I apologize for the delay in posting this. The wireless internet at the local library has been inactive the past few days because of a cut wire…which I find to be hilarious. Anyhow, here’s a description of my last hike…

Me at U Pass in the Earl Mountains

The Earl Mountain Tracks are a pair of seldom used, but widely accessible hiking trails directly off the main road from Te Anau to Milford Sound. Last week, I had two days off from the pizzeria, and I figured it was about time I headed out into the bush again. I planned to hike up the precarious-sounding Mistake Creek Track until it fizzled out above the bushline, then whack my way through the upper scrub and snow tussock to cross U Pass into the Hut Creek Valley, where I’d meet up with another track and return to the car. However, after my adventures on Mount Titiroa, I thought it might be wise not to attempt this endeavor alone. I started asking around, trying to find a tramping partner, and this is how I came to meet Rufus.

Rufus, like most of the other people I’ve met in this country, is German. He is traveling New Zealand and Australia for a few months before returning home to attend university. I work with Rufus’s flatmate Niklas at the pizzeria, and when I mentioned that I was looking for a tramping partner, I was introduced to Rufus, who because of an unfortunate incident involving the “borrowing” of some swim trunks from the merchandise pile at the pub he was working at, had recently become unemployed and therefore fully able to spend two days in the mountains with me. In addition, he’s quite keen on tramping, has all the necessary equipment and fitness, and was eager to try a bit of off-track hiking.

So I picked Rufus up on Saturday morning and we drove up the Eglington Valley from Te Anau towards Milford, a drive I have done a dozen times, but which still manages to blow me away with its mountain scenery. After about an hour, we pulled into the small carpark and headed off down the Mistake Creek Track, laughing at the sign that read “U Pass is an unmarked route and requires alpine experience”.

Within meters of leaving the carpark, it became obvious that although thousands of tourists drive by this trailhead every day, very few ever venture down this track. We were sloshing through knee-deep mud before we were even out of view of the car, and after only ten minutes we reached the Eglington River. To cross this stream, there was no swing bridge as I’ve seen on most other tracks, but instead a set of three wires, which we had to use to cross the river.

Rufus crossing the three-wire bridge

Soon after, Rufus and I were on our way through the scattered sunlight of an airy beech forest, along the banks of Mistake Creek. The track was narrow and at times we were reliant on the orange blazes to find the correct way, but it was one of the nicest trails I’ve been on in Fiordland. After about an hour, the trail dumped us out in a small clearing by the creek, and we searched around for the orange blazes of the track. Eventually we spotted the large orange triangle on the opposite side of the boulder-strewn creekbed…it was time to cross Mistake Creek. We looked around to find the safest spot to ford the small, but turbulent stream, and soon found a fallen tree, which would provide us dry and easy access to the other side, assuming we could keep our balance across it. Rufus went first, making it look easy, and I followed, arms out, trying to recall games of balance along the curbs back home, and soon made contact with the opposite shore. Although we were still on the marked track, there was enough of a “bush roughness” to make this trek an amusing challenge.

Rufus crossing the log bridge over Mistake Creek

After crossing the creek, the trail became a bit steeper, and even less trafficked, but even more fun to travel on. I led us up and down steep hills, across bouldery creek beds, and through thick fern beds. At one point, there were so many spiderwebs glittering in the sunshine that I was literally sweeping one out of my way with each step…I had fun pretending I was Indiana Jones, in search of some rare archeological treasure. Rufus, rightfully so, presumed I was crazy and wished he hadn’t decided to join me…

After a few more hours, the track spewed us out onto open tussocky flats, and the orange markers disappeared. We crossed the marshy flatlands for another kilometer or so, until reaching the mouth of the South Fork of Mistake Creek, which led upwards through unmarked bush to the base of Mistake Creek Falls. At the top of these falls was a small glacial basin where we planned to spend the night before climbing U Pass into the neighboring valley. The easy part was behind us, and before venturing off into the thick bush, we decided to eat lunch.

While munching on sandwiches of fresh homemade bread, Rufus and I remarked at how crazy it was that it is likely we are the only people in this valley…how all the peaks and valleys we can see from here are inaccessible without serious effort, and how refreshing the solitude can be. Then we packed up our bags and headed towards the steep, impenetrable-looking bush…this was going to be difficult.

