Advertisement
Clouds moving over Mount Cook
New Zealands highest mountain (3,754m). Bob sneezed and all the snow fell off. Then we left.Country walks usually fall into one of three categories: walks to waterfalls, walks round or along bodies of water or walks up mountains. As walkers we look at the descriptions guidebooks give us and think “hmm, this walk goes to a waterfall - that could be impressive” or “this one goes round a lake - that sounds nice” or “great, this one goes up a mountain - could be cold and treacherous”. Rarely do you find a description of a walk that just “goes into some trees past some pine cones and a hole and some other stuff”. That would be dull. Where is the water and/or gradient in that walk? Us walkers need to see water falling from great heights or reflecting stuff or being as far away from sea level as possible before we can feel satisfied that we’ve had a decent walk.
But in New Zealand just going up mountains and/or seeing water doing the crazy things that water does isn’t enough to make a walk a “Great” walk. To qualify
EXCLUSIVE! Rare sighting of NZ's most ridiculously named Bird
The Department of Conservation warden told us that he'd seen this kind of owl only twice in 15 years... and yet I managed to convince it to join us for a photoshoot. It's called a Morepork because of it's call which apparently sounds like me in a Chinese Restaurant that has been skimpy on the Sweet & Sour content. MORE-PORK! MORE-PORK! for that status it has to fulfil special criteria that aren’t gradient or water related in the slightest.
Firstly it’s got to have disproportionately expensive accommodation along the way. Secondly there must be a proportion of the people attempting it who dress inappropriately and may die if it rains too hard or gets cold. Finally, there should be large numbers of signs warning walkers to look out for Kiwi, despite the fact that they haven’t been seen in the area since the last ice age.
There are 9 of these “Great” walks in New Zealand dotted all over the country - from the North to the South - though mainly in the South. Technically there are only 8 since one of them involves no walking and is in fact a boat journey, but they didn’t want the North Island to feel it was missing out on the lucrative tourist trade so they let it in anyway.
We had a go at three of these ‘Great’ walks; the 36km, 3 day, Rakiura track on Stewart Island, the 64km, 4 day, Kepler Track and the 48km, 5 day, Routeburn & Greenstone tracks. Prepare for lots of pictures of mountains…
The Rakiura Track We only had one Dramamine tablet (anti-travel sickness pill) left so we split it between us and prepared ourselves for a choppy crossing to Oban - Stewart Islands very own metropolis (population 400) - an hours boat ride off the southern tip of the South Island.
On arrival in Oban, Vik managed to adapt well to having her feet planted back on terra firma, I, on the other hand, was feeling distinctly queasy and staggered like a sleepy drunk as we made our way straight to the Department of Conservation (DOC) office to collect our camping permits for the Rakiura Track.
It was in the DOC office that we first heard about a group of people we’d not yet encountered in New Zealand: the hunters. As the DOC officer traced his finger over the Rakiura route he stopped at each of the huts (bunk houses for walkers to stay in overnight - like Scottish bothies but generally much nicer) and said stuff like - “I’d avoid staying here if you can; got a big party of hunters staying there - can get a bit rowdy”.
As it turned out we didn’t meet any
hunters on the Rakiura track, but my imagination had been lit. As we followed the largely boring and at times arduous board walked track, I pictured bumping into men in check shirts with funny furry hats, stubble you could light matches on, rucksacks filled with dead animals, beer, tobacco and a crumpled photograph of a wife who used to be their sister and, of course, an arsenal of weaponry slung over each shoulder. Actually, before we go on, and before I lose my train of thought - let’s just get the whole hunter and hunting issue out of the way because it forms quite a significant part of our rural New Zealand experience:
Killing by Numbers I didn’t have to wait too long after our adventures on the Rakiura track before I was properly introduced to an extreme Kiwi pastime that gets less coverage in the Lonely Planet than bungy jumping or sky-diving, but that occupies much more space on the magazine shelves - especially in New Zealands ‘deep’ south. In fact it was in the Post Office at Te Anau (a superb little place despite probably being NZ’s most touristed town) that I got my first glimpse
Introducing Mr Swanky Pants!
