It was raining on Saturday, cold, needle-like unpleasant rain. Higher up on the slopes of Mt. Luxmore the rain was falling as snow and there were rumours a dangerous blizzard would form. The Southland Times on my breakfast table carried photographs of a relieved and thankful hiker who had been plucked from the ravages of a similar storm a few days earlier. There was a thank-you to his saviours and pictures of brave men with helicopters and stretchers; there were admonishments and warnings and statistics and chilling what-ifs. The cold needle-like rain that was falling on Te Anau was a warning that things were not safe higher up, and to stay low. I was tired anyway; Friday's seven hour hike along the rainforested banks of the Waiau river followed on a week of tramping and glacier walking. I had that slightly chilly, almost hungover feeling sitting in the hostel kitchen. A sweet steaming bowl of oats worked at warming my bones but failed to reach my brain. It would not be a day for adventure.
By ten I had made up my mind to go to Milford Sound. The comforts of a Newman's coach bus -- soft seating, warm air and an informative but unintrusive commentary -- followed by a cruise on New Zealand's most famous fjord greatly outweighed the prospect of a day window-shopping in tiny Te Anau. As we purred along the mountain road, I watched the scenic vista roll past. Sheep country gave way to waterfall-draped cliffs and then snow-fields as we rose higer and higher. At appropriate beauty spots we would pull in to allow a first hand glimpse at nature and everyone filed off the bus. The English stood shivering, the Americans stood talking while the Japanese did their dainty photo-dance: she poses for him, he poses for her, then they join hands nodding and smiling until they find a willing stranger who captures them both, posed hand in hand or sometimes pointing at a beauty spot as if to say 'Hi, we're here, but don't look at us, look at this!'. Filing back on the bus, the English looked no warmer, the Americans looked no wiser, but the Japanese looked unabashedly thrilled at having seen something new on their journey: an enviable childlike fascination refuelled.
I was a bit more awake, but still groggy when we reached Milford Sound and boarded a cruise boat in the harbour. Determined to wake up and warm up I went on a hunt for coffee.
'It's free, help yourself', said the woman at the bar.
'Hey, free coffee! Who-heeee!', exclaimed the Homer Simpson inside me.
With the towering mile-high Mitre Peak impaling rain-soaked clouds above me and the dark tannin-infused waters of the fjord concealing a wealth of mystery for three-hundred metres below, all I could see was free coffee.
'Who-heeee!'. I guzzled two cups on the spot as the boat pulled out and finally, I was awake. Leaving the bored staring barwoman I went to explore the boat. I spent most of the cruise on deck. The stiff bracing wind brought the steep glacier-carved cliffs to life and the cold water surface was broken occasionally by a playful dolphin. Whenever my grin got frozen on my face by the icy air, Homer would faithfully remind me of the free coffee and 'Who-heeee' I'd pop into the cabin to thaw out.
I wasn't alone inside; many of the tourists had taken refuge in the galley seating. Some were on the window seats watching the view, but others sat in the middle isles, reading magazines, munching on cookies and chatting as if they were passing the time on a regular cummuting trip. I was indulging my playful Homer side enough to keep me warm and awake, but theirs seemed to have taken over altogether and I felt that all they were short of was a couch and a wall-sized television.
Back on deck, I squinted into the gale as we reached the mouth of the fjord and the Tasman sea. Straight ahead of us a few day's sailing away was Australia, but taking a swift left and sailing for a week we would, if we were lucky, reach Antarctica. As the captain swung the boat around to take us back into the fjord, I swivelled to keep facing out to sea, feeling again the pull of that far-away frozen continent. I wanted to steal the boat and make a go of it, bear south-south-east to the Ross Ice Shelf and stake a claim; even a sighting of the coast would be a marvel.
'Oooooooh, Penguins! Hmmmmmmmm!'. Homer was game too.
I explained to him that the penguins weren't chocolate coated and that the Ross Ice Shelf was not a part of a gigantic continent-sized freezer cabinet packed with ready-to-microwave frozen TV dinners. His enthusiasm waned a little. The prospect of a week at sea in swells higher than the boat and roaring forties gales brought us both back to reality and I turned with the boat to face back into the fjord.
I stayed on deck as we skirted cliffs and waterfalls on the way back into the harbour, ocassionally joining the Japanese in a snapshot menage a trois, but mostly gripping the handrail with stiff frozen fingers and letting the sea air whistle around me. All too soon it was over and the landscape unwound around me through the bus windows as we retraced the route to Te Anau. Pairs of tiny Japanese heads cushioned on identical neck pillows formed a dozing chorus to the contented snoring Homer inside me. All were tired out and satisifed, except me. I was awake and dreaming of Antarctica, itching for an adventure that was beyond my grasp. Somewhere up in those hills, adventurous people were trudging undaunted through waist deep snow and a little voice (certainly not Homer's this time) was telling me to do the same.
