Wendy's Platter…travels

January 23, 2024

Wendy’s story:

While the “boys” were off on their track I worked on the Humboldt Historian and was able to finish the Spring 2024 issue from halfway around the world. Ah…technology. I took one day off of work and took a bus and boat ride to the Milford Sound…on Thursday….and the “boys” were going to do the same tour at the end of their track which would be 48 hours later. The difference between my soft pleasant,  mirror-like surface of the  Milford Sound vs the raging torrents brought on by rain was biblical. Read their stories.

Mark’s story:

I’m now back in civilization, after spending the past week in the fjord wilderness, hiking the world-famous Milford Track. The experience exceeded my wildest expectations. As promised I actually took pictures, a couple of which I will try to attach below.

In addition to its majestic beauty, the trail itself was more physically strenuous than any trail I have attempted in my lifetime—including climbing Mts. Whitney and Saint Helens.

On our next-to-last day,  descending from the Omanui-McKinnon Pass and weak with muscle fatigue, I slipped and fell, injuring my left rump and thigh, but luckily no broken bones. I hobbled down the mountain to our shelter for the night, dreading the 13.5-mile trek out on the final day. How would I make it out with my injury?

That night, at about 3 a.m., I was awakened by the sound of a massive down-pour, which continued through the day. (I heard later that a nearby rain gauge measured that day’s rainfall at almost 20 inches!)

Rain poured down the steep mountains of the Milford Sound (fjord) as massive, spectacular waterfalls all around us, flooding the valley, and our trail, below our camp. We were trapped by the flash flood.

By noon, our guides had arranged for a helicopter to transport all hikers to safety, six passengers at a time. The ride out—between high cliffs, through deep fog and clouds, in high winds and hard rain—was harrowing for me. (The pilot tho was cool as a cuke.)

We spent the last night in a fancy chalet on the shores of Milford Sound. In the morning, we took a tour boat ride out the Sound, to the open sea and back. The rain had let up, but the steep mountains were still shedding it with waterfalls crashing into the sea everywhere around us.

A bus then drove us to the town of Te Anau, where Wendy was waiting to take us to our Airbnb. Today—Saturday for you, Sunday for me—we are on our way to visit your cousin Tess and her husband Sam in Christchurch, and then set off in Uncle Gordo’s SUV to ferry over to the North Island.

Nick’s story:

Day 1:

Why, I ask myself, am I so excited? This anticipatory euphoria is not new, for me. I think that it’s been happening since my first camping trip when I was a wee tot. The birds and animals,  sure; and the trees,  of course—I adore looking at big trees; but it’s the mountains. As soon as I see their tops,  snow-capped,  or  sheer treeless rock, or ever forested,  my heart races. This is what happened as soon as the ferry carrying our group of 50 “trampers” left the little roadside dock halfway up 66 km (41 miles) long Lake Te Anau. Elevation: 210 m (690 feet) (remember this).

My feeling was reflected in the windswept s%#t-eating grinned face of my brother Mark. Everybody on the boat seemed giddy.

We got off on an even smaller dock, washed our boots and poles, as to not spread invasive soil bacteria, and got our pictures taken, then walked an easy mile to the lodge for hors d’oeuvres and a beer (or wine, in Mark’s case).

As you have correctly assumed, the lodges were certainly not rustic. Four (later two) to a room in bunk beds (Mark and I had the uppers that first night), toilet and bath down the outside hall, but with hot showers, electricity until 10:00 at night, hand-wash laundry with drying rooms, great food, wine, beer, and company, and nightly briefings as to what to expect the following day.

Day 2:

Like the rest of the mornings: up at 6:00; coffee, make lunch and cold breakfast at 6:30, hot breakfast at 7:00 for those that wanted (Mark), and on the track (trail) by 7:30.

We were worried that 50 trampers (hikers) would make for a crowded track, but not so for several reasons. 1) It’s a one-way trail,  2) We 50 (it turned out to be 49) and our 4 guides were just about the only trampers on the track. We saw maybe 6 or 8 “independent” trampers the entire time, and 3) Mark and I were usually the tail-end-Tommys.

A fair track—all uphill. Beautiful lakes and waterfalls as we followed the clearest river that I’ve ever seen—18″ to 24″ trout lolling in the pools with their shadows playing across the rocky bottom. I found the water quite cold!

As we went up,  the track became more and more difficult, taller steps and more washouts. And bridges… lots of bridges, hundreds of bridges in total for the track. But what I found most problematic was that I really wanted to be looking up all the time, not at my feet. We were in a deep, deep canyon and the mountains just went up and up, so much so that my neck began to ache. And my cheeks hurt from smiling.

After 15 km (10 miles), we arrived at the next lodge. Elevation: 410 m (1350 feet).

Day 3:

The “BIG” day. Up a little earlier. Steep trail that got steeper. They told us—eleven long switchbacks and six “very difficult” short ones. They were NOT joking, but the long ones weren’t much easier. I’ll admit I lost count.

Finally, we arrived at the Omanui/McKinnon Memorial. It’s a mile short of the pass, but up on the same crest of ridge. This is not the pass because you can’t go down the other side here! It’s straight down 2,000 feet. But the view! This, this…, this is the “WHY” I get so excited! Massive mountains go up, massive mountains go down, massive mountains all around! And they go on and on as far as you can see, and you can see forever and ever and ever! You can see our next lodge straight down below. You can see the fjord where we’re going tomorrow and the lake we came from and farther in every direction. At this moment, I feel infinitesimally small. So unimportant that it takes my breath away. So overwhelmed that tears come to my eyes. 

