Milford Sound

Of all New Zealand's wonders, the one you're not supposed to miss is Milford Sound. A million travelers heed that advice each year. It's the travel brochure image that everyone associates with this country.



Milford is not actually a sound. It's a fjord-- a narrow, deep inlet carved straight through rock by glacial erosion. Milford is framed by impossibly steep peaks that rise thousands of feet above the water's surface, and continue just as precipitously a few thousand feet below the water's surface, allowing cruise ships to sail comfortably within a few feet of the shoreline. It's the most famous fjord in Fiordland National Park, and so New Zealand's government goes to great effort and expense to preserve it and make it accessible to visitors.

The drive to Milford Sound winds through particularly beautiful mountain scenery, even by New Zealand standards. We've been driving 2-4 hours a day here in all sorts of conditions, but our innkeeper in Te Anau advised us to take a bus into Milford. Weather changes constantly in winter, and the road sometimes closes for days or weeks at a time. The steep rock faces that border the fjords hold hazardous precariously perched blankets of snow that regularly break loose. The government drops explosives by helicopter to create preemptive, controlled avalanches, but they don't get everything. The topography of the slopes in this area creates an unusual and terrifying situation where high-level avalanches hit the sheer faces and become airborne. The mass of falling debris compresses the air trapped in these narrow valleys and creates a howling, 300 mile per hour windstorm that precedes the actual avalanche. Scary stuff.

In any case, on the day we visited, the forecast was for clear, unthreatening weather, but we decided to take the bus anyway. It was a nice change of pace for Steve to kick back and let someone else drive.

Our very comfortable coach left from scenic downtown Te Anau at about 10 AM. Before we reached Milford Sound, we stopped at a couple of places along the way. They weren't kidding when they named this Mirror Lake.




One of New Zealand's more interesting birds is the Kea-- an alpine parrot that loves tourists. There were a couple of keas at one of our stops, hopping around the parking lot from tourist to tourist in hopes of scoring a snack. It took enormous patience to get picture #1; the scene looked much more like picture #2.








Scenes like the one above drive us crazy. There are too many people, too much noise, and no opportunity for the kind of solitary experience we had in Curio Bay. We were getting very cranky.

We have an admittedly bad attitude about tours. We have a bad attitude about tour buses, a bad attitude about tour operators, and a downright misanthropic attitude about everyone else on the bus.

It was with this sort of attitude that we discovered the woman in the purple vest. We initially disliked her, because she kept tossing her puffy orange ski jacket over the back of her seat and into our laps, but we warmed up to her quickly.




She was the platonic ideal of tourists. She munched on chicken-flavored potato chips. She was always the last one back on the bus. She took twelve thousand pictures through the bus windows, sometimes climbing on her neighbor's lap to get a better angle. And here's the best part: she mostly took pictures of power lines and window frames. Melissa was too fascinated by her camera's view screen to look at ours. We have a couple dozen pictures of this woman taking pictures of all the wrong things. If it sounds like we're mocking her, maybe we are. A little. Her enthusiasm was very charming, and later on the boat, she walked around from person to person, generously offering to take pictures of them with their cameras.

So here's our bite of humble pie: the platonic ideal of tourists is a sweetheart. She may seem ridiculous, but she's really happy to be there. And that thick crowd of tourists? Each one traveled a long way to be there too, and we'd be better people if we cut them a little slack. We promise to be better people. Maybe.

We arrived at Milford Sound shortly before 1PM. It rains two hundred days a year in here, but July's the driest month. If that sounds promising, consider this: Fiordland's driest month has three times the precipitation of Portland's wettest month. The fog obscured the top of Mitre Peak, but we felt pretty lucky that it wasn't pouring - a distinct possibility on any day of the year here.



This was our boat.




We had a light lunch below deck while the captain reviewed all the safety information, and then we bundled up to go outside.




It rained on us, briefly, but the views were so pretty that we never considered going back inside. And within minutes, the rain stopped, and the weather progressively improved.

We mentioned earlier that the rock faces are as steep below the water as they are above it. This makes it possible to sail right up into Milford's many waterfalls. The people on the lower deck who didn't pay attention to the captain's warnings got a very cold shower.