Panorama of Upper Mistake Creek

My guide book, Moir’s Guide South, has a characteristically brief and simplified description of the route to Mistake Creek Falls: “sidle well above the riverbed through the trees and then scrub, until the waterfall becomes visible”. As we looked up the valley, the idea of “well above the riverbed” became a note of some contention. Just how far above the riverbed, now? At times we tried going only a few meters above the river, with the sound of the cascading water loud in our ears. But this led us to find that we were not “well above” enough, as the bush was thick, the hill steep, and the cliffs many. So we headed more inland, trying to stick to a few deer tracks, but as we got further away from the sound of the river, we worried that we may be straying too far from our destination.

Somehow, after a few hours of scratching our knees on ferns and the local thorny grass known as “bush lawyer”, Rufus and I came into view of the Mistake Creek Falls. From where we were standing, it looked like an unclimbable granite wall, hundreds of meters high.

“So…we gotta go up that somehow,” I said, the optimism in my voice camouflaged with comedic indifference.

“It looks…steep,” Rufus responded.

“Well, my guidebook says that we just follow the creekbed now until we’re right up under the bluffs, and then we will find a ‘natural rock staircase’ that will provide ‘easy, if highly improbable’ travel…whatever that means.” I paused. “Worse case scenario, we just have to climb back through this bush to the clearing where we ate lunch, camp there for the night, and head back down Mistake Creek.”

“But we don’t need to give up yet…let’s find this staircase.”

We pushed on, skirting along the boulders of the creek, and at times walking directly upstream (dry boots were no longer an option), until we were pretty much under the falls. This is where the story gets interesting.

Mistake Creek Falls

I love my guide book. It has described treks that I never would have known about, or had the ability to navigate, without it. However, it has inspired in me a bit of false confidence, and although I’ve done a fair share of backpacking…I am no mountaineer, and Fiordland is an unforgiving place. Whether it was my fault, or the book’s, I’ll leave up to you to decide, but here we were at the base of a large waterfall, with nothing to get us to the top but one small sentence in a guidebook. Rufus and I just needed to find this easy, but highly improbable natural rock staircase.

Eventually, we found the beginning of a route upwards. Some rocks that, although quite steep, could possibly be construed as a staircase. Impatient, and motivated by the sun, which was creeping closer to the horizon, we began to climb. We decided not to take any unnecessary risks, and to turn around and head back to the flats if we couldn’t make it.

However, as we began to ascend the near-vertical bluffs, an adrenaline-fueled motivation to conquer these falls began to overtake our rational decision-making skills. Numerous times, after climbing a particularly steep section, we would pause, look back and think, “Wow, that is quite steep. If we have to give up and go back down, it may get a bit tricky,” but this was almost always matched with a head-swing back up the cliffs, followed by, “BUT…I think I see a way to navigate through that crack there…and it looks like it may flatten out a bit beyond that.”

Rufus climbing Mistake Creek Falls

This continued for over an hour, and as we climbed higher and higher, our chances of making it back down if we were to get stuck, became smaller and smaller. Soon, we began to realize this, and at one point, as we clung to some tussock grass above a particularly steep face we had just climbed, Rufus and I realized that here, along the crashing waters of upper Mistake Creek, we may have made a huge mistake.

I was continuously repeating the sentence my guidebook devoted to this demanding section of the tramp, angrily blaming it for our predicament. After a while, I was certain that we had not chosen the intended “natural rock staircase” and that Rufus and I were blazing our own course up this waterfall.

We weren’t stuck yet, but for the first time it became obvious that turning around and descending what we had just spent an hour and a half climbing was no longer an option. If we could not climb any further, then our only option would be to sit still, and wait for help. Before leaving, we had given Niklas a detailed description of our route, and I knew that if we were to get stuck, Search and Rescue would find us very quickly. However, we were still two days away from our “panic date” - so we would be stranded on this bluffside for at least that long before SAR would even be contacted. The thought of spending 48 hours on the steep banks of this large waterfall nearly scared the shit right out of my bowels…

Fortunately, we weren’t stuck yet. And although my confidence flickered from time to time, I wasn’t really worried. Perhaps we had taken a few unnecessary risks, but our lives were not in immediate danger. As we got higher, we also became more conservative…and we were always able to find a route to continue. In addition, the sporadic evidence of other trampers (a few boot prints and a dropped water bottle) assured us that at the very least, we wouldn’t be the first ones to get stopped by Mistake Creek Falls.

