Milford unSound Part 2 of 2

Day 1
Entering the Milford Track is like stepping into another world. The ferry ride guides you through dense fog that drapes the mountains like rabbit fur coats. The air carries rich smells of decomposing plants and rain. The mountains huddle around you clinging tightly to their verdant, richly green forests. Waterfalls clamor down cliffsides into the sparkling blue water. It's a land untouched, oblivious to the impatience of the modern world, its tranquility is palpable.

The first day the walk is 1 mile to get to the first of 3 huts, you get a head start from the guided walkers (for double the price you get showers, catered meals and fancy titanium walking sticks) so you don't sully their experience with your stick-free walking and immense clumsy backpacks. The walk is completely flat and extremely well maintained. The track winds through tightly wound ferns and psychedelic mosses that blanket the ground and trees. It was during this 20 minute stroll that I got to thinking that I might just enjoy the 4 day hiking trip. However, my next thought was that I had only just completed 1/33 of the journey.



Day 2
The second day begins the slow ascent to the mountain. The walk is largely along a large stunningly clear river that twists and turns through the trees. Eventually the forest opens up into a beautiful savannah like plain. It was here that we listened to the shockingly loud gunshot rumbles of avalanches cascading down the mountains. The day ended at the base of the mountains, nestled in valley wedged between steep cliffs. Keas and wekas darted across the porch threatening to carry off shoes, backpacks or anything that they can drag off between their beaks. The end of day 2 felt really good, I had made the hike with energy to spare and watched the sunset's glow off the mountains with a glass of wine and a sleepy smile.




Day 3
Day 3 is spent arduously hiking to the top of Mackinnon pass and then perillously navigating the way back down again. White mountain flares peak through the snow, the sun sets the mountain ablaze with a shimmering sparkle. The ice and slush demands that the ground not be taken for granted. The summit is blustery and cold. Katie hands me a chocolate bar in the hopes that I won't cry. When asked what I think of the view, I callously respond that I've seen mountains before and I prefer to view them from my seat in front of the fireplace. The top of the mountain has an outhouse with arguably the best view in the world. So while I clumsily undo my many layers of clothing, I laugh, the view from the toilet is stunning.

As a result of the increasing avalance danger we are instructed to take the emergency path down the mountain. This “safe path” is actually the dried up remains of a riverbed, so the next few hours are spent treading atop smooth river worn stones. By the end of it my knees feel like they have just been icepicked by tiny midgets for the last few hours. My ankles are tired and wobbly and my legs feel like jello. Despite the cold I have been sweating and panting. I am dirty. I am tired. I am done with this walk.
After lunch and a few cigarettes we had the opportunity to take our packs off, change into sandals and take a detour to Sutherland Falls (arguably the fifth highest waterfall in the world). The thundering waterfall sprays icey mist into my face and I have to admit silently to myself that the Milford Track is exquisitely beautiful.



Day 4
Day 4 is exciting because the end is in sight. My body is sore and I am grumpy. I do not want to eat any more canned tuna and I yearn for a scaldingly hot shower. The walk out is flat and easy but at just over 10 miles it is the longest single stretch of the trip and it has to be completed before the last ferry leaves at 2pm. An hour into the hike I can feel my ankles bleeding, I don't dare take off my shoes because I know that once I do I will not put them back on. By mile 5 I pick up the pace despite my throbbing knees and smarting ankles. A swarm of sandflies gather around my face and as long as I don't stop they will not eat me alive. The end of the hike looks exactly like the beginning and I don't even bother taking out my camera. The last two miles are torturously long and never have I beamed like I did once we reached Sandfly Point. The walk had finally come to an end.

Looking back on it, I don't regret walking The Milford Track, it was absolutely incredible, it was dramatic and stunning and never have I been anywhere so blissfully undisturbed by humans. In fact, I am proud of myself for embarking on what may have been the dumbest idea I've ever had. However, the best part is that now that I have the distinction of walking the “most beautiful track in the world”, nothing will ever rival the experience so I will never again have to bother.

Milford unSound Part 1 of 2

Dear reader, if you have ever met me personally then you will know that I am not the stereotypical Coloradan. I am not a hardcore nature enthusiast in any sense barring my absolute adoration of daytime porch drinking. I am a smoker, I am a drinker and if I had my way I would sleep fourteen hours a day. That being said, I am about to embark on the 33.5 mile Milford Track. Did I mention that I have to carry in all my supplies and there are no showers? Yup, this promises to be one hell of a beautiful disaster.

The week before the track I was already upset. We had spent over two hundred dollars just to have the privilege of walking around with a heap of shit attached to our backs. Why do people do this, I wondered? I cunningly fooled myself into believing that my holey New Balances and my definitively non-waterproof coat would suffice, I also held fast to the false idea that all those lunges in the vineyard would have my body prepped for grueling wilderness trekking. Yeah, no problem, piece of cake, all the while shaking my head. I was utterly fucked.

During the week prior, I made minor mention about my worries and tried my best not to break down and tell Katie that she was on her own. I actually found that the best strategy was not to think about it at all. I mean, the brochure does say that the walk is suitable for those aged 10-70+, so if grandpas can do it, so can I. All was going well until we made out stop in Te Anau, the last town before Milford Sound.