Our tour was billed as a nature cruise. It's sometimes possible to see Hector's Dolphins, the smallest dolphins in the world, here in Milford Sound. As we learned in Curio Bay, they generally stay farther from the coast in the winter. We saw a couple of juvenile male fur seals, but never expected to see these guys from a boat at 2PM: a pair of rare Fiordland Crested Penguins. See if you can find them in the picture.





The clouds cleared as our boat entered the fiercely windy Tasman Sea and turned back toward Milford. We've seen many rainbows in NZ, but it was a real treat to see one here.






Back at the dock, the cloud cover returned, but it was so pretty that we didn't mind it at all.







With the Sun lower in the sky, the ride back to Te Anau was more beautiful than the ride to Milford had been a few hours before. The woman in the purple vest took pictures of the side of the bus, shot video of a vast field of sheep off in the distance (so far away they looked more like lice), and then fell asleep. With nothing else to focus on, we enjoyed the view and reflected on the day.

We both had this odd feeling that something was missing, but we couldn't really articulate it until dinner. When we went to Machu Picchu, we spent a few hours at the site, saw it from every angle, and then climbed to the Watchman's Hut for the iconic view that everyone associates with Machu Picchu. We saw a lot of beautiful things today, but with the top of Mitre Peak hidden by clouds, we never saw the one, iconic view that most people associate with Milford Sound. That doesn't diminish the experience on a conscious level, but in a more visceral way, we feel like we didn't "see it."

Tomorrow, Doubtful Sound.

Location:Rodeo Dr,Te Anau,New Zealand

Follow that Sun

When we drove through the mountains from Wanaka yesterday, the skies were perfectly blue and clear and huge in every direction except one. Our destination, Mount Cook, looked like Eeyore off in the distance, shaded by rain clouds that seemed to start and end exactly at its borders.

In the hit parade of the world's scenic drives, New Zealand's Highway 8 is in a category all its own. We had no idea that the drive to Mount Cook would be so beautiful, but the region is unrelentingly breathtaking. Just as you habituate to 360 degrees of jagged, glistening, snow-covered mountains and scrape your jaw up off the floor of your rented Corolla, the road dumps you out beside the milky, celadon-green waters of Lake Pukaki. We had hoped to hike the Kea Point Trail when we got to Mount Cook, but the cloud cover only worsened. When we woke up to a solid white sky and sheeting rain, we figured we had two options: hang out at our lovely lodge, The Hermitage, or find the Sun and follow it elsewhere for the day. We chose the latter.

The sky was still grey when we left the mountain, but a faint rainbow ahead gave us hope.





And then, for the second time in a day, we reached Lake Pukaki.





We pulled off the road at least a dozen times. We snapped a few pictures, but mostly we gaped at the water. The sky looked blue toward the east, so we set our sights on Lake Tekapo.

New Zealand has just about exhausted our ability to describe various shades of blue and green. For Lake Pukaki, we settled on celadon. Lakes Wanaka and Hawea are indisputably azure. Lake Tekapo is turquoise. Backlit turquoise.














We enjoyed our walk at Lake Tekapo, but we decided to leave ourselves enough time for the Kea Trail, just in case Mount Cook's personal rain cloud lifted. As we approached the turnoff to the mountain, though, the sky darkened and strong winds jolted the car (and the trees) from side to side.




If the sun shines for us tomorrow morning, we'll stay long enough for that short trail. If it doesn't, then we're off bright and early to Oamaru and its many penguins.

Location:Terrace Rd,Mt Cook National Park,New Zealand

Mount Cook, Day One

Location:Terrace Rd,Mt Cook National Park,New Zealand

Open letter

Dear New Zealand,

Glad to be here. Love your snowy mountains, your endless deserted beaches, your not-that-bad-actually sauvignon blanc, your amusingly-named waterways, and your friendly citizens. So how 'bout you consider springing for two lanes on a few more of your bridges? Just a suggestion.

Wanaka. It rhymes with Hanukkah.