Eventually, after the sun had dipped behind the surrounding peaks and the daylight dwindled, Rufus and I utterly exhausted and out of water, I spotted a final ascent along some boulders that led to the top of the Falls. Enthusiastically signaling to Rufus that I’ve found a way to the top, I hurried along the rocks and triumphantly celebrated the fact that we had conquered Mistake Creek Falls.

We made our way along the small tarn at the top of the falls, and searched the cirque for a good place to set up camp. It was marshy, but we found an elevated spot and pitched our tents. It was obvious that we were both shaken by the unexpected difficulty of the Mistake Creek climb. In addition, I was unnerved by the fact that I could misinterpret the guide book and get into real trouble. After all, we still had another few hundred meters to ascend U Pass, and then another steep creekbed to descend on the other side. At one point, I even mentioned to Rufus that I was thinking about retiring from off-track travel in Fiordland…ready to admit that I don’t have the skill or experience to find my way without a well-tread track to guide me.

However, after rehydrating and eating supper, and soaking in the indescribable beauty of watching the sun set amongst the gnarly rock and ice amphitheater of a mountain that few people will ever see, our moods began to change. Instead of worrying about having to be rescued by a helicopter from the cliffs of a waterfall, we joked about the fact that this route could be more accurately described as U Shall Not Pass.

Sunset on the tarn above Mistake Creek Falls

I walked out to the middle of the cirque and previewed our route up the final ascent to the pass. There is a natural fault line, which is quite evident as it cuts through multiple sets of peaks, and through the middle of this faultline, sandwiched between vertiginous canyon walls in an undeniable U-shape, lies the aptly named U Pass. The next day’s route looked quite steep, but the absence of large boulders and a waterfall made it seem easily passible.

I stayed up and watched the sky darken and the first few stars appear, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sensational southern sky, which never fails to astonish me, but my eyelids were heavy and body exhausted, and I soon withdrew to my tent and fell into a deep slumber.

The next morning, we awoke to cloudy skies and a light mist, and my entire body felt tight and unready to be put through more physical discomfort. But a nice breakfast of cereal with reconstituted milk and a brief walk to stretch my legs helped prepare me for the day’s journey. We packed up our tents and set of to climb the last section of our trek.

From the floor of the glacial basin, we made our way sideways and up until we were directly beneath the high canyon walls of the pass. From there, grasping tussock grass as handholds, Rufus and I switchbacked our way up the final hundred meters to the top of U Pass. At 1395 meters, we had reached the highest point of our journey.

Rufus climbing the final meters to U Pass

The views were nothing special, with large walls obstructing much of the panorama, but along the faultline we were able to glimpse some of the rugged remoteness of the Earl Mountains. We snapped some photos and began the long, but relatively easy descent down the upper reaches of Hut Creek. As we made our way down the creekbed, it was relieving to see that we had no waterfalls to descend, and our progress was pretty rapid.

Rufus descending upper Hut Creek

After about an hour we broke out onto the vast flats of the upper Hut Creek valley, and we made our way down towards the bush where we hoped to find the Hut Creek track, which would return us to the car. Although there was no track through the flats, the walking was quite easy, and Rufus and I took our time, soaking in the sun as we talked about sports, physics, and Nazi Germany. There was one steep section on the flats, where the gravelly creekbed gave way to large, polished boulders and cascades, but we were able to navigate these easily after our previous day’s experiences.

Hut Creek flats

Before long, we spotted a large bright orange triangle, signaling the beginning of the marked Hut Creek track, and from there on, our going got even easier. It is a comfort and a relief to be able to rely on something as simple as a series of orange blazes to get you where you need to go, and we knew that if we just followed these little triangles for a few more hours, they would lead us right back to my car.

As we descended to the Eglington Valley, we talked about the excitement of off-track tramping. Perhaps it was time for me to rescind yesterday’s statement about giving up the fine art of bushwhacking in Fiordland…just like that famous hangover-induced statement, “I’m never drinking again,” which is rarely abided, I started to think that I just may have to try off-track tramping a few more times before I leave this area.