After much demand, we thought we'd include a pic of our wheels. This particular photo was taken during his "For Sale" photo shoot in front of NZ icon Mount Cook. of how ‘extreme’ hunting in New Zealand really is.
If your average fishing and hunting magazine is the men’s mag equivalent of Esquire or Gentleman’s Quarterly, then the publications ‘More Pork’ and ‘Bacon’ are surely the Loaded and FHM of the hunting world. “Bacon” for example, included a free “Babes and Boars” calendar for every reader. If you are picturing scantily clad women straddling pigs, running large bladed knives across their throats, then I probably don’t need to describe the content to you in any great detail.
‘More Pork’ continued the piggy slaughter theme and included a cute kid’s section in which readers sent in pictures of their children standing over a recently knifed or shot animal. My favourite was the proud report from Charlotte, aged 6, who expressed her joy at having just ‘stuck’ her first boar while her proud Dad looked on (in his check shirt and funny hat). Suddenly my days in the Cub Scouts tying knots and learning how to safely light a match seems a little tame. Do they have a Brownie badge for pig gutting?
When we did finally meet some hunters it was in a small hut on the Greenstone track.
Tasman Valley
For all you geology nerds out there; check out the mouraine running the length of the valley showing the path of the glacier. I love glaciers. I think I might have said that in a previous blog. But just so you know, I want to be a glacier in my next life. Slowly, slowly; crumbly, melty. Oddly enough, my initial imaginings weren’t far off the mark. All three of them had the mandatory hunters uniform - check shirts and funny hats (okay so two of them had furry hats while the other had dreadlocks - but I think dreads count as furry) - which I presume animals find difficult to spot in the New Zealand forests which are renown for their check patterned foliage. The stubble was of match lighting quality and they seemed to have brought little in the way of provisions other than a bottle of vodka, some tomato ketchup (no boar should be served without it) and a tube of “just add water” milky coffee. If they had photographs of their sisters/wives they weren’t forthcoming.
They were a little rowdy, but they were also considerate - they rose quietly when they got up at 4:30am and they didn’t hang any dead animals in the bunkroom which was a bonus. They also warned us to stay off the track until after 9am so that they didn’t shoot us ‘by accident’ and they were courteous enough to cut the heads off the deer they killed so we didn’t have to look poor dead Bambi
Too Many Cooks spoil the Blog?
Well that's tough! I love glaciers AND mountains and this whole blog is a homage to both. Lots of really dramatic yet oddly dull pictures of big rocks and frozen water. in the eye… just the flappy, stumpy, bloody, lumpy bit of neck, which in my experience doesn’t give the same opportunity for you to get as emotionally attached to the animal as the eyes do.
The episode got me wondering where I stand morally on the hunting issue. The fact is that deer and boar are pests in New Zealand - destroying the native flora and fauna. The bat is the only mammal that is actually native to New Zealand, which is why the DOC is trying to kill all mammals on some of the smaller more remote islands (rats can swim up to 3km so anything closer than that is extremely tricky) and are actively controlling populations of other mammals (with, unfortunately, the exception of a certain two legged variety) by poisoning, trapping and issuing hunting licenses to readers of magazines such as ‘More Pork’ and ‘Bacon’ who can just about spell their own names.
Personally, I see nothing wrong with hunting to control animal populations, however, when killing animals takes on the macho, lads mag kind of culture it has in some quarters of New Zealand and the important aspect of respect for the hunted creature
Phone Box, Stewart Island
Some of the facilities on the remote wilderness that is Stewart Island are a little antiquated. However, they still manage to provide phonebooks which is more than you would get in Edinburgh where the Yellow Pages is a bonafide source of kindling or insultation. has been lost, then control gives way to something much more sinister. Opinion expressed.
Tantrums One of the most important parts of any good walk and a sure sign of how the day is going to unfold is in the quality of the tantrums we subject each other to along the way.
