After the Kepler, we needed to decompress. We needed to sit in a car and let wheels take us to sites in a much more expedient manner. And so we drove along the road to the edge of the Milford sound. (We might have signed up for the Milford Sound Track – but it generally books out a year or so in advanced). I must note that up to this point I had done very little driving (except along the straightest, dullest of roads of Canterbury – thank you cautionary SK), but SK wanted to look out the window and so we switched. On these windy roads full of tourists in giant RVs who were all – like me – driving on the “wrong side” of the road I had my second driver debut. All too aware of my own discomfort and my distorted capacity for depth perception, I drove alongside others sharing similar disabilities.
We were driving along the footprints of long past giant snails – also known as glaciers. Occasionally these slow moving ice mollusca would crush the mountains previously separating them – creating earthen canals of rock and grass. Other times, the mountain’s ridges were spared the eye of a glacier’s intent and remained intact – only for humans to later bore holes for spying cars eager to see the fjords left in a glacier’s violent wake. My eyes were no less greedy and eagerly soaked up the magnificence of geological wreckage. From the road the grass daringly swept up the steep sides of the fjords as if to sooth the mountain’s still wary jagged edges.
SK and I only had a day of rest: our tight itinerary had us booked on the Routeburn Track the following night. And so we slept, and woke up, and lazed our way to the start of the track with the slowness privileged only to those rash enough to discover they could hike two days in one.
The Routeburn is an odd track because it is one way – and with New Zealand’s characteristic lack of roads – it takes a five hour car ride to return to whichever side you start on. Such motor vehicle relocation costs upwards of $200 per person: the Routeburn is a track for Classy individuals. They even have a luxury version where you have your gear helicoptered from one “hut” to the next – and by hut I mean a five star cabin. However, the track is also for those of us with tents who would rather spend the five hours doing the walk a second time and save the $200 for a skydive instead. We were, obviously, of the latter ilk.
The Odd Leaved Orchid. One day when I get a real person’s camera – this will be a national geographic quality photo.
However, the variety of the track and the general accessibility meant we met people from all walks of life – walking the same life for at least a day or two. We walked near an excited Irish botanist who pointed out the rare Odd Leaved Orchid (Aporostylis bifolia) [yes that is its actual English name]. We walked near an American with a Southern accent who was on the posh guided walk. We walked near some local Kiwis. But most importantly, we walked near ourselves.
Our steps were moisture laden and the muddy track gave our calves an extra workout as we tiptoed around them by the gift of protruding sticks and stones. Clouds haunted the skies, and while it did not rain, their presence alone drew out every vapour of water in the surrounding air. Fiordland (the area that encompasses both the Milford and Routeburn Tracks) has an average rainfall of 22 feet (7 metres) – so although things were coated in clouds, we were fortunate it was not raining. Furthermore, we were fortunate it had rained the night before: over doused lakes along the ridges staved an overflow with trickling waterfalls. The wind picked up and, with flirtatious fingers, teased the water from gravity’s loyalty and flung its spray laterally through the air to land on our faces.
By this time, SK and I glowed together – the ups and downs of drive and exhaustion brought us together, cementing our team spirit in the way only familiarity can. After our first day’s hike we curled around our books on the pebbled edge of a mountain lake. Although, I’ll admit, I did not read. My mind was distracted by the braille of a heart beat amidst the lines of rising and falling lungs on my day’s last page. Across the water’s surface I saw the saddle of tomorrow’s walk and considered the adventure of an off track shortcut. But how could I cut short any step of this breathtaking walk? No – I must take the long way round.
The next morning, our first steep stretch was duly rewarded with an awe inspiring panorama. The snow from a few days before still hung to the Milford’s rooftops – giving us the feeling we were explorers far beyond a few hours walk from civilization. We reached the Harris Saddle, dropped our packs, and took the detour up Conical Hill. The day, against statistical odds, was perfect and had shed its nebulous coat of the day before. From our vantage point we could see the dark turquoise lakes responsible for our walk’s aqueous accompaniment. We continued to follow the water’s gravitational flow to the other side of the saddle, where it dropped down a slope so steep it practically paralleled the trees. And, as many of our hikes seem to, it ended in Valhalla: a field of golden grass. As we set up our tent, we made the convenient acquaintance of a cloud reader (i.e. someone who worked for the Department of Conservation). He pointed wisely up at the wisps of clouds starting to thread through the dimming sky. “Cirrus, they’re moving quite quickly for cirrus. It will be pouring buckets tomorrow night.”
But I want to write quickly about what it was like to sleep in a valley so deep. It was like being sheltered. I never feel so safe as when I have tall mountains guarding me. The comforting quiet and the mysterious yet mostly soothing sounds of unseen sources. It’s places like these I purposely drink a lot of water and don’t take out my contacts before going to bed, so I am forced to wake up and have the 20/20 vision to drink in the unobscured sky. I had forgotten the impending rain, but I caught the last of the stars before larger clouds blocked my sight. I did not have time to mourn as the silky cry of a Ruru owl (En: Morepork Ninox Novaeseelandiae) sent enough chills in my overactive imagination to quickly return me to our tent.
The next morning, SK and I started back from whence we came. The clouds had indeed closed in, but the presence only filtered the light in such a way as to spotlight patches of the surrounding flora in a golden olive glow. We spoke to the cloud reader before we left and he said it would start raining sometime late afternoon. So our intent was to get to our campsite before then. But our speed was greeted with us meeting our destination at noon. So we decided to continue on to our car and as the clouds crushed closer, we slipped inside our car doors just in time to turn on our wipers for the first drops.
Driving along the Milford Sound.
SK’s feet resting on a pebbled lakeside at the end of our first day on the Routeburn.
Gorgeous view of the ridges across the other side of the snail canyon.
SK and me with our photogenic surroundings.
Me on Conical Hill’s highest point.
SK with our destination at his right shoulder (your left).
Crossing by the mountain top lake responsible for our waterfall companions.
The kissing rocks! Which, for some reason, I didn’t take a whole picture of. These massive boulders leaning against one another are part of the trail. And a reminder the surrounding cliffs used to be a lot less steady than they are currently. I assume.
The waterfalls next to Routeburn Falls Hut. We skipped this and went to the flats because there wasn’t a place to put our tent. But it was a lovely view from the track.
Starting the 16mi (25.5k) back to the car as the clouds work up their ominous magic.
Back to the Harris Saddle. You can see here the shelter available for the more inclement weather. How the day turns…
travelingrealblonde 