I arose on Saturday greatly refreshed and decided to tackle Mt Luxmore. The rain had abated and the early morning sun would be softening the half-metre of snow Friday's blizzard had dumped on top. The forecast was good and an early start promised a good chance of getting to the overnight hut by lunchtime. I was joined in my efforts by Michael from South Africa and we hired a water taxi to take us across the lake, cutting two hours of level walking off what would otherwise be a ten-hour day on foot. The boatman chatted as we boarded, talking about the previous week's stranded climbers.
'They didn't take the boat', he said. 'Twenty dollars was to much for them; they walked around. It tired them out and they got hypothermia'.
I answered his implied questions by telling him about the extra clothing and ample food we had. 'We're only going as far as the hut', I explained. 'And then only if we have time. The peak is too far, too risky'.
Satisfied that he had alluded to the dangers sufficiently to acquit himself if anything went wrong, he dropped us off at Brod Bay and we wasted no time in starting up the zig-zag path that climbed to the top. Keeping my head down to watch my feet (the track is unmaintained in winter) I saw only the lower trunks and roots of the trees. A thick understory of ferns and mosses cast my imagination back, as it always does, to early dinosaur times and my mind painted tiny scuttling reptiles amongst the greenery. Occasionally my imaginings became alive, literally, as tiny fantail birds, the decendants of those dinosaurs, fluttered from leaf to leaf waiting hungrily to see what tasty grubs my boots would throw up. Overhead the squaks of a Kea, New Zealand's alpine parrot, told us we were being watched. Oversized, intelligent and mischeivous, their favourite games include stealing shoes, peeling the rubber rim off car windscreens and chewing tyre valves to get high on the outrush of air as the tyre deflates. Intelligence breeds boredom, boredom breeds mischief, bungy jumping dosen't do much to thrill when you have wings so the wildlife have become high-pressure air junkies!
Our concern to reach the top of the hill in good time had us at the tree line shortly after eleven. It was like turning a page in a picture book, the lush green forest suddenly giving way to a snow covered alien landscape. The whiteness was blinding and I squinted to see the footprints of an earlier hiker who had come down that morning. Visibility was excellent once my eyes had adjusted; a few clouds hovered to the north but there was no threat of precipitation. The snow gave easily and was mostly boot-deep, ocassionally reaching to mid-calf in small drifts, so we made it to the hut within the hour, startling its only occupant, a mouse, which scuttled behind a rubbish bin and rustled among some plastic bags. I could have eaten my three rounds of sandwiches as one - the cold had added to my appetite - and I longed to fire up the wood burner and set up home in the hut for the night. It was noon, still quite early, but we had a five hour walk to get us home so we didn't dawdle long. The Kepler Trek, of which we had just completed leg one, continued westward skirting the peak of Mt Luxmore where the previous week's ill-fated and ill-prepared hikers had got stuck. I ventured about twenty paces to see what the path was like. The snow had a crisp frozen surface which gave way after moderate pressure and enveloped my legs up to the knee. It was enough to show that the six hour trek to the next hut would be no easy stroll and I turned my back on Mt Luxmore with no qualms about forsaking that adventure.
The noonday sun had made the snow a little slushier as we retraced our steps to the tree-line, following as we went the footprints of some unknown giant bird (or small dinosaur) which paralleled the track. Plunging again into the forest we zig-zagged down the path climbing over a few fallen trees and leaving the snows far behind. I truged merrily through the puddles that Michael skirted. The repair job I had got done in Queenstown had made my boots waterproof and mudproof again and my feet were thankful that no cold snow had leaked in. When we were about half way down to the lakeshore a figure came into view. It was Helen, my erstwhile Canadian room mate in Queenstown. Carrying a pack that dwarfed her, she made her way slowly up the path. She had waited a day or two for the storm to pass and was now making her way to the Luxmore hut. 'Nice day hike?' she enquired and I sensed a stress on the word 'day' that irked me a little. We told her about the path conditions on the way to the hut and I showed here where the snow had come up to on my leg when I had ventured beyond it. She took note and then carried on undaunted, planning to spend a night at Luxmore and then go on westwards in the early morning when the avalanche danger was at its lowest.
'She seemed confident', said Michael after a bit.
I wasn't so sure. In Queenstown I had taken her reserved nature to be that of an experienced go-it-alone tramper who didn't want to encourage a greenhorn to tag along. Here I got the same wanna-do-it-alone hint but it seemed more of a confidence-building challenge for herself. I wondered if she might be stretching the risk envelope a bit.
The walk back to town was long and level as we skirted the lakeshore. I had promised Homer a blueberry muffin when we got back and he was holding me to it. I was still thinking of being up in the snows like Helen as I had been on my return trip from Milford, but at least I had the satisfaction of having marched to the edge of my comfort zone in the snow before turning back so I was no disappointed. I distracted myself by weighing the benefits of hot tomato soup against a hot shower, deciding in the end to reserve judgment until I reached the hostel. The soup won, but the shower came a close second and I sat refreshed after both, watching the clouds gathering around the mountains and dreaming of adventure.