Generally, the way the dynamics of our walking relationship works is that I will be incredibly enthusiastic and overly optimistic (read: telling porkies) to try and reassure Vik that the day will be easy and somehow take her mind off the true reality of the hours and hours of tramping that the day holds. On an average days six hour walk, Vik’s legs will go through four distinct stages:
Stage 1: Hate Everything Can we go a bit slower? Everybody’s fitter than me. Everything hurts. My pack is heavier than yesterday. I hate this path.
Stage 2: In The Zone Come on Robbie - keep up. We can catch those people if you move a bit faster. No pain. My bag feels really light at the moment. I like this path.
Stage 3: Leaving the Zone Behind I keep stumbling. I thought we passed them?
The start of the Rakiura Track
The big chain going into the sea is something to do with a Maori legend about a bloke mooring his canoe.... No wait a minute - I remember - NZ's South Island is the canoe and Stewart Island is the anchor; the chain is the link between them. Basically all you need to know is that most Maori legends involve canoes even if there are no actual canoes present. Anything can be a canoe as long as it's surrounded by, floating in or has contact with some water (the exception being heavenly constellations which are all, in one way or another, canoes). My toes are burning.
Stage 4: Tired We’re as good as there. Complete shut down. Carry me.
However, despite Vik’s grumbling, at least she’s consistent. The prize for best tantrum/breakdown has been awarded to the usually composed, though occasionally erratic, Bob; for completely losing it and swearing profusely at a butterfly.
In my defence, the butterfly had just spat at me. It just fluttered past my face and, for no apparent reason, gobbed on me. Clearly it knew I was on edge and thought it would stoke the fires of my anger by launching a completely unnecessary, tiny, goopy attack.
Having recovered from the initial shock and wiped butterfly saliva off my nose I flew into a frenzy of expletives which included insulting both the butterfly and, I’m ashamed to admit, it’s caterpillar origins. And despite some furious arm swinging, physical violence against the floating villain proved flawed as it moved like Cassius Clay between my enraged fists and disappeared over a bush.
Some Shit Luck But, as it turned out my luck with animals depositing their bodily gunk on me wasn’t about to change on the Rakiura Track. Fortunately for me, this time it was a
Maori Beach, Rakiura Track
We saw no-one. The place was ours for the night... well, us and 4 billion sandflies. noisy bright green bird that crapped luminous excrement in glorious splatters along my white t-shirt. I say fortunately, because, unlike butterfly spit (which is the insect equivalent of a drive-by shooting), it is a well known fact that bird poo landing on your personage is good luck (so long as it’s by accident and you’re not squeezing the bird or feeding it laxatives).
And lucky it would prove to be, because a few hours later when we arrived back in Oban desperate to stay somewhere that had showers and flushing toilets - basically anywhere other than our tent - as fate would have it, on the busiest weekend of the year (Easter), when they were turning accommodation hunters away with a hearty laugh and a boat ticket home, we arrived at the tourist office just as someone cancelled their double bedroom booking at the Stewart Island backpackers hostel. Not only was it the only room the tourist office had had available all day, but among the hordes of expensive B&B’s, lodges and hotels that could have received a cancellation, here was a place that was entirely within our budget. Praise to the poo! Joy to the jobby!
Hope Sunset at Maori Bay, Rakiura Track
For me, the most beautiful area of the tiny portion of Stewart Island that we saw. A little later that day, as we sat by the beach reflecting on our good fortune, we witnessed something quite profound and oddly spiritual.
A Mum and Dad and their two young boys (who looked like twins - down to the same daft rats tail haircut) were sat along the grass from us doing what holidaying families do… arguing about who hit who first; discussing why they weren’t allowed chips for dinner; guessing when the fat canoeist would capsize; that sort of thing.