And I think Rufus would second me on that.

To view the complete set of photos from my trip, click here.

The clouds had obstructed the summit as I looked back across Lake Manapouri from the water taxi.

“Did you have a nice tramp, then?” asked Mike, who was steering the puttering motorboat.

“Yeah, I just climbed Mt Titiroa,” I said, trying to sound humble and non-chalant, but secretly hoping for a response of surprise or congratulations.

“Ah, I see”, said Mike.  As the only mode of transportation from the mainland to the start of the Manapouri tracks, he was obviously used to taxiing the handful of people who climb the mountain every week.  But for me, it was a big deal.

Since arriving in Te Anau at the beginning of December, I have been enticed by one mountain that stands out from the sea of peaks that surround the horizon.  For the most part, all of these mountains share the same characteristic bush-clad foothills and tussock-covered alpine sections, with some gnarly black rock extrusions at their apexes.  Except for one.

Mount Titiroa is capped with barren white rock that glistens in the sun.  It often is mistaken for being snow-capped long after the summer sun has melted the last of the previous winter’s snow from the areas peaks.  It is this unique appearance that first attracted me to Mount Titiroa.

So in my free time, I’ve been doing a bit of research about the mountain.  It lays within the south-eastern edge of Fiordland National Park, rising almost directly from Lake Manapouri, another beautiful glacial lake just 20km from Te Anau.  A few weeks ago, I went on a day hike around Manapouri up to a lookout 300m above the lake, and stared directly at Titiroa’s bald peak from across a valley.  At that moment I decided that while I’m in the area, I need to climb this mountain.

From the Lake Manapouri Circle Track overlook.  Mount Titiroa is the peak in the foreground, center left.

After talking to a few people, I discovered that it isn’t the easiest mountain to climb.  Sure, it doesn’t require ropes or climbing equipment, and you don’t need crampons or an ice axe, but it does have one setback: there is no trail to the summit.  There is a track that leads to the Garnock Burn, a river running through a hanging valley at the foot of the mountain, but to reach the peak, you have to bushwhack.

So I picked up a topo map and a guide book and began to choose my route to the top.  Once I saw that my schedule allowed for two and a half days off last week, I decided it was time to climb it.  I packed up my backpack and set off for Manapouri on the morning of Wedesday 20 January. The weather forecast wasn’t perfect (rain), but it looked as though by mid-afternoon Thursday it would clear up.  As I drove, the sky was overcast, but I was in a good mood.  It had been a few weeks since I’d been out in the woods, and I was excited to see more of this area’s scenery.

At 10:00AM, I thanked Mike for the lift across the lake, arranged for him to pick me up in two days, and took off down the track.  It was a pleasant stroll through the verdant bush, and although it was overcast, the sporadic views across the lake were rewarding.


Looking across Lake Manapouri from the start of the trek.

After an hour or so, the track began to show signs that it wasn’t as highly used as the Great Walk tracks I had trekked last month.  It was muddy.  Very muddy.  I spent some time trying to avoid the pockets of mud, hoping to keep my socks dry, but soon I encountered an unavoidable problem.  The track was completely submerged…knee deep water for as far as I could see…I was walking into the lake.  I doubled back to make sure I was on the right track.  Sure enough, I could see the orange blazes on the submerged trees ahead. I had no choice.  It was time to lose my dry feet virginity.

I took a deep breath and splashed along the track, laughing out loud as I felt the cool water slosh into my boots.  This is real NZ tramping now!  It felt great.


The “Track”

After a few hours, I reached the lakeside Hope Arm Hut, stopped for a bite to eat and set out on the final marked ascent to the Garnock Burn.  I spent three hours climbing from the lake along an even lesser-used and muddier trail, but now that my feet were wet, stomping through the mud became enjoyable.  I chuckled every time I got slurped into a mudhole, and at one point, I slipped in past my knees, clumsily emerging like Swamp Thing with thick black goo covering my entire legs.  It was awesome.

