Friday, November 14, 2008
The start of the Milford Track feels as if you’re beginning an epic journey. Instead of driving to a trail head and unceremoniously beginning a 33.5 mile walk into the woods of New Zealand for four days, we loaded a bus, then embarked a boat which would deposit us at the far end of Lake Te Anau to begin the hike. As we careened through towering fjords on the glassy water, it felt as if we were sailing into another world, which we were. We made our way down the ramp, shouldering enormous packs stuffed with clothing to meet any weather challenge and four days worth of provisions. After breathing a deep sigh we looked at each other and set off, one foot in front of the other.
The first day was easy - a two mile jaunt to the Clinton Hut. The sun shone brightly and I thought, “This isn’t so bad!” By late afternoon all the hikers had made it to the Hut, and we had an opportunity to size each other up. Perhaps because it’s blindingly obvious, the brochures fail to mention that you’ll be spending the next four days with the same group of 40 hikers. The Milford Track is a one-way trail that must be completed in a certain amount of time: your success hinges on being able to hike enough distance each day to make it to the next hut. So while you are considered an Independent Walker, you unwittingly find yourself as part of a large group, progressing at the same rate.
I watched with fascination as a group of humans, from all walks of life, who are usually busy but suddenly have nothing to do, came together in the middle of nowhere. Puzzles were assembled. Books were read. Others stared blankly into space. A few conversations erupted, but when dinner rolled around, no one felt comfortable enough to sit too close at the communal tables. We quickly organized ourselves by language groups, just like the boroughs of New York. The German speakers sat together, ringed by the Dutch. The English speakers divided into Kiwis, Australians, Americans, and Europeans. Groups then subdivided by age.
My favorite character emerged from the background, a man I immediately dubbed Crocodile Dundee. He was an Australian who looked frighteningly similar to Steve Irwin, with sun-streaked, tousled locks topped off by the classic Akaba bush hat. He wore a full khaki uniform, as if he was about to embark on a safari; the top was unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest and chunky gold chain. His wife wore a matching outfit, her hat festooned with a leopard-print silk band that flowed down her back. It was Katharine Hepburn straight out of The African Queen. He flopped around the kitchen preparing dinner in Homer Simpson slippers, loudly cracking bad jokes at just about anything.
Before dinner Ranger Ross, who must have been at least nine feet tall, took us on a walk with his pipe cleaner legs and knobby knees. He provided us some information about the local flora and fauna, including a spindly tree whose leaves actually change shape as they mature. But what he was really fired up about were the stoats. These weasel-like creatures wreak havoc on local bird-life, necessitating the use of stoat traps along the Milford Track. Ranger Ross assured us of their value, elucidating staggering statistics about stoat carnage. (Disappointingly, stoat captures were down in the 2005-2006 season.) To really drive the point home, he passed around a stuffed stoat after dinner. Nothing brings a group of people together like taxidermy.
As night fell, people began streaming into the bunk houses, which were rustic but cozy. I suddenly began channeling vague recollections of being a 12-year-old at Camp River Ranch in Carnation, Washington. Although nobody announced it was bedtime, it was as if we had all entered into an unwritten agreement to hit the hay at the same time. A room full of adults shrugged into snug sleeping bags and read books or chatted quietly by flashlight, and as I drifted off to sleep I worried that I would oversleep and never make it to the next hut on time.
Those fears were put to rest the next morning, when I was wrenched out of a deep sleep by a loud rustling noise. It was early - barely 6 am - and someone was packing their bags. It was as if they were painstakingly unwrapping the world’s largest candy bar. Soon, everyone in the bunk began stirring. The woman next to me — who I had noticed was wearing a very hip felt fedora the day before, not your average outdoor gear - shot out of bed and tracked down the offender. “Why are you getting up so early?” she demanded. He explained that he was trying to be the first on the trail so that he could make it to the Mintaro Hut before anyone else. I hadn’t realized that we had signed up to be on The Amazing Race. Suddenly everyone was out of bed, their disgust at having been roused out of a deep sleep replaced by an undercurrent of competition coursing through the room. I was pretty sure that a fist fight would break out before this was all over.
Most of us were rather inexperienced walkers, few having ever completed a multi-day trek. But a group of hard core hikers soon emerged. They seemed to be completing some sort of rigorous endurance training, ensuring they were always the first ones up and out. I rarely saw them because I was nearly always the last on and the last off the trail, but I heard through the grapevine that they had completed another multi-day trek a day before starting the Milford Track. They kept to themselves and drank boxed wine, which I coveted.
The Germans seemed to be the heartiest group, undoubtedly cultivated through long walks in the Black Forest. They were deterred by nothing - lack of sleep, rugged terrain, the notorious New Zealand sandflies, none of it mattered. They also had a propensity for cooking gourmet meals. Rutabagas and golden onions were whipped into fancy cassoulets, as they spread deeply veined blue cheese onto crisp crackers. We couldn’t help but be gripped by jealousy as we sipped our Cup O’Noodles night after night (after night).
