New Zealand is a country known for its numerous beautiful hikes, and the government has set apart nine of the best in the country and designated them as Great Walks. These special tracks get a little bit more funding, are much better serviced, and are the most popular outdoor destinations in the country. Fiordland National Park, my base for the past three weeks, contains three of the country’s nine walks: The Milford Track, The Kepler Track, and the Routeburn Track.
Before I set off to walk the Kepler Track, I decided that I would like to spend my 25th birthday somewhere in Fiordland National Park, hopefully above the treeline. The natural choice, then, was the Routeburn Track, the only of Fiordland’s three Great Walks I had yet to complete. Similar to the Kepler, the entire second day of the Routeburn is above the treeline, and if the weather cooperates, it is regarded by some as the best hike in the country.
So, the day that I set off to hike the Kepler, I registered and paid for spots at two campgrounds on the Routeburn. I would depart the 12th of December and spend the 13th (my birthday) walking the alpine section of the trek. This plan was wonderful, except for one small detail…I didn’t finish hiking the Kepler until the 11th.
So, as I drove my car back into Te Anau after completing the 60km circuit of the Kepler Track, it occurred to me that I had to leave the very next day to hike the 32km Routeburn Track, which is not a circuit. This means that on the 14th, when I’m done the trek, I will be in the next valley over (north of Queenstown) without any mode of transportation to return to Te Anau.
There are a number of companies that offer track transportation, but they are expensive, so I decided instead to hike back. About 30km south of the end of the Routeburn, is a lesser known track called the Greenstone, which meanders along a river for 32km until returning to the carpark at the start of the Routeburn. Perfect. I now had a plan…immediately after finishing the 60km Kepler, I would do the 32km Routeburn, then 30km of roadside hiking to the start of the Greenstone, and then 32km back to my car. 150km in 10 days. Shit, that is a lot of walking.
I spent the afternoon in town prepping for another week of backpacking, and decided that I would stay at a hostel instead of my usual campsite (in a van down by the river…) On the morning of the 12th, I drove for an hour along the incredibly scenic road toward Milford Sound, and pulled into The Divide carpark to start my trek.
Conditions were similar to those when I started the Kepler. It was raining, and the forecast seemed to call only for rain for the entirety of my six day circuit hike. But this time, the weather didn’t affect my mood whatsoever. As I climbed the switchbacked trail from the parking area, I began to plan out what I’ve come to name The Long Way Home, a hypothetical proposition that I’ve been contemplating involving a multi-year work/travel scheme to return to the USA via Asia, the Middle East, Africa, and Europe. I still have a ton of research to do before I’m able to announce anything official, but as I tramped through the rain, I began to plot out vague timeframes and destinations: Horticultural work in NZ, then travel the South Pacific. Agricultural work in Australia, then travel Southeast Asia. Teach English in Japan or Korea, then travel Nepal, India, and the Middle East. Then work somewhere in Europe. I daydreamed of the myriad possibilities for hours.
Time went by quickly with my mind occupied, and before I knew it, I had passed the first alpine lake, Lake Howden, and was well on my way to Earland Falls, a 192m high waterfall that plummets down the cliffs directly adjacent to the trail. Because of all the heavy rains over the past few days, the waterfall was extremely powerful and I was forced to take an emergency route around the base.
Continuing on, I could tell that on a clear day, views from the trail would be spectacular. Most of the first day was spent straddling the bush line, and there were numerous times where I would gaze out into the surrounding clouds and imagine what the views would be like on a nice day.
Eventually, I reached Lake MacKenzie, my campsite for the first night, and on the way I checked the weather report at a nearby hut. Rain was to continue throughout the night and the following day, which I expected, but the last sentence caught my attention. “Precipitation will fall as snow as low as 800m in some places.” My campsite for the night was at nearly 900m…there was a possibility I would wake up under a dusting of snow!
I set up my tent, and as night approached, the rain continued to fall and the temperature steadily dropped. I struggled to make dinner (a dehydrated meal of Spaghetti Bolognaise) with my hat and mittens on. I talked briefly with two German guys, a French Canadian, and a guy from Basque (not Spain), but as soon as I was done eating, I retreated to my tent and the warmth of my sleeping bag. Throughout the night, I heard precipitation hitting my tent…sometimes as splatters of rain, and other times as a harder click of frozen sleet. I fell asleep wearing all of my clothes, and my jacket, hat, and mittens.
The next morning I awoke to similarly cold, rainy conditions, and I was in no hurry to get out of my sleeping bag. Eventually, I got up, made breakfast, and hurriedly packed up my cold, wet belongings. “I thought it was supposed to be summer,” I grudgingly thought to myself. As I looked around the surrounding peaks, it was obvious that a fresh dusting of snow had fallen and that our campsite was just below the freezing line.