Around 3:30, I arrived at Garnock Burn and said goodbye to the track.  This wide, tussocky river valley was similar to many others that I’ve been to in Fiordland, but as I made my way along the riverbank, staring up at the steep bushy face I would have to navigate, I realized that is was different in one way: I was the only one here.  I spun 360s and pondered the fact that, in all likelihood, I was the only person in the entire valley, as well as the surrounding peaks.  The solitude engulfed me.


The Garnock Burn Valley

But I soon snapped out of it, realizing that I still had quite some distance to cover, and that I haven’t even gotten to the hard part yet.  I whipped out my topo map and discovered that I would have to ford the Garnock Burn.  It wasn’t too difficult, being only knee high at its deepest and not too swift, but it was a reminder that I was crossing the threshold into the untracked territory…had this been a Great Walk, there would have been a bridge.


Fording the Garnock Burn

Once across, I stumbled through swamplands for awhile trying to find the small creek that I would follow through the steep bushy section of the lower North face of Titiroa.  Eventually, I found the stream, and quickly spotted a series of rough deer trails that criscrossed through the woods.  “This won’t be so bad,” I thought to myself, and I began to bushwhack up the hill.  But soon it got steeper.  And steeper.

Before long, I was struggling to find the deer tracks, and instead was crawling on all fours up the mossy hillside, the creek cascading into waterfalls the further up I went.  The bush wasn’t thick, but it was difficult to traverse.  I had a 40lb bag on my back, and at times was pulling myself up by holding on to tree trunks.  I’m serious…it was steep.

This didn’t bother me at all, in fact, I loved it.  I was exhausted, but it was a great feeling.  I felt as though I was the first to climb this hill, even though I was constantly flipping open my guidebook to see what the recommended route was.  The description was short and non-chalant. “The route climbs directly up the face through open bush to a rocky outcrop on the skyline, Pt 915 meters.  The small bluffs encountered can be easily skirted”.  I read this over and over.  Easily skirted?  Nothing about this ascent was easy, in my opinion…I’ve either misjudged my tramping ability, or I’m lost.

After three hours of steady climbing, my legs were shaking.  I was truly exhausted, it was beginning to get late, and it looked like it could rain any moment.  My spirit began to dwindle a bit.  As I climbed higher, the bush got thicker.  At times, I was thrusting myself through thick groves of small beech trees and manuka scrub, and I could feel myself starting to get frustrated.  Luckily, around 7:00PM, I broke free of the bush and out onto spongy spider-fern and tussock grass.  I was finally above the bush.


Exhausted after a full day of tramping.  Where can I set up camp?

I continued climbing, eager to find a flat place to settle down.  But the hill just kept going up.  My guidebook named a few good places to camp, and I found them on my topo map, but travel was much slower than I expected.  After another two hours of walking, I had managed to reach some of the gravelly tops I was expecting to see.  It was otherworldly.  Huge, strangely eroded boulders littered the steep hills, appearing like stone sculptures.  The ground beneath me was no longer tufts of grass, but a light white gravel, at times as fine as sand. In fact, in some places the steepness of the hill and the sand underfoot made it feel like I was traveling along a beach, which I’m sure any beachgoer can attest to being slow travel…and this beach was slanted at a 45° angle.


The steep “beach” of Mount Titiroa

I spent some time admiring the unique landscape, but I was running out of energy.  I soon found a flat tussocky cirque to set up camp.  Relieved, I pitched my tent, cooked a quick supper and collapsed in my sleeping bag, depleted after nearly ten hours of the most difficult hiking I’ve ever done.  

In the morning, I awoke and realized how beautiful that campsite was the I had chosen.  As I sat in the vestibule of my tent, I overlooked the entirety of the southern part of Lake Manapouri, as well as the sourrounding countryside, Lake Te Anau and the town of Te Anau.  I made coffee and ate breakfast and scanned the rapidly moving clouds for signs of rain.  It wasn’t the blue sky, panorama-view-type-of-day I was hoping for, but it seemed like it wouldn’t rain anytime soon, so I decided to make a go for the summit. 


My campsite on Mount Titiroa

Although my legs had the flexibility of frozen meat, I grabbed a few supplies and headed up towards the top of Mount Titiroa.  The clouds were moving in fast motion, and I felt as though I were watching time-lapse photography.  One second, it was intensely sunny and hot, and I would squint as I peered across the white gravel. The next moment, cool and misty, visibility limited to inches. 


