New Zealand: An Unforgettable Journey Into Wilderness

I wiggled my toes on the rock, its cool, smooth surface chilling the soles of my feet. I thought, if I don’t jump now I never will… So, one big step forward and I plunged beneath the water, emerging with a gasp, a shudder – and a massive smile. I swam towards the waterfall at the far end of my private swimming pool’, stroking through the ice melt, feeling its cold embrace. I looked up at the ribbon of water plunging over the sharp edge of the rocky escarpment in front, and wondered at its power.

This clear, crisp water was, until recently, frozen in the lake above; now it would make its way down through the Southern Alps, following the same path as the glaciers that formed this dramatic alpine landscape thousands of years ago. It seemed unbelievable that this water, currently falling as mere droplets and collecting in a small placid pool, could be stronger than the rock it was cradled by. I was blown away by its strength – and yet, almost more unbelievable was the fact that I had this landscape all to myself.

I was at the end of day two of my walk along the 32km Routeburn Track, which links Mount Aspiring and Fiordland National Parks. The three-day tramp through meadows and forest, past lakes and tarns, is one of New Zealand’s ‘Great Walks’, a series of nine well-maintained tracks through some of the country’s most dramatic scenery – and yet it is largely quiet. Maintained by the Department of Conservation, the Routeburn Track is well-defined and easy to follow, making it perfect for independent hikers. It is even carved up into manageable sections, bookended by huts that have toilets, running water and cooking facilities. So why had I only seen a handful of people all day? Why don’t more people hike this trail?

The answer lies a few clicks west: the Milford Track. Another of the Great Walks, this 53km hike through Fiordland National Park is said to be one of the finest in the world; it steals all the headlines and tops all the ticklists. Given its proximity to the Routeburn, most trampers who come to the area opt to walk Milford instead. But to me, this seemed foolish. Not only do some believe the Routeburn to be more beautiful that Milford, its location is ideal for those wanting to link two of South Islands big hitters. Starting just 68km north-west of adventure-capital Queenstown, and finishing close to Milford Sound, the Routeburn offers a tranquil conduit between them.

ON THE TOWN – There was less tranquility in Queenstown. For years travellers intent on getting away from it all in New Zealand’s sublime South Island have congregated here, filling the bars with tales of adventure – and complaints about how too many people have followed their trail. It’s a common gripe as popularity turns into commercial success. But although Queenstown has embraced its status as New’ Zealand’s all-action hub it remains a small town at heart and there is a strong sense of community – albeit a transient one.

Here I met effusive travellers who waxed lyrical about lakes and forests, and I gathered advice on everything from rucksack size to sock brand from hardened hikers. I also picked up information on the Routeburn from the Department of Conservation office, where you must book tickets and accommodation for the track. I was itching to get out on the trail but there is something seductive about Queenstown; something in the air that makes you do mad-cap things you wouldn’t usually contemplate.

I spent a few days climbing up to viewpoints above deep-blue Lake Wakatipu and taking the gondola up to Bob’s Peak to look over the Remarkables Range. But it is when night falls that Queenstown really comes into its own. Once a scruffy collection of backpacker drinking dens, today Queenstown is all chic bars and boutique restaurants. I ate local seafood overlooking the lake, drank New Zealand pinot noir by a roaring fire and even sipped cocktails from ice-sculpted glasses at Minus 5° ice bar. And of course I embraced those adventure sports too.

Anyone returning home from New Zealand must have a story of derring do and for me it was the Shotover Jet, a high-adrenaline jetboat ride on the Shotover River. This shallow waterway, the colour of a raspberry Slush Puppy, is hemmed in by craggy rock walls carved out over time by a fierce stream of meltwater from the Southern Alps. With the accelerator floored, the driver whizzed us past the canyon walls, their craggy edges smoothed out by our peripheral vision, and then brought into pin-sharp clarity as the boat pulled tight turns. It was breathtaking in every sense and for the first time 1 didn’t feel belittled by the bungy jumpers shrieking as they bounced nearby; I was merely dwarfed by the towering scenery.

HEAD FOR THE HILLS – However, those lofty canyon walls were soon to seem Lilliputian. It was time to swap Queenstown’s craziness for something more naturally wild. Starting early on a misty morning, I boarded a bus for the Routeburn Shelter, the track’s trailhead. I passed the two-hour drive by swapping tips with other hikers, discussing how much food we had (you must be entirely self-sufficient on the trail) and how long we planned to be on the track. Some of my bus-mates were going to walk the Routeburn in two days; Kiwis Riley and Ethan – walking the track for a second time -reckoned it was an easy route that could be bounded across quickly. But I wanted to spend the more usual three days crossing the southwestern wilderness so I could soak up the scenery.