By 10AM, I was on the trail again. I climbed through the bush for about 45 minutes before breaking out into the alpine, which coincided almost perfectly with the snow line. As the rain turned to snow, a feeling of supreme happiness overcame me. True happiness. Like a child at a playground, I walked with an absurd grin on my face, and numerous times, as I contemplated the majesty of climbing a mountain in a snowstorm, I caught myself chuckling out loud.
I then realized that it was my 25th birthday. As I continued to climb, the snowfall increased, and I was glad that I chose to hurriedly book the Routeburn Track. Although it would have been nice to celebrate my quarter-centennial at a cosy bar in Queenstown, flirting with attractive German girls, I was completely content to be alone, ambling my way up and over a mountain pass during a late-season snowstorm.
And then, suddenly (as it always seems to happen at this elevation), conditions changed drastically. It got sunny. For almost an hour, I was given glimpses of the encompassing peaks, valleys, and glaciers. It was great to see all this, but I actually preferred the blinding conditions of the snowstorm. It felt more like a rite of passage that way.
I was hiking the Routeburn in the opposite way that most people do, so I ran into a number of passersby, stopping briefly to chat with most of them about weather conditions and trail distances. But eventually, as I neared the highest point of the trek, Harris Saddle (1255m/4140ft), I was alone again, and conditions began to worsen.
By the time I reached the emergency hut at the saddle, it was a full on snowstorm again. And now, there was enough snow on the ground to obscure the well-defined trail. I roamed through the snowy landscape, giddy with excitement, but also cognizant of the risk of walking off a cliffside in the blinding snow.
At one point, a yellow blob emerged before me. It was a trail guide for Ultimate Hikes NZ, who had somehow lost two of the members of her party. She described the hikers to me and asked if I’d seen them at all in the last 20 minutes. I had not. She told me their names and asked if I see them to tell them to stay put, and then she ran off into the whiteout again.
That event, combined with the lack of an ability to see the trail, and a realization that I hadn’t seen anyone else on the trail, perhaps should have told me something. Maybe I should just hang out in the emergency shelter for a few hours and see if conditions improve? This was supposed to be summer, after all. In fact, midsummer, the longest day of the year in the Southern Hemisphere was only a week away, and yet here I was, blinded in a blizzard on an alpine pass. I should have been worried, but I couldn’t wipe the satisfied grin off my face.
I continued through the snow for an hour or so, at one point skirting across a sheer cliff face a few hundred feet above a large tarn (glacial lake) before the track began to descend down the opposite side. At many places along the way, the trail was less of a path and more of a stream, or small river. Slowly, my waterproof boots began to get damp and my mittens waterlogged. Also, a soreness in my left ankle that had developed during my descent on the Kepler Track had gotten worse, to the point that it was causing me to limp. I relied heavily on my walking sticks, as I slowly made my way down off the pass, out of the snow and back into the rain. I never did see the lost couple from the guided hike, and I assume that their guide was able to locate them.
Eventually, I reached the source of the Route Burn, a large glacial river that begins at Harris Saddle, and followed it until the Route Burn Falls Hut, which overlooks a series of cascades in the river before it opens out to the extensive Route Burn Flats, where my campsite for the night would be.
By this point, my childish grin had mutated into a sinister grimace and my ankle hurt so badly that I was walking with a noticeable limp. All I could think about was getting to my campsite, taking off my wet boots, and opening the supply of red wine I had brought along to celebrate my birthday.
Just before I reached the Flats, the weather improved and I glimpsed a few views of the wide, grassy valley. Although many of the views on the track were similar to those of the Milford or Kepler, the vast Route Burn valley was a new sight for me, and its beauty in the late afternoon sun improved my souring mood slightly.
When I finally reached the campsite, I stripped out of my wet clothes and boots, quickly made and ate dinner, and retired to the warmth of my tent and sleeping bag, where I drank wine, ate chocolate, and listened to Miles Davis.
It occurred to me that, although it was the 13th here in New Zealand, it was still the 12th back in the US, and the 12th of December happens to be my father’s birthday. This could possibly be the only time in my life where my dad and I could celebrate our birthdays simultaneously. Silently, and from the other side of the world, I cheersed my dad, gulped down the last of my wine, and then promptly fell asleep.
The next day was an easy, sunny 6.5km stroll along the river, and around noon, I crossed a swing bridge over the Route Burn, completing the last of Fiordland’s three Great Walks. This one was the shortest of the three, but I found it to be most difficult. The trail was very rocky and it was seldom flat. The Routeburn contains the most fluctuation in elevation, and you are almost constantly ascending or descending. Combined with severe weather conditions and an unrested start, I found this “easy tramping track” to be somewhat difficult. But I also found it to be the most rewarding, and I think that if I had to recommend only one of the area’s Great Walks, I would suggest the Routeburn Track.