Looking back towards my campsite from the approach to the summit.  Notice the blue speck to the right of the pile of rocks center foreground…that’s me tent!

I made my way upward, spirits high, and I soaked in the unique rock formations around me.  This mountain was truly unlike any other I’ve climbed here, and as I looked uphill towards the summit, shrouded in a mist of cloud, I pretended I was storming a medieval castle, about to battle a dragon.  Along the way, I let my imagination run wild, naming any vaguely reminiscent rock formation.


Whale or mitten?

Is that an elephant?  Or a tank?

Numerous times, I was fooled by false summits, thinking I’d reached the highest point, only to see another higher outcrop of boulders emerge from the clouds ahead.  Eventually, I ascended one of these summits and saw no higher point all around me.  Instead, I found a crooked, rusty metal marker.  The summit.  That boyish grin returned to my face.  I had conquered Mount Titiroa, and I did it all by myself.


Me at the summit

But then, I saw another pile of rocks, obviously higher than this “summit”.  Damn, gonna have to climb that too!  As I finished the last boulder scramble and stood up on the rock, the clouds had moved in, so my view was limited, but I didn’t care.  I laughed out loud and may have lifted my arms in exaltation.


Me at the true summit - the highest point of Mount Titiroa - 1715m.  Had to hurry up these rocks because the self-timer on my camera only goes up to 30 seconds!

I couldn’t spend too long on top.  It was already early afternoon, and I still had to make my way back to camp, pack up, and descend the steep bushy section to the Garnock Burn, where I would set up camp for the night.  So I did just that, saying goodbye to the gravelly tops and the nice campsite that I had.  It felt great to cross this peak off my list.

As I descended through the bush, I did have one small misadventure.  At one point, I discovered one of the “small bluffs” I was meant to skirt, but from above, and after trying to descend the mossy rocks found myself stuck 20 feet up from the ground unable to go any further.  I hung in limbo for a few minutes, all of my weight balanced between one foothold and a solid grasp on a tree trunk, and decided that if I could just slip my pack off and let it fall, I could descend the rest of the bluff unencumbered and retrieve it.

This was one of those mistakes that you can only learn from by trying.  I unhooked myself from my pack and attempted to ease it to the bottom of the bluff, but the height had skewed my point of view and it hit the ground with a loud thump.  I winced, but before I could make my way down to see if everything was okay, I realized a second fact that my point of view had distorted: the base of the bluff was still quite steep.  My pack began to tumble down the hill, gaining speed as it fell.  I watched it for a few seconds as it flipped down the mountainside, and then in an instant it fell out of view.  For another few moments I could hear it crashing through the bush out of site, but eventually that faded away to silence as well.

I hung to the bluffside in shock.  “Aw, shucks,” I thought to myself (only with a few more explitives) - did I just make a huge mistake?  I quickly scaled the rest of the cliff and started making my way down along the path of my tumbling pack.  When I got to the point I had lost contact with it I scanned the hillside, looking across boulders and fallen trees, until I finally saw it, embraced precipitously above a waterfall by some small beech saplings.  I sighed in relief, and went down to pick it up.  Other than an impressive dent in my steel water bottle, there was no damage.

I made it to the valley floor and set up camp amongst the tussock grass, which glowed a golden tint in the late afternoon sun.  After a nice dinner of rehydrated Morroccan Lamb, I settled down in my tent with a book and listened to the rain-like pitter patter of sandflies kamakazeing my tent fly.


Garnock Burn Campsite

Trekking Dinner

This is all the sandflies that were able to make it under my tent fly…I’m quite happy they weren’t small enough to fit through the mesh of that screen

The next day, I had an easy five hour trek out to the lake where I met up with Mike, and I made it home in time to take shower before going into work at the pizzeria.  Pretty nice little trek…

To view the rest of my photos, visit My Flickr Page.

I’ve spent the last week living on a sailboat. This has both positive and negative implications, but for the most part it was another unique and wonderful experience for me.

I met Anotnia and Peter Murphey on their sailboat, Sereia (http://www.svsereia.com) two weeks ago, and spent a few hours getting to know them in a sort of unofficial interview. They were looking for some help on their journey around New Zealand, and I was one of a few “applicants”. A few days later, when I was on my camping trip through Northland, I got a text message from Antonia saying that I got the job. A few days later, I was in the dinghy with my backpack, prepared to spend the next week or so sailing from Whangerei to Auckland.

