May 7, 2010
He lives! The Orange Whip rides again. The engine is mounted beneath the passenger seat and center console, about 5’ back from the front bumper, so the removal and re-installation forced the mechanics to tear apart the interior of the vehicle. Most of my stuff was unloaded for the work and then stuffed back haphazardly. I washed all of the dirt and grime covered linens, restocked groceries and spent about 2 hours in the Pack ‘N Save grocery store parking lot repacking the van. I took a quick 20 km jaunt south to the town of Bluff to test it out and everything seemed fine. Lesson learned: I am being quite diligent about checking my fluid levels.
After the quick lap to Bluff and back I resumed my general clockwise path around the South Island. My destination for the night was the quiet shores of Colac Bay. Sheltered by the scattered islands offshore, Colac Bay was supposed to have semi-decent surf. It turned out to be little more than lapping waves on the sandy shores of a long and sweeping bay. When I pulled up, the sun had long set and the curtain of darkness was quickly descending. At the entrance to a gravelly pull off, a shivering and grinning surfer was peeling off his wetsuit so I stopped to chat from the warmth of a half rolled down window. He promised that the swell was building and it would be at least head high in the morning. This justified camping there for the evening. It was a cold night—the first where I could see my breath in the van. Fortunately, it’s a small space and I have plenty of blankets so it warmed up quickly. In the morning, the surf was just as flat as it was the prior evening. My shivering acquaintance was back and suiting up not long after dawn. Another fellow rolled up and braved the 11 degree water—52 degrees Fahrenheit—in a 2-2 short sleeve full suit. I watched both guys paddle around for an hour without catching a single wave and decided to follow my surf guide book to some other spots that were supposed to be more exposed. I had no luck before noon and by the time I got to Te Waewae Bay, the blown out waist high surf had no draw for me. It was hard to look at the surf with the imposing Fiordlands looming in the distance. Black against the low light of a cloudy afternoon, even so far away they were impressive and foreboding. I turned my attention from surf to hiking.
I pulled off the highway just north of Tuatepere, an old mill town, and headed out to Lake Hauroko, the deepest in NZ. No longer driving through the rolling hills of the Southlands, the Fiordlands are their own world. The mountain chains are steep and stark. Nothing grows on the upper faces of gray and brown screed slopes. The peaks are jagged and uncompromising, and dotted with dirty glaciers. They look untouched and unconquerable. Forced skyward by tectonic forces and shaped by glaciers and hundreds of inches of annual rainfall, emerald and virgin lakes conceal their origins. Surrounding the lakes are tangled messes of impenetrable rain forest. How anyone blazed a trail through here is a mystery, and the forest treats these paths as an affront to its virility. I hiked a 3.5 hour trail that started on the shores of Lake Hauroko and worked its way up through the forest to an outlook point several hundred feet up on a lower peak. Every step was a challenge. From the boggy shores where I was forced to hop from submerged rocks and rotting logs in a losing attempt to keep my pants dry and clean, through washed out ravines showing the obvious signs of recent flash floods over fallen trees blocking the direct route and up mossy rock scrambles demanding assistance from exposed root handholds. I came much more prepared than my last multi-hour hike with Lauren and Sally. This time I packed a backpack with a liter and a half of water, a bag of trail mix, some dried fruit and a spare jacket. I wasn’t planning on being there after dark so I had a 4 hour window to get out and back. Other than a solitary fly fisherman on shore at the trail head when I started, I was alone for the entirety of the hike. It was peaceful despite the lung burning and leg straining effort. Unlike many of the other nature areas I’ve been, these forests have been untouched by loggers (or at least it seems so). No imported pine trees, only indigenous trees and bush braved the nearly perpetual rainfall. Where there wasn’t a lake or standing water covering the ground, everything else was a creeping bed of moss, lichens and fungi. Even the paved roads are striped with faint green growth between the tire worn paths. Swirling, wispy clouds hugged the narrow valleys, snagging on groves of taller trees. This is a land dominated by water in all of its forms.
I camped for the night in a surprisingly busy DOC campsite at the boat launch for Lake Monowai. A youth group kayak expedition was camping for the night and 30 teenage boys and girls were predictably boisterous. That said, they went to bed long after I did and were on the water before I started brewing morning tea. After a short hike with considerably less adventure than the one at Lake Hauroko, I drove north to Manapouri to book my trip to Doubtful Sound. My boat leaves in an hour and it’s an overnight trip so that should be my next post.
I have never been much of a hiker; I have a bit of a lazy streak in me. That said, the natural beauty of NZ is compelling. I feel guilty just driving past all of these beautiful places if I don’t take the time to get out and explore, even if it’s just for an hour or so. The air is clean and heavy with moisture. At night, nothing stirs except leaves in the wind. Darkness is complete. This is a solitary world where outside of the tourist towns, loneliness is a virtue and a sign of purity. One can’t help but to appreciate it. On one hand, it would be great to share this experience with someone, but on the other hand that would only take away from the majestic sense of isolation.