Suddenly one of the boys got up and jumped onto the sandy beach. His parents watched with puzzlement as their boy picked up a large stick and began scoring lines in the sand. When a giant “H” appeared we all had the same thought - he’s writing “HELP” in the sand Robinson Crusoe style to alert planes to the fact that there’s a kid on the beach. (If you do get stranded on a beach never write “HELP” or “SOS” or people in planes will just assume there’s a resort down there somewhere. Don’t be a lazy sod and use the room a lonely beach affords you to write something like “SEND HELP, HAVE
BEEN STRANDED FOR SEVEN YEARS, NEED FOOD AND A BOOK OR TWO (BUT PLEASE NOT TONY BLAIRS AUTOBIOGRAPHY BECAUSE AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT I WAS IN A CARGO PLANE CARRYING SEVERAL THOUSAND COPIES OF IT WHEN I WAS ODDLY SHOT DOWN AND CRASHED INTO THIS ISLAND WHICH THE LOCAL TRIBE CALL LANZAROTE)”.
So naturally when the kid started scoring a “U” after the “H” Dad shouted down that he’d spelt it wrong.
“Oh yeah”, said the boy, looking at his work.
He then added a top section to the “U” and followed it up with a “P” and an “E”.
“HOPE?”, said Dad.
“Hmmm”, said the boy returning to play/fight with his brother.
“Why did you write that?”
“Dunno… I just hope it doesn’t get cloudy”, he replied without looking up.
Dad looked at Mum who was as quiet and clueless as the rest of us.
Who suddenly gets an urge to write “HOPE”? If he’d written something like “FECK” or “POO” or “FREE TIBET”, I might have understood. But HOPE? That’s odd. But what was odder was the day he chose to have this moment of apparently uncharacteristic profoundness. Easter Monday - the day hope was resurrected (if
Bored Walk, Rakiura Track
Nearly the entire middle section of the Rakiura Track is covered with wooden board walk. This makes for some very uninteresting walking and extra sore knees. They do this to protect the forest floor from evil trampers boots but... I like mud. Can we have a photo of a glacier now? you’re into all that biblical stuff. For me it was the day I hoped I still had some chocolate egg left).
The Kepler Track Our only hope for the Kepler Track was that it wouldn’t rain. Having spent most of the Rakiura track daintily picking our way through large areas of mud we felt somebody up there - whoever they be - owed us a bit of a break.
I’d chosen the Kepler Track as our next walk because I thought it would be as tough a test as we would face and if we could do this then the Routeburn would be a dawdle. Buuuut, I decided not to tell Vik this until we were actually underway. As it turned out the hardest part of the walk was on the first day about three hours in - perfectly timed for Vik’s “In the Zone” phase.
For three hours we wound our way uphill, zigging, zagging and zigging again - over and over - through stunning beech forests and under dramatic limestone bluffs, before we burst out into the daylight as the tree line gave way to wide open vista’s and alpine scrub.
Vik hit her
Captain Hero Macho Dude Man
Mm mm mm!! He is one fine woodland monkey man. “Tired” phase just as we walked out of the trees - with a 45 minute mainly uphill walk across an exposed mountain side still to come. But as we made progress and the hut came into view, we were both revitalized by some spectacular views down to Te Anau and down into the Southern Fjords.
Going Dutch In the Luxmore Hut, we were joined for dinner by a couple - a Dutch guy and a Belgian girl - who seemed incredibly loved up. They called each other “honey” and “darling” and gave most of the people in the room the impression that they’d been together for years. But no, it turned out they’d only met two days ago. Still very much in the early throws of their relationship, that night the entire bunkroom (20ish people) were treated to a symphony of heavy, gaspy breathing and the rustling of constantly shifting sleeping bags.
Thieving Bread Munching Belgians When we weren’t tutting at bonking Belgians we were dishing out evils to binocular pinching Belgians. My barely used binoculars had disappeared from my rucksack - they would turn up later at the bottom of my rucksack, but for the
Oban...
... is Gaelic for "place of fine chipshop". Certain area's are considered sacred ground by chipshop devotees such as ourselves. intervening period, when the binoculars were at their most missingist (and had clearly been pilfered), suspicion fell on the oddest occupant of the hut - a bread munching, bouffant bonced Belgian bloke.
He was the guy who asked one evening why we all carried so much food (remember this is a four day - three night walk) when all he needed was a slice of brown bread each night. As such his entire stock of provisions for the whole trip was three slices of brown bread.