Antonia and Peter are an American couple in their 30s, Peter from NYC and Antonia from San Francisco, and four years ago they set off under the Golden Gate bridge aboard Sereia, intending to spend a few years traveling the world by sailboat. They are part of a subculture of boaters known as cruisers, or voyagers as the Murphey’s prefer to call themselves.

They voyaged their way down the West Coast of the US into Mexico, and then down through Central America. When they reached Ecuador, they left the coast and began their journey through the open seas, stopping in the Galapagos, the Marquesas, and Tahiti among others.

In Tahiti, Antonia (who was pregnant at the time) flew to New Zealand, and Peter singlehandedly sailed Sereia to New Zealand…a 27-day solo ordeal through the South Pacific. That is nearly a month confined to a 32-foot vessel, with no one to talk to and absolutely nothing to see but flat, blue ocean and beautiful stars. This impresses me greatly.

They’ve spent the last year in Invercargill, on the South Island, raising their son Silas (now 20-months-old) and have become permanent residents in New Zealand. However, they wanted to get back on their boat, so the three of them decided to circumnavigate the country collecting research and anecdotes that Antonia plans to combine into a travel book.

They began their journey with a warm-up sail through Northland, visiting many of the places I saw from land last week. However, they soon discovered that manning a sailboat, writing a novel, and raising a toddler is an exceptional amount of work for just two people…so they decided to take advantage of the deluge of experience- and adventure-seeking backpackers in New Zealand by bringing on crew…this is where I come in.

The first few days were spent anchored in Whangerei Harbour as we made a few pre-trip preparations…minor repairs and provisioning mostly. I’ve learned that there is always something to be fixed or improved on a sailboat, and it is a constant struggle trying to maintain the boat’s seaworthiness, while continually putting it to the test while at sea.

I also found out very quickly that raising a toddler is a lot of work. In addition to helping with boat repairs, I spent a fair amount of time on Silas patrol. He is a friggin’ cute little kid! He is still experimenting with language by making constant nonsensical noises (his favorite is the motor boat noise) and we try to give him daily walking practice on land. Oh, and he likes to wake everyone up at 5:30AM with a less-than-pleasant whine… But other than that, he is a chill, pleasant little kid and I enjoyed getting to hang out with him.

We finally pulled up the anchor on the morning of Wednesday, 28 October and headed straight into a 25-knot Southerly wind. We made it to the mouth of the river, an area near the Whangerei Heads known as The Nook (or “Nuke” as some Germans called it). Whangerei Heads are a scenic set of three volcanic mountains that jut up out of the Pacific, and they look much more like Hawaii than anything I’ve seen in NZ so far…steep and quite green.

The next morning, the winds were so strong coming out of the south, that Peter decided to stay at anchor one more day. I spent the day wandering around the shores of The Nook, but was eager to get back on the water and hopefully do some true sailing.

On Friday, we left The Nook early in the morning to calm, sunny conditions. There is an ugly oil refinery that ruined an otherwise beautifully scenic Whangerei Harbor, with the Heads to the north and long curvy Bream Bay to the south. But once we passed it, the scenery was gorgeous. We kept a few miles off the coast, and were rewarded with views of the coastal mountains and cliffs as well as a number of offshore island, many of which are uninhabited, pristine nature preserves.

We were on the water for nearly eight hours, and for part of the time the winds cooperated enough for us to cut the motor and sail for a few hours. I only got a small taste of true sailing, but I loved it. The silence of motor-less motion, cutting through the seas at a decent six knots under the power of only the wind, was invigorating. I soaked up all the knowledge I could get from Peter, who was patient and thorough as he taught be the very basics of sailing. I won’t get into everything I learned, but I can tell you that I am now much more well-informed about knot-tying, sail area optimization, boat maintenance, and diesel engines. And my vocabulary has nearly doubled now that I know a plethora of sailing terms. It really is like mastering a new language.