I let the others walk on ahead and soon I was alone on the trail, strolling through beautiful beech forest alongside the eponymous Route Burn on a wide, well-formed path. It was a simple hike and I ate up the kilometres to the first moderate climb towards Bridal Veil Stream. This part of the trail was thick with vegetation, disturbed only by the odd kaka, a large parrot endemic to New Zealand’s forests. Large ferns clumped the riverbed and moss clung to the tree trunks.

All around was green – and wet. It is the water that formed this landscape in the first place and it continues to stamp its mark today, dripping off beds of moss, gushing over rocks and dropping into rocky crevices. It was a constant lyrical backdrop. It is also a constant challenge. The Department of Conservation maintains the Routeburn Track and much of its work is in tackling the water’s impact on the landscape. In places the DOC has built bridges to help hikers across the river, and on day one I found myself crossing the Route Burn on swing bridge after swing bridge.

On my first crossing I was nervous – from a distance the bridges appeared to be nothing more than a few strands of rope and wire strung between two wooden gates. But up close I realised they were sturdy constructions, with substantial planks underfoot and hardy netting on either side. Soon they became part of the fun and I found myself bouncing across them with gusto.

As the path crisscrossed the valley the mist began to clear; as I passed the Routeburn Flats (site of the first hikers’ hut) I started to see the Southern Alps looming above. I craned my neck and squinted up at their peaks, not quite believing that I’d soon be up there too. For much of day one the path had been cloaked in forest but at Emma Creek a landslide had cleared the beech trees from around the track. Here, I could look out over the flats, along the Routeburn River, now far below, and across to vast, triangular peaks covered in a tufty green blanket of trees.
The path became more technical here, with tree roots and small rocks underfoot, but the DOC has added railings where necessary. I continued to make good progress, climbing steadily towards my destination for the day – Routeburn Falls Hut. The huts are comfortable places to spend the night. Alongside other hikers I ate a simple dinner on the terrace overlooking the Routeburn Valley and Humboldt Mountains. Bunks are in a communal dorm, and all 48 were full, so there was no solitude. I was itching to get back out on the trail.

ON A HIGH – The next morning I climbed above the tree line and up towards Harris Saddle, the trail’s highest point (1,225m). One of the reasons some people say the Routeburn Track is better than the Milford is because you spend more time above the bushline and consequently get better alpine views – and it was certainly hard to imagine better views than these. Every few steps my eyes were drawn backwards down the Routeburn Valley; when I reached the saddle itself I was spellbound. This is the boundary between Mount Aspiring and Fiordland national parks, and rocky slopes covered with tussocky grass ran down from the ridge on either side. It was quite exposed to the elements, but the payoff was that feeling you only get from being on top of a mountain

From here the track descended and soon Lake Mackenzie -and that private swimming pool – was visible below. There had been plenty of rain so Routeburn Falls was in full flow, the lakes around its bottom topped up. When 1 got down to the hut, the conservation ranger told me that these were “the Routeburn’s spa pools”. That was all the convincing I needed -it was time for that swim.

WHAT LIES BENEATH – My final day on the trail was spent descending, past the Orchard, an open grassland strewn with ribbon wood trees, the misty Earland Falls and Lake Howden Hut to reach more silver beech forest. It wasn’t until I reached The Divide – the lowest crossing of the Southern Alps, where the walk meets the Milford Highway – that I realised I hadn’t seen anyone else all day.

The Routeburn Track is officially a Great Walk and yet I’d had it all to myself, the only noise being a tiny rifleman (New Zealand’s smallest bird) vying with a persistent South Island robin. I’d timed my arrival on the road for my pre-booked bus to Milford Sound. We reached the fiord in time to join the final cruise of the day – and of my journey – with Mitre Peak Cruises, the only voyage to head right out past St Anne’s lighthouse, so you get to re-enter the sound from the Tasman Sea.

The boat glided past the unmistakable Mitre Peak, subject of so many postcards, and across the placid waters, stretched between the peaks like a sheet of shimmering tinfoil. The sound’s saltwater is covered with a layer of freshwater, which blocks the light and creates the conditions of a deep ocean at much shallower depths. Once again the meltwater of the Southern Alps is affecting the landscape. And once again I was struck by these waters’ timeless, silent strength, as they bore me back towards the verdant South Island shore.