He prided himself on (other than his magnificently quaffed hair) his minimalist packing that lightened his load and allowed him to rush through the walk - turning a 7 hour scenic walk into a 4 hour sprint. He announced all this to the kitchen one night, as he drooled over some poor chaps pasta before producing a case of cigarettes from his pack and disappearing outside to fill up on nicotine.
But he wasn’t a thief and when we did finally locate the binoculars at the end of the walk, we (okay Bob) felt bad that my suspicion and accusatory looks were focused on the wrong oddball.
J-A-C-Q-U-I Just like
Half-moon Bay
As I was taking this photograph a couple of girls walking on the other side of the bush next to me started making Cawing noises to somehow attract the local parrots. I don't quite know why I told you that - just wanted to help put you in the picture. being back at high school, Vik and I were very much outcasts from the cool group when we reached the last hut on the Kepler walk. We quickly befriended a quirky Kiwi fellow who seemed to be on the same wavelength as me and, true to the outcast nerdy image we had clearly been tagged with by the cool group, we quickly established the Kepler Route Chess Club - improvising beach drift wood as pieces.
So while I stroked my chin and tried desperately to remember which piece of wood was the rook and which was the bishop and as Vik settled in the darkest corner of the hut with a single copy of National Geographic and multiple Readers Digest magazines, the cool group hung out in the centre of the room and talked about the things cool people do: getting soooo drunk, jumping from great heights and spelling their own names.
Our favourite cool person was Canadian Jacqui. That’s Jacqui: J-A-C-Q-U-I. Like, sooo many people spell it wrong. It’s like how the Apache Indians used to spell it or something cool. Genuinely originalityistical. J-A-C-Q-U-I. Oh, and she’s got two degrees. So many people have like one degree
Luxmore Hut and the Southern Fjord
The strange salty taste of the two minute packet noodles we ate from the pan was, fortunately lost to us as we took in the stunning view from the Luxmore Huts kitchen area. and that’s just lame. Two degrees are much better than one degree by like at least 100% or something. Science has proved it like mathematically with formulas and trig-an-omatree or something.
But alas, poor Jacqui had been injured during the days walking - lucky for us she didn’t want to talk about it too much…
It was like totally a genetic disorder that like put her hips out of place when she walked too far which like resulted in like killller sore feet. Like these blisters and sore hips are genetic. Science has proved it. Men with white coats and two degrees have studied her. She has two degrees too - had she mentioned that already?
Infact, she’d been training with the Olympic squad when she’d discovered her genetically inherited hips and blisters. That’s right - she’s got like two degrees and was an Olympian but had to retire due to the sore hips and blisters. And to demonstrate how sore she was she lay on her back on the floor and started gyrating and moving her arse like she was Catherine Zeta Jones dodging lasers.
Well, to be fair to the lass, she wasn’t lacking in
the looks department and it didn’t take long for an unlikely looking ginger haired Aussie bloke to suddenly announce that he was a genuinely certified Physiotherapist. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that most of the blokes in the room became genuinely certified Physiotherapists when Jacqui (that’s J-A-C-Q-U-I incase you’d forgotten) took to the floor with her two degrees and skin tight leggings. But it was the Aussie guy that got there first and wouldn’t you know it - he had two degrees as well! He hadn’t trained for the Olympics but he’d seen it on TV and he’d always wanted to throw a Javelin… and so the conversation went as he gingerly handled Jacqui’s legs like they might contain liquid explosives.
His method was interesting and seemed to involve carefully bending Jacqui’s legs up into her face whilst reassuring her that he had two degrees. Then, with his hands pushing her hip bones into the floor boards he’d semi straddle her and, in a voice that sounded more and more like it was in the process of breaking under pressure, talk about things like instant noodles or dehydrated vegetables.