We anchored at a very sheltered bay called North Cove on Kawau Island, just off the mainland coast about a 45-minute drive north of Auckland. We were planning on continuing on to Auckland the next day and finishing the trip, but Peter noticed a boat in the harbor that looked strangely familiar to him. Turns out, we found the the anchorage of Lynn and Larry Pardey, an American couple who helped voice the now dying generation of low-technology cruisers that people like Antonia and Peter idolize. The Pardeys are authors of a number of influential books to the voyaging culture, and their philosophies of sailing are kind of like the Simon and Garfunkel of the boating world. They’ve spent decades exploring the world’s seas, all before the modern era of GPS and auto-helm…the Pardey’s don’t even have an engine in their boat…they go everywhere by the power of the wind. They are somewhat the voice of a lost generation, but Peter and Antonia were excited at the possibility of meeting two of their sailing idols.

This is where the story gets interesting. In an effort to introduce himself, Peter rowed the dinghy over to the Pardey’s boat. They weren’t there, but the owner of another yacht nearby started to talking to Peter, and informed him that the Pardey’s were having a 70th Birthday/Halloween Party that evening. Ecstatic, Peter came back to Sereia and told us that the four of us would be crashing the party.

I spent the day exploring Kawau Island, tramping through bush, birdwatching, and swimming in the bay, and around 7:00PM, we all jumped in the dinghy and went over to the Pardey’s dock to crash a party. Almost immediately, Peter and Antonia recognized Lynn and Larry and introduced themselves, Silas and myself, and when the Pardey’s found out we were crashing, they invited us right in. We were going to a Pardey party.

I spent the next few hours walking around idly and mingling with a few people who were all a few generations older than me and highly passionate about a subject that I’ve only spent the last few days familiarizing myself with. But it was a good experience. Toddlers are good conversation starters too. I ended up chatting for awhile with a Cougar Kiwi named Kim, a wealthy JAFA (NZ acronym for “Just Another F-ing Aucklander”) who lived in the bay across from the Pardeys. And I met a Canadian woman who was also babysitting a toddler. But for the most part, it wasn’t my scene at all, and I was happy to leave after a few hours. I also failed to find the beer that everyone seemed to be walking around with…Peter and I concluded that it must have been BYO, and he dinghy-ed us back to Sereia…sober, but happy to have gotten the chance to meet two of his idols. When we got back, I noticed that Antonia and Peter had two or three of their books in the library on the boat…I read a few of the pages, and could see how they were influential. Their philosophy was to accomplish a lot by only using a little.

I ended up sleeping out on the deck because it was so nice out…cold, but very clear, and laying out under a crescent moon in a sheltered bay on a sailboat, the sounds of a live band playing Brown Eyed Girl in the background, I fell asleep quickly and contently.

On Sunday, we awoke early as usual, had our coffee, and were on our way to Auckland by 8:00AM. The wind was only about 15 knots, but it was straight out of the south, the exact direction we were headed, so we had to take down the sails and motor our way into the harbor.

The trip was only a few hours, but it was nice to approach the city from the sea. This was my fourth time coming to Auckland in just one month in the country, but I was still impressed by the beautiful skyline as we navigated around the islands of the Hauraki Gulf and into the highly-trafficked waters of the downtown harbor.

Auckland is known as the City of Sails, but disappointingly, there are no free anchorages to be found anywhere. There are a number of marinas, but they can be fairly pricey, and by charging for use of their waters, they go against one of the foundations of voyaging culture. So Peter was determined to find a sheltered place to anchor Sereia, and surprisingly we found one. We sailed under the Auckland Harbour Bridge, avoiding the bungy-jumping tourists that dangled from its rafters, and laid out the anchor in a choppy, but fairly calm bay near the posh Ponsonby neighborhood.

Once we arrived, I spent an extra day on the boat helping run a few errands, but informed Peter and Antonia that I would regretfully have to deny the invitation to continue sailing with them. I loved my time on the boat, and part of me really wanted to continue with the adventure, but I was already a few weeks behind when I wanted to get to the South Island and I badly need a job.

So yesterday, I said goodbye to the Murpheys and caught the ferry to North Shore City to pick up my car and begin my long journey south. I hope that in a few months, I can join back up with them and do some more legs of their trip around the country. And I’m really, really hoping to be able to join them for the Stewart Island / Fiordland legs in January and February…but that is a long way away and I have many other adventures to undertake before then.