We left Franz Josef after a night of pounding rain. When we reached Fox Glacier, about 30 km south of Franz Josef, the clouds were low and threatening. We drove up the short gravel road to the glacier lookout, stepped out, snapped a few photos of the nearly-invisible glacier, and hopped back in the car.


We drove south along the west coast through alternating periods of rain, mist, and gloom. If there were any spectacular views of the nearby mountains, they were obscured by clouds and fog. We stopped briefly at the Munro Beach track, but the time of day, the tide, and the weather conspired against us and we had no hope of spotting the Fjordland Crested Penguins that occasionally emerge from the surf.




So we drove on, stopping for gas and a dispiriting search for a healthy lunch in the scruffy little town of Haast. When we reached the lone cafe, the only thing on the menu that wasn't battered and deep fried was the spaghetti sandwich. New Zealand has fresh, innovative food at the high end, but at the fringes, it's thoroughly old school British. After a greasy pub meal the night before, we just couldn't handle it. We opted for an apple and some crackers in the car instead. We were getting a little grumpy.

Then we turned east and followed the Haast River valley up and over Haast pass. Although we drove through a snow-covered landscape for a few miles, the roads were clear and - as we've experienced throughout our trip so far - mostly deserted.



Within a few miles of the summit of the pass, it was clear that we'd passed from the tropical luxuriance (and near constant rain) of the west coast into a drier, sparer environment. The snow peaks surrounding us were no longer choked with vegetation - instead, long expanses of open range land were interspersed with occasional copses of trees. A Great Basin-type landscape, if you ignore the occasional stand of giant cabbage trees.

The unrelenting overcast thinned, shattered, and bright sunshine beamed down as we zoomed down the empty road. We found ourselves driving beside an enormous, deep blue lake, utterly empty for as far as the eye could see. Lake Wanaka, which stretches for over 40 km in length and over 10 km at its widest point. Looking at that enormous, empty body of water, I was reminded of Pyramid Lake in Nevada.


A quick left turn of the road and suddenly an entirely new vista presented itself to us: Lake Hawea lies in a glacier-carved valley parallel to Wanaka. It's not as large as Wanaka, but even more spectacular, with jagged, snow-covered peaks surrounding all but its narrow southern end. Under the sunny skies, the water in Lake Hawea was as blue as I've ever seen at Crater Lake. We stopped several times to gawk at the spectacular landscape.






We rolled down from the mountains and into the busy resort town of Wanaka. Our motel room (more on this later-- motels are a whole 'nother thing here) is typical NZ style: spacious, squeaky clean, and perfectly comfortable - and outside our back door, there's a narrow, rushing stream full of absolutely enormous trout.





After exploring Wanaka, which is a ski town through and through in the winter, we found a great little Indian place for dinner. We settled in by the fire with a bottle of Otago "Misha's Vineyard" Riesling, and raised a glass to our delicious curries-- which were neither battered nor deep fried.

That bottle of Riesling prompted us to add a detour through Otago to tomorrow's drive to Mount Cook. Riesling is often dismissed as sweet and unserious by casual wine lovers, but among hardcore oenophiles, it's treasured as the finest, most transparent in character, and longest-aging white wine in the world. The best examples usually come from Germany, Alsace, and Austria. We've yet to find a New World Riesling that can compete on quality or price with a $20 Mosel Kabinett, but the bottle we had last night hinted at a strong effort to do precisely that.

Off to Otago to test that idea.

Location:Upton St,Wanaka,New Zealand

Rush Hour

Location:Hwy 6, New Zealand

Grey-Blue Ice

The western coast of New Zealand's South Island is a rainy place-- rainier, even, than the place we left to visit here. Before we arrived, we made a pact: if the weather was clear at the Franz Josef Glacier, we'd walk on the ice. If the weather wasn't clear, we'd walk to the ice. Steve did a little rain dance before we headed into the mountains.

It was partly cloudy when we arrived in Franz Josef, so we started with a short walk to Pete's Pond to get a view of the glacier in the distance.