This weird horizontal yoga lap-dancing mixture
Mountain Man
If you are an Outdoor Clothing manufacturer that is interested in hiring this handsome chap for a modelling shoot, please contact him via the telephone number at the bottom of the door in the third cubicle in the ladies toilets in the Luxmore Hut. went on for most of the evening with the cool group crowded round the Aussie and Jacqui like they were Sandy and Danny (I promise that will be the only Grease reference I ever put in a blog) and us goofy toothed nerds peering disapprovingly over thick-rimmed glasses every so often. The evening just flew by.
”I WILL find you” After arriving at the Routeburn Falls hut at a rather earlier time than expected, I (Bob) decided to pop back down the track to do a 5hr side trip up into the Northern branch of the Routeburn Valley. It was great. The track became just a rough marked route and there wasn’t a soul to be seen - leaving just me, the mountains and some odd ducks that honked at me when I got too close.
Being on ones own, in the ample bosom of nature, with nothing but the clothes on your back and a small stock of provisions, should be a time of introspection; a time to reflect on life, love and all the other things that make us the fabric of your own universe. Which is why I was disappointed when - among the
On the Summit of Mt Luxmore (1447m)
It was raining, then it cleared, then it rained, then it did both at the same time. But despite all that it remained constantly teeth chatteringly freezing. glory of New Zealand’s finest scenery, walking through the tall grasses and beech woods that lined the majestic valleys - all my mind could find to ponder was the acting career of Daniel Day Lewis.
What was particularly irritating was that I couldn’t, no matter how I tried, get the theme music from Last of the Mohicans out of my head. There is a particular scene in that movie where DD Lewis, the hero of the piece - who I believe is a Mohican who doesn’t actually have a Mohican so I’m not quite sure if he qualifies as a The Last of the Mohicans as he never had one in the first place and is in fact more like the First of the Timotei’s (long dark hair; hangs around in waterfalls) and the love interest in the movie are trapped by the nasty soldiers in a cave beneath a waterfall (Timotei at the ready…).
As I recall, in a moving piece of Hollywood drama, accompanied by epic and gloriously dramatic music, DD Lewis pulls the girl to him and says something along the lines of ‘I WILL find you!’ He then kisses the slightly swooning, trembling at
Mt Luxmore Conquered!
She didn't want to go to the summit. Said there wouldn't be a view. So I dragged her up and lo and behold - it cleared (for a few moments). Views back down to Te Anau and in this photo, into the Southern Fjords. the knees lass, jumps through the cascading waterfall and makes his escape.
In my head, the whole movie involved a lot or running accompanied by that same dramatic score: Indians running through long grass, Indians running through forests and Indians running through waterfalls (because they’re worth it). With THAT music in my head and a promise to Vikki that I would return to her safe and sound, it is perhaps understandable that on that particular day in the Northern Branch of the Routeburn Valley - surely one of the worlds most peaceful and beautiful places - with nobody for miles around I became an Indian and I ran. And I ran and I ran.
DUUUH duh-duh duuuh, duh-duh duh DUHH, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-DUH.
Had anyone been there they would have witnessed a truly dramatic event: The Last of the UnWashed Greasy Heads running like the wind through a landscape that he almost seemed part of - as if he and the elements were in harmony as to create a grace of movement, power and emotion totally befitting the drama and grandeur of the accompanying music.
In reality, on that particular day, below the dramatic snow capped peaks,
Mountains and Clouds
From Mt Luxmore (Kepler Track). in a valley carved by the awesome might of glaciers, two honking ducks were witness to a slightly delusional, gangly Scotsman humming to himself as he stumbled and (for the most part) fell through the valley - tripping over tree roots, clumps of long grass and his own feet. But (as with all good stories) in the end, our hero got the girl, even if his feet were blistered and his boots full of itchy grass seeds by the time he got to her.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.182s; Tpl: 0.021s; cc: 11; qc: 32; dbt: 0.1159s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.3mb
deleted_68274
deleted_68274
Sweet as, bro!
Heyhey, Great blog. I was in Te Anau probably right after you (May 3rd) and noticed the same thing about the boars mags. Very strange. Amazing down there, hey? We hiked the Milford Track, which is like the Kepler or Routeburn but heaps better. :)