It helped that we had perfect weather. Apparently, it isn’t always that way, in fact, it rarely is. The clouds that do appear, appear in wisps, out of thin air, curl up and over the tops and disappear just as quickly. BTW, pictures don’t begin to scratch the surface.

It’s not like it’s simply the altitude at 1,156 m (3794 feet). I’ve been higher. Many of them just as inspirational: Forester Pass at 4,009 m (13,153 feet); Mt Whitney at 4,421 m (14,505 feet); even Mt Kilimanjaro at 5,895 m (19,340 feet). But some,  not as infamous or high, like Old Rag Mountain, Virginia at 1,001 m (3,284 feet), affect me just as much.

On to the pass, about a mile. Grab lunch with a couple of other tail-enders and down we go. The assent was steep, about 750 m (2,450 feet) in eight km (5 miles) and almost all of that in a three km (2 miles) stretch, or about 100 m per km (600 feet per mile). The descent was about 900 m (2,950 feet) in about five km (3 miles), or 180 m per km (1,000 feet per mile). In other words: f%&#ing steep.

And the track, my gods! It was like walking down a semi-dry riverbed. Huge never-ending steps on slippery boulders. Everything else had washed away. At one point, we came across the Anderson Cascade, a beautiful ½-mile long waterfall that descended hundreds of feet. The wooden stairway next to it had one-foot treads and one-foot rises, in other words a 45-degree slope. I lost count after 200 steps, a long way from the bottom. Down, down, down. We were back in the woods, dense woods, by now, and my legs were becoming weak. I had to concentrate on each step, braking myself with my poles, in order for my legs not to buckle. I kept looking for the track to level off, or improve in condition, or end. The last mile marker never seemed to come.

When I finally saw it, I called out and, Mark, startled, stumbled and fell. His legs and poles in a tangled knot down between two boulders, stretched out on his back writhing in pain. Phooey!

He managed to extricate himself and an assessment revealed no broken bones, but he was going to have one-hell-of-a bruise, and a bent trekking pole. We dodged a bullet as the bruise was very close to his hip bone. With his osteoporosis… But later that evening, after a few glasses, he seemed more worried about his bent trekking pole than his bruised butt. He was, and still is, however, sitting a little cattywampus.

I could describe that night’s dinner, but, as with every dinner, you’d be jealous. That evening, we were even more fatigued, and I was out like a light.

Day 4:

As usual, Mark’s insomnia kept him up and, at around 2:00 in the morning, he was drawn to the window by crashing down rain. That rain didn’t let up, and at first light we could see that the cliffs had become near-vertical rivers, visibility was down to 100 yards, with confusing squally wind. None of us were eager to go out in that and tramp for 21 km (13.5 miles) down to a place called Sandfly Point on Milford Sound (fjord).

Luckily for us, our guides were in touch with their base in Queenstown who were looking at the greater weather area. They told their guide to have us hold until the changing conditions resolve. We waited, knowing that our window of time that it takes to walk the distance was closing. By 10:30 am, when time was about up, the guides told us that we were to be evacuated by helicopter as the rain was expected to only get worse.

We all prepared to be evacuated, sitting with our backpacks, rain gear clad, in groups of six. Mark and I were in group 5. The helicopter came in, hot loading (load with motor and blades running), and taking off, shuttling one group every half hour. The conditions were as dicey as I ever saw in emergency services, except that the crew had done this same routine literally hundreds of times, in all conditions.

We bounced around quite a lot, but the pilot was cool as a cucumber. The view below was fantastic. Huge torrents of water coming down not only from the sky, but from every mountain on all sides. Fantastic! The river that we were supposed to follow out had run well up the banks of the valley, sometimes with only treetops showing. I don’t believe that it would have been possible to make it out on foot.

We landed 100 yards from the lodge, having skipped Sandfly Point altogether. I was soaked though as I was next to the door that had needed to be open for longer than normal. But there were hot showers, dry clothes, and the bar was open! Dinner was better than ever.

Day 5:

The next morning, the rain had abated. It was reported that the lodge that we had departed from had received over 50 cm (20 inches) of rain in the previous 24 hours. BTW, the record for that lodge is 160 cm in 24 hours. I cannot imagine!!!

L; Nick and Mark enjoying “the peaceful” Milford Sound from the boat. R: Wendy enjoying the truly peaceful Milford Sound two days earlier before the deluge.

By 8:00 were on a sightseeing boat, cruising the fjord. It was still raining, at least in squalls. The cliffs positively poured water. The boats crew said that they see this kind of waterfall activity only a few times a year. Watching the power of all that water coming down with such force, again I had the feeling of being a grain of sand in a vast universe with the accompanying joy.

Wendy’s day on the fjord vs. Mark and Nick’s day on the fiord two days later.

Finally, back on the bus headed back to Te Anau, the landscape returning to what I had come to know as New Zealand, fields and fields of hundreds and hundreds of sheep and cows, all greasy fat, their coats shining in the sun, belly deep in lush green grass. A scene that I also relish.

It’s been a good trip.

Kia ora,

~Wendy, Nick, and Mark

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