The pond was frozen, and the glacial ice looked flat grey under the thick cloud cover, but there was no rain in sight. We hemmed and hawed over what to do-- should we wait for morning and hope for clear skies? We decided that the absence of rain was reason enough to cross the terminal moraine (I'm taking Steve's word that that's actually what you call the boulder field that leads to a glacier's snout; I apologize if it actually means something different, especially if it's the technical name for something gross like a cat's butt) this afternoon.

If the views weren't what we'd hoped for, we found unexpected pleasure in the way the Franz Glacier forest smelled-- honeyed, floral, salty, earthy, and grassy. Like so much of what we've seen here, the area is an odd juxtaposition of Alpine and tropical elements, with snowy peaks rising up over fern trees and palms. It was almost disappointing to leave the forest and walk across the rocks.

As we walked across the rocks, Steve commented on how unusual it felt to visit a glacier so close to sea level. I agreed, but then I realized that every glacier I've seen has been close to sea level. Southwest NZ, Glacier Bay AK, and the south coast of Iceland all have extreme enough climates that you don't need to scale a mountain to see an ice field.

When we reached the edge of the glacier about forty minutes later, we were rewarded with a hint of blue under all that white and and grey.



















We snapped a few pictures, and turned to walk back. Of course, that's when the rain started. This time, we were prepared for it. We pulled on our gloves and our hoods, and stayed mostly dry.

I learned another survival skill out by the glacier, though. As we walked over the smooth trail, which has been meticulously cleared of larger rocks, I noticed a strange feeling in my legs. As I described it to Steve, it felt as though my muscles had somehow been drained of energy. He looked at me lovingly and sympathetically, the way you look at a child who mispronounces things, and explained that it was late afternoon and I hadn't eaten anything but a latte and half a banana all day. I was out of fuel.

Food isn't just stuff that's fun to make, pretty to photograph, and tasty to chew-- it's gasoline for people.

Who knew?

Location:Franz Glacier, New Zealand

Pancakes

Monday. Lazy, scenic, sunny. We drove southwest from Nelson to Punakaiki, and saw pretty things along the way.

We stopped at a honey farm smack dab in the middle of nowhere, and picked up a few jars of potent Manuka honey. Manuka honey is prized by granola-types for its antibacterial properties. We just like that it's kind of minty.

We stopped at the Tua Dellaca Reserve, where Little Blue Penguins emerge at sunset.













We got to the Pancake Rocks at almost-high tide, and watched the surf pound against and in between massive, striated limestone formations.























And we made a donation. A couple of days before I left Portland, our dear friend Eve gave me two one-dollar bills for my cosmic protection. "Donate one in New Zealand," she explained. "And donate the other when you return." Eve suggested I hand the first dollar off to a New Zealand hobo, but we haven't seen one. We saw a shoeless backpacker, but based on the rest of his attire, we're pretty sure it was an affectation and not actual poverty. Anyway, I was very happy to see this display at Punakaiki.







Eve, the first part of our mission is complete, and we love you madly for wanting to keep us safe.

After our brief visit to the Pancake Rocks, we backtracked up the coast to a trail called the Truman Track. We timed our visit so that we'd get to the beach-- another one where the elusive Little Blue Penguins make their home-- close enough to sunset to see them, but not so close that the jungly trail would be pitch black on our way out. We didn't see any penguins, but the beach was stunning.









Next stop: the Franz Josef Glacier.

Location:Punakaiki, New Zealand

Did we mention the view?

We've spent the last two nights at The Wheelhouse Inn, a group of self-contained vacation cottages in a residential neighborhood on a bluff overlooking the ocean in Nelson. Our hosts are Sally and Ralph Hetzel, expatriate Americans who left their home in Long Beach, CA, on a sailboat in 1974, sailed around the world, and then dropped their anchor permanently in New Zealand.

Sally and Ralph have created a remarkable lodging option in Nelson. Our rental unit could easily sleep six. It has a well-stocked kitchenette, a patio (with grill), spacious living areas, its own laundry room, and a million-dollar view at one-ten-thousandth the tariff.





That's the view from the livingroom. It's also the view from the kitchen and the bedroom, because the west-facing walls are almost entirely windows.

Ralph is also a ceramics artist. The kitchen is stocked with what we assume are his whimsical pieces, but his signature works are outside, peeking in from the bushes.