mountain bike in his free time, cruising around NZ in order to improve his English.
Hiking though a pine forest we met a Brazilian, who had camped at the summit w/o a tent (to avoid the $15 dollar tariff) wearing 4 layers of clothing & nearly freezing to death, some people are just plain "bat-shit" crazy, I thought to myself. Amazing scenery was viewed up the iris burn valley to the next campsite next to a river. The Saxon & I parted ways as he was staying in the mountain hut.


As I prepared camp for the night and took some magic hour photos, a bedragled French men slumped into camp. He wore no shirt, and his pants hung a bit low around his waist. As he unloaded his Ramen noodles & white bread, he explained that his drawstring on his pants broke and his pants would fall down awkardly at times. Under his heavy French accent, he explained that he was from the Basque region in southwest France on the border with the Pyrennes. He had never been to Paris and that he recently finished his marketing degree, and planned to pick fruit for money as the season changed. I let the Frenchman use my cooker to heat his noodles, for a karmic repayment to backpacker code. That night after viewing 2 endangered blue ducks, I fell asleep to the sound of flowing water.


The next morning after a quick meal of white rice, the Frenchman & I ascended the Murchison Mountains. The warden had warned of winds of 100 km/hr which was going to be miserable, we thanked her for her kind words of encouragement and continued the climb. After 3 hours we reached the first emergency hut, I refueled with a cranberry snack, which provided nutrients for 1/3 of the day. The views of the fiords were astounding, although the winds did whip us around a bit. Luckily we received no rain and the sun beamed down on us as we wandered into the Mt Luxmore camp. We discussed many interesting things along the way, Basque independence movement, ethnic groups in France/Spain, & politics in Samoa.


The last section of the 10 hr downhill hike dragged on, but soon we were rewarded with panoramic views of broad bay campsite. There the Frenchman, Canadians & I enjoyed a well-deserved fully-clothed rest on the beach. Since the French guy was the only one crazy enough to go into the frigid waters, he was induced to procure everyone fresh water. The last night I passed out by 8 o'clock, feeling deeply satisfied. The last day of tramping brought me back to Te Anau, where I cleaned up, had some lamb Vindaloo, and sampled local brews. The next day I took a 12 hr bus ride back to Christchurch and civilization. I knew I was back when a red-headed Englishman next to me played loud metal music with no consideration for his surroundings. Ah the trappings of the modern world.