***
By the second day we had the sense that we were deep in nature. We hiked alongside Coke-bottle streams, aquamarine and glassy clear, revealing the depth of its contents. Curtains of lacy moss draped from the limbs of trees, spreading their crooked arms over the trail to create a shady canopy. Suddenly the forest opened to reveal a deep valley lined by massive, rocky walls. Shawls of clouds wrapped snug around distant cobalt peaks, which we walked impossibly towards. We felt tiny - absolutely infinitesimal - in their wake. These are valleys that could swallow you whole. Emerald ferns like tasseled fringe swung from the mountainsides, an ancient and prehistoric landscape. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had stumbled into Jurassic Park. Still not a drop of rain, I thought.
Our group was briefly separated on the second day, and I spent lunch with Crocodile Dundee and his wife, huddled under a wooden awning. I learned that they had once driven 23,000 miles around Australia over six months. We laughed and told stories as their small camp stove warmed a pot of tea.
The hike was full of all sorts of interesting people, and by the end of the second day barriers swiftly fell, and we were no longer divided by country or language group. The difficulty of the task we are tackling is binding, and by the end of the second day it was a regular United Nations around the dinner table. We talked for hours with The Two Irish Guys, who have been traveling for over a year. There were The College Girls, foreign exchange students living in New Zealand who were completing the Milford Track as their last hurrah before going to their separate corners of the globe. Then there was The California Camera Guy, who stopped to take pictures of everything, accompanied most frequently by The Vermont Filmmaker, who just finished his first movie. There are The Hip Australians, The Hard Core Kiwis, and The Belgians. There were The First Germans and The Other Germans, designated by the point in time in which we met them. There was Bullshit Girl, who teaches us how to play the card game of her namesake and is getting ready to start her Peace Corps assignment in Thailand. We talked and played cards and told stories and laughed, and I felt once again - like I did in Bali — that I was at Big Kids’ Summer Camp. The camaraderie that so quickly sprang up amongst the fellow hikers was astonishing, and I wondered if our world leaders shouldn’t all be forced to hike the Milford Track together.
I realized that, for me, the hike wasn’t about the hike. I like the idea of liking the outdoors, but what kept me going each day was knowing that I would walk through the door of the cabin at the end of the day and spend a cozy evening with these interesting people. We passed through stunningly unreal landscapes hours a day, which I admired and appreciated. But walking 10 miles in a day is difficult. Walking 10 miles over mountain peaks, on rocky trails, lugging 30 pounds on your back - and knowing you’re going to start the process all over again the next morning - is just plain daunting.
After two days of walking I am the wobbly-legged one at the Chicago Marathon, slowed to a snail’s pace but bound and determined to cross the finish line nonetheless. Nearly everyone passed me, especially The Germans. My ankles were swollen, sporting huge knots which only Advil and tight socks seemed to have any effect on. I puffed and panted, stopping to yell obscenities from time to time. My only saving grace was the weather: it was not hot and it still hadn’t rained a drop. Had either of these conditions occurred, I’m not sure I could have mustered the strength to continue. Those photos in the brochure of people wading through waist-deep water was no joke. We learned that the Milford Track receives 60% more rain than sun a year, and the chances that you’ll get positively drenched are excellent. The Track follows the Clinton River for much of its course, so it doesn’t take much rain to flood the trail. We frequently saw long, metal poles lining portions of the trail with arrows pointing straight ahead: when water covers the track, it guides hikers in the proper direction.
I couldn’t imagine anything worse. But some masochists apparently seek out this Track for the opportunity to wade through rivers of water. The Milford Track seems to bring out the oddballs, hikers and rangers alike. As we passed through the trail, we were greeted by a different rangers, all with varying degrees of peculiarities. One railed against the extreme measures of wearing waterproof gear on the trail. “What are we, allergic to water? I prefer to get my socks wet before I start tramping.” It takes a special person to live in the middle of the woods.
Our days quickly fall into a familiar routine, not unlike being an old person. We wake up at six, eat lunch around 11, wolf down dinner at five, and are in bed by nine. On the third morning I hear a commotion in the room. I peer out the window and see crystal-clear, blue skies. This is the morning we are to pass Mackinnon Pass, offering the best views of the entire trek, and the weather couldn’t be more perfect. Everyone is throwing their gear into their packs (after three days of hiking I am now qualified to use words like “gear” and “pack”), and is excited about the prospect of actually seeing the Pass, which is rare. We’re all on the trail by seven o’clock, and after a steep, two and a half hour climb we reach the summit, the scene that greets us is simply unreal. We feel as if we have walked onto The Lord of the Rings movie set. The sky is a dramatic blanket of blue, punctured by gnashing rows of blindingly white, snow-capped peaks. Thin banks of cloud rest in the valley below. A guide tells us that this weather only occurs two or three times a year, and we feel incredibly lucky to be here, in this moment. No one wants to leave, and we spend over an hour taking in the views and snapping photos. We take turns chasing away keas, New Zealand’s notoriously shameless birds who are known for their thievery, from each other’s packs. I overhear Crocodile Dundee tell someone about the time he actually encountered a crocodile. Life is good.
