The only land route out of Milford is the same one we took in, and we had to backtrack quite a way through Queenstown to head back west toward the coast again. We crossed the Southern Alps through the Haast Pass, one of the few ways across the mountains. Our route took us through some of the heart of greenstone country. This New Zealand jade-like nephrite was much prized by the original Maori culture. Called pounamu by the Maori, it was valued for its beauty and its hardness. A Stone Age culture, the Maori relied heavily on this mineral for material to craft weapons and tools. It is indigenous to the part of the S. Island toward which we were headed. In fact, the Maori name for the S. Island is Te Wai Pounamu, or the Island of Greenstone. It was widely traded, and many Maori even from the North Island would travel to harvest it. You can’t help but be awed by the obstacles that these people overcame to get here and get out, carrying hundreds of pounds of stone in flax baskets. Early European, or Pakeha in Maori, settlers followed these tracks and their sketches of the perilous journey are sobering. Some of the areas were accessible only by climbing down, and then back up, on vine ropes suspended from the cliffs to the river valleys below. Sketches of Pakeha travelers with muskets and packs slung over their shoulders, and with their dogs roped to a separate vine, illustrated the challenge.
The Haast River rumbles through a glacier-carved valley toward the sea through Mt. Aspiring National Park. We followed it through the spectacular Gates of Haast, with thundering waterfalls, through to the coast and then north to the Franz Josef Glacier. It’s one of two glaciers flowing west from the Alps toward the sea. Our plan was to hike up a track that would afford us a view of Franz Josef.
“Now You’re Tramping Like Kiwis!”
The weather throughout our trip settled into a pattern something like this: rain, followed by drizzle, followed by more rain, an interval of “fine” weather, followed by…more rain. The rain certainly filled the rivers and waterfalls and enhanced their dramatic impact. But as it filled the rivers, so too did it fill the hiking tracks. We’d already biked through a day of alternating drizzle and downpour. Now as we approached the Franz Josef Glacier, the heli-hiking option some in the group had chosen was cancelled because of the weather. We all tumbled out of the bus in serious wet to begin our tramp up to Robert’s Ridge, from which we hoped to view the glacier.
The hike took us through lovely forest and across a long swing bridge, over a river swollen with rain. But it was further on, when
we confronted a stream that seemed to offer no safe passage, that we had our
real “baptism.” Nic’s pack was lying across the trail, a clear signal to all who
followed her to wait. A few moments later she appeared out of the bush. “Follow
me,” she bade, and we tramped a few dozen meters downstream behind her. “Here’s
where we cross,” she said. She promptly strode into water well over her boots,
planted herself, and waited for us to follow as she provided a stable hold point
for those who needed it. All our hard work waterproofing our boots before
leaving home went right out the window. Within moments we were across, but our
boots were flooded, our socks soaked. As Nev came pounding up the track behind
us and splashed through he looked at our bewildered faces and announced, “Now
you’re tramping like Kiwis!”We continued squishing our way up the track. In some places we found refuge from the rain in heavy forest cover. As we squished along, water would literally spring out of our boots. We’d even begin to feel a little drier. Then we’d emerge to cross another
swollen
river – calmly splashing through like “real Kiwis” – and be sprinkled afresh
from above. Water naturally finds its own course, and it shouldn’t have been a
surprise that this was most often the track we were following. The rocks were
slick with rain, if not hosting a small waterfall of their own. We proved that
woolen or polypro socks really do keep your feet warm even when wet. We’d been
warned again and again to follow one simple rule in dressing for tramps: “no
cotton next to your skin.” This tramp proved the value of wool or polypro
clothing that dries qu
ickly
and stays warm when wet. It increased my awe of both the Maori, who made do with
outer coats made from river rushes and flax garments, and early Pakeha, who
labored under heavy Mackintoshes that had no breathability at all. In the end we never got to see the glacier. Even those who went the full distance in the deteriorating weather reported there was nothing to see as clouds filled the valley and obscured the view. The rest of us turned back short of there as the small rivulets coming down the track continued to grow in size and force.
This was the sort of weather from which we would have retreated without hesitation back home. But here, with the right equipment and the right attitude, it became simply another enhancement to the trip. While this was our first real acquaintance with watery tramping, it wasn’t the last and provided a fine introduction to the art of “tramping like Kiwis."