Our first stop was the Department of Conservation to pick up our tickets (yes, that's right, we had to have tickets, front row seats to the arena of suffering) the lady at the DOC told us the weather was going to be nothing but rain and snow. SNOW! Katie had never mentioned the s word and I had not conceived that we would be walking through that cold, white powdery substance sent directly from Lucifer's wings way down in the center of hell. Then in a most condescending tone she added, “you do have rain jackets, right?” And, “you aren't planning on hiking in jeans?” Excuse me lady, I am from Colorado! Demoralized and insulted we went to the outdoor equipment store since I needed to rent a backpack to carry my gear. Katie insisted that we rent waterproof pants, then she added that I should get a coat. Then to top it all off, in a manner most practical, she suggested that we rent boots as well, which of course meant that we had to buy appropriate socks.

It was here, in front of Gareth, our friendly teenage salesman that I was on the verge of bursting into tears. In fact, finding socks was the perfect excuse to walk away so that I could dry my eyes and pull my shit together. Below pretty much sums up why I was crying

$70 gas to reach the fairly inaccessible fiordlands
$110 renting equipment
$40 fancy wool water wicking socks
$65 tuna, crackers, cheese, trailmix and apples
$135 three nights of deluxe accommodation with 40 complete strangers in a barrack
$61 ferry to start of track
$30 ferry back to mainland
$53 bus back to where we parked our car
Grand Total : $564

To put it into perspective in two weeks of dreadful vineyard work I made $718. So, not only was I about to be physically pillaged, but my bank account had already been plundered. What the hell am I doing? Next stop: Painsville.

900 K's in 5 Days- A Photo Essay

Day 3- Mt. Cook Glacier


Day 4- Wanaka, Lake Wanaka


Day 5- Queenstown, Lake Moke

900 K's in 5 Days- A Photo Essay

DAY 1- Blenheim, Kaikoura, Akaroa




DAY 2- Lake Tekapo, Lake Pukaki, Mt. Cook

Green Lipped and Soaking Wet

New Zealand's seafood industry is thriving and several factors contribute to its plentiful ocean bounty. The country is sparsely populated (beach fronts are often home to cows and sheep) which enables the proliferation and maturation of seafood. Also, New Zealand is a relatively new country and many pains and regulations have been put in place to ensure that the environments are fertile and the industry remains sustainable.

The combination of abundant seafood and lax daily allowances make a free meal for a backpacker just a beach away. Today we went to White's Bay (30 minutes from our hostel in Spring Creek) to collect New Zealand's famous green lipped mussels. As you approach the rocky outcropping you notice tiny black shells covering the rocks like snake scales, I can only assume those are baby mussels. Closer toward the water line is where the bigger ones reside, there are literally hundreds of thousands all wedged together, some on top of others like crusty banana bunches. Most of them are as big as your hand.

So, how hard can it be to collect some motionless shelled creatures from along the beach on a beautiful sunny day? Ha! First of all, going at low tide is imperative as mussels choose to make their homes along the most dauntingly sharp and steep rocks they can “find”. Secondly, the tiny hairs that attach themselves are more like cement than delicate fibrous strands. Thirdly, crabs and other tiny creatures inhabit the same jagged rocks and have no qualms about scuttling across your hands. Lastly, it is foolish to think that low tide is synonymous with no tide.

Equipped with sandals, a plastic bag and my cutest beach outfit I perilously wedged myself and my sandaled toes between razor sharp rocks just above tide line, bracing myself against the rocks I bent down as far as I could to reach the submerged mussels. It was then that I quickly re-acquainted myself with the crashing waves, then the rocks, then the crabs. I couldn't help thinking that just down the road I could catch myself a kilo of mussels for $2.99. Laughing, soaked and raw fingered I headed home with my mussel posse and three full bags to eat ourselves into a crustacean coma.

W(h)ine

Today at work I reminisced about days way back in March when I harvested grapes for Stonyridge vineyard and my friend John called it, “a dreams job for realsville” and it was true, we took our sweet time under the shade of the mature vines and painstakingly examined each cluster of grapes in between bursts of laughter and conversation, they fed us lunch and supplied us with beer at the end of each day, a Dionysian paradise right here on earth... (cue soft focus and a gentle yet perky violin quartet) this is me recounting fond memories from “good old days” gone by. Good old days that seem increasingly unreal the more I try to focus in on them.

Blenheim, the heart of Marlborough, is the viticulture capital of New Zealand. Obscene amounts of wine pour from its valleys, each vintage supplying Kiwi's and those abroad with enough alcohol to keep them good and soused until the next. These massive estates hire out contracting services that send out their middle men to recruit the cheapest labor force possible, this is where the backpackers and Malaysians come in. Gathered by the dozens in the wee hours of the morning we are shipped to expansive vineyards to complete paradoxically simple yet backbreaking work on endless rows of plants. What appears to be the easy task of sliding a green tube-shaped bag onto a bamboo stick and over a budding plant is actually a sadistic order to hunch over into a thousand or so lunges until you can't decide whether your thighs, knees, back or calves hurt more.

Sometimes the labor is paid by the hourly minimum wage (which is currently $12.50/hour) and sometimes it is paid per plant completed either as a team or as an individual. The going rate tends to be 3-4 cents for the easier jobs, like the one listed above. Trust me, you are ecstatic if you can earn over one hundred dollars a day. It's enlightening in the sense that if you haven't engaged in habitual manual labor you can't understand what it does to your mind and body (I have only had its acrid seething taste grace my tongue), However, this is the life that millions of people toil under without ever earning enough to sufficiently care for their family. It's shocking to be a part of the dredges of this vast, bottomless abyss of an economic system we so eagerly abide.