***
There are two ways to complete the Milford Track, as an Independent or a Guided Walker. We fall into the former group, which means going it completely on your own. Whereas we haul around our own food and sleeping bags, Guided Walkers receive all their meals at separate huts along the way, which also boast better amenities. At each “pit stop” on the trail there are separate entrances for Guided and Independent Walkers. We feel like we’re in the Deep South in the 1950s.
A rivalry has sprung up between us and The Guideds. That’s what we call them: The Guideds. We run into them from time to time; they are usually sprinting past us because their packs are so light. When California Camera Guy asks two Guideds what it’s like, they gush about hot showers, cushy beds, three square meals a day, and a full bar. They are just as curious about our digs, to which Camera Guy responds, “Well, the spa isn’t up to my unusual standards, but it’s alright.”
The Guideds are smug. Maybe it’s the jealousy talking, but we make fun of them incessantly behind their back. We roll our eyes as we overhear them complaining about how heavy their packs are. We call them “grandmas” and “lame.” We are real hikers.
The rivalry reaches a whole new level the final day of the hike. On the boat back to civilization, a Guided tells Crocodile Dundee that he doesn’t know what he would have done without hot showers. Crocodile Dundee tells him that he wouldn’t have done it any other way because “you spend 10 times as much to walk the same trail.” The Guided retorts that he was able to “really focus on his walking.” On the bus ride back to town, Vermont Filmmaker and California Camera Guy report that, after being taunted by some Guideds, they left some “presents” along the trail for them. We howled as told us about the the branches that had “accidentally” fallen across the path, tears streaming down our eyes. It was stupid and childish, but that was the point, to feel like a kid again.
We stumbled over the finish line at 2:30 pm yesterday, our legs and joints aching fiercely. We stank intensely, having worn the same clothes and done without a shower for four days. We proudly took our photos by the sign that heralds that we’d completed a 33.5 mile hike. Never in my life did I ever think I could accomplish something of this magnitude. I’ve never considered myself much of an outdoors person, but I’ve finally earned the right to call myself a hiker. We all enjoyed the opportunity to simply put one foot in front of the other for an entire day, with no other care in the world. It was especially nice to have concentrated time to catch up with our friend who we haven’t seen in four months amongst some of the most beautiful scenery you can imagine . And after talking for days about our first meal back in civilization, we celebrated that night over juicy steaks and lamb and a big bottle of local red wine. The toast was obvious: “to surviving the Milford Track.”
And those extra pounds I packed on in Australia? Nearly gone.
Dunedin was primarily settled by the Scots, and the town’s name is Gaelic for Edinburgh. It’s obvious to see why Dunedin was selected as a Scottish outpost: rolling green hills surround the historic town center, which is ringed by a lovely harbor. We parked our car outside the Regent Theatre and heard the sound of bagpipes drifting through the streets: this was the Scotland of the southern hemisphere.
After we settled in we made our way to her daughter, Shane’s, house, who had prepared a tres New Zealand dinner: local wine, meat pies, and Pavlova for dessert. We met Beverly’s four grandsons, cool kids who were not only well-mannered, but able to participate in adult conversation. Peter is the oldest at 11, followed by Oliver, Theo, and Linus, the youngest and most extroverted at five. They provided a history of Dunedin from a youthful perspective. We learned that thousands of Jaffas, a New Zealand candy, are raced down Baldwin Street each July, which proudly holds the distinction of the World’s Steepest Residential Street, with a 19 degree slope. They made fun of our goofy American accents, and we egged them on by asking them, “How do you say ‘fish and chips?’” “Fush and chups?” Oliver responded, cautiously.
On the Monarch Nature Cruise, we spotted New Zealand Sea Lions, who lounged lazily on the sandy shore. Elephant Seals beached themselves on the rocky slopes, and New Zealand Seals arched gracefully through the water like dolphins. Unfortunately, no Northern Royal Albatrosses were flying, as it was nesting season, but we did spot Royal Spoonbills, with their cupped beaks, and Blue Penguins, the world’s smallest. But the real action was on the boat, where we were teaching Linus “knock-knock” jokes. Of all the impressionable things we imparted, that had to be the stupidest.
After another great meal at Shane’s house - this time Chicken Chile Enchiladas, a reminder of home - we drove to Signal Hill to take in views of the city as eerie, cotton candy cloud swirled overhead in the twilight. We watched the lights of Dunedin flick on all at once, twinkling in the distance. Next stop? Baldwin Street, where we gunned the car to the top of the hill and coasted down the other way, delighting Peter. Maikael, Tim, and Peter commenced a race to the top of the hill. Peter stayed a few paces ahead, winning by just a nose, but Maikael said it was obvious that he could have raced to the top well before any of them. But Peter was a gracious winner, a “no big deal” attitude being the most prized in New Zealand. There is no room for tall poppies here, braggarts who try to prove that they’re better than everyone else. In fact, the whole national attitude is one of “aw shucks,” which is why we like it so much.
